Just One Thing

After dinner we moved to the living room to enjoy a digestif. Blaireau and the Captain played dominoes. Heavy with dinner I stretched out on the sofa by the fireplace and fell asleep with the fragrance of tea roses filling my nostrils and turning my thoughts back to home and Noelle. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to forgive her. After all, it was her chicanery that started the whole thing with Roy.

Lieutenant Lothaire LaLoutre, 1955

On the first anniversary of his military career, and shortly after his first taste of combat, in the Atlas Mountains.

Making Dinner With Le Capitaine

The Captain's Garden

Captain La Loutre appeared at the garden gate, wheeling a large cart loaded with snacks, a bucket of ice, an old-fashioned seltzer dispenser, and several different bottles of whiskey. I went with 12 year old Highland Park with a splash of Volvic. The afternoon was perfect. Blaireau and La Loutre chatted away in French, about old times I guessed but I understood nothing. They laughed and shouted a lot. I let them be and wandered around the garden, sipping my scotch and admiring La Loutre's handiwork.
After a while La Loutre went back into the house and Blaireau came over to me. "Capitaine La Loutre was my commandant, in the Legion, but that was many, many years ago and far away, in St. Pierre & Miquelon. Le Capitaine is retired now, and this garden is now his avocation."
"St. Pierre & Miquelon! Isn't that in the North Atlantic? What business did the Legion have there?" To tell the truth it was hard to imagine either of them as any sort of soldier.
"It is France, St. Pierre & Miquelon. We protect it." Blaireau said, indignantly.
I let that go. No skin off my back one way or the other.
"He has six sons!" Blaireau continued. "The oldest, Lazare Jules, now takes care of the farm."
"Farm?"
"Oh yes, this garden is just a small piece of the farm. Le Capitaine inherit the farm from his father. It is many generations in the La Loutre family. They grow vegetables and fruit, make wine, and raise cows,chickens and pigs, make cheese. You are lucky, mon ami. You will taste real food tonight. All that we eat will be from the farm."
"Sounds delightful." I said, sincerely. I poured a third whiskey and we toasted La Loutre's farm. "Six sons, did you say."
"Yes, attend - " Blaireau's eyes rolled in concentration: "Lucien Georges, he is the second, he is in the Army. Louis Paul is third, he is in the Legion. Laurent Jean is in the Navy. Léger Emil is at the university and the youngest, Léonard Albert is in high school."
Pretty impressive that Blaireau remembered all their first and middle names. From the way he and the Capitaine had been carrying on I reckoned it had been years since they had seen or spoken to each other.
La Loutre reappeared at the gate and shouted "à table!" Blaireau put his drink down on the table. I looked at my half full glass. "Laisse ça" he instructed and I obeyed. The parasol over the table was a wild shade of blue. The garden had a lot of wild color to it. It crossed my mind that maybe le Capitaine was on the wild side too. We followed La Loutre up the marble steps, through the portico and into the house.

Capitaine Lothaire La Loutre

Blaireau cut the engines and let the boat drift with the current. He raised his finger to his lips and looked at me impishly. Why did he want me to be quiet? I had the impulse to check my gun for readiness but his grin told me it was not about that. We came round a bend and I noticed a dude lying on a quilt on the bank, lost in his reading. The dude did not notice the boat as we drew up to him.
"CAPITAINE! CAPITAINE!" Blaireau shouted at the top of his lungs.
The dude looked up. "Blaireau! C'est vraiment toi. Nom de Dieu! Qu'est-ce que tu fais ici?" Then the dude noticed me. Introductions followed, mostly in French since the Captain spoke little English.
"This is Capitaine Lothaire La Loutre. He was my commander in the Legion." It was news to me that Blaireau had been in the military, let alone the Legion.
"Enchanté, mon capitaine." I offered.
"Le plaisir est pour moi." La Loutre smiled at my deference. "Bon, est-ce que vous restez un peu?" It seemed more like an order somehow. We tossed the rope to him and he tied it up on a tree stump. Blaireau and I hopped down on the grassy bank and followed the Captain through a copse of alder and into his backyard. There was a good 100 yards square of various flower, vegetable, and herb gardens to pass through before reaching the patio, where we took seats around a wrought-iron picnic table. La Loutre opened its parasol to shield us from the sun.
"Un petit coup?" He asked.
"What's that mean?" I whispered to Blaireau, being unfamiliar with the expression.
"You'll find out" Blaireau inscrutably replied. La Loutre was already on his way inside. Blaireau's bemused expression brought to mind Mae West's quip that "too much of a good thing can be wonderful."

An email from Noelle

I shoulda said something about this before. Before Blaireau and me took off in the boat I went out to Starbucks and checked my email. Mostly a bunch of spam but a two day old note from Noelle. Just when I'm thinking I'm over her she has to let me know I'm not: "Hi Butter Boy, I know you don't like me anymore. I don't blame you. I wish we could have been just friends. I hope we can be friends again. I mean I want you to forgive me. You were there for me when all my so-called friends were not. I'll always owe you for that. It's just that I don't love you. Anyway it's really hot and icky here and I'm very busy but I think about you. I hope you catch Roy. I hope you're safe. I want you to come back to Miami Beach soon. Your friend,Noelle."
Friend? I had a printout of the email with me on the boat. I'd already reread it ten times and just had reread it again, leaning on the rail, watching the pleasant French countryside pass by. Blaireau was watching me, curiously, measuring my mood. I guess he picked up on what I was feeling.
"You are thinking of someone, mon ami?" He walked over and leaned on the rail a discrete length or two away.
"Girlfriend." I explained. "Well, not really, just a friend, someone I knew."
Blaireau nodded, reading my mood more than parsing any meaning from my words.
"Alors, friends are good. I have a friend not far downriver. Perhaps we say hello."
"Sure, Yves. Let's do that. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine." Truth was I was getting a little bored with the river and a little down from thinking about Noelle.

Cruising

I don't remember how I got back to Rue Des Rosiers after the party binge on Blaireau's boat, and it's better that I don't tell you how I felt when I woke up. Suffice to say I couldn't see well enough to tell what time it was. Judging from the street noise it was early evening. I did the bloody mary cure - toss it into a blender, celery, ice and all and make a smoothy. Didn't help much, nor did the rillette de porc that had been laying around a couple of days. I put an ice pack on and went back to bed, woke up the next afternoon, or was it the day after that. Someone was playing bongo drums next door, the pounding reverberating like a jack hammer in my achey head. "Nom de Dieu!" I appealed to whoever was playing. Then I realized it was someone knocking on the door. "Butter Boy! On y va maintenant." It was Blaireau. I slipped into jeans and tshirt, grabbed my backpack and opened the door. "T'es pret, mon ami?" I dug that we were on the familiar now. I swallowed down some reflux and nodded, making the best face I could. Blaireau smiled slyly at my discomfit. "Bien" he observed, then turned and led the way back to his boat. Pop Music was his boat, I noticed, annoyed with myself for not catching that before. We shoved off and cranked up the engines, making our way towards the river at about 10MPH. Blaireau threw me a blanket to warm away my jitters, then made some very strong coffee in the galley.
"The countryside will make you feel good again. Good people. Good food."
"I appreciate that, Blaireau, but aren't we on a case. I mean, no offense but..."
"You must call me Yves, okay?, and do not worry, we are, as you say, on the case."
"Okay, Yves. Whatever you say. Fill me in will you? Where are we going? When will we get there?" Blaireau stood silent for a moment, like he was thinking. I drained my coffee and Blaireau refilled it like a good waiter. He ducked back in to the galley and came out with a platter of pain au chocolat. The dude was a one-man restaurant. Finally he opened up.
"We are going after your, uh, Roy, and some others. We will find them when the time is right. I don't know exactly where or when." Blaireau winked mysteriously. "Or, perhaps, they will find us. We will be ready, you and me, no?"
"Sure" I says, "I guess we will."
We made it to the river and headed south. As we passed the outskirts of Paris and the scenery changed to country Blaireau broke into song - "Cruising Down The River On A Sunday Afternoon." He must have sung 100 choruses, interpolating improvised lyrics in French. He sang it until it stuck in my head, where it remained for days (and even now I can hear it). I had confidence in Blaireau. Anyone who can sing and party en route to a confrontation with some of the world's worst gets my vote.

Roy gives his side of the story

Ma nuit chez Blaireau

".........Et comme tout s'est déjà dit
Plutôt la vie"Old Blaireau was a few sheets to the wind, reciting poetry that sounded pretty good to me, though I didn't understand much of it. We were on our second bottle of pastis and Blaireau had forgotten to bring the water pitcher from the galley. "Va-z-y, va-z-y!" he said. I guess that means "drink it straight" in French, so what the hell, I says to myself. I was beginning to feel tipsy myself. We were on Blaireau's boat. I shoulda mentioned that already. The dude lives on a houseboat. When he goes on vacation he just shoves off and cruises down the waterways of Europe to wherever he wants to go. Home, mostly, to the southwest of France, where he says the food, drink and people are the best. I'll vouch for the food and drink part. Old Blaireau had more food on his boat than I've seen in some supermarkets. He kept on trotting out stuff that I had never heard of. He didn't know what it was called in English. Tasted great. Washed it all down with some kickass red wine then got into some 15 year old Armagnac. "On a besoin d'un bon digestif après un repas comme ça." Blaireau insisted. Well I was stuffed after that so we chilled for a while and he talked about his hometown and I told him about Miami Beach, my time with MBPD, my feud with Roy, the whole business with Noelle. He put some music on, jazz. I had a couple of mix CD's of Junior and Renaldo live, including a long version of "Cruising Down The River On A Sunday Afternoon." He dug that a lot, started singing along, kinda off-key. "Comme c'est chouette!" Well, that got him an appetite I guess 'cause he went back to the galley and came out with a snack tray and a bottle of pastis. So we listened to mellow jazz, singing along, drinking pastis and water, and nibbling. Next thing I know the bottle's empty and so is the tray and Blaireau gets up to get another but he's a little unsteady so I thinks maybe we should call it a night but I don't want to be a bad guest. Then I looks out the window and it's daylight. I thought it was midnight. Time flies when you're having fun. Would have been really cool if Renaldo and Junior were there too. Then the canal started getting busy with traffic. Something passed by and made the boat rock. Blaireau didn't notice; he was absorbed in reciting poetry. What the hell, I says to myself, how many times am I going to be in Paris. I filled my glass. He filled his. "à la vôtre!" he slurred with a lopsided grin.

One less hit man to deal with

Blaireau left me holed up for 3 days while he arranged safe passage for me to the countryside. Paris was too hot for me, he said, there was a hundred thousand Euro open contract on me. Fine, I says, the least you can do is let me have my ammo back so I can protect myself since no one else is. "Au contraire, mon ami" says Blaireau,"We have seven detectives assigned to the case. It is bigger than you, this matter of Russian Blues."
The words hit me like a bucket of cold water. All this time I thought I was in the driver's seat, taking care of my own business. I was just the sacrificial goat, the lead magnet.
"So you're just keeping me alive so you can trap Roy Tuxedo. Is that it?"
Blaireau arched his eyebrows. "Roy Tuxedo is, comment dit-on en anglais, chump change, mon ami, the tip of the ice. This is bigger than you think."
"Big like what?..." I says, pausing to think,"...the mob, the mafia, the Russians, the Albanians?"
Blaireau just nodded. "Yes, but what does it matter to you? You are here for this Roy Tuxedo and if you work with us you will have him, but you must do as I say."
"Okay", I says,"I'll do what you say. You want me to lay low for 3 days, fine, but at least leave me with 4 rounds - 4 lousy rounds."
Blaireau hesitated for a long moment, nervously grooming his fur, then surprised me by giving me all 20 rounds. "If you get into trouble you are on your own,mon ami. This meeting never happened. We have never met. We have never heard of you."
"Tant mieux" I offered, testing my French.
Blaireau smiled at the effort. "Very good! Bien! I come back in three days and we leave for the Southwest, my hometown, where we will be safe. There I show you the real France."
Blaireau slipped out the door and I turned on the TV and cleaned my gun. I caught the news. The lead story, as best I could tell, was about a gunman who decided to shoot it out rather than be taken alive. He got his wish. Then they put his picture on the tube and I nearly fainted - it was the same dude who had shot at me twice. I poured myself a generous glass of pastis and toasted the poor guy. Now that he was dead, an unidentified gunman shot down by the cops in the middle of Paris, I couldn't help but feel a bit for the dude. OK, he probably clipped some guys, but it's a dirty game and you gotta pity the losers. I tossed down the pastis and poured another, turned the TV off and looked out the window at the canal. There was a barge docked close by. "Pop Music" was its name. That made me smile. It seemed Blaireau was indeed looking out for me; I just didn't know it. That made me smile, too.My late unknown assailant

Where would I be without it?

The Inscrutable Inspector Blaireau

So for me the major problem was my gun. I like my chances a whole lot better when I'm packing, especially in an unfamiliar place where I don't speak the language too well. A cat can't be too careful!
So I wait until 2am and check the street. It's clear. I could hear the boats on the river from my room, so all I need to do is find my way to the river and then follow it back to the Hotel Des Chats. It was farther than I thought, so far that I began to worry that maybe there were two rivers in Paris. Anyway I managed to get to the hotel, in and out of my hotel room, and get back to the Ruse Des Rosiers around 5am. I was so sleepy by then I didn't even turn the lights on, just jumped right into bed and almost fell asleep when a deep voice from nowhere gave me such a start I almost jumped through the ceiling.
"Alors, mon ami, have you had a good walk?" The voice was coming from the chair in the corner. It was too shadowy to see who it was. I jumped up and reached for my gun but it was not where I put it.
"You are looking for this." An arm reached out of the shadows and tossed my 44 on the bed. I picked it up and inspected it; naturally it was empty.
"You should not have left this room, mon ami, it is not safe, and you have disregarded my orders. I heard a match strike and saw hands lighting a pipe. By the pulsing light of the flame I made out his face. He took a few puffs in the darkness and then switched on the table lamp. He leaned forward and looked me thoughtfully in the eye. "I am Inspector Blaireau." He offered a paw.
"Call me Butter Boy." We shook.
He dropped the formalities. "I have to say you have disappointed me, monsieur Butter Boy. I have a personal interest in this case, too. I want you to understand that it is my case, and in France you will follow my orders. Is that clear."
I raised my paws to signal compliance: "D'accord for sure, Inspector."
The Inspector shrugged. "One more rash act and you will be sent back to Miami. Is that clear."
"I said 'd'accord, didn't I? And for the record, it's not Miami, it's Miami Beach."

Appointment On The Rue Des Rosiers

Three Ricards made me a little tipsy so I had a steak frites to sober up a bit. Alain, my driver, urged me to eat quickly. What's the hurry? I asks him.
Your hotel, monsieur, is no longer safe for you. The girl, Fifi, she is working for Monsieur Roy, donc what you tell her is now no secret.
At first I thought I hadn't told Fifi anything that Roy could use. Then I remembered the times I left her alone in the room when I went out for cigarettes. As I chewed over my last forkful of steak I went over everything she might have discovered in my luggage.
You are thinking, Monsieur? wondered Alain.
Take me to Inspector Blaireau, I ordered. The situation was out of my hands now. We'd have to start over.
Ah, said Alain, the Inspector is away for the weekend, Monsieur Butter Boy, but I have already spoken with his office. They wish you to stay at a safe house on ---
Alain looked nervously over his shoulder and stood up. It is best if we leave immediately.
We spent the next hour zigzagging through a maze of unfamiliar streets, sometimes doubling back on our course. When he was satisified we weren't being tailed Alain hung a right on a narrow, windy street and pulled up at a grocery store. Alain handed me an envelope and a key, pointed at a red door. Numero quatre, monsieur, through that door. I stepped down and thanked Alain.
Je vous en prie, monsieur. Alain tipped his cap and lashed the horse into a trot. I went through the red door and three doors down a dimly hit hallway to number 4. It was a tidy little room, cheerfully decorated. I took off my shoes and lay on the bed. Waiting a day to see Inspector Blaireau was no problem. Starting over was no problem. Not going back to the hotel was a problem. My gun was there.

At The Cafe

First stop was at a cafe. Driver said he needed to take a break: Je voudrais prendre un ptit apero. En voulez-vous un aussi, monsieur?
Why not? I says. We pull over and go into a sweet little corner place - gave me a flashback to the last time I saw Nicole, at the Van Dyke. I sipped my Ricard and watched the people pass by but my mind was 3000 miles away and several months back in time.

My Limo Driver Shows Up

I'm at the hotel. Jean Claude comes to my table while I am enjoying an aperitif with a very pretty girl named Fifi. "Your driver is here, monsieur." he informs me. I stubbed out my cigarette and excused myself to Fifi. Jean Claude pulls me aside and whispers in my ear to be careful about Fifi. Fifi senses she's being dissed and starts yelling a blue streak at Jean Claude, making angry faces and gestures, who yells and gestures back at her - "Salope!" stuff like that. I just want everyone to chill so I put a 100 Euros on the bar and tell Jean Claude to zip it, give everyone drinks and let the lady be. She's with me. Fifi gives me a big smile and I know I'm going to get over.

Then to the business at hand. Outside to see my driver. Now I'll get back on track, I think. But there's just an oldish dude in a horse and buggy. WTF! I look up and down the street and there are no cars except parked cars. Then a bus rolls by and I spot, a little too late, the same dude who roughed my up in my room the night before, sitting by the window with shades on. Once again I hit the ground. Once again a couple of rounds meant for me ricochet off the pavement. With all the other people on the bus there's no way I can return fire.

Jean Claude, Fifi, and the others came outside to see what was going on. Fifi came over and helped me up. "Le pti pauvre! Qu'est-ce que c'est cette connerie. Reste avec moi. Viens." It was tempting but business came first. I gave her cute behind a little pat. "Un peu plus tard, tresor" I tells her.

The driver hadn't moved the whole time, didn't seem to have minded any of the action. My kind of guy. I looked over at him. "Alors, Monsieur Butter Boy, vous-etes pret maintenant?" I climbed in and off we went, clatter clatter clatter

L'Hotel Des Chats

Day 2 in Paris. Too much Pernod last night. Got back to my room (2nd floor right) at 3am. At 9am there's a knock on my door. "Scram" I commanded but then I heard a girl sobbing - Sill Too Play or something so sucker me I opened it. The "girl" turns out to be a big thug who slaps me around and yells at me in French. No clue what he said but I got the message. Then I gave him mine, four claws in the family jewels. You shoulda seen 6 feet of Frog come down to my level in a hurry. We'll see who'll sill too play I tells him, then I give him a good knock on his beret with my 44. Tell whoever sent you to send a real hood next time, I tells him, and then I push him down the stairs.

That gave me an appetite so I head dowstairs to check out the Restau. 6 and 1/2 francs for some pretty tasty steak frites. Jean Claude, le patron d'hotel and chef, looks at me, asks, "Est-ce que vous avez eu des problemes, monsieur?" "Pas de problemes, Jean Claude" I replies, "Pas de problemes." At that moment I thought I didn't. Little did I suspect what was coming next.

Paris Blues

I got Renaldo to drive me to the airport and caught an American Airlines overnight flight to Paris. As you might imagine there was a hassle at immigration about unaccompanied feline, and an even bigger one at customs about my gun. There was a whole lot of people coming in and out looking at my PI license, the gun permit, etc - whispering in French as if I could understand, telephone calls. All I could make out wass "D'accord." Anyway by the time they let me through, with my gun, the limo driver had given up on me and I had to take a taxi to the Hotel des Chats in Boulogne. What a dump! Seemed like the last tenant had sprayed a lot. That and it reeked of lysol. I openeed the window and put on the fan. All night there was a racket from the pool hall down the alley, garbage trucks every hour it seemed. Cats in heat. City of light? City of love? Give me Miami Beach, Bud.

In the morning, which for me was 8pm local time, still light out, I headed over to meet up with my confidential informant. Another no show. So here I am, not speaking French, having no way of contacting anyone, trying to get an angle on an international conspiracy involving newspaper publishing. I was standing on the corner (just in the foreground of the photo), debating whether to get something to eat, go back to sleep, or what, but minding my P's and Q's, when I hear tires squealing around the corner from behind me and I know that's bad news, even if not intended for me, so I jump for cover without even looking. Good thing 'cause some driveby fool let loose 20 rounds from a semiautomatic right in the vicinity where I'd been standing. I pulled out my piece and went to squeeze off a couple of rounds at the car but there were too many innocent bystanders.

Welcome to Paris.

MY GUN