Le Chat Noir

Harry Bender sat down at the piano, a warm glass of bourbon clenched in his right hand and a cigarette dangling in his left, sweat from his wrists dripped onto the keyboard. He crushed the cigarette in a crowded ashtray and took a long draw from his drink, reflecting on the bourbon’s smooth slide down his throat as it nestled warmly in his stomach. Suddenly Harry realized that his hands were moving across the piano keys, his fingers caressing a Thelonious Monk tune out of the instrument, the heaving notes blending into the smoke and laughter of the Pigalle jazz club.

           The doors swung open, a crowd of people scurried into the room, a rush of stifling Paris summer air slapped against Harry's face as he looked up. But Harry only saw the blur that was his hands striking the keys, the foot of the bass player tapping the hard wooden floor, the drummer's steady beat on the ride cymbal.

           A man and a woman sat down near the stage. The man held up a hundred Euro note and called the waiter over to him.

           "Oui, Monsieur Finn?”

           "Deux Ricard, Jean-Paul. Et un whiskey pour Monsieur Bender, sur l'heure."

           Jean-Paul hesitated a moment then smiled. "Mais, bien sûr, merci."

           Harry had seen them come in.

           "Why are you sending that awful American a drink, Henri?" the woman huffed indignantly in French.

           "And how is that, Madeleine? You don’t fancy the young American? Or maybe you don’t like his jazz so much?"

           "I do not like him so much. Filthy vagrant! I'd rather walk barefoot to Jerusalem than associate with his type."

           "Madeleine, Madeleine, calm down," Henri said. "Mr. Bender may be more useful to us than you suspect."

           "Hmmn," Madeleine huffed. "An American useful? What an idea!"

           Jean-Paul placed a fresh glass of bourbon on the piano.

           "From Monsieur Finn, Harry." Jean-Paul said.

           Harry nodded, thanking Jean-Paul, but keeping his eyes down.

           "Écoutez-moi, Harry," Jean-Paul said. "This is none of my business, but Monsieur Finn, he is, how you say, 'bad news.' Don't get involved with him. I like you Harry, I don't want to see you get hurt.”

           Harry nodded again and continued to play.

           Madeleine lit a cigarette and turned her head towards the bar. Her chestnut hair fell gently onto her bare shoulder, her lips full, red and edible, her hips swaying seductively to the momentum of the crowd.

           When his set ended Harry came over and sat down next to her, across from Monsieur Finn.

           "So, Harry, how are things in the jazz scene these days?" Mr. Finn said slowly, deliberately, never taking his eyes off Harry.

           "I get by."

           "You hear that Madeleine? Our talented American jazzman said, 'he gets by.’ How delightful. My Madeleine, she loves jazz, you know. Maybe you could give her some lessons?"

           "Jazz isn't taught, Monsieur Finn, it's lived."

           "Ah, an aesthete? Very nice, how delightful."

           "So this is how you choose to live, Monsieur Bender?" Madeleine said. "Like a beggar?

           "Better to live like a beggar than not to live," Harry said.

           "If I were you I'd rather not live at all."

           "If you were me I wouldn't want to live either."

           "Salaud!"

           "Ça suffit!" Monsieur Finn said. "That's enough. Madeleine, get lost for a few minutes."

           Monsieur Finn finished his Ricard and raised his hand toward Jean-Paul.

           "Encore, Jean-Paul," he said. "And for you, Harry?"

           "Yes, thank you."

           "Et aussi, un whiskey. Tout de suite!"

           Harry fidgeted in his chair, eagerly awaiting that next bourbon.

           "You look nervous, Harry. You're not nervous are you?"

           "No, I'm just tired."

           "Well, listen to me, and remember what I tell you because I'll only say it once." 

           Earlier that day Harry had left his apartment just after five o’clock and headed to the Metro. Twenty-five minutes later he stepped off the train at the Gare Du Nord and waited by the bathrooms. Harry stared straight ahead, inhaling the sweet scent of urine emanating from the toilets, and checked his watch as old men and little children ambled past him into the bathroom where a disinterested middle-aged man sat and scowled as the trains rumbled below them.

           Finally a short stout man walked up to Harry and bumped into his side.

           "Where the fuck you been, you bastard? I've been riding the fucking tube two hours waiting for you!

           "Something came up," Harry said calmly.

           "Something, something came, I should break off two of your bloody fingers, you shit!" the man seethed.

           "Don't mind that now, just listen. I'm gonna get the stuff tonight. Are you ready for it?"

           "Of course, yeah. Are you sure?"

           "I won't be positive until tonight. If I do get it, you understand I have to have the money right away, there's no time to wait. I must have the money tonight."

           "Yeah, yeah, that's no problem. You'll get your money, so you and your bird can beat your arses out of town. Where's it gonna be, huh? Spain? Brazil? Back to the States for you?

           "Never mind that, just have the money."

           "If the stuff's as good as you say it is."

           "Don't worry about that."

           The man grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him close.

           "I'm not fucking around, Harry. The stuff better be prime, or your girl will be packing you off in trash bags. Don't fuck with me."

           Harry walked back up the Metro steps and took a taxi to Rue Des Trois Freres where he went inside his apartment and gathered the last of his belongings into his suitcase. He had walked over to the kitchen table and was pouring himself a Pernod when he was startled by a knock on the door. Harry slid the suitcase under the bed, walked over to the door, and opened it casually.

           A woman burst in and threw him onto the bed, her arms wrapped around his neck, her knees digging into this side. She enveloped his lips in a long passionate kiss.

           "Oh, Harry, I missed you!"

           "Veronique?" Harry exclaimed. "I wasn't expecting you back from Italy so soon! Is something wrong?"

           "Oh, those lousy Italians, it was so boring over there! Point to this and smile, point to that and smile, then when you're not looking they grab your ass. I told them to go screw themselves and came home to my Harry!"

           "I really wasn't expecting you so soon."

           "You're not happy?"

           "Of course, I am, it's just..."

           "Where are all your things? Are you going somewhere, what's wrong?"

           "Wrong, nothing's wrong, I mean, nothing serious. My father's sick. I just got a letter from my mother yesterday."

           "Oh no! What is it? Oh, my poor, Harry!"

           "She didn't say. You know my mother, she wouldn't want me to worry."

           Harry reached over to a drawer in the nightstand next to the bed and pulled out a small folder. "She sent me a ticket to come home, just for a few days. I was hoping to be back before you were finished in Italy.”

           "Oh, Harry, that's terrible! I'll go with you! My poor, darling!"

           "We really can't afford it. And like I said, it's only for a couple of days."

           Veronique pushed out her lower lip in a feigned pout.

           “Poor, Harry! And I told Bernadette I would have dinner with her tonight. Will you be okay alone in a time like this?”

           “Yes, I’ll be fine. In a time like this.”

           It was six-thirty and Harry was hungry. He walked to a nearby restaurant, ate a large plate of pasta and drank half a carafe of red wine. It was eight o'clock when he finished. It was still too early to go to the club. He decided to stop at a bar and get a drink. Across the street was an establishment called Le Chat Noir--the ‘Black Cat.’ Harry laughed to himself at the irony of patronizing a bad luck symbol at a time when he needed good fortune on his side the most.

           Harry took a coin out of his pocket. Heads to the Black Cat, tails to the club. He flung the one Euro coin into the air, it’s gold edge gleamed in the glow of the pendulum lights. It flipped over and over and fell onto Harry’s wrist. Harry slapped his hand down on top of it. He lifted his hand slowly and peaked under it. The coin revealed heads. Off to Le Chat Noir!

           After Madeleine had left, Monsieur Finn lit a cigarette and took a small sip of his Ricard. He was a tall man, dark and muscular. It was summer but he still wore a jacket and hat, his breath a mixture of cigarettes and meat, his hands always manipulating something, a lighter, a coin, anything he had about him. When he spoke his eyes grabbed hold of you with an almost hypnotic power. It was this particular feature that Harry found most unnerving. Fearful of giving the impression he had something to hide, Harry wouldn't look away. Most terrifying was having to gaze into those icy, cadaver-like eyes.

           "At two o'clock tonight, Harry, you'll walk down Boulevard De Clichy to the corner of Rue De Martyrs. There you'll meet Claude. You know Claude, Harry?"

           "Yes, I know him."

           "Bien! You see, Harry, you're doing fine. Now, Claude will have a leather bag with the product inside. Go over and pick up the bag, then walk away. Don't open it! Don't talk to Claude! Just pick up the bag and keep walking. Okay, Harry?"

           "Okay."

           "Magnifique! Next, you will continue to walk east on Boulevard De Clichy until you reach the Square D'Anvers. In the middle of the square is a fountain. Go there and wait for the clients. Show them the bag only after you see the money. Okay, you got that? Very important, now pay attention. Only after you see the money?"

           "Okay."

           "Once you get the money, walk on Boulevard De Rochechouart to Rue De Dunkerque and wait for my car to pick you up. You should be there no later than two-thirty. You understand, Harry, no later than two-thirty?

           "Two-thirty, all right."

           Monsieur Finn leaned forward and gripped Harry eyes with his gaze.

           "And just in case you suddenly think that my money would feel better in your own wallet, I'll have a package waiting for you in my car."

           "A package? For me?"

           "Veronique."

           Harry paled.

           "Two-thirty, Harry. Don't be late."

           As promised, at two in the morning on the corner of Boulevard De Clichy and Rue De Martyrs, Claude was waiting for Harry. Leaning against the weathered brick face of a bookstore, a dark brown leather bag at his feet, he flicked an ash from his cigarette.

           As Harry approached the corner, he looked up at the street sign.

           "Rue De Martyrs," he laughed to himself.

           Harry briefly made eye contact with Claude. Without breaking stride, he picked up the bag and continued walking. Claude turned around and went off in the other direction.

           The bag was heavier than Harry had expected. The leather handle burned into his hand as he walked calmy but swiftly toward the Square D'Anvers.

           A car zoomed up beside him and screeched to an abrupt stop. The passenger door swung open and a woman's hand feverishly beckoned him in.

           "Dépêchez-vous!" the woman commanded.

          Harry looked up and down the street, then ran over to the car and jumped in. The dim streetlight illuminated the gentle figure of a woman, the shadows in the car blanketing her in soft grays and reds.

           "Do you have the stuff?" she asked eagerly.

           "Yes," Harry confirmed.

           Madeleine nodded her head and the car sped off not toward the fountain in the Square D'Anvers, where Monsieur Finn’s clients were waiting, but for a very different destination.

           Somewhere blocks away the car slowed as Madeleine steered it towards the curb. Harry looked out at the drab apartment building and wiped the sweat from his upper lip.

           "It's show time, Harry," said Madeleine.

           Harry continued to look out the window. Taking a long drag from his cigarette, he took the one Euro coin out of his pocket that he had used to decide whether or not to go to Le Chat Noir. He nervously twirled it in his fingers. Then he decided--heads, he would go back for Veronique, tails, he would leave her to Monsieur Finn.

           Harry tossed the coin in the air. It flipped over in the confines of the car, suspended in space for an eternity, shimmering in the rays of the streetlight. It fell with a smack on Harry’s wrist as he slapped it down against his smooth sweaty arm. He took a deep breath and a said a fast prayer. He lifted his hand like tearing off a Band-Aid.

           Heads.

           "I'm not going in, Madeleine," he said.

           "What the hell are you talking about?" Madeleine barked.

           "We have to go back and get Veronique," Harry said.

           "You must be insane!"

           "I can't allow Veronique to get hurt. I won't accept that responsibility. There's no other way, we have to go back."

           "Ah, I see. And what will we say when we get there, huh? 'Oh, Henri, I'm so sorry I ran off with 2 million Euros worth of your stuff. Be a nice guy and just forget about the whole thing.' Right?"

           Harry sighed.

           "No, Harry. If we go back there we'll end up as dead as her."

          Harry threw his arms up in the air.

           "Then that's the way it must be," he said. "I can't live with her death on my conscience."

           Madeleine grabbed the leather bag and shut off the car engine.

           "I can."

           "What are you doing?" Harry yelled.

           "I'm making us rich," Madeleine said. "Wait here until I get out. And just in case you have any ideas, I'll be taking the keys with me."

           Madeleine slammed the car door shut and dashed across the sidewalk into the dark building.

           Harry froze. A car passed, it's headlights flashed across his face. He looked at his watch. Seventeen minutes.

           "Harry," he said to himself, "you've really fucked up this time."

           He swung open the car door and raced down the street towards Rue De Dunkerque. The sound of his shoes pounding on the hard pavement reverberated in the deserted streets. A solitary figure in the stillness of the sweltering Parisian night, Harry ran through the shadows and moonbeams dancing on the sidewalk, determined.

           But Harry was only four blocks on and he was already out of breath. The alcohol and the cigarettes burned into his lungs and tore at his stomach. Without warning his legs gave way and he fell to his knees. He grabbed his gut in pain and vomited on the sidewalk.

           "Goddamn!" he yelled. He checked his watch. Thirteen minutes.

           Harry rounded Rue D'Oresel and hurled himself down Rue Briquet. Sweat streamed down his face and drenched his shirt. His arms flailed wildly in the air as he sprinted down the dark street, his lungs bursting, his heavy gasps resounding in the quiet night.

           Two more blocks.

           Harry checked the time. Six minutes. He would make it.

          Approaching Rue De Rochechouart, Harry could see Monsieur Finn's car across the street. Stopping at the corner, he bent over and grabbed his knees, trying to catch his breath. The headlights on the car flashed on and off twice. Harry walked over.

           "Where's Veronique?" he demanded as he walked up to the car's rear window.

           The window lowered, revealing Monsieur Finn and Veronique.

           "Harry!" Veronique sobbed through fresh tears. "What's going on?"

           "Right on time, Harry. But I see you don't have my money," Monsieur Finn said politely.

           Harry began to speak, but Monsieur Finn raised his hand, indicating him to stop. "One moment, Harry." He turned to the driver. "Michel, open the door and let Mademoiselle Veronique out."

           Veronique ran to Harry and hugged him.

           "I knew you would come," she cried over and over.

          "I don't understand...," Harry stammered.

           "But, of course," Monsieur Finn said smiling. "I will explain."

           Harry nodded.

           "For some time now I have suspected that Madeleine has been unfaithful to me. It has also come to my attention that she owes certain people quite a substantial amount of money. I have been expecting that she would try to steal it from me, but I didn't know how or when she would do it. Until tonight."

           Harry shook.

           "I first became suspicious when she recommended to me that I use you for some future transaction. Considering her professed disdain for you, I found this to be a rather unusual suggestion. But I decided to go along. I considered your situation and could quite easily envision how she charmed you into embracing her brilliant yet simple plan to make you a wealthy man. No longer would you have to struggle and starve for your music. You'd be able to realize all your dreams, fulfill all your aspirations. Was this somewhat along the lines of what she said to you, Harry?"

           "Yes," Harry mumbled, barely audible.

           "I thought so. Since you had been misled by a very manipulative woman, I felt you deserved an opportunity to redeem yourself. So for this reason I enlisted the aid of the lovely Veronique. You chose her over the money, so I will give you a second chance.

"A second chance?"

"Do you have a coin, Harry? Any coin."

Harry searched his pockets and found the one Euro coin he had used to decide to return to Veronique. He presented it to Monsieur Finn.

"No, no. You keep it," he said. "Toss it. If you win you live. If you lose you die. Very simple, no?

"Harry!' Veronique exclaimed.

"Heads," Harry said, cold and steady.

"Toss it," Monsieur Finn said.

Harry tossed the coin for the third time that day. The first two times it had come up heads. Harry was betting his life it would find the top side of the coin just one more time that day. If it didn't, Harry knew he would never be leaving Paris.

Paris is as good as any city to die in, Harry thought to himself.

The coin finished its last turn and landed on Harry's wrist. His steady hand grasped the top of his arm. He turned his eyes to Veronique.

"It's heads," Harry said, then took his hand off the coin. Veronique and Monsieur Finn peered in. It was indeed heads.

"Oh! My heart is going to stop!" Veronique said.

"Well done, Harry. You have won back your life."

"But Madeleine," Harry said. "She kept the stuff and took it to the English. She'll be miles away by now!"

           "Oh, don't worry about her!" Monsieur Finn laughed. "Once those Englishmen find out she has brought them baby powder, they will finish the job for me."