Bed of Nails Page 13

  It was impossible to grasp the cold and slippery body. She escaped his embrace, turned on her heel, and walked away across the studio. He stood, unable to move.

  Patricia disappeared behind one of the doors, leaving red footprints on the floor.

  He took off the smock, tried to wipe his face and threw the garment on the floor. He would have liked to fight a punch ball for a few minutes, to stop the trembling in his hands.

  He put his shoes on and walked around the studio, trying to compose his thoughts. Was she in love with Alan? They were both impermeable to normal feelings. Had this handicap brought them together, creating a bond between them, even a corrupt one? Did she really know anything? Alan never said much, that was true enough. An old hand at the game, he wouldn’t gossip about his dealers over cocktails.

  As he walked in front of the canvases, he wondered which one Paty had used to crush the Kansas fakir. This kind of game would have amused him. Not exactly John’s cup of tea, though. After a winter in the tepee, something more straightforward would have been enough. But the result was the same. The urge had passed. His ribs were aching again, desire receding, and his bruised stomach was making him feel sick.

  The rain had all but stopped. Behind the door he could hear a shower running. Either she was crazy, or she had managed royally to evade the issue.

  Five minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, wearing a bathrobe that offered no glimpses of flesh, a towel twisted round her head.

  If this whirlwind of a woman was some kind of proxy gift from the lovelorn fakir – a final possibility after all – the casting was way off target. The hypothesis began to seem plausible. In his refrigerated locker, Alan was taking the piss one last time.

  In spite of his unease, John was recovering his confidence and the blonde, draped in her cheap disdain, felt it too. Once clothed, she had lost her assured air.

  “Were you at the Caveau that night?”

  “You’ve no business staying here now.”

  “Alan killed himself; it wasn’t an accident.”

  She poured herself a Scotch at the bar, and sipped it while looking at her latest work.

  “You’re too tall. You take up the whole canvas.”

  It was true, on his Paty-style portrait there was less paint than on the others. A few splashes of red, Patricia’s handprints and traces of her feet. In the centre of the canvas, a big empty space. A hollow left by vanished desire? The questioning of existence? Nothing without another person? A negative portrait. An absence where John P. Nichols had been. His sick feeling was turning to distress, and the urge to get away. The Königsbauer neurosis was catching.

  “You know perfectly well it wasn’t an accident.”

  No reply. A shiver. She was still looking at the new canvas. It must be annoying her that she had not managed to imprint more of herself around John.

  “Just get out.”

  “Do you know Frank Hirsh? He works at the U.S. embassy here. Alan was sleeping with him.”

  An extra long swig of whisky made her pull a face.

  “There’s no point carrying on like this.”

  “Did Alan leave any of his stuff here?” John was remembering the photograph. “There is one thing I’d like to find again.”

  She was almost shouting now.

  “I’ve chucked it all out! Alan didn’t give a damn about that sort of thing.”

  Her German accent had become more pronounced.

  He walked past her slowly, not looking at her, heading for the door.

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I guess he left without any regrets.”

  As he put his hand out towards the door handle, the whisky glass shattered against the white-painted metal.

  “Fuck off!”

  The translucent alcohol trickled down the door. She was certainly obsessed with leaving traces on walls: well, at least she left a mark on your mind. She strips off and runs at walls. Alan had not thought to mention that she stuck someone else up against the wall first.

  He glanced up at the tiny control screen above the entryphone, and went out, crushing the fragments of glass underfoot.

  Rain: colourless water. The air between the drops lets ideas circulate.

  A girl waiting for him, naked under her smock, when he had turned up without warning. Two closed doors, and the bedroom door ajar when he got there. Three doors shut when he left. Perhaps it was not only for his benefit that she had taken her clothes off. Sad, but realistic.

  *

  He took up position in the place Saint-Michel at 9.00 p.m. The rain had stopped, but his clothes, and the city, were still dripping wet. He stood at the back of a newspaper kiosk, holding a copy of Le Canard enchaîné and smoking Gitanes to keep himself warm. His face, discoloured with bruises, was lit by the rosy tip of his cigarette. A fugitive spectre in the dark.

  He kept his eyes fixed on the square in front of the fountain, a favourite rendezvous point for Parisians. Men and women, mostly young, came and stood, looking around, mobile phones to their ears. Smiles of greeting, handshakes, lovers’ embraces. Couples formed and disappeared, to be replaced by single figures waiting their turn.

  By 9.30 p.m. John was shivering with cold. He left his windswept corner for a covered café terrace, where there was a gas heater. He drank a coffee, sitting well back in his chair to keep his blond head out of sight. The warmth was welcome, even if his feet were still frozen.

  By 10.00 p.m. he had only five cigarettes left and his upper garments at least were dry. He ordered one more coffee and stirred sugar in to it. He was watching a black car that had been double-parked for several minutes in the rue Saint-André des Arts. A long car, glistening with rain. The light reflected off the windows made it impossible to see inside.

  Two traffic wardens on motorbikes and wearing fluorescent jackets stopped at the driver’s door. The window was lowered, but now the driver was hidden from him by the jackets. They went away after exchanging a few words, and the car moved off. John waited another half-hour. The car did not return. He paid and left the café at a quarter to eleven.

  No hoodies. No obvious watchers, and nobody turning up for the supposed meeting. Their absence worried him more than it would have done to meet his attackers. He was spoiling for a fight. Being the bait on a fishing line was not an alternative. Did the dealers think he had really been scared off and was far away? The beating the night before had left little room for doubt. They should have been there.

  He kept close to the walls as he walked away, keeping his eyes peeled. The city, dark and damp, had become a huge stone forest. The hunt was on and he was the quarry. Nothing to do with five thousand euros. The more questions there were, the surer he was about that. Speeding up, he turned a corner, sprinted about fifty metres and ducked into a doorway. Five minutes. Nobody following. He tried it again, and in the end, feeling ridiculous, he headed back to the Luxembourg Gardens.

  After one final glance round in the rue Vaugirard, he opened the gate, closed it quickly and plunged into the park. The light was on in Bunker’s hut, a relief at first, then it worried him. The isolated light amidst the trees was like an enchanted lantern. The previous evening at this time, the cabin had been dark. The wait at Saint-Michel and his walk back had made him paranoid.

  He approached cautiously from one side, going round in a curve, weaving between the tree trunks and shrubs, and then kneeled down under the geraniums. Mesrine hadn’t barked. John stood up slowly to peer inside, and Bunker appeared at the window, a roll-up crushed in the corner of his mouth.

  “Looking for something, son?”

  The American stood up and dusted off his fatigues.

  “Aren’t you asleep at this time of night?”

  The old man had been waiting up for him, but wouldn’t admit that he had been worrying. An open bottle of red wine was keeping him company; by the look of his eyelids, not the first. The feeble light bulb and the alcohol combined to etch deep lines round his eyes and mouth. He filled two glasses, swit
ched on the hotplate and put a saucepan on it.

  “Mesrine, he won’t bark at night, case you’re thinking of playing cowboys and Indians. Find what you were after?”

  “No. This afternoon I called the embassy. My friend was sleeping with some guy who works there, Frank Hirsh his name is. He was the one who took me to the morgue. And now Hirsh seems to be off some place. I called his home address, no answer. He was at Alan’s last show at the club. I really need to see him. I got this other guy in the embassy, and he told me the body’s being flown out tomorrow. He didn’t sound too friendly. Alan must really have caused a lot of trouble there. This guy didn’t want to discuss it. He said it was nothing to do with them any more, and not to call them again. Nobody wants to know, nobody will tell me anything. Even the girl he was staying with.”

  “You saw a girl today?”

  Bunker put the saucepan in front of John, a fork standing up in a magma of ravioli.

  “I did, and she got undressed in five minutes flat.”

  The old man smiled, showing his gappy teeth like those of a kid.

  John wedged the piece of paper in a crack in the pine tree bark, and moved thirty paces back. The little white square was quite visible in the orange glow of Paris by night. He strung his bow and the wood creaked as it bent. Once the string was knotted, he twanged it to make it vibrate, checking by ear that the tension was right. Bunker was sitting on a bench, Mesrine at his feet. It was one in the morning. John needed to think. He fitted the first arrow.

  The improvised target was pretty close, but he wasn’t really trying for points, just exercising. His ribs were sore as he drew the bow. His whole body ached, and he had trouble controlling his breath. The arrow whistled off and he breathed out. The tip went into the bark, thwack, just to the left of the paper.

  Mesrine flinched. The sound of the arrow had made him jumpy.

  Paty had cracked twice. The first time was when he mentioned Hirsh.

  “Then what happened?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “This woman. When she got undressed.”

  “She poured paint all over herself and then got dressed again. There was someone else hiding in the studio.”

  Bunker was disappointed.

  “Nothing else?”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Ah.”

  “And she’s not telling the truth.”

  “That figures.”

  John fitted a second arrow. Thwack! Centred, but above the paper. Mesrine’s ears went up again. Bunker patted his head. “Quiet, boy.”

  The second time was when she had started shouting … when he asked if Alan had left any of his stuff with her? No. When he had mentioned the photograph? Wrong, he hadn’t mentioned the photograph. All he had said was that he would like to get something back.

  “Hey, son, I didn’t think your bow and arrow were that good.”

  “It’s a hunting bow.”

  Bunker was holding a big army torch.

  “Yeah, I can see. Because you go hunting with it?”

  “Sometimes.”

  So what had there been in Alan’s stuff?

  John prepared a third arrow and aimed, his eye fixed on the little white square of paper, over the arrowhead in front of him. He was getting used to the half-light now. The arrow whistled off. Thwack! Spot on. In the centre, where two diagonals met bang in the middle of the paper.

  “Bull’s eye!” Bunker switched on the torch and played the circle of light on the target. “On the button!”

  Mesrine was on edge now.

  Was it drugs, perhaps? Alan hadn’t been improvising, he had been preparing this for a long time. Perhaps there were more clues in the letter than he had realised. “Between the lines.” But why mention the photograph? Photographs. Blackmail? Was the studio used for something else besides painting? Whose portraits did Patricia paint? Did she press her breasts and belly up against … diplomats? Rich men, men like Hirsh, unearthed by Alan at the Caveau de la Bolée? I’ve got money, don’t need any. That was unusual. Someone – Alan? – might have taken photos in the studio from a hiding place. Or maybe Alan was taking part. Perhaps someone else was there, a third party, the one who was there today, the photographer perhaps? Were there some photos now of him, John? Did the blonde have some other tricks up her sleeve that he hadn’t been allowed to experience?

  An antisocial fakir and a perverse bourgeoise. Their preferred prey: high-flying victims.

  He pulled the cord tight. The target was in his head now, he had no need to look at it. He concentrated, his eyes half-closed. Then he sensed two movements to his left. Mesrine had sprung up, and Bunker had turned towards him. The torch was exploring the park, sliding over the tree trunks. Bunker spoke in a low voice.

  “Over here, son.”

  Mesrine’s hackles were up, his teeth bared.

  “Stay right there, Davy Crockett! And you stay put, too, old man.”

  This voice was familiar.

  A dark silhouette, hooded, slipped behind the old park-keeper. I was followed, John thought. So much for trying to dodge about like a secret agent. He still had an arrow engaged, and his arms started to tremble. The man was sheltering behind Bunker, he couldn’t shoot. Then he heard a sound behind him. This was it. Trapped.

  “Drop the torch!”

  Bunker did as he was told. The man had a gun aimed at his white hair. At the same time, John felt a cold steel barrel on the back of his neck.

  “Drop the bow! Move.” He was being pushed towards the bench.

  Two guns, two men; against them, a bow and arrow, a dog, a shrink 1 metre 80 tall, and an ex-con made of solid brick. Result: these two hoodlums weren’t sure they had the upper hand. And in fact they didn’t. That explained the nervousness in their voices. They had chanced on bigger game than expected.

  John was calm. Bunker was imperturbable and even the dog was concentrating. In terms of nerves they had the advantage. John lowered the bow and took a step forward. The beam of the torch pointing to the ground, moved imperceptibly. Mesrine crouched, ready to spring.

  Thwack!

  A scream.

  John had let fly his arrow, which he had still held poised, taut and pointing downward in his left hand. Blind, aiming behind him, as he walked forward. The gun was no longer at his neck, and the guy was howling with pain.

  Mesrine, without barking, had already fastened his jaws on a leg. Another scream. The torch was now shining into the mouth of the hoodie. A stupid face, its expression between pain from the bite and stupefaction. The cosh crashed into his jaw, and sent teeth flying. John had turned round. His own attacker was squirming in pain, his foot pinned to the ground by the arrow which had gone right through it. Dropping the bow, he brought his hands together and whacked the man on the temple. Out for the count. John turned towards Bunker who was calmly replacing the cosh in his belt.

  The cabin was now crammed full of people.

  Hoodie woke up first, finding himself tied to the stove. He probably wanted to speak, but things were against him. His jaw for a start, dislocated by about two centimetres; add to that the gaps in his teeth. Then there was the dog sitting opposite him, silently, but with a mouthful of sharp white fangs. And finally the sight of his fellow-conspirator laid out on the bed unconscious, his foot pierced with an arrow and dripping into a basin.

  John broke the arrow, and took advantage of the man being unconscious to pull the tip out. The wood came out of the foot with a wet sucking sound. Better than a bucket of water over the head. The guy sat up with a howl. Bunker brandished the cosh above him, and he lay back down, shrinking against the wall. John tied a piece of cloth round the trainer, the same top-of-the-range model he had glimpsed the day before running away from him on the pavement of the rue de l’Hirondelle. This man, since his injury was to foot, rather than mouth, was the first to speak.

  Two young Arabs, someone’s sidekicks, still wet behind the ears. Once their guns were gone, they lived in a world of
total fear. John had no need to insist. At the first question, Pierced-Foot confirmed they were working for Alan’s dealer.

  “We just do what we’re told.”

  “And what’s his name?”

  Pierced-Foot turned to Hoodie.

  “Fouad, from the Quatre Mille estate.”

  “Fouad what?”

  “… Boukrissi. Man, we’re just doing what we’re told, that’s all, we never worked for him before. He usually gets these other people to do it.”

  “And what did he tell you to do?”

  “Get the cash. Wait at the café and ask for the money.”

  “How did you know who I was?”

  “The picture, man, he gave us a photo.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kamal.”

  “You’ve got the photo?”

  Pierced-Foot twisted round with a grimace of pain. The cloth was drenched with blood already and dripping into the basin again. From his jeans pocket, he pulled out a folded print. Alan and John. Venice Beach. Sunshine. Ten years back. John’s head was ringed with felt pen and above it someone had written in capitals JOHN P. NICHOLS. He clutched the photograph tightly.

  “How did Boukrissi get hold of this?”

  “Shit, man, I don’t know. He told us to pick it up from this letter-box in a block of flats, that’s all. So we did. We didn’t want to … He just told us to wait at the café, give you a scare, and get hold of the five thou, and if we got it, to contact him and we’d get one thou for us. Then he told us you were in here, and we had to start again. Look, we gotta go to hospital, you can’t leave us like this.”

  From the stove came a groan of agreement, stopped in its tracks by a growl from Mesrine.

  About twenty-five years old, not-so-tough tough guys. A thousand euros and perhaps, if they were successful, jobs as a gangster’s errand boys. They’d already had it. Their career as hard men was over before it had started. As if John, still less Bunker, could give a toss about their future.