Ed Lacy - Shoot It Again

It was a long hike: I should have been able to think, but my mind was a spinning blank. One minor thing bothered me, almost as much as the loss of my passport—I wanted to cash that travelers check. Having been stony so damn often, I think best with eating money in my pockets. Passing some of the fancier plages, as I neared the Ruhl I considered jumping up on the boardwalk, stopping at the American Express. Or crossing the pretty Jardin Albert 1 to the gallery. Hank knew everything, could tell me what to do. Plus, it gave me a lift to see my work on display. But the park, or the crowded Promenade would have many cops around.

Walking along the now crowded beach, I finally had one piece of decent luck. Except for the English who are always here, tourists seem to hit Nice in waves. The city was now full of heavyset Hollanders and among all this beef, I saw Sydney's slender figure in a red tank suit, stretched out on her loud green beach mat. For a moment I stopped to “case” the rocky beach—in my best amateur manner, not sure what I should be looking for.

Then I went over and casually sat beside her, blowing gently on her light brown hair. Opening her eyes—far too large for the plain little face—Syd sat up quickly. “Well, well, if it isn't the baggy Yank! Must say you have your bloody nerve—talking to me again!”

“Syd, skip the small talk. I'm in a king-size jam and need...”

“So, it's small talk I am for you! Well, you are in a ruddy jam with me ducky, you can be sure! Getting falling-down-drunk and leaving me in Villefranche to... God knows what, while off you went with that blonde beast! Then, you dare add insult to possible injury by not even seeing or calling me all day yesterday. I could have been killed in an accident, raped, or... anything could have happened to me—for all you cared!” The words broke as the thin lips began to tremble.

I took her hand—she wrenched it away. “Syd, honey, I was out cold all yesterday, never left my bed or...”

“I bet! Was the blonde pig that hot! Did you have a sweating time with her!”

“Syd, calm down and please listen to me. I'm in a rush and it's damn important I locate this blonde Amazon to...”

“Then you are having an affair with her! You and I... at least I deserve the common courtesy of being told..!”

“Syd, Syd, this isn't...” I stiffened as a policeman passed up on the Promenade behind us. He didn't seem to be looking for anybody in... or did they already have me spotted, were waiting to close in? The flic strolled on and I tried to relax. Smiling at Sydney, I was about to explain about the passport but didn't—she was a sweet girl and there wasn't any point involving her in my mess. Also: she was a sweet girl with a big mouth.

Nervously brushing her long hair with one hand, Syd asked, “What's wrong with you, Clay? I say, for a second you looked faint.”

“Syd, without any more melodramatics, tell me the blonde's name, where I met her.”

“You cheeky bastard, what kind of a line are you handing me? Next you'll be demanding I give you a leg-up on the blonde lump. Come off it!”

I glanced about impatiently. I was wasting time with Syd and time was something I suddenly had little of. Pushing her down on the mat with my left hand—as she started to struggle—I slipped my other hand beneath the top of her red suit, cupped a tiny breast. Turning a furious pink under her slight tan, Syd whispered harshly, “How dare you? Clayton Biner... how dare... We're on the beach!”

But the nipple hardened: the furious blushing wasn't all anger. Curiously enough, for a moment her very thin helplessness filled me with mild desire. I told her, “Shut up and listen. I didn't sleep with the blonde, nor do I want to. May sound like jazz, but you're the only girl I've wanted... for a long time. That's the truth and...”

“Clay, you mean that? Oh Clay, my God, I'm such a bag of bones, homely as sin.”

“Honey, remember the nude I tried—you said I'd glorified you? Well, that's how beautiful you look to me—I was really painting what I saw in my mind.” Actually, some of the hot air was true.

“Clay, Clay... this isn't some of your blooming big talk? I... Clay, do you want to go to my room?”

“Yeah.”

“Right now.”

“Yes.”

Syd tried to sit up but I held her down. I took my hand from under her suit and she kissed my wrist. “I want to, Syd, but I can't—now. Have you any money? Can you cash a check for me?”

“That's it! Sweet talk me to...!”

“Syd, I'm in a jam. Have you any money...?”

“Hear the man, and the way you were throwing francs around the other night like a rich brat! Didn't you pass your beloved American Express shrine on your way here, full of rich Yanks? Ditch me and then come begging for a handout like a bloke...”

Jumping to my feet, I picked up her beach bag. “Christ, have you any francs or not?”

“No! Ask your Noel, in that strip-tease joint where she labors!”

The Amazon finally had a name—Noel. I squatted beside Syd once more. “Honey, this isn't what you think,” I said, one of my hands exploring the towels and creams in her bag until I found the purse: she only had a few coins. “The... eh... jam I'm in—I either lost my travelers checks, or was robbed. That's why...”

“Then you did go to bed with Noel! She rolled you!”

“Oh for—I don't sleep with every babe I meet. The trite line sounded sillier than asking madame the blonde's name.

“You try your bloody best to!” She touched her hair again. “Come over to the pension. I've some money in my dresser.”

“Hon, I haven't time. Where does Noel work? Where did we first see her?”

“You dare ask me that? Leaving me alone in that filthy bar, in my cups, while you took off for Monte Carlo in her car. True, I only have a scooter but...” The tears came. She turned over and wept into the beach mat, small shoulders trembling.

I stroked the scrawny neck. “I only want to see if I dropped the checks... Where is this bar, honey?”

“Some place in... Villefranche,” she sobbed. “Syd, do you know an American named Robert Parks?”

She kept bawling into her beach mat. I patted the soft brown hair—unfortunately her best feature —which only seemed to increase the water works. Slapping her little behind, for no reason, I walked on down the beach, wondering how I could reach Villefranche.

I could walk, but that would take a few hours and an American walking the road might arouse some cop's curiosity. The train and bus stations would be watched... I glanced at the Mediterranee, my eyes attracted by the very blue and clean green patches of water. A young couple pedaled by, working their legs in lazy rhythm as they leaned back on the canvas seats and held hands, the pontooned little boat riding the gentle swell.

I could rent a pedalo— Villefranche was but around the next cape—perhaps two miles by sea. But I'd need at least five hundred francs for that—more to rent one of the clumsy double-ended boats in the harbor with their ancient engines.

The beach ends in the steep rocks beneath the Chateau—a tourist attraction park high above the breakwater and the harbor. Dressing, I hopped up on the Promenade, searching for police vans and motorcycle cops. A flashy new white Chevy—looking Cadillac—large among the compact European cars—whizzed by. Quickly walking down to the port and the first traffic light, I bought a French paper, sat on a bench. Holding the paper close to my face, as if terribly near-sighted, was a corny disguise. It took a long twenty minutes before what I wanted stopped for the red light, and my nerves were dancing by then.

A snappy, low-slung, black Mercedes-Benz roadster with U.S. ARMED FORCES IN GERMANY license plates—the horse-faced driver was young and slight—an officer type. Most important, he was alone. Stepping off the curb I asked, “Mac, any chance of a lift to Villefranche?”