right.”
“Where? In the museums?”
“Shut up about museums,” she said. “You didn’t want a wife with culture. You wanted me to wait at home while you were beating up on people. You would have been happy if I didn’t say a word.”
“That’s not true. I loved it when you talked.”
“Talked about what? Hats and shoes. You shivered, Holden, when I mentioned Cézanne.”
“I wouldn’t shiver now.”
“Is that why you came around? To impress me with your progress? How could I breathe inside a coffin? That’s what it was like living with you.”
“You call eight rooms over Central Park a coffin?”
“Imbecile,” she said. “I’m not talking about a view.”
“And Swiss has culture, I suppose. He was nothing but a crook with arts and archives. He sucked eggs for a lot of generals, just like my dad.”
“You’re so dumb you can’t see the difference. Swiss used your father to blind those generals and bleed them dry ... Holden, did you come here to save me from the Swiss? He appreciates a woman. You didn’t even know what wine to serve. And who was going to teach us? Holden, we never had a chance.”
“What’s so hot about a millionaire who swallows prune juice for lunch?”
“Prune juice keeps him regular. He makes love to me morning and night.”
“I didn’t ask for the details,” Holden said.
“I’ll bet you didn’t.” And she leapt out of her chair with lines of fury in her forehead. “Were you counting on a kinky afternoon, huh, Frog?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“But that’s what you are, Holden. A nasty little frog. I have a husband, thank you. I don’t need your gifts.”
She left him in the living room, shutting doors between Holden and herself. And he was stranded with a palace in front of his eyes. He turned from the windows and began to notice paintings on the walls. Schatz had built a fucking museum for Andrushka. Holden tried to remember all the art tricks that kid had taught him. Apples and oranges. Cézanne and Miró. But he couldn’t recognize a single painting.
He walked down into the rue de Vaugirard. He couldn’t find his shadow. That bumper must have gone for a ham sandwich. Billetdoux. And Holden was caught in the dream of Andrushka. A man with yellow hair stepped in front of him, and Holden, who could always sniff trouble out on the street, in Marseilles, Milan, or the two Berlins, was unprepared. The man fell into Holden’s arms. His body twisted around. He had a bullet in his neck. He coughed and the bullet came out. He fell deeper into Holden. Billetdoux was behind him, holding a popgun with a muffler that was half the length of his arm. The bullet must have sounded like a sparrow’s cry. Holden hadn’t heard a thing.
“Who is this poor slob?” Holden asked as Billetdoux stripped the popgun and dug pieces into his pockets.
“Don’t know,” he said.
“And you popped him? Just like that?”
“I had a feeling,” Billetdoux said. “He followed me while I was following you.”
Holden protested. “I would have seen him. I’m not a kid.”
“Your eyes were in your ass,” Billetdoux said. “Will you dance with him? People will notice he’s nearly dead.”
Holden held up the man, who coughed in his arms. “Billet, the guy could be a perfect stranger.”
“Of course,” Billetdoux said, pulling on the man’s coat until a spear with three prongs dropped out of the sleeve. “Recognize that?”
It was a fisherman’s claw that the Bandidos would use to destroy a man’s face.
A police car stopped in front of Andrushka’s building. This wasn’t Manhattan where Holden could buy his way into some police lieutenant’s pocket, or count on his killer attorney. Billetdoux was a bumper from Marseilles. He couldn’t have had much of a rabbi on the rue de Vaugirard. But the flics didn’t get out of the car.
“Walk him,” Billetdoux said. “Walk him gently.” And Holden waltzed the coughing man to the police car. Billetdoux
“Where? In the museums?”
“Shut up about museums,” she said. “You didn’t want a wife with culture. You wanted me to wait at home while you were beating up on people. You would have been happy if I didn’t say a word.”
“That’s not true. I loved it when you talked.”
“Talked about what? Hats and shoes. You shivered, Holden, when I mentioned Cézanne.”
“I wouldn’t shiver now.”
“Is that why you came around? To impress me with your progress? How could I breathe inside a coffin? That’s what it was like living with you.”
“You call eight rooms over Central Park a coffin?”
“Imbecile,” she said. “I’m not talking about a view.”
“And Swiss has culture, I suppose. He was nothing but a crook with arts and archives. He sucked eggs for a lot of generals, just like my dad.”
“You’re so dumb you can’t see the difference. Swiss used your father to blind those generals and bleed them dry ... Holden, did you come here to save me from the Swiss? He appreciates a woman. You didn’t even know what wine to serve. And who was going to teach us? Holden, we never had a chance.”
“What’s so hot about a millionaire who swallows prune juice for lunch?”
“Prune juice keeps him regular. He makes love to me morning and night.”
“I didn’t ask for the details,” Holden said.
“I’ll bet you didn’t.” And she leapt out of her chair with lines of fury in her forehead. “Were you counting on a kinky afternoon, huh, Frog?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“But that’s what you are, Holden. A nasty little frog. I have a husband, thank you. I don’t need your gifts.”
She left him in the living room, shutting doors between Holden and herself. And he was stranded with a palace in front of his eyes. He turned from the windows and began to notice paintings on the walls. Schatz had built a fucking museum for Andrushka. Holden tried to remember all the art tricks that kid had taught him. Apples and oranges. Cézanne and Miró. But he couldn’t recognize a single painting.
He walked down into the rue de Vaugirard. He couldn’t find his shadow. That bumper must have gone for a ham sandwich. Billetdoux. And Holden was caught in the dream of Andrushka. A man with yellow hair stepped in front of him, and Holden, who could always sniff trouble out on the street, in Marseilles, Milan, or the two Berlins, was unprepared. The man fell into Holden’s arms. His body twisted around. He had a bullet in his neck. He coughed and the bullet came out. He fell deeper into Holden. Billetdoux was behind him, holding a popgun with a muffler that was half the length of his arm. The bullet must have sounded like a sparrow’s cry. Holden hadn’t heard a thing.
“Who is this poor slob?” Holden asked as Billetdoux stripped the popgun and dug pieces into his pockets.
“Don’t know,” he said.
“And you popped him? Just like that?”
“I had a feeling,” Billetdoux said. “He followed me while I was following you.”
Holden protested. “I would have seen him. I’m not a kid.”
“Your eyes were in your ass,” Billetdoux said. “Will you dance with him? People will notice he’s nearly dead.”
Holden held up the man, who coughed in his arms. “Billet, the guy could be a perfect stranger.”
“Of course,” Billetdoux said, pulling on the man’s coat until a spear with three prongs dropped out of the sleeve. “Recognize that?”
It was a fisherman’s claw that the Bandidos would use to destroy a man’s face.
A police car stopped in front of Andrushka’s building. This wasn’t Manhattan where Holden could buy his way into some police lieutenant’s pocket, or count on his killer attorney. Billetdoux was a bumper from Marseilles. He couldn’t have had much of a rabbi on the rue de Vaugirard. But the flics didn’t get out of the car.
“Walk him,” Billetdoux said. “Walk him gently.” And Holden waltzed the coughing man to the police car. Billetdoux
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