Free Coq au Vin by Charlotte Carter Page B

and for all he knew, “looking up the ass of death.” Guillaume Lacroix claimed he was now just a regular mec who liked his dinner hot and on time, and of course a glass of wine now and then. But …if a nice man was in dire need of female companionship, or if one person with something to sell needed an introduction to another person with the wish to buy? He broke off with that emblematic Gallic shrug. “Entendu?”
    Understand? Sure I did, I said, managing to slide my hand out of his grip and signal the bartender for another round.
    Unlike a lot of his stuffy countrymen, Gigi adored Americans, he assured me. Especially Al Pacino. Did I love the movies as much as he did?
    Oh, absolutely.
    Was I, or this fellow I was traveling with, involved in any way with the film industry?
    Sadly, no, I had to admit, but we were both musicians—did that count for anything?
    â€œNot really,” said Gigi. “Paris is lousy with musicians—no offense.” In any case, he said, he wasn’t the one to talk music with. His lady friend Martine was the music expert. She’d probably be dropping in around two-thirty.
    I saw no reason to fence with Gigi Lacroix. He was no more a cop lover than I was. I laid out the Aunt Viv story for him. Let’s say it was the edited version of the Viv story. Leaving out any mention of the ten grand I was going to give her, I stressed how worried the family was about her; I was on a mission, out to rescue my adventurous aunt, who drank a little and who’d always had more nerve than brains.
    While Gigi listened he casually downed another in the army of Pernods I was paying for.
    â€œHmph,” he uttered at the end of the tale. “I don’t know the lady. She sounds like an exciting woman, though.”
    â€œDo you think you could help me? Do some asking around?”
    There went another defining gesture: the puffed-out lips accompanied by raised eyebrows and a slant of the head. Maurice Chevalier in polyester. The guy cracked me up.
    I figured we could come to terms.
    â€œÃ‰coute , Gigi,” I said, “you’re not going to be able to retire to the mountains on what I can pay you, but I think we can work something out. There’s just one thing I’ve got to get straight.”
    â€œOf course,” he said expansively.
    â€œDid you have anything to do with Mary Polk’s death?”
    The false bonhomie fell away from his face then and he shook his head once. “The unfortunate victim,” he said, “was another lady I never had the pleasure of meeting. We simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—both of us.”
    I had a sudden image of that Girl Scout bandanna. It just flew in and out of my thoughts. “Did you get a look at the death scene? Out back I mean, where the police found her?”
    â€œMe? No, my friend. I’m no ghoul. I have no curiosity about the dead. Especially when the police are involved.”
    I took that in without comment.
    It was a bit like the time I found my dream chair on sale at a furniture outlet store back in New York. The price was unbelievably low. I couldn’t find a thing wrong with it, and I knew that if it turned out to have been put together with spit, I’d never get my money back. I knew, furthermore, the salesman was the last person I should look to for reassurance. Yet I did. I also told him that at the first sign of a hidden defect, I’d come back there and get postal on his ass. I had absolutely no means of backing up that threat. But he took me at my word, and I left the store with his personal unconditional guarantee in hand. One of those rare occasions when racism works for you rather than against you.
    So it was that I threw in with Gigi the aging pomaded pimp—with the promise that if he tried to fuck me over he’d have to call in Al Pacino to get me off his case. I’d make his retirement uncomfortable as hell, even report