down there—I fired a shot in the air. They were still looking our way, but no reaction. I fired the last bullet at the legs of one of the fishermen.
It didn't hit him, but they all saw the orange flame of the shot. Mama hugged the bawling kid, the men shook fists up at me. I kept waving the tiny automatic, holding it by the trigger guard so more of the gun was visible. A small crowd gathered.
Sticking my arm out far as possible, I heaved the gun at them, then kept waving my empty hand in a come-on gesture. A man left the crowd for the junkyard back of the house, but I couldn't see if he found the gun.
I asked Noel for her lipstick, tried writing S.O.S. on the wall outside, under the opening... but my arm was so weary I dropped the damn lipstick. I climbed down off the chair.
Half-naked Noel was on the cot, reminding me of a beaten pug gone to lard—holding the clumsy tourniquet around her thick left shoulder. Parks was standing in the floor water, ridiculously thin and pale in soiled shorts as he concentrated on wiggling his toes. Georges was on his back and alive, bright red foam breaking on the heavy lips. The hall racket was going full blast—at least three men trying to bust down the door, calling Georges' name in French, English, and Spanish.
Over a sickly grin, Parks asked, “Could they be insurance salesmen breaking the door to sell us a life policy, Biner?”
I watched the door shudder as they began charging it with some heavy object. A couple of shots were fired, but movies and TV to the contrary, it's difficult as hell to shoot a lock open. Standing on the chair again, I held up the ragged mirror for an outside view—the road and rocks were empty of people, only the colorful smudge remains of the plastic ball in sight.
Robert Parks must have read my mind as I stepped down. Shrugging his scarecrow shoulders he said, “Oh well, I doubt if I would have made the grade as a major league poet anyhow.”
My noggin was hurting again from the beatings. “Who cares what you...1” The balance of the angry words died in my dry mouth. There was a sudden, heavy silence outside our door... the feeling of men crouching there... followed by shots farther down the hallway. A high scream of pain in front of the door, footsteps in scrambled flight, more thick silence—then the sound of many and new steps.
Touching Parks with her wide foot, Noel said, “The
He nodded, touched her garish-yellow hair in a kind of caress, pale eyes on the door.
In the hall, a man shouted in French, “We are the police—open at once!”
I glanced at Noel and Parks: we all had the same thought—was this a trick? We sat without making a sound. Minutes later came this splintering crash as the old door burst open: six sweaty cops in their silly blue shirts and white helmets stood there—guns drawn. They were such a lovely sight I blew a fat kiss at them... without thinking, and was so relieved I couldn't bother worrying about it.
Noel watched them with suspicious eyes, while Parks let out a shrill, childish giggle.
CHAPTER 4
The next couple of hours were one crazy blur of myriad and patient explanations on our part to the cops: to some pompous police sergeant; once more over lightly to higher police brass; then to a doctor. I doubted if anybody believed our story.
Finally we were taken downstairs, through the morbid crowd any action attracts, to a police station. Noel and Parks went from there in an ambulance while I told our tale again. About this time a clean-cut type with the standard crewcut grey hair, appeared. He was from the U.S. Consulate— I think. I had to tell him our story and then for a short time I was alone. I dozed off on a bench only to be shaken awake by a huffy French police bigwig announcing I could get the clean clothes I'd requested.
I couldn't recall requesting anything, but rode back to my hotel in what passed for a French squad car—a panel truck with sing-song horn working as a siren. The two burly cops at my side made madame upset, but on the way back to the station house I felt slightly better in my 'other' suit—another pair of worn slacks and a cleaner sport shirt. Passing the American Express on the Promenade, I asked my beefy guards if I could stop—still wanted to cash my damn checks.
They said okay, to my surprise, and marching in we made a scene for the tourists to write about on their postal cards. Explaining why the checks were damp, at long last I cashed the check, in fact cashed all I had. I also picked up my mail—a New York gallery had sold one of my paintings, enclosed a check for $156. Although the most important gallery I'd ever sold, the good news didn't start any bells of joy ringing in my weary dome.
At the police station a team of French reporters and photographers asked hundreds of questions, most of their French too fast for me. Noel was around and we posed for pictures. Robert Parks came in. Dressed and shaved he didn't look too bad, although his eyes had that way-out, watery, expression again. Getting me aside, he said, “Biner, I have to ask one last favor. I understand you've been padded down here in Nice for many months —do you know any of the American colony cats here?”
“After a fashion. Why?”
“I've managed to get two seats on the New York plane, departing Nice at ten p.m. From the Big Apple a chartered plane will fly me directly to Uncle Sam's drug hospital in Lexington, Kentucky. Since the bastards forced such a heavy habit on me, around two a.m. I'll need a shot. I've been able to buy some ersatz junk— Pethidine—which may carry me through. However, I must have somebody with me in case I flip. Hiring a French male nurse means visa red-tape, perhaps another day, and I want to be in ole Kentuck by tomorrow, shedding my monkey. I...”
“What happened to Noel?”
“Shook her completely off the hook. Used my letter of credit to give her the loot I promised. The chick is flying home to Corsica right this second. Really, a remarkable babe, in her way—nice to hit on, too. Biner, the point is this: Do you know any American male who might want to return to the States a few weeks early—with me, tonight? I'll gladly pay his fare, make it worth his...”
“I'll go.”
Parks looked stunned. “Oh man, no! You've done too much. I've put you through the wringer, can't possibly repay for what you've done...”
“Oh Parks, shut up—I'm not thinking of you. I
“You make me sound like a drag. I've already caused you...”
“I'm going. That's settled. Ill meet you at the airport —nine-thirty p.m.”
“I'll pay for your time, Biner.”
Shaking my head, I pulled out the gallery check. “You're talking to a selling artist, Parks. Just pay my fare—I'll cash in my open boat ticket in the States.”
His blank eyes took on a slightly puzzled look. Biner...
“Positive.”
“Lord, you're the real big brother.”
“Balls. I'm doing it for... me.”
When I was left alone again for another few minutes, feeling quite cheerful—sort of like I'd finally got from under—the All-American clean-cut came in, scowling a bit. He told me, “Biner, quite rightly the French take a rather dim view of your striking one of their police officers. They insist that if you hadn't bolted the
Suddenly I was laughing, real solid old-fashioned laughter... first time I'd laughed this way in years. When I was able to talk, I said, “Thanks for giving it the old try, but tell the French they're about forty hours late—I'm flying back with Parks tonight.”
“You understand the French only have authority to force you to leave here, you don't have to return to the States?”
I merely nodded because he seemed so upset. There was no way I could make him know how much I
“You can leave any time. I have my car downstairs, can I drive you to your hotel?”
“Sure can,” I said, giving him Sydney's address.
