 |
| You. |
Louis Shalako.
Their thinking on the car had been mucky, very mucky
indeed. They were chasing their tails on that one…that had been the last
thought that went through his head.
It had been a long day. Gilles woke up in his chair, a
glass of cognac barely touched beside him. There were times when the hips just
ached lately.
Merde.
He’d been hoping to avoid it, just this once, but it
seemed he was unable to escape himself, his routine. His tiredness—his
exhaustion, his depression, his ineffable loneliness.
The reliance on the alcohol, as a substitute for any
other kind of a life—
Sleep, the last refuge of the truly unhappy.
Gibbon, or so he thought.
Yes, Gibbon. The
Decline and Fall—of Gilles Maintenon, this time around.
He looked at the ash tray, and it seemed that he’d at
least had the sense to stub out that last one. Wouldn’t want to set the cat on
fire. The chair might have been another story. Sylvestre had to be somewhere
around there, the animal getting older now, not so much inclined to prowl, but
to sit up high on the end of the couch, or in the exact middle of Gilles’
bed—there were other beds, other rooms, but that was the way cats just were.
He’d apparently had the foresight to get out of his clothes…shabby slippers,
fuzzy socks knitted by an elderly aunt, a gift of several Christmases
ago…bottoms, an undershirt and a striped bathrobe. The cat always wanted to sit
in his lap when it was least convenient, and to avoid him like the plague when
he was ready.
The room was a bit chilly, with a couple of windows
open a crack to admit just a sliver of the night air.
The radio was much too loud, and he groaned.
“Oh, God.” One almost had to think about it these
days, putting hands upon knees and clambering up. “Shit.”
Gilles made it up, finally, and went over to the
radio.
He turned it down.
“Sylvestre. Sylvestre?”
Well, as long as I’m up—and out of the chair. The
cognac was room temperature, and he’d refresh that in a minute, but first. The
hips were not good, stiff and with a sensation…not exactly pain, but a mild
soreness. The left knee would hurt to the touch, and so he didn’t touch it.
He had to pee. Yes, and after that, probably, some
small trickle down the leg. It was the price of getting old. It was all that
dancing, he thought.
Fuck. Not that he regretted it. Not exactly.
Other than that, it was still sort of early, not that
it really meant anything these days, and Sophie had left something for him,
something which he simply hadn’t been able to face, not at first, not without a
drink at least, upon coming home from work. One drink had turned into three, at
least three.
But first, the bathroom.
And there was still something about the car. It would
come to him, probably at two-thirty seven a.m., as such things often did.
Argh.
***
 |
| Fuck this shit, I am out of here... |
The thoughts of food were ambivalent indeed, and yet
he knew he had to eat once in a while, besides, there was an element of
curiosity. The kitchen smelled oddly neutral when he got there, but there was
definitely a casserole or something in the refrigerator, he’d had a quick slug
of cold milk in lieu of anything else when he’d gotten home…
There was a sound.
“Sylvestre?”
There was a quick thump.
The cat scuttled across the kitchen floor, coming from
the area, the little cul de sac
leading to the storage closet, or the back window where he perched sometimes,
looking out over the barren and unkempt courtyard with its overflowing bins,
run-down little sheds and vague attempts at gardening by the truly poor
tenants. All of those garrets, up under the eaves. The animal headed for the
front rooms, turning hard right at high speed, claws scratching at the worn
brown linoleum. He was gone in an instant, and Gilles wondered what was up.
Hmn. He had to admit, he’d kind of been strangers
lately…I’m not that bad, am I.
He turned to the counter, where the bottle stood, and
tossed off the last dregs of the warm stuff. It was better at room temperature
anyways. He was just pouring and a snap came from the door, and a sudden cold
draft hit the back of his neck.
“Good evening, Inspector.”
He turned, mouth open—
“You.”
“Yes, Gilles. Me.”
Schleicher—
Schleicher.
“Merry Christmas. So. Are you surprised.”
***
“I could have sworn I locked that door.”
“Oh, don’t worry Gilles. You did. No, it’s not like
you’re losing your mind or anything like that.”
The person stood there beaming.
“Well. No doubt you are wondering why I am here.”
“No. Non—but
no one ever does anything for no reason—”
Schleicher nodded.
“That’s very perceptive, Gilles.” He considered.
“Yes, that’s very good, in a masturbatory,
self-indulgent, decadent sort of a way.” Hmn. “One supposes, that you would
have to have had something to say,
anything at all, under such circumstances…”
“You’re the degenerate here.”
“Now Gilles. That doesn’t seem very friendly.”
There were wet footprints across the linoleum, and the
winds were whipping up, tugging at the branches from a young sycamore,
overgrown to some extent, and much too close to the building, as they slapped
at the windows in the back room.
“Do you mind?” Gilles raised the glass and drank.
“Oh, ever so sorry, old boy.” Reaching back with the
left hand, never taking his eyes off of Gilles, he gave a push and the hallway
door snicked fully closed.
“Pour one for me. For later, Gilles.”
Gilles nodded and began to move.
“Careful.”
“This is where the glasses are kept, mon ami.”
It was hard to turn one’s back. Yes, cool, as cool as
a cucumber.
He took his time about it, not that it would buy much
time. He set the glass down on the near side of the kitchen table.
There.
That’s better.
“So, what can I do for you, old chap.” Maintenon bit
it off, the accent near-perfect.
English, spoken with a German accent—not that it
proved anything in particular.
Schleicher nodded.
“Well, ever so sorry, and all of that sort of thing, old boy. It’s just that I’ve come here
to kill you.” A hand reached, and undid the next button on the cape. “Not much
of a present, but as they say, it’s the thought that counts.”
The hand reached in, the right hand, and pulled out a
gleaming blade…all forty-five centimetres of it or so, and waved it around
under the light, and it glittered in Gilles’ eyes, and even in Schleicher’s
eyes.
 |
| "Are you salivating yet, mon ami?" |
“Are you salivating yet, mon ami?” The contempt was real.
Maintenon’s face was very stiff.
He shouldn’t have drank that—he might have tossed it
in the other’s face and maybe even had half a chance. It was a sinking feeling
on the realization. It must have shown in his face…knives, fuck, a large pot or
pan, a chair maybe, but he was a little too far from the sink, the counter,
the drawer, the other room even, and there wouldn’t be enough time anyways.
He’d had his last drink.
Throwing plates and saucers at the man didn’t seem
like much of an option—
Schleicher grinned.
“Yes, Gilles. It’s all over now.”
Yes,
Gilles, but why me.
END
 |
| ...that gun in the second chapter has to go off sooner or later... |
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