Murder in Montmartre

Tuesday Evening

LUCIEN BOWED TO THE applause of the small crowd. He’d seen Félix deep in conversation with a white-haired man. No Marie-Dominique. He knew she wouldn’t come, but the curve of her tan back, the green flecks in her eyes, invaded his thoughts.

Never get between the fingernail and the flesh, his grand-mère would say when she wanted him to mind his own business. Marie-Dominique had indicated loud and clear that he was an inconvenience in her life.

He fanned himself with a program in the close air, picked up his cetera and case. The next act was a magician who grinned as he set a black velvet box on the stage.

“Marvelous!” Félix said, coming up and clapping him on the back. “You capture a Mediterranean spirit with this Euro-hop rhythm; I couldn’t stop tapping my feet. Neither could Monsieur Kouros.”

Kouros was the short white-haired man wearing thick black-framed glasses. He resembled the Greek millionaire Ari Onassis. Kouros, the head of SOUNDWERX. A giant in the recording industry, despite his unassuming exterior. He was rumored to be hands-on all the way.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur Kouros, I’m honored to meet you.”

“We want an exclusive young man,” Kouros said. “Your music defies labels. Everyone, even jazz aficionados, will love it. Montreux, San Marino—I’ll book you in all the music festivals, put you on the circuit.”

SOUNDWERX never followed trends, it created them. Kouros discovered talent and made careers.

“How generous. Thank you, Monsieur.”

“People want this. Ageless yet new, hip and still classical. Your music builds on traditions but it goes beyond borders.”

All he knew was that when he picked up the cetera, harmonized with his recorded tracks, and found the right hip-hop beat, it poured out of him, he couldn’t stop. His fingers found the truth on the strings.

“You’ll get him studio time tomorrow, Félix? Work with the tracks he has, add some new ones?”

Félix beamed. “As soon as we take care of the contract, eh, Lucien? Just your signature and then a CD as soon as we can press it, oui, Monsieur Kouros?”

Félix put his arm around Lucien, squeezed him, as if to say, it’s a done deal. Lucien wished he hadn’t spent all last night thinking of this man’s wife.

“Everyone’s political these days,” Kouros said. His smile was at odds with the steely glint in his eyes. Or was that the glare on his glasses? “It gives an edge to the lyrics, but I must be sure you have no connections with these Separatist extremist groups, eh? These bombings. Terrible.”

Lucien’s knuckles, gripping his cetera, whitened. “My life’s music, Monsieur Kouros.”

“Just needed to clarify, young man.” He reached for Lucien’s other hand, shook it with a strong grip, and folded it in both of his. “This is the way I seal a contract.” He pumped Lucien’s hand harder. “Old style. It works for me.”

“We’ll just sign the contracts at my office,” Felix said.

“It’s already done as far as I’m concerned. Send it to my administrator,” Kouros told him before barreling through the crowd behind the red plush theatre seats with surprising agility. They followed as he rushed outside and turned. “A true pleasure to hear you. Excuse me, other commitments.” He climbed into his limo.

Standing on the wet street, feeling as if he’d been swept up in a whirlwind, Lucien hugged Félix. He wanted to jump in the air and kiss the first woman he saw. He looked around for a likely candidate.

“Félix, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Lucien.” Félix’s tone had changed. “We did background checks, you know; it’s standard procedure these days.”

Lucien froze.

“For everyone.” Félix spread his arms in a what-can-you-do gesture. “We even run them on the cleaning staff. Go figure.”

Had he found out about his involvement with Marie-Dominique?

“This Armata Corsa group.”

“I’m not a Separatist, Félix,” Lucien interrupted. If anything, he was a lover, not a fighter. “Politics isn’t my interest.”

“Then how do you explain your membership?”

Had Marie-Dominique told him, after all? Or was it in some police file? He had to allay Félix’s suspicions.

“The truth? Years ago, in drunken camaraderie with my friends, I joined. We went to one meeting. Total.”

Félix shifted; his elongated shadow in the light of the tall green metal lampadaire stretched across the street.

“Marie-Dominique said you had no papers,” Félix said. “Why didn’t you tell me? And then you disappeared from my house when the police came.”

“I have a carte d’identité, but I forgot it. I wanted to explain but with the flics . . . you know how they treat Corsicans, Félix.” He took a deep breath. “Every time Separatists make the headlines, the flics beef up security and round up types like me on the street to make themselves look efficient.” He paused; Félix lived in another stratosphere. Could he have any idea? “This has nothing to do with me. The bombings, the vendetta, all that violence, that’s why I left Corsica.”

Part of the reason. The other part being his picture, among others, plastered on every telephone pole and peeling stucco café wall on the island.

Félix’s brow furrowed. “A detective asked about you.”

Lucien controlled a shudder. The flics outside Félix’s gate and now a detective. The same one snooping at the vegetable shop next door to Strago?

“That makes no sense.”

“Innocent people don’t run away.”

“You lead a protected life, Félix,” Lucien said.

Félix shook his head, put his arm around Lucien’s shoulders, and they walked down the steep street. “Not always, Lucien. I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, you know that saying, eh?”

Illegitimate.

“We lived in one room. Everything I have now, I worked for.”

“My songs are all I have,” Lucien said. “You have my word, trust me.”

In Félix’s study he signed the contract, signed away his rights to his songs, and prayed he’d done the right thing. The Corsican saying, “Bad things never happen alone,” echoed in his mind. Down the road of life, he’d pay for it. One always paid.

He peered outside Félix’s gate. No flics. At least he had the contract. Halfway up the dark stairs to Place des Abbesses he heard a snatch of song, low and echoing off the dripping stone walls. He stopped. Listened. A woman’s voice from somewhere in a song about the fragrant maquis smells drifting across a baby’s cradle.