Noel watched them with suspicious eyes, while Parks let out a shrill, childish giggle.
CHAPTER 4
The next couple of hours were one crazy blur of myriad and patient explanations on our part to the cops: to some pompous police sergeant; once more over lightly to higher police brass; then to a doctor. I doubted if anybody believed our story.
Finally we were taken downstairs, through the morbid crowd any action attracts, to a police station. Noel and Parks went from there in an ambulance while I told our tale again. About this time a clean-cut type with the standard crewcut grey hair, appeared. He was from the U.S. Consulate— I think. I had to tell him our story and then for a short time I was alone. I dozed off on a bench only to be shaken awake by a huffy French police bigwig announcing I could get the clean clothes I'd requested.
I couldn't recall requesting anything, but rode back to my hotel in what passed for a French squad car—a panel truck with sing-song horn working as a siren. The two burly cops at my side made madame upset, but on the way back to the station house I felt slightly better in my 'other' suit—another pair of worn slacks and a cleaner sport shirt. Passing the American Express on the Promenade, I asked my beefy guards if I could stop—still wanted to cash my damn checks.
They said okay, to my surprise, and marching in we made a scene for the tourists to write about on their postal cards. Explaining why the checks were damp, at long last I cashed the check, in fact cashed all I had. I also picked up my mail—a New York gallery had sold one of my paintings, enclosed a check for $156. Although the most important gallery I'd ever sold, the good news didn't start any bells of joy ringing in my weary dome.
At the police station a team of French reporters and photographers asked hundreds of questions, most of their French too fast for me. Noel was around and we posed for pictures. Robert Parks came in. Dressed and shaved he didn't look too bad, although his eyes had that way-out, watery, expression again. Getting me aside, he said, “Biner, I have to ask one last favor. I understand you've been padded down here in Nice for many months —do you know any of the American colony cats here?”
“After a fashion. Why?”
“I've managed to get two seats on the New York plane, departing Nice at ten p.m. From the Big Apple a chartered plane will fly me directly to Uncle Sam's drug hospital in Lexington, Kentucky. Since the bastards forced such a heavy habit on me, around two a.m. I'll need a shot. I've been able to buy some ersatz junk—Pethidine—which may carry me through. However, I must have somebody with me in case I flip. Hiring a French male nurse means visa red-tape, perhaps another day, and I want to be in ole Kentuck by tomorrow, shedding my monkey. I...”
“What happened to Noel?”
“Shook her completely off the hook. Used my letter of credit to give her the loot I promised. The chick is flying home to Corsica right this second. Really, a remarkable babe, in her way—nice to hit on, too. Biner, the point is this: Do you know any American male who might want to return to the States a few weeks early—with me, tonight? I'll gladly pay his fare, make it worth his...”
“I'll go.”
Parks looked stunned. “Oh man, no! You've done too much. I've put you through the wringer, can't possibly repay for what you've done...”
“Oh Parks, shut up—I'm not thinking of you. I want to go home.” The second I uttered those last five words, the mental fog I'd been drifting in for weeks, lifted. Feeling positively relaxed, I realized what had been wrong with me—when I could call a lovely country like France moth-eaten, I'd long had it. It simply was time I went home.
“You make me sound like a drag. I've already caused you...”
“I'm going. That's settled. Ill meet you at the airport—nine-thirty p.m.”
“I'll pay for your time, Biner.”
Shaking my head, I pulled out the gallery check. “You're talking to a selling artist, Parks. Just pay my fare—I'll cash in my open boat ticket in the States.”
His blank eyes took on a slightly puzzled look. Biner... Mister Biner, are you sure you want to go?”
“Positive.”
“Lord, you're the real big brother.”
“Balls. I'm doing it for... me.”
When I was left alone again for another few minutes, feeling quite cheerful—sort of like I'd finally got from under—the All-American clean-cut came in, scowling a bit. He told me, “Biner, quite rightly the French take a rather dim view of your striking one of their police officers. They insist that if you hadn't bolted the cambio shop, they would have found Parks without all the shooting. I doubt it, and I tried to explain the... eh... tense circumstances under which you took a poke at the officer. However... they've given you forty-eight hours in which to leave the country. I'm sorry. Go to Italy, across the border, stay in Vintimille. I shall try my best to... What are you grinning about? This is hardly a joking matter.”
Suddenly I was laughing, real solid old-fashioned laughter... first time I'd laughed this way in years. When I was able to talk, I said, “Thanks for giving it the old try, but tell the French they're about forty hours late—I'm flying back with Parks tonight.”
“You understand the French only have authority to force you to leave here, you don't have to return to the States?”
I merely nodded because he seemed so upset. There was no way I could make him know how much I had to go back to the States, to that nameless and formless place called... home. I asked, “Am I free to leave now? I've things to do in the few hours I've left in Nice.”
“You can leave any time. I have my car downstairs, can I drive you to your hotel?”
“Sure can,” I said, giving him Sydney's address.
The castle had a high white tower... white turrets... snow white, horse-white. Once read up on castles... call this the Teutonic type... Only real castle I ever saw... the monstrosity at Avignon. The old papal palace. Over-sweet nougat candy they sell in Avignon.
The white tower was beautiful in the last rays of the sun. On one side of the castle a woman sat on a beach chair, reading a newspaper. On the other side, a little boy...
The whimpering barks in my ear... noise of sea gulls? I studied Lu's face... the tense, pasty coloring. Staring hard at the white top of the castle as she tried to call out... the barking sounds... sand clinging to her lips... sand in her throat.
Was she calling for her beloved 'boy?' Or...for... help? Couldn't have help... now. Not with the two stiffs... behind us. Never... never... never... explain them to the police.
I told Lu to shut up, looked at the marvelous white castle. Odd... no blood down there. Tide must be only coming in now... Nuts to time and tide... I couldn't wait for... them.