care if it was true or not, I just wanted to see if she’d tell me.
“He’s in the import-export trade.”
“Where is he now?” I was thinking North Korea or Iran, or maybe Pakistan or Israel.
“I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me where he goes. Anyway, he won’t be back for a week.”
“Would he kill me if he knew?”
She snorted. “Don’t be melodramatic.”
“But he doesn’t like me, does he?”
“No.”
“Is he going to put up the money for the movie?”
She extended a long leg into the air above the bed and studied its perfection. “I hate to say this, but I don’t think he is.”
“You say you’ve got money from modeling. Enough to buy a little Picasso drawing.”
“All right, he paid for that. But I picked it out.”
“Isn’t it your money, too? Can’t you insist?”
“It’s not that kind of marriage. I’m still working on him. Don’t despair.”
“I’m not desperate yet. Tomorrow I’m going to go out to Longchamp and bet all I’ve got left in the world on a horse in the fifth.”
She took in a deep breath and sat up, once again with that charming gesture of placing her hand flat on her sternum, taking my little joke quite seriously. “You mustn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Tomorrow’s Friday the thirteenth.”
I laughed and thought to myself maybe I would go to the track tomorrow for real. Esmée left before midnight with a stern warning not to do anything the next day that required any sort of luck, and I went to sleep earlier than usual, convinced that my own luck was almost magically good and that no harm would come to me, little suspecting that downstairs was a man with a gun and a key to the apartment and a seething desire to see me dead.
VENDREDI, TREIZE MAI
A ND SO WE ARRIVE BACK AT THE POINT where I had Claude Guiteau—arms dealer, jealous husband, would-be assassin—tied unconscious to a chair in an apartment he and his wife owned.
Rather pleased with myself just by virtue of being alive, I went down to the basement storage area where Esmée kept her spare luggage and opened the padlock. I seemed to remember a large, old steamer trunk plastered with labels from all over the world like you see in old movies. Sure enough, there it was, and it seemed to me that the stickers with their retro graphics might have some value. Whoever had owned the trunk back in the day had been around: Marrakesh, Buenos Aires, Kyoto, San Francisco. It was a big one, too, though I wasn’t sure it would be big enough. I’d seen a movie once where a man was stuffed inside one of these prior to being killed, and I remembered being unconvinced that a big man would really fit inside one.
Upstairs Fred was scribbling on a sheet of paper, seemingly oblivious to the slobbering, comatose figure seated across the kitchen from him. I left the trunk by the door and stood over his shoulder. He looked up at me, annoyed. “Let me think,” he said.
“Whatever you’re writing down, you’d better be prepared to chew up and swallow,” I told him.
“Don’t worry, it’s all in code.”
“Chew it up and swallow it,” I said. “Prosecuting attorneys love shit like that. I should know, I’ve played a few.”
He dropped the pen. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you right now. I think we’re both in a lot of trouble. You, especially.”
“What if I just call the cops and say he came into my apartment and tried to shoot me? I could untie him and take the gag out and nobody’d be the wiser.”
“I don’t know. It’s his apartment, after all.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m in possession of it at the moment, that makes it my domicile and I have a right to defend myself therein. It’s a well-established point of jurisprudence.”
He opened his mouth but didn’t speak, and his eyes rolled upward in exasperation at my obtuseness. Fred had no poker face. “American jurisprudence.”
“You mean the principle doesn’t apply here?”
“How should I know? I’m no lawyer. All
“He’s in the import-export trade.”
“Where is he now?” I was thinking North Korea or Iran, or maybe Pakistan or Israel.
“I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me where he goes. Anyway, he won’t be back for a week.”
“Would he kill me if he knew?”
She snorted. “Don’t be melodramatic.”
“But he doesn’t like me, does he?”
“No.”
“Is he going to put up the money for the movie?”
She extended a long leg into the air above the bed and studied its perfection. “I hate to say this, but I don’t think he is.”
“You say you’ve got money from modeling. Enough to buy a little Picasso drawing.”
“All right, he paid for that. But I picked it out.”
“Isn’t it your money, too? Can’t you insist?”
“It’s not that kind of marriage. I’m still working on him. Don’t despair.”
“I’m not desperate yet. Tomorrow I’m going to go out to Longchamp and bet all I’ve got left in the world on a horse in the fifth.”
She took in a deep breath and sat up, once again with that charming gesture of placing her hand flat on her sternum, taking my little joke quite seriously. “You mustn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Tomorrow’s Friday the thirteenth.”
I laughed and thought to myself maybe I would go to the track tomorrow for real. Esmée left before midnight with a stern warning not to do anything the next day that required any sort of luck, and I went to sleep earlier than usual, convinced that my own luck was almost magically good and that no harm would come to me, little suspecting that downstairs was a man with a gun and a key to the apartment and a seething desire to see me dead.
VENDREDI, TREIZE MAI
A ND SO WE ARRIVE BACK AT THE POINT where I had Claude Guiteau—arms dealer, jealous husband, would-be assassin—tied unconscious to a chair in an apartment he and his wife owned.
Rather pleased with myself just by virtue of being alive, I went down to the basement storage area where Esmée kept her spare luggage and opened the padlock. I seemed to remember a large, old steamer trunk plastered with labels from all over the world like you see in old movies. Sure enough, there it was, and it seemed to me that the stickers with their retro graphics might have some value. Whoever had owned the trunk back in the day had been around: Marrakesh, Buenos Aires, Kyoto, San Francisco. It was a big one, too, though I wasn’t sure it would be big enough. I’d seen a movie once where a man was stuffed inside one of these prior to being killed, and I remembered being unconvinced that a big man would really fit inside one.
Upstairs Fred was scribbling on a sheet of paper, seemingly oblivious to the slobbering, comatose figure seated across the kitchen from him. I left the trunk by the door and stood over his shoulder. He looked up at me, annoyed. “Let me think,” he said.
“Whatever you’re writing down, you’d better be prepared to chew up and swallow,” I told him.
“Don’t worry, it’s all in code.”
“Chew it up and swallow it,” I said. “Prosecuting attorneys love shit like that. I should know, I’ve played a few.”
He dropped the pen. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you right now. I think we’re both in a lot of trouble. You, especially.”
“What if I just call the cops and say he came into my apartment and tried to shoot me? I could untie him and take the gag out and nobody’d be the wiser.”
“I don’t know. It’s his apartment, after all.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m in possession of it at the moment, that makes it my domicile and I have a right to defend myself therein. It’s a well-established point of jurisprudence.”
He opened his mouth but didn’t speak, and his eyes rolled upward in exasperation at my obtuseness. Fred had no poker face. “American jurisprudence.”
“You mean the principle doesn’t apply here?”
“How should I know? I’m no lawyer. All
Similar Books
