23 Gaultier

They had landed in Memphis the night before and immediately drove south in four shiny black SUVs to Tunica, billboards along the cotton fields inviting them to Sam's Town, the Horseshoe, and the Fitz. Welcome to the Gateway to the Blues. All You Can Eat Crab Legs.$10,000 slot tournament. Weekly Chevy Truck Giveaway.Snoop Dogg and The Charlie Daniels Band. If Gaultier wasn't convinced he was on the last leg of his final voyage, he might've found the trip amusing.

"I thought we were going to Memphis?"

"They know me at this casino," Anatoliy Zub said. "I go to Vegas every Christmas. Spend lots and lots of money and get the points. So many whores and poker games. And the Charlie Daniels this weekend. How could I pass up such a trip?"

"Are you joking with me?"

"You don't know Charlie Daniels?" he said. "You don't know the Urban Cowboy? That ass of Debra Winger in her blue jeans. So fantastic. ‘The Devil Who Goes Down to Georgia.' He plays the fiddle. Very good. Like the devil himself gave him this. Like Faust. You understand?"

"I'm tired, Anatoliy," Gaultier said. "I haven't showered or changed my clothes in two days and the meal we had in Newark was horrible. Even by American standards."

"Don't worry," Zub said, punching him in the arm. The SUV bucking up and down over potholes in the highway. "Don't worry. We have your luggage and all your Italian suits, black silk underwear, and so many watches. Why so many watches, Gaultier?"

"Why am I here?" he said.

"I need you as the, how you say, go-between."

"Go-between."

"See," Zub said, punching him in the arm again. This time even harder. "You understand. You must make everything clear to your friend Jack Dumas. Collinson left him in Istanbul alone to die. Standing there with his cock and balls in his hand. Like a goat tethered to the tree. A sacrifice."

"Jack Dumas is not my friend," Gaultier said. "The last time I saw him, he dangled me over the Nile by my feet."

"Ha ha," Zub said. "You really don't know Charlie Daniels? Come on. He is real country western music. He sings like my way of living or leave this long-haired country boy alone. Ha ha. You know it. I know you do."

The headlights cut through the dirt swirling across the road and endless flat land. It reminded Gaultier of taking the high-speed train across the farmland of Provence, but instead of rolling hills of lavender, it was flat dirt and cotton. He could see the flashing neon of a city far in the distance.

"You brought me all this way to kill me."

"Please, please," Zub said. "You are Gaultier. The great negotiator. You brought Peter Collinson to me. And now I bring you to Peter Collinson. I know you both will make things right. I will be compensated for everything. Perhaps more. And maybe we play some blackjack, meet some women, and see the Charlie Daniels. You will love him. He's legend."

"I'll ask again," Gaultier said. "When we make things right, are you going to kill me?"

Anatoliy Zub didn't answer and stared out the window toward the bright flashing lights of the casino town. An entire city rising from the cotton fields. Gaultier twisted and straightened his skull cuff links. "People say those are made of human bones," Zub said.

"Is that what they say?"

"Is it true?"

"They were made for my father," Gaultier said. "Crafted of ivory in Botswana. Memento mori."

"You and me," Zub said. "We are the same. We sell death. Once we make things right with Dumas and Collinson, we put all this in the past. Yes, me and you finally have that drink, Monsieur Gaultier. Won't that be nice? Do you like the tequila?"

"I would rather drink gasoline."

The four SUVs wheeled in front of the neon-lit portico to the Sam's Town casino hotel, door popping open, hatches rising. All of Zub's muscle and luggage being deployed with a sharp, efficient military energy. The valets barely had time to hold open the doors for the Russian bears, who pushed them aside and headed into the lobby.

Gaultier looked inside the glass doors where Jack Dumas stood with four of Zub's guards, pulling luggage with his hooked hand from a wheeled rack. He hefted up one of Gaultier's Louis Vuitton leather bags—Gaultier held his breath, waiting for the hook to slice right through the delicate leather—and tossed it over his shoulder.

"We don't need him," Gaultier said. "He is a detestable human."

"But he knows things we don't," Zub said.

"Like what?"

"He knows why Collinson would be so foolish as to double-cross Anatoliy Zub," he said. "This treasure he has brought to his secret home must be incredible."

"I have absolutely no idea what it is."

"You know what I think?" Zub asked.

Gaultier ran his hands over his wrinkled pants. He looked at Zub and shook his head.

"It is a bomb," he said. "Boom! I think Collinson has brought his war home."

"Then why would you care?"

"Maybe I like to be the good guy," he said. "Save many lives."

Gaultier shook his head. "You would sell it."

"Yes, of course," Zub said, laughing, slapping him hard on the back. "I sell the shit out of whatever it is."

When Gaultier got to his room on the fourth floor, the Huck Finn Suite as promised, he found every piece of his Louis Vuitton set arranged by the door. He grabbed the leather duffel bag and began to pull out socks and underwear, reaching deep inside for the cell he'd found at Collinson's flat. Before he'd been propositioned/abducted by Zub and his thugs, he'd charged the phone at his hotel.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the curtains drawn back on a plate glass window looking deep into the cotton fields, past more casino lights, and onward to what must've been the Mississippi River snaking down from the north. He'd read about it in books, but Gaultier had never seen it. The muddy water shone nearly white in the moonlight and he was taken by the entire scene. A simple man born in the south of France and now deep in America like Champlain or Cartier, out to seek his fortune... He pushed the power button on the cell.

The phone immediately started to ring and buzz in his hands. He answered.

"Is this Peter?"

"Yes."

"Peter, what the fuck did you do with my mother?" a woman said. "I know all about Omar's and this pile of shit coming in. I've gone to the police. I told them everything."

"You told them everything?" Gaultier said. "I hope not. Perhaps you and I can conduct some business."

"Why would I trust you?"

Gaultier took a breath. "Because I'm not Peter Collinson," he said. "Even Peter Collinson is not Peter Collinson, my dear woman. I'm afraid your mother, whoever she is, might be dead. My name is Gaultier, a fixer of sorts. And you have the most lovely voice."

"Fuck you."

"Ah," he said. "So young and full of life. We must meet. You tell me about this Omar and his pile of shit and I'll tell you how you might find Peter Collinson and your mother. N'est-ce pas?"

The door to the suite rattled open and Jack Dumas stumbled in. Gaultier shut off the phone and slipped it back in the leather bag. Dumas slapped Gaultier on the knee before eyeing a sofa by the large window. "Don't get your fucking panties in a twist, Frenchie," he said. "I'm here to watch you. Not cuddle with you."

Dumas pulled out a SIG Sauer from his belt and made a circular motion with the barrel. "But go head and get into your jammies," he said. "Daddy's got some serious work to do tomorrow. I can't wait to see fucking Peter's face when I walk into his goddamn kitchen."