The Quirk (34 page)

“Check. But I’d still rather shake them,” François said. “Here we go again.” They came to a traffic light, and he made a fast turn into built-up streets. He began his maneuvers again, turning right and left haphazardly, working his way into the busy part of the city, driving as fast as the increasing traffic permitted but no longer bringing Rod’s heart into his mouth. “They’re staying much closer to us,” François reported. “Why not? We all know what we’re doing now. It’s not going to make it easy to pull off any tricks.”

“You know how to do it. Wait until you’re far enough ahead when you turn a corner so that you can stop for a second and start off again when they come around after you. It will look as if you thought you were doing it when they weren’t watching. Of course, they must see it or they’ll chase you all night.”

Rod heard the fastenings of their bag clicking in back of him. He turned again. “You really want to go ahead with this crazy idea?”

“It’s better,
chéri.
I think François’s driving is more dangerous than those people back there.”

“Fine. I’m ready when you are,” Rod said.

“I wish you wouldn’t,
chéri.
It will be very distracting if I’m worrying about you. If you think for a minute, you will know I’m right.”

Rod faced front. He heard the fastenings click shut. He didn’t see Patrice reach forward and squeeze François’s arm. François grunted.

“Anything wrong?” Rod asked.

“No. We’re getting close to the station.”

“My package is ready,” Patrice announced. His lips were suddenly against Rod’s ear. “You’re my life,
chéri,
” he whispered. “Whatever you do, be careful.”

Rod put his hand on the door, ready to get out. He had no idea what would be expected of him. If Patrice ran, he would run after him. If he stood and confronted their pursuers, he would confront them too. He couldn’t believe any great harm could come to them in a crowded street. He was as ready as Patrice to put an end to this chase. He was amazed by his boy’s apparent knowledge of what they were doing.

François turned another corner. He gunned the motor in a sudden spurt of speed and slammed on the brakes. Rod was pitched forward and hit his head on the windshield. He heard a door slam, and he fumbled for the handle beside him and felt another blow on the head. He was thrown back in his seat and spiraled down into a black pit of unconsciousness.

Rod came to slowly, aware that his head was aching. He burst into full consciousness with a start and knew that it was still night and the car was moving. He whirled around. The backseat was empty except for the hump of their small bag. He swung back and made a lunge for the ignition keys. François struck him in the head with his gun.

“I’m not going to kill you, but I’ll sure as hell hurt you if you make any trouble. Sit back and relax.”

Rod saw they were on the outskirts of the city again, speeding along a wide highway. “Where is he?” he asked.

“He got out a block from the station. It worked perfectly. I timed it damn well, if I say so myself. The last I saw, he was trotting along the sidewalk, and our tail was pulling to the curb behind him. We’re in the clear. Don’t worry about him. He’ll probably get back before we do.”

Anxiety was already beginning to gnaw at Rod. He felt all at odds with himself being separated from his boy. If he insisted on going back, he might not be able to find him, which would make it worse. He became aware of his aching head. “What in hell was the idea of knocking me out?” he demanded.

“He didn’t want you with him. He was right. If he wants to make himself scarce, you’d have been in the way. I just gave you a little tap. You’ve been out only a few minutes.”

“This is the Paris road?”

“That’s right. Finally. We won’t get there until noon or later. Put this thing away, will you?” He handed Rod the gun. The gesture was a token of trust, and Rod was glad to get it back into the glove compartment.

“Why did he sound as if he knew all about what you’re doing?”

“Not all about. Something, maybe. He’s had an interesting life. He’s been laid by a lot of big shots. I guess you know that. Somebody may have talked out of turn.”

“He’s not in on it in any way, is he? I mean, those guys who were after us wouldn’t connect him with anything?”

“Oh, hell no. Unless they happen to be pals from the
Cercle Vert,
and he’d certainly know how to handle anything like that.” François made his mirthless sounds of laughter.

“OK. Cut that.”

“I’m not knocking him. He’s an amazing kid. I guess you’re nuts about each other.”

“We’re friends,” Rod said coldly. Without Patrice being here it sounded almost like betrayal. His mind was full of prayers for him to be waiting at home. He’d go wild with worry if he were delayed. “OK. I guess we’re nuts about each other in a way,” he said grudgingly to propitiate fate. “There’s no point talking about it. I doubt if you’d understand.”

“Probably not. I’m strictly for one-night stands. You’re not really my type, but I get a special feeling about a guy when I’ve been through some excitement with him. If you feel like some fun along the way, let me know.”

“Jesus. Thanks,” Rod said, drawing away with anger and distaste. Slowly his mind cut free from the wrench of being parted from Patrice, and his thoughts were redirected toward their reunion. He’d want to get to his shop as soon as possible, but he’d leave a message at home first. They would celebrate the money tomorrow evening. It would soon be this evening. He remembered Nicole. He’d be worn out after this all-night drive. Maybe he’d put her off until the next night. Patrice was probably already at the station looking up trains. He imagined the street scene that would have just taken place, the men moving in beside him, Patrice showing his little bundle of clothes. They might ask questions, but Patrice would know how to answer them. Nothing to worry about, nothing more than what could happen in any busy street.
I
wanted to be with you, but the shit hit me over the head.
His mind conveyed the message to his boy, willing him to receive it.

He was tired. After the tensions of the last hour or two, the steady movement of the car on the open road was soothing. He supposed François must be tired too. “We could take turns at the wheel, you know,” he said. “It seems as if you’ve been driving this thing without stopping for the last ten years.”

“I like it. I hate being driven. Sleep if you want. I’m OK.”

After the verbal pass, Rod didn’t want to get any more friendly with him. He sank back into his corner and soon was dozing. He awoke with a start, anxiety congesting his chest, and turned quickly to the backseat. Patrice wasn’t there. Of course, he wasn’t there. He was safely on a train going to Paris, probably sleeping peacefully. He dozed again but experienced similar moments all through the night–the sudden awakening, the agitation at sensing Patrice’s absence, the reassuring thoughts to lull himself to sleep again.

At dawn they stopped at a truckers’ place for coffee and croissants. Like most of the other clients, Rod had a glass of wine. They drove on in thickening traffic and arrived in Paris under gray skies just before 1 o’clock. Rod felt as if he’d been gone for a month. François drove him to the rue de Verneuil.

“What now?” Rod asked when he stopped in front of the door.

“I go and finish the job. I’ll bring the dough back here if you want. I’ll be about an hour.”

“Fine. I’ll wait for you. I wonder if Patrice is back.”

“If not, he will be soon. See ya.” They shook hands, and Rod pulled the bag out of the back seat and went in. He called Patrice’s name the minute he had the door open, but there was no answer. They usually left messages on the floor just inside the door so that they couldn’t miss them, but there was nothing there. He went through the silent apartment–checking in the kitchen, his work area, back in the bedroom–to make sure Patrice hadn’t chosen a new place, and then he returned to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. There was no point in waiting and wondering. He would find out what trains there were so that he’d know when he could expect him.

He drank off the wine and went out again and walked around to the hotel. He picked up some mail that he was glad not to be interested in and went on to the
tabac
and called the Gare de Lyon. He found that there were a number of trains, of various classes and categories. Patrice obviously hadn’t taken the night train or he’d already be here. Assuming that he’d want to economize as usual, Rod chose a day train getting in after 5 o’clock as the most likely. He could always check at the shop later just in case. He went home and found some cheese and absentmindedly finished off the bottle of wine. Now that he had had time to think it over, he knew that François was out as a source of income. The extra $1,000 would do. Perhaps by the end of summer he would again be desperate enough to do anything for more. For the time being, he could thank his lucky stars that he had experienced the nastiest couple of hours of his life, had had a taste of crime, and had survived. Another layer of insulation to protect him from the world he had chosen to live in.

There was a knock on the door. He leaped up with a happy smile of welcome until he remembered that Patrice would let himself in. He went out to the hall and admitted François. He had shaved and looked as fresh as he had the day they left. He stopped in the hall and turned to Rod holding out a wad of bills.

Rod took it and looked at it, noting with satisfaction how much it had grown. “Thanks,” he said.

“You don’t have to be polite. Count it. I would if I were you.”

Rod riffled through it. “That’s all right. I’m sure you haven’t shortchanged me.”

“I’ve done what I said I’d do, right? That’s the end of my obligation. If anyone asks, you can say François Leclerc keeps his word. I don’t have to say any more, but the kid was a big help last night, so I owe you both a favor. Something fishy’s going on. I haven’t figured out exactly what yet but last night was part of it. Have you heard from your pal?”

“No. I checked the trains. I don’t expect him until later.”

“Fine. Until you know he’s here, why don’t you go out? I don’t think it’s a good idea to hang around here. Don’t ask me why. It’s just a hunch. When he gets here he’ll maybe know more than I do. I’d clear out until you know he’s all right.”

“Of course he’s all right. What’re you talking about? I was just going to get some sleep.”

“A guy like you shouldn’t have any trouble finding a bed to sleep in. The concierge knows your name. I asked for you rather than Valmer. I’d slip her a little something to forget it for the next few days. I’m just trying to do you a favor. Pay no attention if that’s the way you want it. I may have it all wrong.” He made a nervous move toward the door. “Don’t try to get in touch with me. I’ll let you know if I find out anything you should know. I’ve got to clear out of here.”

Rod opened the door, and they shook hands briefly. François slipped out looking wary and oddly furtive. Rod was left in a state of irrational, undirected alarm. What was he supposed to be worried about? Reprisals from the underworld? Trouble with the police? He wished Patrice would hurry up and get back so that they could talk about it He caught sight of the small bag he’d dropped at the door to the living room. If it had something to do with the police, maybe François had been trying to tell him that it would be better if they weren’t so obviously living together. Should he take a room again at the hotel so that he’d have an official independent residence? Maybe that was what Patrice would want him to do. He was lost in this situation without him. He went to his work area and drew with charcoal on a piece of paper: “Welcome home. I’ll be back at 6 o’clock. For the evening. Love.” The train got in just before 5:30. Patrice would take the Métro and walk from the nearest stop. Half an hour at the most. They’d be together by 6 o’clock. Allow some time for the train to be late and other delays. No point getting worked up over nothing. Patrice would be back by 6:30 at the latest.

He dropped the note in front of the door and picked up the bag and left again. In a way it made sense to go to the hotel since that was where Patrice would leave a telephone message if he were trying to reach him. If he understood François correctly, it would be a mistake to go by the shop. They wouldn’t know anything anyway. His boy would get in touch with him before anybody else. He decided not to call Nicole. He would be in no state to talk to her until Patrice was back, and by then it would be too late to plan an evening. She’d probably assumed already that he’d been kept out of town an extra day.

As he entered the hotel he was unmistakably cruised by a youth who passed on his way out He instinctively turned to look after him. The youth did the same so that their eyes met briefly. Rod cursed to himself as he went on to the desk. That had never happened when he was living here. Had being with Patrice marked him physically?

He found that there was a room available but on a lower floor than his old one, so there would be no skylight. He smiled to himself at the fuss they made over their silly little skylight. He had a whole wall of light with which to work. He walked up two flights of stairs. As he reached the second floor, he heard footsteps behind him and glanced back. It was the youth hurrying after him. The boy looked up at him and smiled invitingly and said, “Hi.”

Rod sighed with exasperation and went on down the corridor looking for his room number.