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| It's a free bar, Gilles... |
Louis Shalako
“…it’s all right, Gilles,
and I will understand if you can’t do it—”
“No, no, that’s fine.”
“Anyhow, Hector’s
youngest will be doing the eulogy. A small, private affair, although one or two
of us will be making an appearance.” Due to the news people, it might be better
if he didn’t show up at all.
So far, Maintenon’s name
had been kept out of the papers. That would only last so long.
“Yes, sir.”
“So here’s the thing. We
get these complimentary tickets, they’re not addressed to anyone in particular.
Public relations people do it all the time, sending them out all over the place
in the hopes of attracting publicity, good reviews, or whatever.”
He cleared his throat,
the internal line crisp and clear just this once.
“It’s not a costume ball,
Gilles, and it’s not entirely a formal affair, although the master of
ceremonies may be in, ah, tails, Gilles. No, just a suit and a tie—the food may
be all right, and you can leave any time you want. No question of a speech, as
far as I can tell—”
Gilles sighed, deeply.
“Very well, when is
this—”
There were six tickets,
according to Langeron, and he could dispose of them at his own discretion. As
to whether Roger was going, that seemed unlikely.
“It’s the International
Mystery Writers Guild, their annual awards banquet, and if nothing else, it’s a
free meal—a few grip-and-grins with the attendees, eh, Gilles.” He was
referring to photo opportunities…sweaty-handed fans, no less.
The whole thing stank to
high heaven, as Roger put it, and yet it could still be the highest form of
coincidence. A shitty little coincidence, and yet he felt it should be followed
up.
His instincts were
telling him all kinds of things, and Maintenon was forced to agree. It was
better than doing nothing.
It was better than
thinking like a Frenchman all of the time.
“Yes.”
“I’ll have that sent
right over, Gilles. And thank you. I won’t suggest that you have a good time,
because I suspect that isn’t going to happen…” There was a program, the whole
thing should wrap up by midnight, assuming they could stick to any kind of a
schedule.
Other than that, please
try and keep an open mind.
Gilles glanced up, noting
the clock and the fact that the room had quickly emptied.
Nothing is as painful as
the clock.
And there it was.
Another drop-kick, le savate, right to the nuts.
Drowning in a sea of
loneliness, we clutch at straws—Roger was a friend, in some odd way, some words
that had never been expressed.
There was nothing to do
but listen. It was one of his skills…a flashback, in real time. To a
conversation he’d just had. We clutch at
straws.
“What
are you trying to tell me, Roger.”
“Well, it’s just the
usual thing, Gilles. Except—except, this one feels different. It’s too much of
a coincidence. We get this beautifully-written letter, all on official
letterhead, and the fact is, it’s genuine. We had a junior officer check. It’s
not addressed to anyone in particular, except the public relations department,
and it’s not asking for anyone in particular. Other than that, it’s a handful
of complimentary tickets, to the awards banquet of the Mystery Writers Guild
International. They would be ever so honoured if someone would turn out, if
not, please distribute these to friendly members of the press. One of whom
might have been Hector. Er, not exactly the exact words, Gilles. It’s just an
event. Which just happens to be held in Paris this year. Last year, it was Los
Angeles, and the word is, next year, Tokyo is a strong contender…”
There was more, of
course, there always was.
For one thing, Roger had
his instincts, as he put it.
***
Roger has his instincts, as he put it...
There was a click and line was dead. Just like a lot of other things.
The thoughts, the
thoughts, the lines, had tumbled over
and over in his head.
He’d said something else
that was interesting: they’d probably been doing it for years, the free tickets
and everything, and yet there was no record of anyone ever attending. That
being said, such things tended to get tossed in the wastebasket, glossed over
without much thought.
***
“Mao…?”
“Ah, Sylvestre.”
The cat, lord of the
manor and man of the house during normal, daytime hours, bored out of his skull
and not exactly overworked on the mousing detail, sat in the hall doorway, and
Gilles felt a moment of guilt.
Truth is, the cat hasn’t
seen much of me lately—and that was just sad.
When he got home, the cat
was there, the mail was there. A bill or two, with the due date, and almost
indecipherable with the small charges, the hidden, bogus fees, and other sneaky
stuff which he had taken to despising without actually doing much about it. One
of these days, he would have to call these people; and give them a little piece
of his mind.
The kitchen smelled like
food, although Sophie had gone by now. He had the feeling that he had missed
something, perhaps even lost something. People had to tell him everything twice
these days, or so it seemed, before he got it—really got it.
What in the hell was
wrong with him these days?
And the answer,
surprisingly simple, was probably not
much at all.
***
It was the morning after
the day before.
“So. How do you want to
play this?” Margot had one very good question.
“It is a request from higher authority. I can’t
order anyone to do this.” Or won’t.
He stood regarding a
handful of tickets to the ball on the scarred maple desk.
“I can, however,
authorize the overtime.”
She pursed her lips on
hearing that one.
By any examination, they
were just like any other ticket, six of them numbered in sequence. No
indication that they were freebies. In his experience, a doorman would hardly
even look at them, and they might have been available not just from a box
office but any number of other locations…his thoughts sort of raced. Mailed
with a fairly generic letter from the public relations department, going out to
all kinds of media outlets and useful elected fools, celebrities of one sort or
another. There might have been quite a long list, just fishing, as it were. An
equal number of programs, on thick, heavy paper, decoratively printed in some
Art Deco, fin de siècle font…
All very convincing, and
genuine as far as anyone could determine on short notice. And here it was
again, one more line of inquiry, one more line of bullshit—one more big waste
of time and resources. One more oar in the water, one more finger in the pie.
One more cook, bent on spoiling the broth.
As Gilles put it bitterly
enough.
“Hector would have gone.”
Joseph—
Maintenon’s face
hardened.
“Seriously, Gilles.” The
little man went on. “Think of the opportunity—two fucking hundred Sherlocks,
all in the same room. Him and his bag of cameras, shaking hands, talking to
people, and listening. Really, really listening…”
The one skill that
couldn’t be taught, but could only be learned.
And maybe even getting
quite a lot out of it, as Joseph said…more than just a story and some pictures
in a magazine.
“It’s an open bar,
Gilles.”
Yes, Hector would have
loved that. You could almost see the man at work.
Gilles nodded.
Roger
had his instincts.
It really did stink, didn’t it? Roger had suggested two things, one; wear a
bullet-proof vest, and two, bring your own little pistol, as he had put it.
“Va
te faire foutrez…”
Joseph threw his head
back and laughed.
Margot nodded.
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Margot would not miss it for the world.
“I’m in. Quite frankly, I
would not miss this for the world.”
He had the feeling she
meant it, too. Take one for the team, all of that sort of thing, and that was
good to know as well.
“Think about it, Gilles.
It’s a fucking party. They’re not asking for a speech. It’s not a costume ball,
although at least some of them will be that dumb. It’s not a black-tie,
fancy-dress ball, either. Just some fair-to-middling food, and that is a pretty
good hotel as I recall.” Joseph, arms crossed and feet dangling from the chair.
Music, dancing, and a
little light entertainment, all culminating in a rather prestigious awards
ceremony—yes, he was lucky.
They had not asked him
for a speech…
Gilles sighed, deeply.
“Well, that’s three of
us, anyways.” He’d ask the others when they came in.
Some of them, any of
them, all of them. Three more tickets.
“Wasn’t there a monkey in
one of them old Conan Doyle stories?” LeBref had this look on his face, and Margot
was openly laughing at him.
“Well, if that is what
you think is best, Joseph…although you’ll have to get a move on, if you want to
find a costume in time.” She winked one over his way.
Hell, even Gilles had to
smile at that one. In the end, Joseph would do his job, as well as anyone else,
and he was always a good man to have around.
How he handled it was his
problem.
End
Louis has books and stories on Google Play. Many of them
are free.
See his stuff on Fine Art America.
And here is the proverbial cooking blog, not updated all that recently.
Author’s note. I began this novel in 2020, wrote about
20,000 words, and then petered out, same thing again in 2021. When I started up
again in late 2022, the novel stood about 39,000 words. Now it’s 46,000 and
counting. I hope to finish the book this winter. Other than that, the initial
spurt seemed a bit repetitive, but all of that sort of thing gets smoothed out
in a hundred reads, re-writes, and just filling out the book after the author
gets to the end of the plot. I have to know how it ends, and then if necessary,
I can go back and throw in a clue, here and there, and hopefully make sense of
it all in the end.
Thank you for reading.
#Louis
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