Read Online The Hanged Man by Gary Inbinder - Free Book Online Page B

continued dripping onto the floor. Looking back at the Devil of Pigalle, he said, “I was damned long before I got here, my friend.”
    The doorman at the Cabaret de L’Enfer, a down-on-his-luck actor costumed as a stage Mephistopheles—green tights, horns, cloven hooves—replied, “As were we all, M. Rousseau.”
    Rousseau grunted his agreement. He took a few steps beyond the threshold, then paused to imbibe the atmosphere. Beams of warm, colored electric light flashed through a haze of tobacco smoke and steam that hissed periodically through strategically placed jets in the walls and ceiling. To his left, three demonic fiddlers, bobbing in what appeared to be a seething iron cauldron, scratched out a waltz from Gounod’s Faust . Above the musical racket, he heard the buzz of conversation, punctuated by the shrill giggling of whores laughing at their companions’ suggestive jokes.
    Crimson-painted, high relief moldings, depicting lost souls and their tormentors, writhed over the walls and ceiling. Rousseau focused his attention for a moment on an imp prodding a sinner’s ass with a pitchfork, and wondered at how the imp’s face resembled his own. I might have sat for the portrait , he thought.
    Glancing past two rows of men and women seated at round tables draped in oilcloth, he noticed a devil-costumed illusionist performing one of his tricks, transforming water into wine. Alongside the magician, a demonically attired young woman tended bar. Bustling waiters dropped off orders from their guzzling customers and returned with expertly mixed concoctions with clever names. The very sight of the drinks made Rousseau thirsty.
    Two young women sat at a corner table near the bar, their painted faces half-hidden beneath enormous plumed hats. Their slender throats were wrapped in pink-feathered boas, and their undernourished bodies draped in clinging crimson silk. One girl noticed Rousseau and whispered something in the direction of her companion. A small, round head popped out from the narrow space between the whores. Keen brown eyes peered through the yellowish haze. Sensual red lips, framed by a black moustache waxed imperial, greeted Rousseau with a smile of recognition.
    As Rousseau approached the table, the poules rose and walked toward the exit, passing him on either side with eyes averted. In proximity, he noticed that neither girl appeared to be more than fourteen. He paused a moment and glanced over his shoulder at their swishing little behinds, eyeing them with a mixture of pity and contempt. Then he proceeded to the table.
    The man placed his pudgy hands, covered in rings, on the tabletop and half-rose in salutation. “Good morning, M. Rousseau. I see you’re a trifle damp. Please, be seated. Would you care for some refreshment? I suggest Devil’s Brew and Hellfire to brace you up.” The man spoke elegant Parisian French with just a hint of a foreign accent. His impeccably tailored suit would have passed muster among the most discriminating swells at the Jockey Club.
    Rousseau nodded and took a chair. “Thank you, Monsieur. I need a drink.”
    The man snapped his fingers at a waiter loitering by the bar. “Some service, Raymond, if you please.”
    The imp-costumed waiter immediately sprang to life, skipping over to take their order. He gave an unctuous smile in anticipation of his patron’s generous pourboire , then dashed off to fill the order.
    The man glanced after him and then looked back at Rousseau. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table and lowered his voice. “We can speak freely, my friend. Just be careful when the waiter comes around. Now, I understand you have some information for me?”
    â€œYes, Monsieur,” Rousseau answered in a discreet sotto voce . “I’ve turned three files over to my friend, and the bloodhound’s taken the scent. He’s put out a search for Boguslavsky, and he’s looking for