Ed Lacy - Shoot It Again

I suddenly realized it had to be Wednesday, the day of the weekly lottery drawing. On the mawkish assumption God compensates their deformity by giving them luck, people purchased chances from the mutilated, and on Wednesday—the last day, the maimed were out hawking tickets all day.

No wonder I felt rested—I'd slept around the damn clock!

I shaved and dressed quickly, found less than four hundred francs on me. But I had sixty dollars in travelers checks from the still-life the Chicago teacher had bought. Since the sight of it would be a reminder of the loss of her stale virginity, was it now on her apartment wall or hidden in a closet? Probably in a closet—she was a jerky lollipop. Sixty bucks, have to start hustling again, unless Hank had sold one of my things... hadn't been around to his Galeries D'Azure in ten days. My feelings about exquisite Hank worried me...

But I was far too starved for any self-analysis. Taking my passport from the pocket of my old suitcase, I rushed off. Madame—sitting behind the hotel desk, yellowed teeth a collection of miniature tombstones—mumbled something about using her hot water for laundry. I walked by—sorry she knew English and I understood French. Old bag had her nerve, sneaking into my room while I was sleeping —seeing my “wash” on the chair. I was damn well fed up with all flea-bag hotels, pensions, and their grubby owners.

The day was hot and dry, the sort of weather which used to excite me when I first came to Nice from the raw cold of Paris. Stopping for coffee, I laced it with a rhum. Buying an orange and a hunk of wonderful rough bread, I finished my breakfast walking to the nearest cambio. I'd changed checks here once before and the nervous creature behind the counter nodded as I signed a twenty-dollar American Express check, took my passport from its plastic bag. The cambio man counted out the francs, opened my passport.

We both reached for the money on the counter— his bony mitt won. Jerking the francs away, he pointed toward my passport, sharp, sallow face full of suspicion, told me in French, “This is not yours.”

“What?” I packed up the open passport. Okay, it was impossible but the passport photo was of a young guy with a sandy crewcut topping a silly, weak puss. A face I'd never seen before. The name was Robert Parks and Washington, D. C. stated he had been born twenty-three years ago in California, resided in New York City. Turning the page the rubber stamp read he had entered France exactly nine weeks before.

It was all so unreal, I had to be in a nightmare. Staring at the plastic bag, I stupidly felt of it—the same old bag I always carried my passport in—had this faded cake ad on it. On first landing at Le Havre I'd bought a bag of cookies, kept the bag to protect my passport. I shook myself several times, but this wasn't any dream.

What the devil was I doing with another man's passport? Far more important— where was mine? I've been both hungry and flat broke in Europe, but neither gave me the sickening, naked feeling of being without my passport.

The cambio character said, “I will call the police.”

“No, no. There's some... mix-up. I'll handle it.” Yanking my travelers check from the other side of the counter, I stepped outside. For a lost moment I didn't know what to do. I could walk into Nice, cash the check at the American Express office without a passport. Certainly Hank would cash it... I was so dazed I had to keep telling myself the money wasn't important: where was my passport? I examined the passport again, studying the stingy signature, the photo, all the details. I'd heard there once was a market for stolen USA passports, but that vanished years ago with the other post-war rackets. Since this one had been issued less than three months ago—if it was a passport theft, what was the point of leaving a good one with me?

While I was trying to shake my sleepy brains awake, a flic in white pith helmet, blue uniform, the little toy-like white nightstick hanging from his belt, came up—walking fast. A short cop with a belly. The bastard cambio guy had phoned the police.

Now the cambio joker was outside his shop, saying something in rapid French to the cop, thin hands gesturing. The flic motioned for us to step back into the money exchange store. I stood there: the cop growled like a movie tough, “Monsieur—inside!”

Walking in I told him in my best French, “Really, this is nothing but a slight mix-up. I have a friend's passport. That is all. No money has been lost by the store, no reason for this fuss.”

After examining the passport, the flic said I'd have to go—with him. “Why?” I asked: I've always had a fear of police red tape, and now... without a passport, in a foreign land. “Listen, I took a pal's passport by mistake. That a crime?”

The pudgy policeman grabbed my shoulder. I have a phobia about being touched. When I pulled back, the flic raised his toy nightstick. I started to boil. “What's all this? Have you gone crazy, officer?”

“We are looking for Monsieur Robert Parks. Where is he?”

“Well, I... that is... I don't know.”

“So! You said he was your friend... Come along!” He pushed me toward the door. Maybe he punched my shoulder.

I side-stepped. There was this arc of pure white as the club cracked the side of my curly noggin. Okay, it sure wasn't any toy. Staggering a few steps, I saw all kinds of bright lights exploding before my eyes—brilliant clean colors in weird patterns I longed to put on canvas. Then my head was buzzing, but I wasn't hurt.

Despite my burly size, or perhaps because of it, I hadn't been in even a bar fight for over a dozen years. But when the cop raised his club again, I stepped inside the swing and belted his wide jaw. The shock of the blow flashed up to my shoulder. It felt great! As the flic crumpled to the floor, the cambio man started to yell. A clean poke on the side of his pointed chin silenced him. Picking up the passport, I walked out of the shop—feeling better than I had in months.

But the sun-heat made me snap out of it—the good feeling fled. I was in great shape—carrying the passport of a wanted man and socking a French cop!

CHAPTER 2

What possible use could the wanted Mr. Parks make of my passport, unless he changed my photo for Ms? Not only was it a job calling for great skills, but since I held his passport, he couldn't even do that. Far more puzzling, how did his passport get into my suitcase?

Although our State Department advises carrying your passport around at all times, it's far too clumsy for a hip pocket, and who wears a coat in the summer? Except when traveling, I always parked mine in my suitcase. Nor do I take friends to my room— for one thing it's such a wretched dump: for another—I haven't any real friends. Except for Sydney, I hadn't bothered with gals lately. True, I did take Syd to the room a few weeks ago, to do a nude of her... A few weeks—I couldn't recall exactly when I'd last used my passport.

I walked back to the hotel—it seemed like a safe idea. There was little chance the cambio man knew where I lived. I had at least five minutes before the flic could pull himself together, while checking my name against the hotel registrations at the central police station would take hours.

Madame was still in her surly mood, mumbling about my washing. A horrid purple pin in her over-bright pinkish hair made her look like a rotten carrot. In my room I carefully went through my bag—not much of a job as I pride myself on traveling light. My passport wasn't there. Returning to the small and gloomy lobby, I showed madame Parks' passport photo. “Have you ever seen this man before?”

Making a production of putting on her gold frame glasses, madame shook her head, muttered about the cost of coal for the hot water I'd used. Didn't I understand the fly-specked sign on the door; strictly forbidding washing?

“What were you doing in my room while I was sleeping?

“I?” She slapped her soggy bosom. “I never enter a room, monsieur, unless it is empty and...”

“Stop it, how did you know about the laundry, then?”

Madame snickered, giving me a full view of her mossy choppers, little eyes bright. “I talk of the big sewer. From a paying guest—some washing of clothes I expect. I am aware this is not the Hotel Ruhl. But her, she must wash the wine stain with my hot water) A girl in your room, even a sewer, is your business. But right in my kitchen she stirs up the stove, adding coal, and dries her dress...”

“Wait a minute,” I managed to cut in, not sure I was getting her French correctly, “what girl?”

Shrugging thin shoulders, madame gave me a cunning glance. “I never ask trash for a name. Blonde, large as a cow, two cows. I thought you had better taste, even in tarts.”

“I brought a... this blonde to my room yesterday?” I asked, not believing it.

Madame actually leered. “About six in the morning, perhaps it was nearer five a.m.—I was still in my bed, you came in, badly drunk. The blonde garbage is almost carrying you, and you are hardly a small one, monsieur. Like all cheap girls, she is making much noise. She put you to bed and in your basin washed the spot on her dress. Nude, without a trace of shame, this sewer then boldly marched into my kitchen, dried the dress over my stove. Naturally, I got out of my bed, but the brazen pig is so powerfully built, I am afraid to tell her of the rules, of my coal. With one hand she might have broken me in half.”

“Did! the... eh... blonde, mention her name?” As I mouthed the words I realized how silly they sounded.

Madame drew herself up, scratched the stringy wig atop her pin-head. “To me? I am above talking to such a sewer!”

I was too confused to remind her of the local gossip which whispered she had purchased the ratty hotel after years of being a brothel straw boss. “Listen, can you cash a travelers check for me?”

“Tonight, perhaps.” She pulled back her black dress, peered down into her breasts. “Now I have but a few francs. The thieves around here would steal a poor woman's honor and...”

Leaving, I watched an air liner circling to land at the nearby Nice airport, as I walked Avenue de la Californie toward the Promenade, keeping an eye out for cops. No wonder my dream of the giant blonde had been so realistic! But who the devil was she? Why had she taken my passport when she noticed it in my room...? Noticed— hell she had to dig into my bag to see it! Except for feeling good that even while crocked I'd wanted a girl... I was more confused than ever. The first order of business was to find the nameless blonde, large enough to carry two-hundred-twenty-pound me. Syd might remember where we'd been Monday night—possibly the blonde's name.

Actually blondie wasn't at the top of my fist—avoiding the cops had priority. Being a hustler, always skating on the brink of the law, my smacking a flic had been too, too, stupid. Risky strolling the Promenade, especially this end—deserted in the mornings. By now the police would certainly have an alarm out for me, or however they worked such matters in France. Syd's pension might be staked out... but how could they possibly know she was my girlfriend? Besides, on a hot morning like this, she'd be sunning herself at a plage.

Jumping down onto the rocky beach, I stripped to the swim trunks I wore in place of underwear. Folding my slacks and shirt in a sloppy bundle, I walked the hard beach, trusting I looked like one of the many bathers and sun-hounds.