Free The Fifth House of the Heart by Ben Tripp

Gander’s recent affinity for three-piece pinstriped suits with high lapels was ideal. He looked honest and disinterested to Sax’s customers, who expected to deal with someone effeminate and cunning who dry-washed his hands when he spoke. Consequently, Gander, who appeared incapable of haggling, could often realize prices that made Sax blush. In addition, he had heard Gander enjoyed tremendous luck with the willowy shopgirls. The brute was probably hung like a Brazilian pack mule.
    At the dreary, cinder-blown gare in Poitiers, Sax descended from the train and found the bank of coin-operated telephones inside the station. He fed a pocketful of francs into an instrument and got the London shop; apparently, Gander was at the warehouse in Tilbury. Sax rang the warehouse and an unfamiliar cockney voice answered. Moments later, Gander was on the line. Sax outlined his plans, omitting certain details, and asked if Gander was available to assist. He was. Gander would meet Sax at a café in Boulevard St.-Germain, not far from the Sorbonne, the following afternoon.
    â€œIt might be a little risky,” Sax added. He thought Gander had agreed too quickly. Perhaps Sax hadn’t made the circumstances sufficiently clear. “Possibility of intervention by the gendarmes.”
    â€œRight,” Gander said, and rang off.
    P aris in 1965 was enjoying a jazz renaissance no less influential, within its sphere, than the rock and roll of London during the same year. Sax wasn’t particularly interested in music for its own sake. He went to a great many concerts of all kinds, but for him it was a social function, not an aesthetic one. He liked his arts to be durable, to occupy space.Music was something to fill the air around the artifacts. Still, he found he rather liked jazz. Not the big-band stuff, but the intimate trios, quartets, and quintets with their playful yet urgent interpretations of standards, the original compositions that leapt and flickered like fire. Thelonious Monk, Sonny Rollins, Wes Montgomery, Dexter Gordon, and Bill Evans—they were all in town that year, not to mention the bigger acts. Dizzy Gillespie had performed at the Olympia in November. Duke Ellington played the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées.
    Besides finding the music tolerable, Sax also liked the men who liked jazz. They were usually older, more complex. The rockers wanted to get theirs and get out. The jazz aficionados tended to be filmmakers, writers, diplomats, and attachés, people with interests that extended beyond racketing about in the counterculture, taking amphetamines, and rogering each other. This crowd found Sax interesting, too. He was a curiosity on the scene, which trended toward narrow lapels and black neckties. It wasn’t easy to stand out in the circuslike Mod world; it was hard not to stand out amongst the deliberately understated jazz people.
    Sax had the evening to himself. He would meet the voice on the telephone the following day at 1300 hours for a cup of coffee and a nice conspiracy. He decided to take the night off, enjoy a set of music in a club, and then, refusing any romantic engagements that might arise, he would dine alone and sleep in monastic solitude at L’Hotel, on the Left Bank.
    This proved to be a difficult if virtuous plan. The first flaw in the strategy was L’Hotel. Sax knew the manager, Guy Louis Dubou­cheron. The place attracted flocks of the rich and famous. Guy planned to renovate it soon, and Sax’s furnishings figured in those plans. So whenever Sax was in Paris, Guy had a good room for him at half price. When Sax tiptoed down to the snug little bar, he was astonished to discover his recent acquaintance Charlie Watts of the Rolling Stonessitting at the end, drinking Coca-Cola. The Stones were in town for a concert at the Olympia.
    Things deteriorated from that point. Sax never made it to the jazz bar. He went with Charlie to a sort of artist’s cooperative