now emptying of people. When we arrived at the Moulin D’Or, couples were spilling into the street, arm in arm, laughing and leaning on one another. A lone figure was the last to emerge.
“Rudee,” I asked, “isn’t that Blag LeBoeuf?” I hoped another encounter like the one outside CAFTA wasn’t about to happen.
Rudee barely glanced. “No doubt, little one, he still comes to make eyelids at her after all this time, and the club ... his family ... well ...”
He left the thought unfinished, concentrating on navigating through the less than sure-footed crowd; but it was then that I understood whom they had fought over years ago.
We didn’t have to wait long at the stage door. In a whoosh of scarves and in a long cream-coloured cape, Sashay materialized and was in the back seat before Rudee could even open his door.
“Let’s go. Leave now. Please.” She sank into the seat as we drove away. She didn’t seem to notice that Rudee had been too surprised to turn off the organ music that poured like mud from the speakers. I leaned forward and switched off the sound. Rudee did the same with the taxi radio, and we travelled in silence. The only accompaniment was the soft swish of the tires over the rain-soaked streets as we made our way to Sashay’s apartment. When we arrived and Rudee pulled up and parked, no one said anything for a minute.
“There is something so very wrong, Rudee my dear. I’m sorry I doubted you, because now I believe there is a plan, a conspiracy of some sort involving these strange characters who have been showing up lately at the club. They have tables on the balcony that they occupy every night. They pay no attention to the show, they only smoke and laugh their strange laughs and are rude to everyone. Tonight as I passed their tables, they were raising their glasses in a toast, and one said, ‘The Sun King is dead. Lights out, Paris.’ They all laughed loudly and clinked glasses as they would at a celebration. Rudee, what could this mean?”
“Sashay,” he replied seriously, “did you hear about Les Invalides?”
She gave him a quizzical look, and he continued. “A symbol of the city that we love has been stolen — the cross from the Domed Church is gone and the dome has been painted black.”
Sashay paled even more than usual as Rudee went on. “Mac, the domed church was built by Louis XIV, the ‘Sun King,’ and is one of the greatest monuments to a golden age.” His tone grew sadder and a silence followed. “We must find out more. I saw Magritte, and the police don’t take this seriously. They think it’s vandals, and they’re waiting for a handsome note or something.”
“Ransom, Rudee, a ransom note.” Sashay’s voice sounded like it was coming out in little spurts. “Tomorrow night, they’ll all be there. It’s a party for the new owner.” She didn’t hide her disgust. “I can’t get too close. They all stop talking when I come by and say rude things under their breath, and I think it’s just a matter of time before they try to get rid of me anyway.”
Rudee was shaking at this point, but before he could offer to defend Sashay’s honour, I jumped in. “Let me go. You can get me in ... somehow. They wouldn’t suspect me.” Rudee was shaking his head back and forth so hard, his comb-over hair was trying to catch up.
“Your daddy would kill me, Mac, no-can-be.”
Sashay was mulling over the idea, I could tell, and I knew that her opinion would win. I turned to her and tried to sound serious. “I’ll listen and try to find out something about their plans, and that’ll be it. Then we can go to Magritte with something concrete, okay?”
“She’s right, Rudee,” Sashay interjected calmly, “and I know how to get her in to the club. Come to my place, ma cherie, an hour before Rudee picks me up tomorrow night.”
When she smiled at me, I knew that there was a special understanding between us. The danger seemed far away.
Nine
I was glad to be back on my curved wooden bed in my room in the Église Russe after all that had happened on my first day in Paris. I wondered if my class had seen the church before it was vandalized and hoped that Penelope was being inventive with her explanations for my absence, knowing I wasn’t going to be rejoining them any time soon. I opened the hunk of a book I’d been looking at the night before, but it wasn’t long before my eyes were swimming over pictures of beautiful old buildings, ancient churches with gleaming spires, golden domes, and crosses melting in the sun.
I thought someone with very bony fingers was rapping on my door the next morning, but as the cobwebs lifted from my brain, I realized it was rain on the dome above my room. It sounded like handful after handful of pebbles being tossed down on the roof as the wind wrapped around the windows with a comforting hush. Soon all comfort departed as my nose was attacked by the pungent odour of beets boiling below, beets with leeks or onions. Yech! My hunger was more powerful than my revulsion as I climbed down the stairs to Rudee’s room. It occurred to me that he was trying to find a new way to drive me back to my classmates. Humming along to some intense organ music, he was contentedly stirring the awful concoction. I sniffed around for a morsel of bread or even some stinky cheese.
“Bonjour, Miss Mac,” Rudee grinned, “hungry?” He read my expression and laughed. “Oh, don’t fret. I know girls, and some women, don’t like beets, especially for breakfast, but where I come from, it’s the vegetable of kings.”
Before I could ask where exactly that was, he closed his eyes and raised his head in happy concentration. “Listen, Mac, listen and savour genius. Vladimir Ughoman, the famous composer. Ahhh.”
Then abruptly, he said, “Okay, let’s go,” as he snapped off his record player, grabbed his coat, and tossed me my duck’s head umbrella. We raced through the downpour across the churchyard. “What do you say to a croissant and some fruit juice at CAFTA?”
The café was as busy as it had been the night before. Groups of cabbies were drinking out of steaming cups, checking their lottery tickets, and talking. I saw Blag arm-wrestling some helpless victim at a table near the kitchen.
“Hey Rudee, Mac,” a voice called across the room, and Dizzy waved us over to a table he was sharing with another driver. After a round of backslapping and secret handshakes, Dizzy said, “Mac, I want you to meet Mink Maynard.”
A small, dark-haired man with a furry beatnik beard greeted me with a sleepy smile and a low, rumbling voice. “Mon plaisir, m’dear, what brings you here?”
I glanced at Rudee. “My dad’s a friend of Rudee’s. I’m visiting from Upper Mandeville in California.”
“Très cool, but I’m no fool,” purred Mink, “you must be King Daddy’s girl from halfway round the world.”
Rudee and Dizzy laughed, and Dizzy explained, “Mink’s the drummer in the Hacks. King Daddy’s an old nickname for your dad. Mink also writes the lyrics for our songs.” Turning to Mink, he added, “You don’t have to prove it. We know you can rhyme.”
“And keep time,” Mink said to groans from his friends.
Breakfast arrived and filled the table, but it was soon just dishes and crumbs. Pushing back their chairs, Rudee and the boys did their secret handshake again, which by now was no secret to me.
“Practice Saturday? The usual?” said Rudee to nods from the others.
Dizzy nodded. “Ten-four.”.
