He used Lyle’s computer to find out more about Marcel Duxín, and although he couldn’t read the language, what he found justified his self-imposed exile. Marcel had been involved in some kind of sex and public works kickback scandal in 1999. Newspaper photos showed him in a coat, tie, and handcuffs, being led from a building with the same smirk he’d turned on Jimmy. A trial, another scandal involving the judge and some high-administration officials (she’d said he “worked with the government”), his release. Another investigation in 2003, another arrest, same result. Something about Marcel Duxín, either what he did or who he knew, made him untouchable, like Al Capone. Jimmy couldn’t understand, but he really didn’t need to. As Lyle said, it was something very French.
Also very French, Jimmy thought, was how much more prominence Marcel’s scandals got in the newspaper than the disturbances, riots, and rising crime in the suburbs of Paris. Those things were relegated to back pages.
He found himself thinking about Sophie.
Lyle said, “Are you gonna go home?”
“No. Not yet.”
“What’s keeping you? That Sophie?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“The baby.”
Lyle struck his forehead with the heel of his hand.
Jimmy said, “It’s different, Lyle. I thought we were making Indian babies for French women who loved and wanted them, showed them off. I don’t trust this guy Marcel not to do something bad to that baby. Or to Sophie.”
Lyle was exasperated, said, “This isn’t your business. This isn’t even your country.”
“It’s my responsibility.”
“Idiot. It’s her baby. It’s their baby, I hate to tell you. You boned her, is all.”
“I keep having these dreams, Lyle.”
Lyle’s face was dark with anger, his eyes bulged. He wanted to say more, but turned, grabbed a jacket from the back of the couch, said, “I’m going out. I gotta get me some air.” Slammed the door before Jimmy could point out Lyle had taken Jimmy’s jacket by mistake.
Lyle wasn’t back in time to catch a ride to the Wild West Show with the cowboys. Jimmy expected to see him there, and looked for him all the way to showtime.
After the 9:30 performance, Jimmy was brushing down the horses in the corrals with a currycomb when three police officers came backstage. He saw them talking to Buffalo Bill, then one of the haughty Nez Perce. He saw the Nez Perce point at him, and lead the police his way.
“They’re looking for James Two Bulls,” the Nez Perce said, shaking his head. “They say they found your bloody jacket by the river with your Disney ID badge in the pocket. They think you got into something with some Arab guys. You want to set them straight?”
Jimmy thought, Marcel.
Lyle’s bloated body kissed the milk chocolate surface of the Seine River two days later. The police who escorted Jimmy to the morgue to identify his cousin didn’t speak English. The only thing Jimmy could understand was they thought Lyle had wandered into the wrong neighborhood.
Which is what he told Lyle’s mother when he called her.
Afterward, he called the airline to make a reservation home. Due to a general strike, there was no availability for a week, and even that was subject to last-minute change.
He told no one he was leaving. Or that he’d booked reservations for two.
Then he stole letterhead stationery and sent two tickets to Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show with backstage passes to Monsieur and Madame Duxín courtesy of the Walt Disney Company.
He tried not to look at them, tried not to stare. They sat in the front row in the dark, wearing straw cowboy hats with green bands that read Wyoming. Marcel seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, cheering when he was supposed to, calling for more and more wine from the waitresses. Sophie looked wary, and despite his face paint, Jimmy was sure she recognized him during the mystical ceremony act. The test would be if she turned to her husband and pointed him out. She didn’t.
Jimmy watched from the shadows of the stock entrance as Annie Oakley did her trick-shooting. The audience loved her. When it came time to select an audience member to fire at targets, she selected Marcel. Jimmy had arranged it with her. Spotlights found Marcel, and the rest of the crowd cheered him on. Buffalo Bill helped him into the sandy arena, joked in French about “not shooting any of the performers in his Wild West Show,” and Marcel hammed it up in the limelight, clowning with exaggerated gestures and pretending to reach into his jacket for his own gun instead of taking the rifle filled with blanks. He blew a kiss to Sophie, who responded with a frozen, cadaverous grin.
“Have you ever fired a gun before?” Annie asked over the speakers.
“Oui,” Marcel said, winking at her, “many times!”
“Ooooh,” Annie said, pretending to be impressed.
Marcel gave her a kiss on the cheek, and acted as if he were going to squeeze her buttocks. The crowd howled. Sophie looked mortified.
Marcel fired the blanks and the targets exploded by remote control. Annie pretended to be impressed, and escorted Marcel from the arena. He waved to the crowd like a soccer player who’d scored the winning goal.
Jimmy stepped back into the shadows as Annie led Marcel past him, thanking him in French for being such a good sport and saying he would receive a special marksmanship certificate with his name on it. She had him write out his name on a slip of paper, and told him to wait a moment while she delivered it to the calligrapher.
Jimmy took no chances, thinking Marcel could very well have a gun beneath his jacket, and hit the man as hard as he could in the back of the head with a Sioux war club. The sound it made was a hollow pock, and Marcel staggered forward, crashing against the wooden chute panels. Jimmy threw the club aside, opened the gate, and shoved Marcel inside and closed it. Just in time for Buffalo Bill’s announcement, in the arena, that “the scariest thing that can happen out on the plains is when the buffalo stampede!”
On cue, the arena lights went off. Fake lightning crackled. Children screamed. And forty-eight buffalo came thundering down the chute, their hooves shaking the earth beneath Jimmy’s feet. And as he did twice a night, he slammed back the steel chute gate to the arena to let them out. He thought he heard Marcel moan, “Merde” (shit), seconds before the herd stomped him into the sand. Blood flecked Jimmy’s shirt and hands.
Sophie came backstage before the buffalo stampede act was over, showing her pass to the man guarding the door, telling him, Jimmy assumed, that she was looking for her husband.
The first thing he noticed about her when she came into the area was the diamond necklace and diamond ring, a huge one, the biggest he’d ever seen up close.
“Jimmy,” she said, gesturing through the room. “Marcel?”
“He’s gone.”
She looked at him, puzzled.
Jimmy raised his hands so she could see the blood. “Gone,” he said bitterly. “Did you forget who I was?”
She gasped, fist to her mouth, her eyes wide. She staggered back.
“Come with me,” Jimmy said, leading her down the length of the chute, through the corrals, into the sultry night. She stumbled in her fine shoes in the muck of the corrals, so he kept a tight grip on her elbow so she wouldn’t fall.
“Which one is yours?” Jimmy asked as they entered the VIP parking area. She stopped at the gleaming white Citroën C6.
“He’s been spending some money on you, I see,” Jimmy said, opening the door for her and firmly helping her onto the passenger seat.