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.