 |
| Well, we got three corpses, anyways. Poirier. |
Louis Shalako
***
Dr. Poirier had the three corpses, and he had an initial stack of sets of dental records, more or less complete, from a list of names. How in the hell they had gotten all of this, let alone so quickly, was an interesting question.
Sometimes even a parent, a friend, a neighbour, just didn’t know the name of a loved one’s dentist or doctor.
Even if they did, they couldn’t always remember it. Not all the
names were represented, not by a long shot, but where a patient’s records
existed, their doctor had kept a record of all work done. And yet people
changed doctors. They moved to another town, or came from somewhere else. They
became more prosperous, moved across town, or fell into ruin, only for the
records to stop altogether, perhaps even owing money and so, if they came into
fortune again, were just as likely to move on to another dentist. Maintenon had
his short list, and then he had his long list—
Poirier shook his head at
that one, but Gilles was nothing if not thorough.
It was all one could do,
to take on one set of records, and study the teeth of Corpse A, Corpse B, and
Corpse C. Corpse D…
There was some element of
subjectivity. He was not a dentist by trade—sometimes fillings fell out, and
the decay would set in anew.
In the background, something
dripped, he’d probably failed to shut it off completely. The washer needed
replacing and one had to really screw that thing down…
He knew enough of the
story so far, and the chances did not seem too good of solving this one. None
of the dental records, insofar as he could make out, matched the allegedly
identified body of Jean-Paul Saulnier. If the man himself came walking in to
the room, his teeth might not match the records either, and then what were you
supposed to do?
This wasn’t all that
surprising. None of their records matched, certainly not without some stretch
of the imagination, that of the body which had been speculated to be that of
Cariveau, and then there was Jules Lalonde. One set of records did sort of
match, but they were three years since the last procedure and nothing since.
It was nothing one could
hang their hat upon, and Dr. Poirier had strong doubts in spite of the match.
At some point, one had to
bite the bullet, so to speak.
With a cough, he stubbed
out his cigarette.
He reached for the phone.
***
Gilles woke up in a cold
sweat, the adrenalin coursing through his veins…
Merde.
It was the dream, again.
The bloody dream—
Sighing, he looked at the
clock. Fuck, he was almost grateful. For one thing, it said four-forty-eight
a.m., and that was at least a whole hell of a lot better than two or three a.m.
Several nights ago, he’d woken up at eleven-thirty, and if he had gotten a good
hour’s sleep after that, it would have been some kind of miracle.
Hell, he might even be
able to just lie in for a while. Have a luxurious extra half an hour of rest,
just plain rest, whether he actually slept or not; and he’d still be on his way
by shortly after seven. The truth was, a morning routine and an hour of
wakefulness, time for coffee, and the bathroom, and to sit and smoke and not
having to rush out the door—it was a kind of luxury, when one really thought
about it. Going to bed at fucking six-thirty or seven these days…no wonder, he
had the time to dream. When you went to bed that early, you had twelve full
hours to kill, as it were.
Or to be killed.
The dream had its
variations. Dreams quickly fade, even as he thought it over, but this time he’d
been running from enemy soldiers, a solid phalanx of them, all of them with
rifles and their long bayonets. He’d had the dream so often, it was all too
familiar. He was looking through two glassy holes, the hood over his head,
impregnated with chemicals which would run with the sweat and the heat. Your
eyes would burn, and too many men, unable to stand it, had torn off the thing
and just run—to just run. A few of the lucky ones might have made it.
Even in the hood,
primitive as it was, one could still smell the gas—and to hear the screaming and
the shouting.
Which was exactly what
Gilles had been doing. In the dream, he was running like a fucking deer, for
crying out loud. All boys ran, of
course, they raced each other just to see who was best. Hell, he might have
even won a time or two, back in those days. Back then, in what seemed like the
halcyon days of youth, growing up in a small village in the Pyrenees. It sure
seemed like a long time ago, and even farther away, in some more physical sense. To take the time, to
make the long trek back there was perhaps too emotionally-laden for him to
consider. No, the last time he’d been back there, that had been with Ann. It
was one more painful memory.
 |
| The bloody dream again. #fuck |
That had been the last
time he’d seen his mother—before God took her unto his heavenly bosom, as the
Curé had put it. He wondered if he really believed in all of that anymore…not
very much he decided, although it was comforting enough in its way.
Bagneres de Luchon, the village of his birth, was near
the border with Spain in the high Pyrenees, and he still had a real posse of
brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews and cousins and aunts and uncles of
all stripes around there to prove it.
In the dream, Maintenon
had run down a set of stairs, turned left into what had suddenly turned into
his grandmother’s cubby of a kitchen. There was a grenade in his hand, the pin
had been pulled…his heart was thudding in sheer terror. You were supposed to
count off the seconds…
What was worse, the gas
or the bayonets…or your own grenade. It hardly mattered any more.
He’d darted into the left
corner, into what looked like a pantry, and indeed there were some narrow
shelves with jars and bottles and crocks there. Pickles and beets and tomato
sauce…
But while the rest of the
room was framed and paneled, this little passage led back under the stairs into
one corner of his grandfather’s workshop and utility room, the end with the
chute where they put the coal in, or in earlier days, just plain firewood and
kindling…the house really was that old. He didn’t even know if the place still
stood.
And with someone who
looked terribly familiar, close on his heels, (was that his cousin Suzanne?)
and with loud voices and bayonets and gunshots in the background, he’d been
confounded by the fact that the regular workshop door he was seeking was simply
gone.
It was just a blank wall,
and he was trapped. Hence the gut-stabbing wrench of fear.
Hence the waking up. Also—he
didn’t have cousin named Suzanne.
“Argh.”
No, he would not be
getting back to sleep now. That much was apparent. Listening carefully, it did
not seem to be raining out there.
He put on the hooded
bedside light, although he might shelter there for another few minutes…there
were more clues than you could shake a stick at. He almost groaned, in fact he
did—
Something Father Raymond,
the popular priest of his local parish had once said, came to mind.
So much depends on the
weather…now, what the hell was that supposed to mean. Of course, the whole
congregation had laughed, and perhaps that had been the point all along. It
kept them listening.
Fuck.
You know you are done
when the thoughts turn to coffee and that first cigarette of the day.
***
“Good morning, Gilles.”
The voice was familiar.
Receiving personal calls
at work was distinctly unfamiliar, and he abruptly realized some close relative
must have died—
Which turned out to be
just one more shitty thought.
“Who is this?”
“Hector.”
“Ah.”
“Hector Vachon, your old
friend and well-known roving reporter-about-town.”
“Ah. Hector. Yes, it is
good to hear from you. What can I do for you?” Maintenon knew enough to know
this wasn’t a social call. “We really must get together for a drink and a
chat.”
“I’d love to, Gilles.
Give me a call. Other than that, what’s going on?”
What’s
up, Doc?
A standing joke of some
many years…back when they were young and just a little bit silly, especially
true after a long string of eventful night shifts and that inevitable running
on adrenaline for too long—
“Er, the usual things,
Hector. The usual things—” He left it hanging.
Sooner or later, Hector
would get to it.
“Well, Gilles. It’s just
that people are saying the great Gilles Maintenon may be all washed up.” The
telephone line crackled in the silence. “All these Finger Killings—I’m sure
you’ve seen the headlines, all these young men, and one wonders if police have
been making any progress.”
“Er…no comment, Hector.” Hmn.
All washed up. People
could say anything they liked, of course.
He had never taken it too
personal, as most of them were just idiots anyways.
“Really?” Hector
chuckled. “Sorry, Gilles, but it is my job to try, after all.”
“That’s okay, Hector. Of
course we never comment on individuals or the details of an ongoing
investigation. Police are making inquiries and anyone with any information on
this or any other case should contact police as soon as possible…”
More chuckles.
.JPG) |
| I'll buy, but I get to choose your lunch... |
“Fine. Be that way.”
“You
too, mon ami.” Gilles thought.
“So, ah. How’s the wife these days?”
“Ha. You know I’m not
going to give up, don’t you? Look at the clock, Gilles.”
“Hmn?”
“It’s eleven oh six.
There’s plenty of time. I’ll meet you for lunch. Down at the old Cock and
Bull.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
Although it might be better than a couple of ham-and-cheese panini sent up from the deli a few
blocks over…thin sliced tomato, and a bit of tired lettuce.
Versus this.
“I’ll tell you what. I
will make you a deal. I will buy lunch, with one proviso.”
“And what’s that?”
“I get to pick your
dinner.”
“Oh, really.”
“Yes. I was thinking—I
was thinking…liver and onions. Yes, that’s it. Liver and onions, Gilles. What
do you say?”
Maintenon grinned.
“As you remember, that
comes with the lovely little hot rolls, the lady of the house still does her
own butter, Gilles. Right out beside the back door. With a wooden churn and
everything…the choice of soup or salad, juice, a bottomless cup of coffee…rice
pilaf, and the usual boiled veg. And for dessert, you even get your choice of a
scoop of ice cream, rice pudding or even cherry gelatine. That greatest of all
American inventions. I’ll tell you what, I’ll even throw in a pint of the
best.”
“All right. You son of a
bitch. But you’re on. And you can quote me on that one.”
“Until lunch, then,
Gilles. Bye.”
***
END
Images. Louis steals
them from the internet.
See his books and
stories on Amazon.
Louis has art on Fine Art
America.
Check out the #superdough food blog.
Thank you for reading.
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