capture every small pore, every subtle detail of the woman he so clearly cherished. Or perhaps it could be that after a lifetime of staring at tiny fleas through his giant glasses, Billy lived wholly in an exaggeratedly magnified world.
Clearly, Vidot realized, the flea circus had only been a sideline for the couple, a way to cover costs until their paintings found a market. With the support of a canny dealer, a popular gallery, or a passionate private collector, they would have long ago left this downtrodden existence behind them. Perhaps they had dreamt of moving into a much larger flat or a mansion like Rodin’s, or of sailing off as Gauguin did to some distant exotic land where they could devote themselves completely to their art. But judging from the canvases stacked ten deep in every corner of every shelf, Billy’s paintings never sold. And so the circus lived on.
After about an hour, with much of the canvas still in a rough state, Dottie went to sit beside her husband. Billy kissed her forehead. She gave his hand a warm squeeze and looked over his progress, pointing out the parts she liked, and planting more affectionate kisses onto his cheek. Her husband blushed with pride. Their perfect affection almost broke Vidot’s heart as he remembered all the agonies of his own cursed marriage, painfully recalling the succumbing sounds of ecstasy his Adele had made as Alberto held her down and crushed her in his strong arms. Vidot tried to blot out those terrible thoughts and focused instead on the simple harmony here, the smiling, loving, eternal couple, together so long, imbued with such gentle, artful, and considerate spirit, who now rose, hand in hand, from their quiet idyllic contentment to turn their attentions to the orderly arrangement of vials containing fleas that sat on their shelf.
And here the real horror began.
XIV
Will followed Oliver into the jazz club. It was early in the evening but the chairs were still turned over up on the tables while the service staff sat in the far corners, smoking and idly chatting, apparently in no hurry to get the place ready for the night. The room smelled of cleansers and stale smoke. Oliver led Will to a red-leather back booth where they found three black men in matching blue suits sitting with their drinks, playing knock rummy. Oliver slid into the booth next to them, and Will looked around for a chair.
“Hullo, boys. Cigarette? Sorry, all I’ve got are Gitanes.” Oliver held out the pack and they all politely refused. Oliver took one and lit it. “Flats. Kelly. Red. This is Will. He’s an adman, but he’s a good egg too.”
The man called Flats raised an eyebrow. “Adman? Meaning you make advertisements of some sort?”
“Yes, sort of. I help make them.”
“So, you draw the pictures?”
“No, I oversee all the other stuff, the research, the client relations, strategic thinking, you name it.”
“That’s interesting,” said Flats, mulling this over, “because I can’t honestly say I’ve ever noticed anything resembling ‘thinking’ in any advertisement I’ve come across.”
Will couldn’t tell if he was being joshed or not, but before he could reply, Oliver had changed the subject. “Listen, we’re here with a bit of hard news. It seems Boris—you know Boris, yes? Ned’s friend? The oversized Russian with a face like a bad dog’s?” The men nodded. “Yes, well, he dropped dead in the middle of a card game today. Quite sudden. Suspect it was foul play of some sort, we’re looking into it now. Anyway, the gist of it is, we’re wondering have you all heard of any other funny stuff going on around town these days?”
The three men locked eyes with one another, as if some shared thought had simultaneously popped into their minds. The man called Kelly looked as though he was going to say something when Red put a hand on his wrist and stopped him. Leaning forward, Red looked at Oliver and Will. “Now, before we share any of our own observations on this particular subject, one thing I’m curious about is why you and this ad guy here are asking? Not exactly your usual beat, is it?”
Red had the slow, careful manner of a person who is always distrustful, and Oliver was cagey with his reply. “It’s a mix really, a little personal, a little business. First and foremost, Red, Boris was a friend, a good friend. Also, coincidentally, I think whatever is going on might be decent material for a story, and a writer such as myself needs those. Chicken in the pot, and all that. If I did get a story, I could possibly squeeze a few francs out of my pals over at the
“Sounds reasonable, though you never looked much like a man who needed to hustle for his chicken,” said Flats.
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” said Oliver with a grin. “A well-tailored suit is awfully good at hiding an empty stomach.”
Flats nodded, as if this were an acceptable enough answer, and Kelly leaned forward. “The next question is, why you coming to us? Why do you think we can help?”
Oliver moved around in his seat a little nervously as he answered. “Fair enough. The truth of the matter is Boris might have been passed some bad medicine, if you know what I mean.”
Flats nodded again and Kelly looked around the table. “Okay, bad medicine. I get it. Fact is, there has been stuff happening. Ugly stuff going down. More than a few folks keeling over of late, yours here being the third in only these last three days, which is a pretty high mortality rate, even for users. The other two were residents over at the Arc Hotel, long-timers. Be good to know what your friend was taking.”
“Yes, well, we found this…” Oliver reached into his pocket and took out the tinfoil. Unwrapping it, he placed the small resinous ball at the center of the table. The five men looked down at it like rare gem merchants studying a precious stone.
“Looks like opium resin to me,” said Kelly. “And I ain’t about to do anything other than look. They say one of those fellows at the Arc flipped into some crazy convulsions till his body stopped cold, and word is the other went running out the window like he was being chased by voodoo spirits.” He tapped the edge of the tinfoil.
“Yep, pretty clear there’s bad medicine going round,” said Red.
“Be a good time to stay clean, if you could,” said Flats.
“If you could,” agreed Kelly, nodding.
“That’s all very interesting, yes. Funny, though, I hadn’t seen any news about these other deaths,” said Oliver, folding up the tinfoil again and putting it away in his pocket.
“Well, there generally isn’t a lot of talk when a user kicks,” said Red.
“That’s true too,” said Kelly. “Though word tends to get around to those who need to know. Good time for caution and all that. One other interesting piece of news these days is that lots of people who shouldn’t have any coin at all have been flashing some pretty serious money. I only mention it because I hear they found a whole bundle of franc notes in that window jumper’s wallet. And he was an absolute nobody.”
“Right,” said Oliver, looking at his watch, “very enlightening. Quite helpful, thank you for your time, gentlemen. If I do get myself hired as a stringer for this story, I will make sure to pass along your cut.” He stopped as if a thought occurred to him. “Also, one other thing: we’re looking for Ned. She been around?”
The men shook their heads.
Oliver leaned over and crushed out his cigarette in the bright-orange ashtray. “Well, there’s some money in that for you too, if you can find her.”
“We’ll ask around,” said Red.
“Wonderful. Give me a call if you have any luck,” said Oliver, handing Red his calling card. He looked at his watch and hopped up out of the booth. “Oh, you’ll have to excuse me now, I’ve got to find a phone. I’m supposed to call an ex–merchant marine who’s got a duffel full of poetry he wants me to look over. Word is it’s hot stuff. Take your time, Will. I’ll meet you outside in ten minutes.” He tipped his hat and headed toward the service doors.
Will felt a little uncomfortable being left alone with the three strangers. He didn’t know why. They seemed like perfectly nice men. “How long you been in Paris?” Red asked.
Will shrugged. “A couple of years.”
“Quite a while, then. You like it?”
“Sure. The music is great, the art, you know, there’s a lot to like…” His answer trailed off as he realized it was nothing more than their blackness that was making him uncomfortable. He could have easily talked about how
