Coq au Vin by Charlotte Carter Page B

memorial piece on Haskins. Hell, maybe something a little more mainstream—like an early issue of Rolling Stone . Those shouldn’t be too hard to find. Anything you can think of, no matter how nutty it seems. It’s worth a try.”
    Try we did. None of the arcane, or nutty, sources panned out. But, as I had speculated, there was mention of Little Rube Haskins’s death in the police blotter sections of the conventional press. The only report of any length turned up as an ordinary news item in a Paris paper that had long ago ceased publishing. Minimal information emerged on Haskins’s career and background—not even where he was born. He was referred to as a black American folk singer who lived at a modest hotel in the 11th arrondissement. In the last report on file (the story had run for two days) Inspector Pascal Simard declared that police were still looking for the vicious killer who had left Monsieur Haskins’s mangled body in the one-way street where he resided.
    I kind of enjoyed playing the puppet master, dispatching Andre to do this or that spadework. While he was following up one potential lead, I gigged on the street all by myself, which was kind of scary but thrilling. But then the rest of my afternoon was shot, as I had to go hunting for pantyhose long enough for my endless legs. I finally found my size at a little lingerie store where only nuns shopped.
    Controlling my other operative, Gigi Lacroix, was a tad trickier. It was tough getting an appointment with him before sundown. He kept hours similar to my friend Aubrey’s—the vampire schedule. Daylight must have been rough on his sensitive skin. He finally agreed to meet me at what he daintily referred to as tea time.
    Gigi was waiting for me at a sedate “lady food” sort of café near the Louvre. The place was one of those unfortunate pissy hybrids of French and British culture where the waitress sneers at you if your shoes weren’t made in Belgium. No trouble spotting Gigi among all the newly coifed girlfriends in that joint. But at least, thank the baby Jesus, the lovely Martine was not in attendance.
    â€œI have a little news for you,” he said, using his napkin to wipe a spray of powdered sugar from his mustache. “Don’t get your hopes up too high though.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œA friend who works the Eiffel Tower says he thinks he knows Tante Vivian.”
    â€œWhat!”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat do you mean he works the Eiffel Tower? What kind of work?”
    â€œHe’s a pickpocket. I’m going to see him tomorrow. Chances are he’s full of shit and just looking to make a few francs for nothing. But I’ll give you a report.”
    â€œYou won’t have to. I’m coming with you.”
    â€œNo, no, my friend.”
    â€œYes, yes, my friend.”
    â€œI said no!” he snarled, without a trace of his usual rueful charm. “It’s no fucking place for you, where I’m meeting him. You’ll only be in the way. Besides, you’ll attract attention to yourself—and me. The last thing I need.”
    â€œWell, what about what I need, buster? What the hell kind of place is this where you’re meeting?”
    â€œNo more questions. You’re better off just letting me do what you asked me to do. Anything could happen— entendu? You’re a Yank, remember. No matter how fancy your French accent is. How would you like to end up deported? Who’ll rescue your sweet old aunt then?”
    â€œWhy do you put it like that—my ‘sweet old aunt’? What are you trying to say, Gigi?”
    His laugh was almost as nasty as one of Martine’s. “I’m not so sure. But my friend says if this aunt of yours is the same woman he’s thinking of, she’s up to her old tricks again.”
    â€œWhat the hell does that mean?”
    â€œHey! Don’t break my balls, ’ pute . Those are not my