mine.” He grinned through a wispy moustache that hung like a curtain over his mouth. “Call me Dizzy.”
He saw my expression and went on. “No, it’s not a balance problem; my mom was in love with Dizzy Bluebird, and when he toured here with his hot half dozen, she was at every gig. She put a mini trombone into my hands when I was in the crib.” Dizzy tilted his head at Rudee. “Your pal Rudee’s a heckuva fine organist, you know. We jam on Saturdays upstairs; you want to come by?” Rudee didn’t jump in, so I just smiled.
I said my dad had told me all about Rudee’s talents. “He played me the Pipeline Tour tapes. He said Rudee’s solo in ‘Strange Glove’ should be studied by every kid who wants to call himself an organist.”
Rudee couldn’t hide his pride and asked if I’d heard my dad’s vocal on “Transatlantic Train.” I didn’t tell him it just sounded totally weird to me.
“Listen, Rudee.” Dizzy lowered his voice so it could barely be heard above the din of CAFTA and leaned toward his friend. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about the city getting darker, and I’m sorry that I laughed at you, mon ami. I know the theft of the cross from the Église Russe bothers you a lot, and I figured that’s what was getting to you. Anyway, I was picking up my usual fare on Rue Bonaparte, and I realized that I couldn’t read the building numbers. There was no fog, the lamps were on, but it seemed a bit darker to me. Maybe we’re both crazy.”
“That’s it, slideman,” Rudee burst in excitedly then quickly glanced around the room to see if anyone was paying attention before continuing. “I know it’s true. Paris is getting darker by the day. Hardly but slowly. A driver in the Métro drove past the Pigalle station and two hundred passengers on the platform yesterday.”
Rudee paid for the drinks and the warm chocolate croissants that had magically appeared and quickly disappeared, and we all headed into the street. We waved to Dizzy, who got into a very low-slung cab with exhaust pipes that looked like trombones. His cab belched blue smoke, and Rudee shook his head. “Only bohemians would travel like this.”
The café door swung open, and a driver wider than the doorway squeezed out to spit in the street. Spotting us, he lumbered over.
“Daroo, you lunatic, how do you afford gas with all your freeloading friends?” He snorted like a pit bull and tilted his face close to mine. When he spoke, his breath could’ve been used as rust remover. “Past your bedtime, isn’t it, nana?”
Rudee stepped between us. “Her name is Mac, sewer lips. Isn’t it time for your big flea bath?”
This gross chunk of man lifted Rudee off the ground with one hand and dangled him like a dirty sock. “I think you need a new hinge for that hairdo of yours, beet breath. Sorry you’ll miss the show at the club tonight.”
Rudee’s eyes seemed to recede under his mighty brow, but he said nothing. His assailant dropped him to the pavement and strode off, laughing to himself and spitting like a broken faucet.
Once he was out of sight, Rudee gathered himself and said, “Blag LeBoeuf. I’ve known him since we were knee high to fire hydrants.
“Our families knew each other from the old country. Then we went apelove for the same girl, don’t you know.” He shrugged, and a small smile emerged. “He lost the girl to me, and it’s been like this ever since.”
I wanted to know more about Blag, but as soon as we settled into Rudee’s cab and he adjusted the lights and music to his liking, the radio squawked, and Madeleine’s voice cut through. “Bonsoir, everyone. Just thought you all should know that the cross from the domed church has been stolen. Incroyable, non? Let me know if you hear something, and I’ll pass it along to the others.”
“The domed church. That’s Les Invalides,” said Rudee in an awed tone. “That’s where Napoleon is boxed. The church with the golden dome is one of Paris’ most shining monuments. But how could someone ...”
He yanked the wheel of the cab to the left, and I fell onto his shoulder. He threaded the needle across six lanes of cars as he madly circled the Arc de Triomphe. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I must see this for my ownself.”
Eight
When we slammed to a stop outside the domed church, a TV crew was setting up hastily, uncoiling cables and mounting a camera on a tripod. A reporter was fixing her make-up and throwing her hair back for that windblown look. A small collection of blue-and-white police cars was gathered at the entrance, and official looking people were trying to appear busy. Rudee spotted someone, and they exchanged greetings.
“Magritte, ça va?” Rudee said to a well-tanned policeman in a bowler hat and tailored black coat smoking a pipe and pulling on a pair of gloves.
“Ah, my old friend,” and tipping his hat at me, “mademoiselle, enchanté. Rudee, I cannot thank you enough for delivering the Picasso thief to me.”
“He refused to pay the oversized baggage charge and ...” Rudee shrugged.
“Still, we are grateful ... now, tonight is a theft of another kind.”
“Magritte, I can’t believe it. First the cross of the Église Russe, and now this.” Rudee looked like he would cry any second. “And not only the cross, but the dome, the beautiful frosted dome, painted black.”
It was true; the freshly cropped dome was drenched in what looked like a bad paint job, still sticky and dripping on the windows below.
“Oui, I know, it is a travesty,” Magritte said coolly, “and they chose matte instead of glossy, which serves to de-emphasize the Baroque influence of the concave flying buttresses....”
Rudee’s impatience with this tangent was obvious. “But who, who, Magritte, and why?” he interrupted.
“Who, yes. Myself, I suspect a group of militant atheists from Montparnasse. But how, mon ami, that is the question. It was, if you will excuse a small joke, an outside job, because the entire building was locked and still is.” Magritte shrugged, and we all looked up to where the magnificent dome now blended in with the night sky, with only a silhouette to distinguish it. “I must begin my investigation. If you’d like to walk with me….”
Rudee nodded, and we followed as Inspector Magritte dusted doors and windows with fingerprint powder, shone a flashlight into shrubs and down stairways that led to locked doors. He held a magnifying glass close to read the inscription on an ancient turquoise cannon as Rudee chatted with him. While they talked about the weight of crosses and discussed various theories as to how one could be raised and transported, I stared at the perfect crescent moon that lit up the immaculately designed gardens. The moonlight caught something shiny, so I walked over to a row of trees and picked up a pair of mirrored glasses. A chill ran from my hand to my spine.
“What have you there, mademoiselle?” asked Magritte, shining his light on my find. I started to hand them to him, but he curled up his nose. “Non, merci. Ah, the tourists. No taste at all you know, present company excepted, of course.” He smiled at me. “How anyone could see through these, I don’t know. Although I suppose to reflect back the absurdity of our existence on this ...”
Rudee coughed and said his goodbyes.
“Ah, it’s adieu then, mes amis.” Magritte waved and went back to his ruminations.
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