Читать книгу The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle - Christopher Ward - Страница 10

“There goes the most beautiful woman to have ever taken the stage in Paris or anywhere with curtains,” sighed Rudee as we drove away, “you can have your Coco LaFoie, your Tipi Chaussette.”

My mind was still on the smoking man by the stage door, but I could see that this was not the moment to mention it to Rudee. Another set of rain-slicked cobblestone streets later, we arrived at a café. Every car outside, all parked at odd angles to the curb, was a taxi. The blinking sign in the window of the smoky room said CAF TA; then I saw that with the burned-out letters lit up, it would have spelled CAFE TAXI. It was packed, bright, and very loud, and the smell of coffee and fresh pastry ruled. In one corner, someone was getting a shave and a haircut. Card playing, arm wrestling, and arguing contributed to the chaos. As Rudee looked for a table, he was spotted by some friends.

“Hey, Rudee, I’ve got some goose liver for you.”

“Did you bring the brie?”

The laughter was punctuated by more voices. “Hey, who’s that? Have you given up on the most beautiful woman to have ever taken the stage?”

“Business slow, Monsieur Rudee? Doing a little babysitting on the side?”

That was it for me. I stood up on a chair and shouted above the crowd, “He’s not my babysitter. Rudee’s my friend!”

This was greeted by some good-natured “ooolalas” and “wellwellwells,” and the crowd moved back to their drinks and on to other matters. Rudee looked the most surprised of all by my outburst. A tall, thin driver with a mop of hair escaping from a pork pie hat and a nose that looked like it could slice bread was waving at us and pointing to a couple of empty chairs. We sat down, and Rudee introduced me to François Caboche.

“Friend of Rudee’s is a friend of mine.” He grinned through a wispy moustache that hung like a curtain over his mouth. “Call me Dizzy.”

He saw my expression and went on. “No, it’s not a balance problem; my mom was in love with Dizzy Bluebird, and when he toured here with his hot half dozen, she was at every gig. She put a mini trombone into my hands when I was in the crib.” Dizzy tilted his head at Rudee. “Your pal Rudee’s a heckuva fine organist, you know. We jam on Saturdays upstairs; you want to come by?” Rudee didn’t jump in, so I just smiled.

I said my dad had told me all about Rudee’s talents. “He played me the Pipeline Tour tapes. He said Rudee’s solo in ‘Strange Glove’ should be studied by every kid who wants to call himself an organist.”

Rudee couldn’t hide his pride and asked if I’d heard my dad’s vocal on “Transatlantic Train.” I didn’t tell him it just sounded totally weird to me.

“Listen, Rudee.” Dizzy lowered his voice so it could barely be heard above the din of CAFTA and leaned toward his friend. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about the city getting darker, and I’m sorry that I laughed at you, mon ami. I know the theft of the cross from the Église Russe bothers you a lot, and I figured that’s what was getting to you. Anyway, I was picking up my usual fare on Rue Bonaparte, and I realized that I couldn’t read the building numbers. There was no fog, the lamps were on, but it seemed a bit darker to me. Maybe we’re both crazy.”

“That’s it, slideman,” Rudee burst in excitedly then quickly glanced around the room to see if anyone was paying attention before continuing. “I know it’s true. Paris is getting darker by the day. Hardly but slowly. A driver in the Métro drove past the Pigalle station and two hundred passengers on the platform yesterday.”

Rudee paid for the drinks and the warm chocolate croissants that had magically appeared and quickly disappeared, and we all headed into the street. We waved to Dizzy, who got into a very low-slung cab with exhaust pipes that looked like trombones. His cab belched blue smoke, and Rudee shook his head. “Only bohemians would travel like this.”

The café door swung open, and a driver wider than the doorway squeezed out to spit in the street. Spotting us, he lumbered over.

“Daroo, you lunatic, how do you afford gas with all your freeloading friends?” He snorted like a pit bull and tilted his face close to mine. When he spoke, his breath could’ve been used as rust remover. “Past your bedtime, isn’t it, nana?”

Rudee stepped between us. “Her name is Mac, sewer lips. Isn’t it time for your big flea bath?”

This gross chunk of man lifted Rudee off the ground with one hand and dangled him like a dirty sock. “I think you need a new hinge for that hairdo of yours, beet breath. Sorry you’ll miss the show at the club tonight.”

Rudee’s eyes seemed to recede under his mighty brow, but he said nothing. His assailant dropped him to the pavement and strode off, laughing to himself and spitting like a broken faucet.

Once he was out of sight, Rudee gathered himself and said, “Blag LeBoeuf. I’ve known him since we were knee high to fire hydrants.

“Our families knew each other from the old country. Then we went apelove for the same girl, don’t you know.” He shrugged, and a small smile emerged. “He lost the girl to me, and it’s been like this ever since.”

I wanted to know more about Blag, but as soon as we settled into Rudee’s cab and he adjusted the lights and music to his liking, the radio squawked, and Madeleine’s voice cut through. “Bonsoir, everyone. Just thought you all should know that the cross from the domed church has been stolen. Incroyable, non? Let me know if you hear something, and I’ll pass it along to the others.”

“The domed church. That’s Les Invalides,” said Rudee in an awed tone. “That’s where Napoleon is boxed. The church with the golden dome is one of Paris’ most shining monuments. But how could someone ...”

He yanked the wheel of the cab to the left, and I fell onto his shoulder. He threaded the needle across six lanes of cars as he madly circled the Arc de Triomphe. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I must see this for my ownself.”