I was on a couch. Very comfortable. My head hurt. I reached my hand around the back, felt my hair. It was slightly matted. Small bolts of pain shot into my eyes.
I rubbed my hand over the top of my head and down my face. It smelled of alcohol; medicinal alcohol. And blood.
Broken glass. Shards… projectiles. A loud explosion. Almonds. Honey.
The miasma was beginning to lift. I sat up. I was in a very fancy office.
There was a pitcher of water on the table in front of me. Beside it was a plate full of small sandwiches. A bottle of Aspirin stood off to the side.
My head pounded. The broken glass must have cut the back of my head. I reached for the Aspirin bottle; it contained only two pills.
I downed them with a glass of water and started in on the sandwiches. I fished for my cigarettes; they were gone. But my flask remained.
I let it be. It was time to think.
Fifteen rings. Fidelio. Get in the car and drive. Cut off and kidnapped.
How did these goons know where I was driving? I didn’t even know. Hell, half the drive I wasn’t even paying attention to the road. I was on autopilot.
The door at the far end of the office opened and a small portly man walked in. Quite the contrast to the men who brought me here.
“Mr. Armstrong. I’m glad to see you made it here in one piece.”
Suddenly I realized who was speaking. That fat, little sweaty man from Place Vendome.
“Don’t tell me… your name is…”
“Fidelio.”
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
"Synapse" - 9
As I slowly regained consciousness I was increasingly aware of the smell of leather, the awkward twisting of my spine, and the seat belt buckle digging into my hip.
I opened my eyes. I was in the back of a moving car. Well appointed. Paris trees blurred past the windows as they brushed the sky.
Slowly I sat up and looked around. The doors had no controls; no window buttons, no lock buttons, no handles.
There was a piece of glass separating me from the two men seated in the front. Both looked like spy novel mannequins.
I was in the sedan that had followed me. We were moving briskly through a section of Paris I was unfamiliar with.
In front of us was one of the two vehicles that had cut me off. The second was behind us.
Oddly, behind this vehicle was my Lada, driven by one of the three who confronted me in the street. Pretty polite kidnappers, I thought.
I felt for my Walther. It was missing. My flask was still in my jacket pocket; I took it out and downed a couple swallows to help me breathe.
Fishing in my pants pocket I pulled out a pack of cheap Gauloises, removed one with my lips, and lit it with my lighter.
Funny how I was allowed to keep these.
One of my kidnappers turned, flicked a switch, and said, “Please don’t smoke in the car.” His voice was a thin metallic smear.
I pulled a long draw and blew the smoke at his face. It curled as it hit the glass.
“If you don’t like it roll down the windows back here.”
He reached forward, touching a small, red button on the dashboard.
I heard a hiss, the smell of almonds and honey replacing that of leather and cigarette smoke.
I opened my eyes. I was in the back of a moving car. Well appointed. Paris trees blurred past the windows as they brushed the sky.
Slowly I sat up and looked around. The doors had no controls; no window buttons, no lock buttons, no handles.
There was a piece of glass separating me from the two men seated in the front. Both looked like spy novel mannequins.
I was in the sedan that had followed me. We were moving briskly through a section of Paris I was unfamiliar with.
In front of us was one of the two vehicles that had cut me off. The second was behind us.
Oddly, behind this vehicle was my Lada, driven by one of the three who confronted me in the street. Pretty polite kidnappers, I thought.
I felt for my Walther. It was missing. My flask was still in my jacket pocket; I took it out and downed a couple swallows to help me breathe.
Fishing in my pants pocket I pulled out a pack of cheap Gauloises, removed one with my lips, and lit it with my lighter.
Funny how I was allowed to keep these.
One of my kidnappers turned, flicked a switch, and said, “Please don’t smoke in the car.” His voice was a thin metallic smear.
I pulled a long draw and blew the smoke at his face. It curled as it hit the glass.
“If you don’t like it roll down the windows back here.”
He reached forward, touching a small, red button on the dashboard.
I heard a hiss, the smell of almonds and honey replacing that of leather and cigarette smoke.
Friday, April 17, 2009
"Synapse" - 8
The passenger doors on all three vehicles opened, and the emerging men each took up positions around my Lada.
One off the front right fender, the second behind the right rear – out of my immediate visual range – the third a few feet from my driver door.
All three were physically fit, wore identical charcoal-grey suits, white shirts, and black ties. All three wore sunglasses.
“How charming,” I thought. “Is this some kind of Earl Stanley Gardner daydream? Maybe if I shout ‘Gertie’ they’ll vanish in a puff.”
The caricature off my driver door took a few steps towards my car. I raised the Walther, pressed it against the window, and aimed it at his head.
As I did so, my friend’s twin companions reached into their open suit coats. I could feel their hands closing around gunmetal.
I was hoping to hold out long enough for the Sûreté to arrive.
I wasn’t sure how I would fare in an encounter with the police, but I was certain my antagonists were less interested in their involvement than I was.
“Mr. Armstrong,” said the man outside my door. “If you shoot me you’ll be dead before you have the satisfaction of seeing me hit the ground.”
I didn’t blink. The Walther didn’t waver. I thought I heard a faint siren calling in the distance.
“Mr. Armstrong. Our time is short.”
With those words the right rear window of my Lada exploded, showering glass throughout the stark interior.
A gas was quickly filling the car; it smelled of almonds and honey.
Before I could feel the pain from the glass striking the back of my head I was enveloped in blackness.
One off the front right fender, the second behind the right rear – out of my immediate visual range – the third a few feet from my driver door.
All three were physically fit, wore identical charcoal-grey suits, white shirts, and black ties. All three wore sunglasses.
“How charming,” I thought. “Is this some kind of Earl Stanley Gardner daydream? Maybe if I shout ‘Gertie’ they’ll vanish in a puff.”
The caricature off my driver door took a few steps towards my car. I raised the Walther, pressed it against the window, and aimed it at his head.
As I did so, my friend’s twin companions reached into their open suit coats. I could feel their hands closing around gunmetal.
I was hoping to hold out long enough for the Sûreté to arrive.
I wasn’t sure how I would fare in an encounter with the police, but I was certain my antagonists were less interested in their involvement than I was.
“Mr. Armstrong,” said the man outside my door. “If you shoot me you’ll be dead before you have the satisfaction of seeing me hit the ground.”
I didn’t blink. The Walther didn’t waver. I thought I heard a faint siren calling in the distance.
“Mr. Armstrong. Our time is short.”
With those words the right rear window of my Lada exploded, showering glass throughout the stark interior.
A gas was quickly filling the car; it smelled of almonds and honey.
Before I could feel the pain from the glass striking the back of my head I was enveloped in blackness.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
"Synapse" - 7
With a jolt of the senses I returned to the present. My mind had been trying to barge through my reverie. Something wasn’t right.
A black sedan, somewhat oversize for the side streets of Paris, had become a consistent shadow. Three cars back. But unmistakable.
I eased into the left lane and stayed there through a few lights. The sedan edged into the same lane.
I bided my time until I came up to yellow… I was the first to stop. Before the opposing cars could enter the intersection I gunned the engine, turned abruptly right on Rue Legendre, and flew past scurrying pedestrians. Horns blared; voices blared. Then quiet.
For about 20 seconds.
Then more horns blaring in the distance; I looked into the mirror. My friend had ripped into the intersection in pursuit.
Secrecy was no longer his gambit. He was passing all the vehicles between us in an attempt to catch up with my grumbling Lada.
Suddenly I felt in my peripheral vision, rather than saw, two vehicles enter the Rue Dulong intersection directly in front of me; one from each side.
They stopped inches from each others’ front bumper. I hit the brakes hard; food wrappers, empty fifths plowed forward into the dash.
Behind me the black sedan was executing a 90-degree turn, effectively wedging me between it and the two cars blocking my path.
I paused for a minute to collect myself, took another swig from the flask and replaced it in my jacket pocket.
I pulled the well-worn Walther from beneath my seat, readied a round in the chamber, and waited.
A black sedan, somewhat oversize for the side streets of Paris, had become a consistent shadow. Three cars back. But unmistakable.
I eased into the left lane and stayed there through a few lights. The sedan edged into the same lane.
I bided my time until I came up to yellow… I was the first to stop. Before the opposing cars could enter the intersection I gunned the engine, turned abruptly right on Rue Legendre, and flew past scurrying pedestrians. Horns blared; voices blared. Then quiet.
For about 20 seconds.
Then more horns blaring in the distance; I looked into the mirror. My friend had ripped into the intersection in pursuit.
Secrecy was no longer his gambit. He was passing all the vehicles between us in an attempt to catch up with my grumbling Lada.
Suddenly I felt in my peripheral vision, rather than saw, two vehicles enter the Rue Dulong intersection directly in front of me; one from each side.
They stopped inches from each others’ front bumper. I hit the brakes hard; food wrappers, empty fifths plowed forward into the dash.
Behind me the black sedan was executing a 90-degree turn, effectively wedging me between it and the two cars blocking my path.
I paused for a minute to collect myself, took another swig from the flask and replaced it in my jacket pocket.
I pulled the well-worn Walther from beneath my seat, readied a round in the chamber, and waited.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
"Synapse" - 6
As I mulled the past, the Lada seemed to be executing random direction changes of its own free will.
Madeleine and Jonas. Love blood. Those names hit me hard; but somehow my corpulent stalker knew that. Leverage.
Madeleine was only a child when we met. I’m not sure who fell harder for whom. Our passion keened on the edge immolation.
She didn’t care what I did, who I broke, why I held her so tightly in the middle of the night; past sins bled on the alter of her shoulders.
Pain euthanized in the mercy of her passionate grasp. In her I found peace from the war I fought with others; and with myself.
Then, suddenly, the note.
The rushing of blood to my temples. The ceaseless pacing. The sleepless nights.
The package delivered; the severed head. Red locks caked in blood.
My alter was gone, as surely as my past sins regained their grip on my conscience.
I slipped to the floor, beat my hands bloody on the door stop. I was too stunned to cry, my anguish keening in silent tears.
And Jonas? Cut from her womb and placed in the kitchen dust bin. Just to let me know they knew where I lived, I suppose.
In the ten years since they ripped her from my life I have attempted to find succor at the alter of a strangers’ flesh. An empty icon.
Until I discovered that the new alters’ efficacy was greased somewhat by the bottle. As a combination they kept the pain at bay.
Sobriety and loneliness tended to bring back memories of Madeleine’s smile, her breasts, her passionate longing.
Now, the only longing I felt in my heart was for a sea of emptiness that only the stranger can bring.
As I turned into Boulevard Malesherbes I pulled the chest flask from my inner jacket pocket.
Madeleine and Jonas. Love blood. Those names hit me hard; but somehow my corpulent stalker knew that. Leverage.
Madeleine was only a child when we met. I’m not sure who fell harder for whom. Our passion keened on the edge immolation.
She didn’t care what I did, who I broke, why I held her so tightly in the middle of the night; past sins bled on the alter of her shoulders.
Pain euthanized in the mercy of her passionate grasp. In her I found peace from the war I fought with others; and with myself.
Then, suddenly, the note.
The rushing of blood to my temples. The ceaseless pacing. The sleepless nights.
The package delivered; the severed head. Red locks caked in blood.
My alter was gone, as surely as my past sins regained their grip on my conscience.
I slipped to the floor, beat my hands bloody on the door stop. I was too stunned to cry, my anguish keening in silent tears.
And Jonas? Cut from her womb and placed in the kitchen dust bin. Just to let me know they knew where I lived, I suppose.
In the ten years since they ripped her from my life I have attempted to find succor at the alter of a strangers’ flesh. An empty icon.
Until I discovered that the new alters’ efficacy was greased somewhat by the bottle. As a combination they kept the pain at bay.
Sobriety and loneliness tended to bring back memories of Madeleine’s smile, her breasts, her passionate longing.
Now, the only longing I felt in my heart was for a sea of emptiness that only the stranger can bring.
As I turned into Boulevard Malesherbes I pulled the chest flask from my inner jacket pocket.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
"Synapse" - 5
I stopped, stared at him. His breathing was slightly laboured through his sweaty face. He pulled out an immaculate handkerchief.
“I’m a cobbler,” I said. “I make shoes.”
“You take me for a fool, sir. If you insist, 2005, Brussels. The authorities wouldn’t clean up the ponzi scheme, so you took out the head.
“2006, Dubai. Some oil magnate who was dabbling is sex slavery. 2007, Chang-Mai. An opium grower who liked little boys.”
A little too close to the bone, I thought. I’d done many jobs, most far more public than those. I tried to keep the dirty ones off book.
One likes to be seen as an agent for positive justice. Even my associates in those operations had to be dispatched.
“You’re gonna lose me in about 10 seconds if you don’t get to the point.”
“We’ll be calling you if we need you. ‘Fidelio.’ Remember that. When you hear that, just get in your Lada and start driving.”
I hesitated. My narrowing eyes were intended to be a warning to him – don’t get too close.
“01.42.43.67.95,” he said. I stared at him hard. He mopped his brow again with the handkerchief.
“Euros or British Pounds. American money is worthless to me.”
“As you wish.”
I looked aside for a moment. I could use the money. Might put me in better stead with the proprio of a less flea-bitten flat.
“I don’t pick up the phone for less that 15 rings,” I said, looking up. He was already two stores away from me, walking briskly.
“I’m a cobbler,” I said. “I make shoes.”
“You take me for a fool, sir. If you insist, 2005, Brussels. The authorities wouldn’t clean up the ponzi scheme, so you took out the head.
“2006, Dubai. Some oil magnate who was dabbling is sex slavery. 2007, Chang-Mai. An opium grower who liked little boys.”
A little too close to the bone, I thought. I’d done many jobs, most far more public than those. I tried to keep the dirty ones off book.
One likes to be seen as an agent for positive justice. Even my associates in those operations had to be dispatched.
“You’re gonna lose me in about 10 seconds if you don’t get to the point.”
“We’ll be calling you if we need you. ‘Fidelio.’ Remember that. When you hear that, just get in your Lada and start driving.”
I hesitated. My narrowing eyes were intended to be a warning to him – don’t get too close.
“01.42.43.67.95,” he said. I stared at him hard. He mopped his brow again with the handkerchief.
“Euros or British Pounds. American money is worthless to me.”
“As you wish.”
I looked aside for a moment. I could use the money. Might put me in better stead with the proprio of a less flea-bitten flat.
“I don’t pick up the phone for less that 15 rings,” I said, looking up. He was already two stores away from me, walking briskly.
Monday, April 13, 2009
"Synapse" - 4
Fidelio.
As I navigated Boulevard Saint-Denis, clumsily avoiding the early morning Smarts Cars and delivery trucks, I thought back to last April.
I was strolling through the Place Vendome, window-shopping the diamond stores. Chaumet, Van Cleef & Arpels, Cartier….
All the shiny neckwear, trophies for some mistress, some wet-nurse who was tending to the needs of more than just the infant in her charge.
I felt myself being approached by a small man, rotund, in a seer-sucker suit that neither suited his frame nor the times.
His hair was slicked back with a pomade; I guess you could say I smelled him before I saw him. He sidled up beside me.
“Mr. Armstrong.”
I pretended not to hear him and, turning towards him, brushed his body back a step as I passed. I paused in front of Dubail.
He approached me again. “Moses Armstrong. 28 Rue Bergère. You like Thai Cuisine. Can’t say as I blame you. Clears out the sinuses.”
I glanced at him sideways.
“We know all about you, Mr. Armstrong. About Madeleine,. About Jonas. You prefer Barclay’s over bilge water. Blondes over redheads.”
I decided I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, turned away and starting walking in earnest toward the Rue Saint-Honoré outlet.
He fell into step beside me, although my pace forced him to walk a bit faster than his portliness comfortably allowed.
“I’ll come right to the point, Mr. Armstrong. You have come to our attention. You interest us. We seek a partnership.”
“I’ll send you a check,” I offered, quickening my pace.
“You don’t understand. We wish to pay you. For your services.”
As I navigated Boulevard Saint-Denis, clumsily avoiding the early morning Smarts Cars and delivery trucks, I thought back to last April.
I was strolling through the Place Vendome, window-shopping the diamond stores. Chaumet, Van Cleef & Arpels, Cartier….
All the shiny neckwear, trophies for some mistress, some wet-nurse who was tending to the needs of more than just the infant in her charge.
I felt myself being approached by a small man, rotund, in a seer-sucker suit that neither suited his frame nor the times.
His hair was slicked back with a pomade; I guess you could say I smelled him before I saw him. He sidled up beside me.
“Mr. Armstrong.”
I pretended not to hear him and, turning towards him, brushed his body back a step as I passed. I paused in front of Dubail.
He approached me again. “Moses Armstrong. 28 Rue Bergère. You like Thai Cuisine. Can’t say as I blame you. Clears out the sinuses.”
I glanced at him sideways.
“We know all about you, Mr. Armstrong. About Madeleine,. About Jonas. You prefer Barclay’s over bilge water. Blondes over redheads.”
I decided I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, turned away and starting walking in earnest toward the Rue Saint-Honoré outlet.
He fell into step beside me, although my pace forced him to walk a bit faster than his portliness comfortably allowed.
“I’ll come right to the point, Mr. Armstrong. You have come to our attention. You interest us. We seek a partnership.”
“I’ll send you a check,” I offered, quickening my pace.
“You don’t understand. We wish to pay you. For your services.”
Saturday, April 11, 2009
"Synapse" - 3
“Fidelio,” said the metallic female voice from the small, plastic machine.
I pushed NEXT. “Fidelio.” NEXT again. “Fidelio.” Again. “Fidelio.” Fidelio. Fidelio. Fidelio….
“Fidelio.” That one came from behind me, and the female voice was anything but metallic.
I turned towards the kitchen. My blonde friend was leaning against the door frame, my bathrobe barely closing about her shoulders.
“Who’s Fidelio?”
I grabbed the tumbler and headed back to the kitchen. “It’s an opera by Beethoven,” I answered.
She glanced at the empty tumbler. “Are you going to make me breakfast, too?”
Some in my profession have a fancy bar with lots of bottles. I have a shelf in a kitchen cabinet. I opened it and glanced back at her.
“Eggs or pancakes?” I asked. She came up behind me and hugged my waist.
“Waffles.”
I grabbed a bottle of Barclay’s, poured her three fingers, myself five. We downed our morning meal in one breath.
“Get dressed,” I told her. “You need to leave.”
I headed to the shower to establish a more elevated sense of consciousness. When I had finished she was gone.
I pushed NEXT. “Fidelio.” NEXT again. “Fidelio.” Again. “Fidelio.” Fidelio. Fidelio. Fidelio….
“Fidelio.” That one came from behind me, and the female voice was anything but metallic.
I turned towards the kitchen. My blonde friend was leaning against the door frame, my bathrobe barely closing about her shoulders.
“Who’s Fidelio?”
I grabbed the tumbler and headed back to the kitchen. “It’s an opera by Beethoven,” I answered.
She glanced at the empty tumbler. “Are you going to make me breakfast, too?”
Some in my profession have a fancy bar with lots of bottles. I have a shelf in a kitchen cabinet. I opened it and glanced back at her.
“Eggs or pancakes?” I asked. She came up behind me and hugged my waist.
“Waffles.”
I grabbed a bottle of Barclay’s, poured her three fingers, myself five. We downed our morning meal in one breath.
“Get dressed,” I told her. “You need to leave.”
I headed to the shower to establish a more elevated sense of consciousness. When I had finished she was gone.
Friday, April 10, 2009
"Synapse" - 2
The living room was still dark. Heavier curtains, overlapping, keep out the humanity, keep in the distractions.
The only light in the room was a red flashing glow that beckoned from the answering machine.
I had heard the phone ring the night before.
A ringing phone always means business. I have no friends - I try to limit my ties to those whose loss I will not feel.
During last night’s athletic preoccupation I opened a mental portal and began counting phone rings. Between the kisses; between the pleas.
Everyone has a way of deciding what’s important.
The telephone’s repetitive insistence is my barometer of a potential client’s desperation; I only work for those more desperate than me.
Less than five rings is a lost pet. Five to 8 rings is a lost child or adult. Eight to 12 rings is a larceny. Over 12 rings is a body.
Bodies have become the only things that interest me. Curly blonde or bloodless corpse, it doesn’t matter.
I don’t waste moral currency on missing dogs.
As I approached the winking light I noticed that the empty tumbler was still in my hand. I put it down on the end table.
Last night’s caller had made fifteen attempts.
I pushed the button.
The only light in the room was a red flashing glow that beckoned from the answering machine.
I had heard the phone ring the night before.
A ringing phone always means business. I have no friends - I try to limit my ties to those whose loss I will not feel.
During last night’s athletic preoccupation I opened a mental portal and began counting phone rings. Between the kisses; between the pleas.
Everyone has a way of deciding what’s important.
The telephone’s repetitive insistence is my barometer of a potential client’s desperation; I only work for those more desperate than me.
Less than five rings is a lost pet. Five to 8 rings is a lost child or adult. Eight to 12 rings is a larceny. Over 12 rings is a body.
Bodies have become the only things that interest me. Curly blonde or bloodless corpse, it doesn’t matter.
I don’t waste moral currency on missing dogs.
As I approached the winking light I noticed that the empty tumbler was still in my hand. I put it down on the end table.
Last night’s caller had made fifteen attempts.
I pushed the button.
"Synapse" - 1
I took a deep drag on what remained of my cigarette and looked over at her blond curls as they spilled out from under the sheets.
I had forgotten her name. I guess in the passion of the moment I might have called out to another, but then she was used to that.
People in our line of work don't make attachments. They become liabilities, and I have enough love blood on my hands.
I stubbed out my cigarette, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and probed for my slippers with my feet.
Dawn was breaking through the cracks in the curtains.
Downstairs I found the remains of the pinot noir from the night before. It filled half a tumbler. I downed it in one swallow.
It was going to be a long day.
I had forgotten her name. I guess in the passion of the moment I might have called out to another, but then she was used to that.
People in our line of work don't make attachments. They become liabilities, and I have enough love blood on my hands.
I stubbed out my cigarette, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and probed for my slippers with my feet.
Dawn was breaking through the cracks in the curtains.
Downstairs I found the remains of the pinot noir from the night before. It filled half a tumbler. I downed it in one swallow.
It was going to be a long day.
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