Free Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) by Pres Maxson Page A

response.
    “I
liked the picture on the cover. Poems are short. They are easy to read,” the
man went on without acknowledging the joke.
    “I
have actually always thought the opposite,” Pistache said. “They are kind of
cryptic.”
    “That’s
the beauty of them,” the stranger answered. “I like to search for the subtle
hints at meaning.”
    “That
always just frustrated me,” Pistache said.
    “Not
me. It’s what I do. It’s like a code to decipher or a treasure to uncover. I
like the hunt almost as much as I like the eventual feeling of discovery and
release.”
    “Aren’t
you a deep one?!” Pistache roared with amusement. “Have you read one yet that
you don’t understand?”
    “No.
Eventually, I always figure them out.”
    The
stranger only smiled and nodded as I passed him the drink. There was a quick
moment of silence as Pistache looked at the man.
    “Well,
this exchange has gone on long enough without us knowing each other! Jacques
Pistache!” Pistache exclaimed as he thrust his hand into the stranger’s grasp.
“It’s a treat to meet you, finally!”
    “Julian
Renard, and it certainly is.”
    “With
you watching from the corner, it felt as though you were our audience, and we
the players. I’m glad you are a part of the show now, Monsieur Renard!”
    “I
have been waiting for the right time, to be truthful.”
    “Oh,
I figured you were content to watch.”
    The
two shook hands for a few moments in silence. I almost had to smile at how
awkward the exchange had become so quickly. Now that they had introduced
themselves, there didn’t seem to be anything more for either to say.
    Finally,
Julian continued. “So, Monsieur Pistache …”
    “Yes?”
the street performer answered slowly.
    “How
long do you think it will be before Madame von Hugelstein realizes that her
ring is missing?”
    Trudel
immediately shot a look toward her hand. “My ring!” She gasped.
    Pistache
frowned at Renard.
    “Jacques, mon ami . Don’t you think this charade has run its course?” the stranger
said softly.

Chapter VII.
     
     
     
    The golden ballroom
at Peukington Manor glowed with grandeur. Spinning couples turned to the
soaring strings of a small orchestra, and many more guests stood among a sea of
round dinner tables, laughing and conversing. The air was full of floral
breezes and champagne fizzes.
    Jacques
Pistache swam slowly between tables, waiting to strike. Dressed in his
black-tie best, no one could have suspected that the man didn’t know a soul at
the fête. He sipped from his drink as he walked and smiled pleasantly at anyone
who caught his eye.
    The
street performer had already been at the party for about an hour. He’d spoken
with several other guests. Everyone seemed gracious, but he was slightly
disappointed. He had yet to see the man he’d come to meet. Surely, Lavaar
Peukington should have arrived by then. Why would he be late to his own
daughter’s engagement party?
    Peukington
was one of the richest residents of Paris. A successful businessman, he’d
gained fame through large real estate dealings. His company financed scientific
research grants, owned thousands of patents on products in all industries, and
published a fashion magazine. Still, Lavaar Peukington was almost never seen in
public.
    Pistache
was different. He attended gatherings of all kinds. He often met many people,
without conversing for more than a few minutes with anyone in particular. All
of this superficial glad-handing was part of his trained behavior. His livelihood
depended upon every handshake and people’s willingness to be physically moved.
With every pat on the back or brush of the arm, Pistache steered the momentum
of his subject. He lived in the personal space of others.
    Jacques
Pistache was a pickpocket.
    Considering
himself to be part magician and part dancer, Pistache mastered the fundamentals
of his craft. However, other challenges often kept him from succeeding. Self-awareness
was not one of his