Paris is a Bitch

“This time. Next time, it’ll be fucking Delta Force. One of us has to make a decision here, Delilah. I’m tired of you refusing to make it.”

“What are you saying?”

I knew I was being pigheaded and reckless. But I was still jacked on adrenaline, and I was pissed.

“I’m saying I want to know when. Right now. Tell me when you’re out. Because if you can’t tell me that, I’ll know the answer is never. And I’ll know to stop wasting my time.”

A long beat went by. I heard the sounds of traffic, and distant voices laughing, and the branches of elm trees swaying in the dark above us.

Finally, she said, “I can’t tell you that. Because the truth is, I don’t know.”

In the dim, diffuse light, I couldn’t read her face. I supposed it didn’t matter.

“You shouldn’t go back to your apartment,” I said. “Not that it makes any difference to me.”

I turned and walked away.

I wanted her to say something. John, wait. Anything.

But she didn’t.

I walked across the Pont de Sully back to the Ile Saint-Louis, confused, seething. It was completely un-tactical, but I wanted to hurt someone. I didn’t think I’d killed Vincent or anyone else in his crew—though the throat shot and two cranial slams had been hard enough so that I couldn’t be sure—and maybe I would find some straggler still skulking around near the restaurant.

They were all gone. No police, either. All told, probably for the best, but I was left with all my helpless rage and no where to direct it. Why couldn’t she have just given me an answer? How many times had I stood by her, backed her up, let her disappear for a month at a time without asking where she’d been or what she’d been doing? And for what? So that right after I helped save her from about the worst thing possible, she could just let me walk away without even a word of protest, or doubt, or regret?

And the worst of it was, part of me still wanted to go to her. She could be headstrong, and maybe she would disregard my admonition about her apartment. Maybe she was angry enough to ignore my advice just to make a point. She might need my help.

No. If she needed me, all she had to do was ask, but she didn’t. She could have, but she didn’t.

I looked around, and this city I’d become so comfortable with felt suddenly alien to me, a pretty oasis built for someone else, inhabited by strangers, my own presence that of a ghost. Paris made no sense for me without Delilah, and the loneliness and alienation I felt right then settled into my gut with an almost physical weight.

I paused and considered. She would take me back if I wanted. We wouldn’t even have to discuss what had just happened. Everything would be the way it had been.

I shook my head and walked on. On the Pont de la Tournelle, heading toward the Quartier Latin, I was surprised to see Stubble Boy coming toward me, still glued to his cell phone, walking with his girlfriend. He saw me and his face twisted into an unpleasant smile.

“Hey,” he said, pulling the phone momentarily away from his face. “If it isn’t the Parisian politeness police. Struck out with your date?”

And suddenly, everything was clear.

I spent only a few moments with him, testing the conventional wisdom that you can’t fit a square peg in a round hole, the peg in this case being his cell phone, the hole being his mouth.

It turns out the conventional wisdom is off by a little. In fact, the whole thing depends on how hard you jam the peg.

When I left him, crumbled and gagging and spitting out teeth, his broken phone tossed in the river and his girlfriend shrieking over him, I knew what would happen next. The downed man, and the shrieking woman, would soon attract attention, including police attention. A tourist assaulted right on one of the famous bridges of the Ile Saint-Louis would be bad for business, especially if the culprit weren’t caught. Luckily, this particular tourist was acquainted with his assailant, and would tell the police all about him so they would know who to look for: an unassuming but dangerous Asian man who enjoyed dinner at Auberge de la Reine Blanche, and who was known to be accompanied by a stunning blonde.

But I didn’t care. Because they’d be looking for that man in Paris. And after tonight, he’d never be there again.

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I hadn’t killed anyone in almost four years. But all good things come to an end, eventually.