Twice a Spy

Mathilde’s eyes narrowed with skepticism. “A man so young, comparably. That’s difficult to believe.” She looked to Ernet, who nodded in strong agreement.

Charlie wanted to ask him where he’d studied neurology.

“Alzheimer’s at his age is rare,” Charlie said. “And it’s tough to prove without an autopsy. It’s no wonder those old Mafia guys keep using the Alzheimer’s defense in court.”

“What we need you to prove to us is that these charges are false.” Mathilde snapped open a Martinique Police flyer with photographs of Charlie and Drummond, followed by details of the transgressions for which they were wanted. Stabbing a finger at the picture labeled MARVIN LESSER, she said to Charlie, “You prove that our old friend Monsieur Drummond Clark is not this thief, and that the club we named as a tribute to our mother wasn’t paid for with blood money.”

“Let me ask you something first?” Charlie said. “He paid for the club?”

“Yes, after the Laundromat was closed.”

“So there actually was a Laundromat?”

“Our mother worked there for twenty-seven years,” Mathilde said. “Monsieur F knocked it down and put in tenements.”

Charlie saw a shining ray of hope. “Monsieur F?”

“Fielding. Cheap salopard didn’t give Maman a centime in severance.”

“Shame what happened to him,” Ernet said, not meaning it.

“By any chance, do you know what happened to the old washers and dryers that were in the Laundromat’s storeroom?” Charlie asked.

Mathilde rolled her eyes. “Yet another example of Fielding’s cheapness: a man who spends three million dollars for a swimming pool at his home but does he spring for a new washing machine for his pool house? Hell no. Comes here himself and hauls a dusty old Perriman off to his island.”

Mindful of the pistol pointed at him, Charlie fought the impulse to pump a fist.

“I am left to ask God, ‘What is it with all these thieves?’ ” Mathilde said. “First our father, then our uncle, and then Monsieur F. Now the club has to pay so much for ‘protection’ that Ernet’s forced to take off the semester from college.” She gazed at Drummond, who hastily set aside a shiny, curved chrome band, apparently the trim that ran along the front edge of a car’s hood. “After Monsieur Fielding let Maman go like that, you were extremely kind, helping her start the new business. But if it is true, if you are just another thief, we want nothing from you.”

“Except the reward,” Ernet said.

Mathilde pushed her chair away from the desk, apparently preparing to leave.

“I can explain,” Charlie said. “Or try to.”

Mathilde remained in her seat, eyes fastened on him.

With a tilt of his head at Drummond, Charlie said to Mathilde and Ernet. “Believe it or not, he’s a spy.”

Mathilde smiled without mirth. “Not.”

“Jesus Christ.” Ernet sighed. To Mathilde, he added, “On appelle la police?”

She nodded.

“I wish we could show you a CIA badge, or had some way we could demonstrate it,” Charlie said. “Actually, here’s one thing: He speaks French.”

“That’s news?” Mathilde said. “Perriman would never send the island a salesman who couldn’t speak French. Monsieur Clark and my mother never spoke English-she couldn’t.”

Charlie tried, “He can hot-wire a car-”

Ernet spat. “So he’s a car thief too?”

Mathilde looked down, her head seemingly weighted by dismay. “Embezzler and money launderer: These things I might believe our Monsieur Clark capable of. But Monsieur Clark, the doddering appliance salesman, a spy? I can’t think of a less likely spy in the world.”

As Charlie scrambled to find another way of convincing Mathilde, some sort of projectile buzzed past his head. He turned toward the door, where, with a clang, Ernet’s pistol fell from his hand and clattered to the floor, along with a metal tailpipe extension. Ernet’s eyes bulged with astonishment. Mathilde’s too.

Drummond loaded another length of tailpipe-or makeshift arrow-onto the curved piece of chrome and rubber fan belt he’d fashioned into a bow.

“And you should see what he can do with an actual weapon,” Charlie said.

22

“Hibbett can help,” Ernet said after Charlie had filled in the remaining blanks.

Mathilde explained that Alston Hibbett III’s trust fund enabled the young Californian to vacation permanently in the tropics and pursue his passion, tropical drinks. At some point every night, their cumulative effect sent him sliding off his accustomed bar stool at Chez Odelette. The utility room in back, with its battered couch, had become his second home. Most of the time, he didn’t stir until Mathilde or Ernet unbolted the club’s door the following afternoon.

Tonight, with the help of four shots of Jagermeister, on the house-Mathilde’s idea-Hibbett plunged off his bar stool earlier than usual.

After laying him down on the couch, Ernet exited the utility room with the keys to Hibbett’s lesser-used first home on Boulevard Alfassa, a few blocks away, where Charlie and Drummond could stay the night.

Ernet also took Hibbett’s distinctive green and gold Oakland A’s cap, with which Charlie might pass in a blink for the similarly built Californian.

“It would also help if you stumble a lot,” Ernet told Charlie.

Charlie staggered every now and then, as Drummond played Good Samaritan helping him home. They used Alice’s technique of stair-stepping through the Pointe Simon grid. It turned the two-block walk into six blocks, but allowed Charlie to check the reflections in car and storefront windows to see if anyone was following.

Rounding the corner to Boulevard Alfassa, Charlie spotted Hibbett’s building, an only-in-the-tropics Creamsicle orange, four stories trimmed in spearmint green and overlooking the Baie de Fort-de-France. Up and down the block, a light crowd bopped into and out of lively clubs. Across the street, a similar number meandered along the bayside promenade and ferry docks.

At Hibbett’s well-lit entrance, Drummond stopped and gazed at the starlight at play on the wave tops. Eager to limit their exposure, Charlie hurriedly produced the keys and opened the door. “Come on, the view’s even better from upstairs.”

Drummond remained planted on the sidewalk, turning his focus to the sky.

Had he detected something? A surveillance drone? Charlie’s stomach clenched. “What is it?”

“An interesting piece of information is that Mozart was just five years old when he wrote the music for ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.’ ”

“Interesting really isn’t the best term.” With a tug at his elbow, Charlie led his father into a small foyer furnished with contemporary flair. Best of all, it was unpopulated. “I’m in 3-A, kind sir,” he said with a Dean Martin slur, in case anyone was listening.

As they reached the stairs, the door to 1-C, a few feet to their left, swung inward. Out darted a heavily made up young blonde in a low-cut satin dress. Her cherry perfume devoured much of the oxygen in the lobby.

“Hey,” she said, eyeing Charlie with recognition and, he hoped, mistaking him for Hibbett.

He grabbed onto Drummond as if to prop himself up, but really to hide his face. “Hey,” he replied into Drummond’s sleeve.

The blonde turned to say thank you to the man in 1-C, but found herself facing a hastily shut door. The man, evidently her customer, seemed disinclined to encounter any of his fellow residents at this juncture. With a self- conscious air, the young woman fled the building.