Murder in Belleville

At the Cafe des Artistes facing the cobbled back lane behind Cirque d’Hiver, she leaned against the bar. She ordered a pastis and aspirine from Ines, a pudgy woman, who sat doing a crossword in the corner.

“Slice of horsemeat works better on a shiner,” Ines said, shoving two white pills across the soggy bar.

Aimee popped the pills and took a big swig of pastis, not feeling convinced.

Ines stared at Aimee. “Trapeze artists swear by it,” she said. “Order steak tartare and I’ll throw in the frites.”

Soon she had a horse steak on her temple and the cell phone in her other ear.

No answer at Samia’s. No Yves at her apartment.

She hobbled into the small bathroom, rolled down her jumpsuit, and assessed the damage. The Kevlar vest had absorbed most of the bullet, except for the painful shrapnel embedded a centimeter or so in her hip. The hollowed-out bullet had fractured on impact. Blood oozed stickily, making her feel faint in the close-quartered bathroom. She had to pull it out.

Her tweezers were history, lost at the yard getting the moped started. The only tool she could think of was the sugar tongs on the zinc counter. She had to do better than that.

Aimee stuck her head out.

“Would you have a first-aid kit?” she asked, her smile weak.

Ines took one look at Aimee and said, “Stay there.” She came back with a first-aid kit and a small shot glass.

“Drink this,” Ines said.

Aimee gulped and felt the malt whiskey burn down her throat, scalding and welcome.

“Would a doctor help—?”

Aimee reached for the kit. “I can handle this.”

Ines nodded, her expression unchanged as she took in Aimee’s bloody condition. “How about I catch you if you fall over?”

“Deal,” Aimee said. “But only if you give me another shot of whatever that was.”

Ines brought the bottle, another shot glass, and joined her. They stood in the small rest room, Aimee perched against the old marble sink and Ines leaning against the wall.

“During the battle for Paris, there was street-to-street fighting here,” Ines said, watching Aimee pull out the cotton and antiseptic, then dab the blood away. “The circus animals had been slaughtered for food long before, but my mother refused to kill our ferret.”

“Ferret?” Aimee asked, sticking the long-handled tweezers into alcohol. She liked hearing Ines talk; it helped keep her mind off what she had to do.

“Funny little thing,” she said. “But for my mother it was kind of a principle. She’d be damned if she’d let the boches eat it or tell her to get rid of it. That simple!”

“What happened?” Aimee asked, dabbing alcohol around the ugly chunk of shrapnel protruding from above her hip, where her Kevlar vest had stopped.

“Stupid thing got incinerated by a panzer with a flamethrower,” Ines winked. “Maman was mad for days. I think she’s never forgiven the boches for that.”

“Where was your father?” Aimee asked, gripping the chunk with her tweezers and taking as big a breath as she could. She pulled, and gasped at the searing pain.

“Never came back from the work camp near Dusseldorf,” Ines said. “We’re not really sure where he ended up. That had something to do with Maman’s anger.”

Aimee didn’t get it out on the first try. Or the second. The stubborn thing had lodged deep from the force of a Magnum. The searing pain would be nothing, she knew, compared to the infection if she couldn’t get the thing out in one piece.

“You’re feisty, I can tell,” Ines said. “And you act tough. Weren’t you watching your tail?”

Thanks for rubbing it in, Aimee wanted to say.

Determined this time, she caught the piece and pulled it out slow and straight, trying to last through the knife-edge pain.

Right away Ines slid a large gauze wrap around it. “Tape it closed, and you’ll be fine,” she said. “I only helped because you looked like you might topple.”

“Right.” Aimee leaned against the cold marble wall until she’d stopped shaking.

“All kinds come here; the mecs, the scammers, small-time hus; tiers,” Ines said. “For a smart-looking one, seems like you made a mistake.”

Ines had a wealth of information and advice.

“I trusted the wrong person,” Aimee said.

Samia had set her up, and she, a stupide, had walked right into it. Eagerly. She was supposed to protect Samia, but she was the one who got shot with a bullet in her hip.

Ines nodded. “See,” she said, pointing in the mirror. “No trace.”

The lump had gone down. And the pounding in her head had subsided to a reasonable ache. She’d taped her side tight, wrapping several strands of tape back and forth. She retired the glasses, pulled out her makeup, and did a repair job on her eyes. Kohl and lots of concealer.

Aimee noticed Ines watching her. Back in the cafe Aimee sat down and tried Samia on the cell phone again. No answer.

“Magnesium,” Ines said, slipping her a green salad. “You need it.”

“Merci,” Aimee said. She picked at the salad and Frites and kept trying Samia’s number. She was thinking of the elephants. One of whom could have crushed her into burlap pulp.

“How about the General?” Aimee asked. “Have you heard of him?”

“How about you’re out of your league?” Ines said, grinning.

Was the pastis clouding her perception or had Ines turned more smartass?

Not to mention the downright humiliation. First she got ambushed; then a woman old enough to be her mother reiterated how dumb she’d been.

“Make that out of your division,” Ines said, her eyes crinkling.

Now Ines was making fun of her.

Pathetic.

She closed her eyes and laughed.

“Speaking of the General, he’s way out of my universe,” she grinned. “But if I don’t find him, he’ll do this again.”

Ines brought her crossword and sat down next to her.

“Why didn’t you say so?” she said. “He comes in those cars with the special license plates—”

“Diplomatic plates?” Aimee interrupted.

“No one likes him,” Ines shrugged. “That’s all I know.”

Aimee wrote down her number on a napkin, then stood up to leave. “Call me if he comes again, please.”

“Watch your tail,” she replied.

AIMEE WAS feeling better. “Feeling better” was a relative term, but the painkiller was taking effect. She crossed the narrow street and entered the back of the cirque.

In the circus ring she passed a fire-eater using his toes to adjust the blaze angle on a gasoline can pump. Heat emanated, and he sucked the air. She stood back in awe as the fire-eater blew billowing yellow-white flames over the sawdust. As he turned she saw a hose snaking up the back of his skinny T-shirt.

The rehearsal audience had thinned to technicians. Aimee searched for the licorice-chewing man and his crew but was disappointed. Gone. She walked amid the red velvet seats where they’d sat. Nothing. Not even a cigarette stub.

“I need an assistant,” said a deeply accented voice from the small stage.

She looked up to see the speaker’s lined face, caked with flesh-colored makeup. Tall and gaunt, he wore a turban with a gleaming cabochon in the center and a black satin cape. He cocked his large head, fixing his gaze on her. “Will you assist me?”

“I’ll try,” she said, aglow with the sudden sparkle of circus wonder. It was the same way she’d felt sitting