Authors: Scott Phillips
That was bullshit, of course. Nothing, least of all the death of Claude, was going to diminish Esmée’s ambitions.
“Yes, you’re right,” Marie-Laure said. “It’s too soon to know anything, isn’t it?”
“I feel like a rat even talking about it so soon after.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she said. “Want to see me tonight?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get much sleep last night, I was thinking I might stay in.”
“Don’t lie to me. Look, I’m married, right? I’m spoken for. I get it, you fuck other women, and I really don’t care. But don’t lie to me, okay? That pisses me off.”
The irritation in her voice turned me on. There’s nothing like sex tinged with a little hostility, so I agreed to meet her at eight o’clock for a drink and dinner.
•
•
•
I wandered down to Fred’s bookstore in search of something diverting, not really knowing whether Fred would be there or not. He was, and given the state he was in, I was glad he hadn’t called.
“The police were here,” he said.
“Okay. What did you tell them?”
“Nothing. They wanted to know why I hadn’t been in to work all week.”
I hadn’t even considered Fred’s day job when I assigned him to guard duty, and I wondered now whether I shouldn’t reimburse him for his lost wages. Probably not, since that would likely complicate any future case that might be made against us, not to mention the movie deal. “What did you say?”
“I said I was working on the script. Which was true. They wanted to see it.”
“Did you let them?”
“I told them I’d have to ask you first.”
“Good for you. Well, it’s all right with me if they want to have a look. Any idea how they got the idea to talk to you?”
“From Marie-Laure. They wanted to know about anybody associated with this film project.”
“Hmm. I wonder why that is.”
Fred seemed genuinely distressed by my failure to add things up. His voice went up an octave and his eyes fairly popped out of their orbits. “Why? Because it’s the only thing linking the two Krysmopompas cases.”
“Oh.” Trust a writer to make that leap. I should have consulted with him at every stage of the affair, though to be fair the whole business had been improvised and markedly free of any careful planning. In retrospect it was a miracle we’d gotten this far. “Maybe Krysmopompas needs to strike again.”
He shook his head, in disbelief rather than as a negation of my suggestion. “You’re insane.”
“Look, it’s great publicity. Maybe we could write this Krysmopompas into the script.”
“No. Krysmopompas needs to disappear.”
“Ah, but if he disappears right after Guiteau dies, doesn’t that make it seem as though he or they were just a cover for someone with a grudge against him?”
He nodded, thinking hard. Being detail oriented probably helps when plotting out books and movies, but in daily life it seems to add to the stress.
“Meanwhile what’s the word with Annick?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“For Christ’s sake, give her a call. She’s not going to do all the work, she’s a girl.” Of course she’d been plenty aggressive with me, but I was a celebrity, and the rules were different.
“I don’t have her number,” he said, looking very much like the kind of guy who never gets the kind of woman he really wants because he convinces himself he’s not worthy.
I wasn’t buying it. “Give me your cell phone,” I said, and when he reluctantly handed it over I programmed Annick’s number into it and hit
DIAL
, then handed it back to him as it started ringing. Then I slapped him on the shoulder and left.
•
•
•
At Palais Royal I picked up my usual assortment of newspapers and sat down in a café to do the
Herald Tribune
’s crossword puzzle. There was a major story about poor Claude on the front page above the fold, but I’d had enough of that for a while.
Having finished the top and bottom of the puzzle, I got stuck, as was often the case on one of the clues in the middle, and having been interrupted no fewer than four times by fans—two of whom sought medical advice, and only one of whom sympathetically mentioned my injury—I turned on my
phone to check my e-mail. The only one of any significance was from my agent:
The role on Blindsided went to Dean Flax, the worst actor of his generation, who will thus be making money for his agent and increasing his visibility. The gig was yours if you wanted it and I couldn’t even get you to show up for the audition. This is it, pal, the end of the line. I wash my hands of the whole business
.
—
Ted
I composed a quick reply:
Nice hearing from you, Bunny. Attached are some news articles about me. They’re in French but someone in the office should be able to translate. What do you think? I’ve been targeted by the same terrorists who killed this famous arms dealer here (more articles attached, but the L.A. Times should have something too). He was the investor in my movie, which should have you salivating at all the possibilities. I know you had your heart set on me as third or fourth banana on your crappy network show, but trust me when I say this movie is going to do boffo business over here. If you can forgive me I will shortly have contracts for you to negotiate. Why don’t you come on over and have yourself a little vacation?
I didn’t really care whether he kept me on or not; the fact that he was so ready to drop me as a client after a single missed audition was hurtful, and since I’d come to France my career was going great guns without his help. But we’d been friends for a long time, and he’d helped me out in my hungry early days in Hollywood, and in the end I decided to leave it up to him.
I went back to the puzzle. The clue that was vexing me, 27 Across, was nebulous: “Protozoans in low places.” I had an
m
and a
v
and an
l
, but the surrounding Down clues told me nothing, and without 27 Across I would be struggling with the damned thing all afternoon.
I called Fred, and he picked up on the first ring, the panic rising steadily in his voice. “What is it?”
“Relax, it’s just a crossword problem.” I laid it out for him, and I could feel him calming down on the other end as he pondered it.
“Try ‘Trichomonas vaginalis,’ if that’s not too many letters.”
It fit perfectly, and suddenly the intersecting Down clues made sense. “Thanks, pal. Your repertoire of obscure facts is pretty amazing.”
“It’s not that obscure. In fact . . .”
“Listen, I gotta go. How soon before we have a finished script?”
“Soon. I’m cranking through the thing.”
“Good. Keep me posted. We’ve got some momentum despite it all, let’s get it made.”
“Right, chief,” he said, and he hung up.
•
•
•
Marie-Laure and I settled on sushi in a little place near Les Halles. We sat at the bar and watched the chef at work, and it turned out that Marie-Laure wasn’t quite as adventurous in the sashimi department as she had implied. She bristled at the sight of the sea urchin, which to me is the heart of any sushi meal, and stuck mostly to freshwater eel (smoked) and various rolls. I didn’t tease her about it, sensing that the ends I sought would be more easily met via other means.
“Script’s almost done,” I told her as we neared the end of the meal. It was time to talk some business, as it was the network paying for dinner.
“Wonderful. Have you spoken to Esmée?”
“Not since the police told her about her husband.”
“When are you going to see her?”
“There’s a memorial tomorrow at the Hanoi Hilton, if you want to come along with me.”
She sniffed, an almost imperceptible note of jealousy clinging to the sound. “I would have thought you’d want your porn star on your arm. Anyway, shouldn’t we be thinking of getting you a bodyguard? Who knows when this Krystalvision or Kriskringle or whatever he’s called is going to come after you again.”
“I really hate the idea of being surrounded by goons,” I said, smiling kindly at a half-crippled old lady limping across the dining room for an autograph and possibly a diagnosis. “I like the idea that my fans can get to me.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, and turned her attention to the remainder of her California roll as I began conversing with the pain-wracked senior. The old dear didn’t want medical advice and in fact wanted to discuss my methods of preparation. She was a stage actress herself, with a number of film roles to her credit, and she had admired my work. I was delighted at the chance to talk shop with an old pro, and as we spoke I started thinking about whether or not there was a part for her in the movie. Perhaps an elderly shepherdess who leads our man to safety. Of course I’d have to consult with Fred about altering or adding a character, but I didn’t think that would be too much to ask.
When she waddled back to her own table, Marie-Laure spoke up. “You know who that was?”
“She’s an actress.”
“She used to be. She jumped out of the window of her apartment over a married politician who stopped returning her calls. She’d been out on the balcony for hours before she finally jumped.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, wow. So of course there were TV cameras, and everybody saw the jump. She hasn’t worked since, she’s completely bonkers.” She leaned over to whisper the tragic end of her story: “She thinks she’s still a star.”
On the way to Marie-Laure’s apartment Annick phoned. “Fred called, he wants to see me. You have any idea what it’s about?”
“I think he just wants to sleep with you.”
“Really? I thought it was maybe something about . . .” She stopped herself, to my immense relief. “About something else.”
“No, I’m quite sure. I got the impression that’s what you wanted as well.”
“I suppose . . . if it doesn’t bother you?”
“Why would it bother me?”
“No reason.” There was a defiant lack of disappointment in her tone. “I suppose I’m going to have to break up with Bruno before long.”
“Do it gently. The boy’s just lost his father.”
“You’re right. Still, life goes on, right?”
“Right.”
I hung up and put my hand between Marie-Laure’s knees, and for just a moment I became self-conscious about Balthazar’s being up front. Then I remembered that Balthazar knew all about it, probably knew a lot worse things about Marie-Laure than her sexual habits.
And of course he knew I’d bought a gun.
•
•
•
After a quick, not to say perfunctory screwing, I left Marie-Laure in her apartment. Balthazar had had the good sense to wait for me downstairs, and less than an hour after going up he was driving me back to the apartment in the sixth.
“So you have any more trouble with that fuck tried to brain you the other week?”
“Not a bit,” I said, reasoning that my encounter with him in Ginny’s suite didn’t really qualify as “trouble.”
“That’s good,” he said.
•
•
•
I was tired when I got into the apartment but not terribly so given my lack of sleep over the last twenty-four hours. I was still a little horny, even, and so it was with mixed emotions that I greeted Esmée, stark naked in the salon watching television and absently pleasuring herself with what appeared to be a vibrating egg.
“This would look very bad if anyone were to find out, you know,” I told her.
“I know,” she said. “Doesn’t that make it that much more exciting?”
•
•
•
So it did. Fucking Esmée that night was one of the most thrilling sexual experiences I’ve ever had, coming as it did with the knowledge that we were risking serious jail time (of course it would have been even more exciting back home in the States, where we both would have been putting ourselves at risk for lethal injection). Never mind that I’d already screwed Marie-Laure earlier in the evening; I felt as though I hadn’t ejaculated in a month, and Esmée writhed on the bed like a creature possessed. If you ever get the chance to fuck someone with whom you’re complicit in a recent murder, I highly recommend it.
W
E AWOKE IN THE MORNING WITH THE BED a disaster area, our clothes and underwear torn and strewn about the room, our smells all over one another. She showered and quickly dressed and left, and neither one of us spoke a word as she did so. I showered in my turn, and when I’d dressed I found Inspector Bonnot sitting in the living room.
“I hope I didn’t frighten you,” he said.
“Not at all,” I replied, the very embodiment of aplomb.
“I ran into Mme. Guiteau as she was leaving. She graciously let me in.”
“I see.”
“You should have told me from the start that you were fucking her.”
“I was protecting her reputation.”