Poseidon's Ransom

Chapter Forty Nine

Rick Washington woke suddenly to the sound of a car’s backfire, ‘Jesus,’ he said out loud. He took a deep breath, ‘Get a grip.’

He put the weapons on the side table and looked at his watch. He was surprised to see it was after 8 o’clock and already dark. He was even more surprised that he’d slept for almost seven hours. He went to the window and the street, so quiet earlier in the day, was beginning to liven-up. Further down the road several illuminated signs flashed, beckoning punters to the bars, strip-joints and massage parlours. Paris, don’t ya just love it, he thought.

After getting dressed, he checked the wardrobe again, then picked up the revolver and slipped it carefully into the back of his waistband. He closed the blade of the knife, and dropped it into his back pocket. He looked at himself in the mirror, ran his fingers through his hair, and said out loud, ‘Rock-n-Roll.’

He wandered around the Pigale district for a couple of hours, enjoying the sights and soaking up the atmosphere of this notorious area of elegant Paris. He stopped now and then for a drink at a bar or bistro, frequently declining, for the moment, the advances of the many ladies and boys of the night. He ate in a half decent Chinese restaurant and by eleven-thirty was ready to head over to Les Plumes, a burlesque nightclub, owned by an old acquaintance.

The taxi dropped him in front the gaudy entrance and, as he paid the fare, the driver gave a knowing wink and said, ‘A good night for you, I think, monsieur.’

As Washington turned away, he said quietly, ‘Fuck off,’ then walked up the brightly illuminated steps and into Les Plumes.

The huge black man on the door bid him, ‘Bonsoir, monsieur,’ then gestured to the booth at the side of the hallway. The young woman at the desk smiled, and said, ‘Trente euro, s’il vous plaît.’

Washington handed her the thirty euros and took the small ticket, which said, in French, English, and Russian, First Drink Free.

The midnight show was just starting as he made his way to the bar. He managed to get a stool at the end of the long counter and handed the barmaid his ticket. ‘Beer, please.’

She returned with a small bottle of Heineken and placed it in front of him.

‘Thanks. Is Madame Sofie in yet?’

The girl looked suspicious. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘Tell her it’s the American.’

The girl looked him up and down for a second, then picked up a phone on the back counter. After the call, she turned away and carried on serving the customers.

Upstairs in her office, Madame Sofie studied the CCTV camera screen, then picked up the phone. A few minutes later another equally large black man came up to Washington and said, ‘This way, monsieur.’

Rick took a swig from the bottle, then followed the man across the busy club and through a door marked PRIVEE. At the top of the stairs was a small landing with a red velvet chaise.

‘Turn around,’ said the big man.

After confiscating Rick’s gun and knife the man said, ‘Have a seat, monsieur,’ then knocked on the door.

‘Entrez.’

The man entered and closed the door behind him. A few seconds later the door opened again. ‘Come in, monsieur.’

The person behind the desk must have weighed almost two hundred pounds and was one of the most unconvincing transvestites anyone was likely to see. Sitting on the desk was a beautiful Chinese girl. The big ‘woman’ patted her on the thigh and the girl leaned down and planted a lingering kiss on Madame Sofie’s bright red lips. Washington smiled as the oriental and the black guy left. His gun and knife were in front of the woman.

As the door closed, he said, ‘How ya doin, Charlie?’

In a deep Louisiana drawl, the woman said, ‘The name’s, Sofie. And who the hell are you?’

‘Don’t you recognise me, Charlie… Sofie?’

‘Should I?’

‘It’s Greg. Greg Stoneham.’

‘I don’t know who you are sugar, but you ain’t Greg Stoneham. You look nothing like him, which would still be difficult if you did, considering he died in Panama.’

Washington took a step forward and, in a single motion, the woman picked up the revolver cocked the hammer and pointed it at his chest. ‘Easy now, sugar.’

Washington stopped and raised his left hand, palm open. ‘Remember this, Sofie?’

She put on a pair of ornate spectacles, then waved him forward with her free hand. The revolver always pointed at his chest. He placed his hand flat on the desk, palm up. She adjusted the desk-lamp. With the gun still pointing at him, she looked at the hand. Then, with a long ruby-red nail, traced the L-shaped scar in the centre of his palm. She looked him in the eyes and said, ‘Greg?’

He smiled. ‘In the flesh.’

She lowered the gun and let the southern drawl ooze out, ‘Why, Greg honey, you’ve had some work done.’