The Stiff Upper Lip by Peter Israel Page A

and beaten to an omelette for my pains, but right then I couldn’t think by whom. Oh sure, by a blonde, but also by a spade called Roscoe, and maybe Odessa too, defunct, and in addition by everybody who came into my head, from the Bobby Goldsteins, father and son, to old Mrs. Hotchkiss in the Third Grade. By everybody and nobody in sum, and they were all there in my head, having a fine old rampage, and I coulnd’t put any of it together then, there was too much noise from the party inside.
    Dédé Delatour was trying to tell me something. It had to do with his partners in California, Johnny Vee and friends. Something to the effect that I wasn’t part of their organization, that they hadn’t hired me after all. Oh, but they knew me all right, our paths had crossed before. And Delatour was asking me some question, asked it more than once. But the numbness was leaving my lips now, and they felt big like rubber tires, and somewhere between them and my brain there must have been an accident because the traffic was piled up for miles in both directions.
    â€œI asked them what they wanted me to do with you,” Delatour was saying. His eyebrows were up. It looked like they were held there by sky-hooks. “ Alors … ? Don’t you want to know what they said?”
    By way of answer, he had his arm out, fist extended. Then he inverted his fist in the classic gesture: thumb down.
    Hail Fucking Caesar.
    He seemed to find this a real rib-tickler. He threw his head back and roared.
    Around in there, somehow or other, the choreography changed. Don’t ask me how, but one minute the table was between us and the next it wasn’t and we were both on our feet and Dédé Delatour was glad-handing me like we’d just met.
    It was crazy, kind of. We were both about the same height, but I had the impression I was standing on my ankles.
    â€œDon’t worry about it, mon vieux ,” he was telling me. “I like you too much for that. I think I’m really starting to like you. Besides, California is … what? Nine hours, ten thousand kilometers away? A long way off. We can take care of our own affairs, can’t we. Besides, if they don’t want Adlay, I do. Isn’t that right? I think I want him more than you do, more even than the police. Isn’t that right?”
    â€œThat’s right,” I said.
    It was crazy, like I said.
    â€œ Alors, mon vieux . We’re going to find’ him, aren’t we? You and I? I’ll be looking for him too, of course, but I’ve the feeling you’ll be the one who’s going to find him, yes I do. And that you’ll bring him to me. Yes?”
    He actually put his arm around my shoulder. Then he motioned to the Belmondo, who was holding up the wall next to the door. The Belmondo stuck his cannon inside his belt and stood aside, and Dédé Delatour walked me to the door in his dressing gown, with his arm around my shoulder.
    â€œThen it’ll be time for us to have another talk,” he said, patting me. “I’ll be looking forward to it, mon vieux . About Adlay’s future, yes? But about yours too.”
    I don’t know how I got out of there, less about how I got home. Only that I did.
    The desk clerk at the hotel had some messages for me, plus an unpleasant piece of news for which he kept trying to apologize. He also wanted to know if I wanted him to call a doctor.
    I told him to forget about the apology. Also about the doctor.
    All I wanted to do was go to bed.
    This I did.

7
    They were there when I woke up. The one called Frèrejean was mucking around at my dresser. The other was just coming out of the bathroom in his shirt sleeves. He had one sleeve rolled up, like he’d been checking the drains. Neither one of them so much as blushed when they saw me looking at them.
    I was lying on top of the bed with all my clothes on. I’d been dreaming. It was one of those dreams where you make up