Coq au Vin by Charlotte Carter

to the police that he’d told me he knew who killed Mary Polk as well as my aunt.
    Did he take my threats seriously? Not very, I wagered. But I decided to go with him anyway.
    It was while he was comparing Godfather III to the other installments in the saga that Martine walked in. Gigi Lacroix was like a thousand other trifling guys I’d seen in the world: unregenerate larceny in his heart, living off the weaknesses of others, quick-witted, shrewd, and lazy. When all was said and done, a colorful underworld character, no more. His lady friend Martine, on the other hand, scared the bejesus out of me.
    For starters, my girl had a scar —jawbone to neck. No taller or more powerfully built than he, but there was menace in her very walk. She locked glances with Gigi, ignoring me utterly until he introduced us, at which time she swept her burning eyes across my face and torso. I looked down at her stiletto-heeled shoes, which consisted entirely of straps and laces that crawled up her ankles like garter snakes.
    Martine seemed to take up all the space at the bar. She and Gigi went into a wanton lovers’ clutch for a couple of minutes and then he ran down my story for her. She took it in without comment, helping herself to a belt of Gigi’s Pernod.
    It was after 4 A.M. when I got back to the rue Christine apartment. Andre was sleeping peacefully, waking only long enough to ask if I’d had a good time with my fictitious chum—and he wasn’t one of the guys we roasted, was he?
    No way, I said, and pressed his head back onto the pillow. Then I went in to shower the stale tobacco and barroom funk out of my pores.
    When we got up the next morning, I’d have to tell him the truth about the evening and prepare him for Gigi.
    As predicted, he was not amused. I saw the worst of his play-it-safe side as he turned into my father for fifteen minutes. He blasted me for my foolishness in going into that din of iniquity; preached at me for jeopardizing our status as nice colored foreigners; ridiculed my private-eye fantasies, and so on.
    I sat there and took it, goddammit. But, under my patient, reasoned, point-by-point defense, he had to agree in the end that playing it safe was getting us nowhere with the Vivian quest.
    Once we had a late breakfast and hit the streets, he continued to punish me for a couple of hours with all the quickstep melodies he could think of. I was hung over, but I’d be damned if I wouldn’t keep up with him.
    The folks at the outdoor tables loved our ass. They were giving us an overwhelming round of applause. Andre’s violin case was stuffed with francs. We had played duets all over Paris, and this was one of our favorite spots. We made just as much or more here as at Au Père Tranquille or the gargantuan café on rue St. Denis, where the hookers sometimes helped us with our pitch, or playing for hours in the metro.
    â€œCould you play any faster than that?” I said through my teeth.
    â€œStop being sarcastic and concentrate,” he said. There was that smirk again. I wanted to slap him.
    Not really true. Number one: whenever I looked at that mouth of his, smirking, smiling, whatever, all I wanted to do was die in his arms. Number two: he had done the impossible—flogged me, metaphorically that is, until I learned to play Bird’s “Segment” at the proper breakneck speed. How could I be mad at him? Andre believed I was a better musician than I did, and whether he was right or wrong, I had, beyond question, improved immensely. I could feel it happening, evolving, every day I spent with him. It was as if I were topping myself in a cutting contest with me.
    â€œWe’re knocking off now—right?” I threatened, already packing up. Little or no sleep last night, I was exhausted.
    â€œYeah, right,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
    He put an arm around me and together we tripped across the avenue de la Grande Armée in the