Chameleon

all. You are the king of all con men.’

Joli beamed. His brown eyes twinkled with gratitude. ‘Ah, O’ Hara, you are a true chevalier.’ And he bowed with a flourish.

‘Now, where’s le Sorcier?’ O’Hara demanded.

‘He is waiting for you. Venez avec moi.’

Jolicoeur led him back past the bar and down a short hail. He rapped ferociously on the door with the cane.

The muffled voice behind the door bellowed, ‘Jesus Christ, Jolicoeur, come in, don’t tear my goddamn door down.’

Joli stepped in first and, with a flourish, said, ‘I am pleased to announce the arrival of le Marin, the Sailor, returned from exile.’

‘Hot shit,’ Rothschild said.

And the man they called le Sorcier jumped up and wrapped his arms around O’Hara. ‘Joli,’ he said, ‘go to the bar and bring back the best bottle of Napoleon brandy we have and a couple of glasses.’

‘Do we say “Please”?’ Job said, offended.

‘S’il vous-fucking-plait,’ Rothschild said.

‘Just two glasses?’

‘Okay, Joli, three glasses.’

‘Tout de suite,’ the little man said arid rushed off.

‘Jeez, Sailor, you look better than the last time I saw you. It musta been good for you, bein’ on the dodge.’

Time and the islands had tempered his accent, but it was still definitely Lower East Side Manhattan. He was a slender man, about as tall as O’Hara, deeply tanned, with high cheekbones and a hard, definite jaw. He had the wondrous expression in his eyes and mouth of one constantly about to laugh, which indeed he was. It was the way he looked at life. Life to Rothschild was a joke waiting for the punch-line, and he gazed, through stoned eyes, at the world as a madhouse, filled with frantic, scrambling, driven inmates.

An unruly-looking joint was tucked, unlit and forgotten, in the corner of his mouth, and the sweet smell of marijuana hung lightly in the air.

‘How about a hit? This is home-grown shit from right up there behind us on the mountain.’

‘I’m on a tight timetable, Michael. I don’t have time right now to get whacked out on your smoke.’

‘Suit yourself, Sailor. Grab a seat.’

The Magician rummaged through his tattered white jeans and then the pockets of his faded blue work shirt, trying to find a light. He was wearing white gloves. Rothschild always wore white gloves. He was not embarrassed by the fact that he was missing the two small fingers on each hand — that’s not why he wore gloves. He wore them because people seemed less concerned with his deformity and more concerned with the quality of his piano playing when they could not see where the missing digits had been.

The room was a small office, miserably cluttered, with a roll-top desk, an ancient and decrepit desk chair with a peeling leather seat and two rusty bridge chairs for guests. Junk was jammed in every cubbyhole and opening in the desk. He finally found a book of matches among the debris and lit the roach. He took a deep drag and sighed with relief.

‘What are you doing in Gus’s office?’ O’Hara asked.

‘Well, it’s a long story. But to make it short, Gus Junior is dead.’

O’Hara was genuinely sorrowed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there goes one of the greats.’

‘A true believer,’ said Rothschild. What happened, the old boy went out fishing by himself one day, didn’t come back. We found him the next day, floating just off the South Spike. Heart attack, Musta been fighting a big one The pole was still in the cup and he had strapped himself in the fighting chair. Whatever it was, he killed himself trying to lard it. The fish was gone, hook was bent out straight.’

‘I can’t think of a better way for the old man to go,’ O’Hara said.

‘Anyway, the old bastard left me the place, all his money, everything! I couldn’t believe it, Sailor. I mean, he left it all to me!’

‘A helluva responsibility, pal.’

‘Yeah. I already got some heat about the air-conditioning. I tell everybody, hey, it’s in old Gus’s will. I can’t change a thing. It’s a sacred trust.’

Joli returned with the brandy arid poured three snifters almost to the brim.

‘Merci bien,’ O’Hara said.

‘Ce n ‘est rien,’ said the little man, and raising his glass, offered a toast: ‘A votre sante!

‘To payday!’ O’Hara echoed in English.

‘Goddamn, we gave old Gus a send-off would have made the czar happy,’ Rothschild said. ‘In his will he says he wants a Viking funeral, like in Beau Geste, remember, with Gary Cooper, when they burned the fort with Brian Donlevy at his feet?’

‘Before my time,’ O’Hara said.

‘Mine, too, but I’ve seen it a dozen times on TV. Anyway, that’s the way old Gus wanted to go, so I send