25 Gaultier

Gaultier longed for the warm bed of Valerie or even his faithful wife instead of being dispensed on an errand for Le Boucher, Anatoliy Zub. After two days of waiting, Zub was most certainly positive that Jack Dumas was dead. Perhaps in the afterlife, Dumas had been reunited with his long-lost arm and was enjoying all the bloody steak he could eat. Living his own personal Valhalla.

Gaultier handed the keys of the car Zub had provided to a valet at the Peabody Hotel. He was happy to be back in a suitable wardrobe, plaid wool suit overlaid with a camel cashmere topcoat, after sitting around in his casino suite watching American television. Two nights in a row of Dancing with the Stars was enough to make him consider jumping from the window of his suite. Zub had taken away Gaultier's personal phone—but not Collinson's burner—and forbidden him from making any calls not in Zub's presence. "Anatoliy," Gaultier had said, "if you want me to reason with Peter Collinson, it must be alone and on my own terms. If not, why did you bring me to this horrible place that smells like fried fish and dirt?"

Earlier that morning, Zub was dressed as John Wayne, or perhaps Clint Eastwood, at the Sam's Town buffet bar (never in his life had he seen so much fried meat!). He tilted back his black Stetson and nodded. "I give you my word," he said. "Without his word, man is no better than animal. Ha. You know that line, yes? Sam Peckinpah in Wild Bunch. You French do love your cinema so. Peckinpah must be a god in Paris. A man without his word is animal!"

Gaultier breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped into the marble expanse of the Peabody's lobby, moving past small groupings of sofas and oversize chairs in dim light, a man in a tuxedo playing "As Time Goes By," at the piano. Play it once, Sam. For old times' sake.

Gaultier found a comfortable and empty sofa and ordered a Negroni from the waiter. A simple cocktail that even the most incompetent bartender could make. He was an hour early, hoping to spot any of Collinson's people before the man himself arrived. Zub had offered one of his guns, but Gaultier declined. He'd known Peter Collinson for years, and while he didn't trust him, he didn't expect Peter to shoot him in the lobby of Memphis's finest hotel.

The waiter returned with his Negroni and Gaultier took to watching the four corners of the lobby. It was early, a weekday, and besides a bustle of activity by the concierge, most of the action took place by the hotel's elevators and in and out of the gift shop. A big marble fountain, bustling with live ducks, kept everyone coming and going to take their photo. Many were families with small children dressed in embroidered sweaters and well-coiffed women in long cashmere frocks.

Gaultier set down his drink, looking up to find Collinson standing directly in front of him. Collinson removed a damp Burberry jacket and set it on a nearby chair.

"You don't look surprised," Collinson said.

"You said you would be here, my friend," Gaultier said. "And you are most often good at your word."

"Except now," Collinson said, crossing his legs. "This bullshit with Anatoliy?"

"Anatoliy isn't a man who takes offense lightly," he said. "You know this as well as anyone. Whatever game you are playing? The three-card monte, perhaps? This has caused me so many headaches, Peter. I have a life. I have my own work and no intention of being here, in your home, and speaking with you about a promise I made months ago with Zub. I offered your guarantees in my name."

Collinson had on a black turtleneck and gray wool pants. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin looked a bit craggy, even with his disheveled, boyish blond hair. When Collinson crossed his legs, Gaultier had noticed the heel on his boot must be three inches tall. Such a vain man, Peter Collinson. All the guns and insecurities of Napoleon.

The waiter appeared, and Collinson sent him away for a cup of coffee.

"Tell Anatoliy he'll get what he's owed," Collinson said. "I made a mistake."

Gaultier smiled and leaned back into the sofa. "And Jack Dumas?"

Collinson's open and boyish face dropped and turned dark. "Dumas should've never come into my house."

"Ha," Gaultier said. "Don't worry. I have no love for a man like Jack Dumas, even with his one arm and stories of battle in the Legion. He was just a pig. But you, Peter? You were always a man of honor. I will go right to the matter. Anatoliy wants to know why you traded your soul in Istanbul. He doesn't want it all, but he feels, yes, yes, rightly so, that you gave him pieces of junk to buy time with his money."

"Anatoliy has no idea what this is."

"Guns, ammo, power, and destruction?" Gaultier said. "No?"

"No," he said. "Why did he come here, anyway? So he can pack up his freak show of goons and fly all over the world to prove he can. I'll wire the bastard his damn money next week and all this crap will be forgotten."

"He said you left your man Jack Dumas to die," he said. "He said in his Anatoliy voice, like a tethered goat."

Collinson gave him a quick glance and then looked away.

The waitress brought along the coffee and Gaultier watched as Collinson added a lot of cream and sugar to the mix. The piano player began "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Yes, this is where Gaultier found himself this morning, on the other side of the rainbow and wanting very much to return to Paris. Zub had offered him a cut of this deal. A deal for something that may or may not have existed. Even this girl he had spoken with didn't know what her mother and Peter were working on. She said her mother was a broker of antiquities, which did seem interesting to Gaultier.

"Zub sells weapons to the Taliban."

"Yes," Gaultier said. "Of course."

"His guns kill American soldiers," Collinson said. "I can't be a part of that."

"Such a patriot, Peter," he said. "The weapons were going to Africa. To Djibouti to blow up pirates."

"That was a lie," Collinson said. "When I found out about his deal with the Taliban, I stuck him with some Chinese junk I picked up in Shanghai. Okay? Are we done here? Tell Anatoliy that if he wants his money, he'll have to leave Memphis."

"He says you have twenty-four hours," Gaultier said. "And then he's coming for you."

"He can try," Collinson said. "He might be surprised he's outmanned and outgunned here."

Oh, how this whole drama interested Gaultier. Peter Collinson, at best a bit player in the arms trade, was trying to make demands of Anatoliy Zub. He wondered what had driven him to such delusions. The young woman he had talked to didn't know what was in Pandora's box but had overheard her mother use a figure of sixty-five million American dollars. That would pay for more than Anatoliy's jet fuel and running tab at Sam's Town. But more than that, one did not insult Anatoliy Zub, or it would be High Noon in the Delta. The thought made Gaultier smile.

"This isn't funny," Collinson said. "He sent my former partner into my home to kill me."

"He wasn't going to kill you," Gaultier said. "He wanted to talk to you."

"When Anatoliy Zub sends someone, it's not for talk."

"And what are we doing here?" Gaultier said. "This is kind and civilized, young Peter. You and I have been friends for these last few years. I like you. That's why I have helped you in so many unfamiliar waters. But this is far too deep for you. Give Zub his gold and send him on his way. You will live another day. Nothing is worth your life."

"And that's it?" Collinson said, over the edge of his coffee mug. "That's the deal Anatoliy has offered?"

Gaultier gave his elegant Gallic shrug. He smiled and motioned to the waitress for another Negroni. It wasn't bad. The cocktails at the casino were absolutely terrible.

"Peter, Peter," Gaultier said, noticing a lovely woman in a short black dress walk by the fountain and take a photo of the ducks. "You find yourself in a corner. As your friend, perhaps even mentor, I advise you to cut Anatoliy into the deal. Perhaps apologize for the insult. Get rid of this thing quickly and send Anatoliy on his way. I understand you have a family?"

Collinson sank his head into his hands and brushed back his hair. He took in a long breath and looked directly at Gaultier and nodded.

"Zub doesn't care," Gaultier said. "He would think nothing of killing them."

Collinson didn't look away. The waiter set down Gaultier's second drink.

"I need some time," Collinson said. "I'm not selling stereo speakers in a parking lot."

"And what exactly does that mean?"

"I have to make arrangements," he said. "These items must be inspected and verified and then things will move quick."

Gaultier picked up the glass, wiping off the condensation around the rim, and mixed the ice with a plastic stick topped with a small duck. "You know what I believe?" Gaultier asked.

"What's that?"

"I think you've misplaced your little prize," Gaultier said. "And maybe in your rage, you killed a woman who was helping you find it."

Collinson's left eye twitched. Just a bit, but Gaultier knew what the girl had told him was absolutely true. Gaultier recrossed his legs and threw up his hands as he waited for a reply.

"Fuck you, Gaultier," Peter said. "You're talking out your ass."

"Is your life worth the bet?"

The arrogant little American stood up, tossed on his damp coat, and disappeared around the corner of the gift shop. So many wooden ducks, duck T-shirts, and glass duck ornaments in the display behind the glass. Gaultier watched him go, shrugged, and sipped his drink.

He reached for his new phone he'd purchased that morning and dialed the young woman's number. After three rings, she picked up.

"Can we finally meet, my dear?" Gaultier asked. "In person."

"Why in person?" she said. "This works fine by me."

"So we might discuss how to deal with this impenetrable rascal who murdered your mother," he said.

"Her name was Joanna Grayson," she said. "And you can call me Tippi."