Maintenon: The Dead Man's Touch, Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #11. Chapter Twenty-Eight. Louis Shalako.

Sneaking out at night...

Louis Shalako

In keeping with a lifelong habit, Maintenon’s doctor’s appointment was the first of the day.

He simply wouldn’t accept any other time slot. He’d put the receptionist through hell if he had to, but there wasn’t any other way they were going to get him in there; and that was just the truth. It was a question of how much patience one had, and how one chose to allocate it.

While he might have had to wait a little longer, just to get the spot, there was generally no waiting as the doctor hadn’t had time yet to get behind—and doctors got behind very, very quickly as it would seem. A waiting room with twenty people, including a squalling baby or two, with an interminable time span, to sit there with one’s thumb up one’s ass, doing nothing except not smoking, carefully avoiding conversation for the most part, was not his cup of tea. His greatest fear there, was that someone would recognize him. And when they did recognize him, they would invariably proclaim it to the world. Fame was a real pain in the ass sometimes.

His pulse and respiration were good.

And—

More than anything, he wanted to get his three-minute examination and to get the hell out of there and get back to work.

One more day, and then it would be the weekend again…the doctor released the pressure, and the blood in his arm began to flow again.

“Well, for an older man who smokes, drinks, eats all the wrong foods, has a stressful job and lives a somewhat sedentary lifestyle, your blood pressure seems pretty good.”

“That’s because I learned how to cheat the test a long time ago…” And it was true.

It was just a kind of discipline, mostly a breathing exercise. All you had to do was to relax. Fuck, it was like the doctor didn’t even know that. A little bit of zen, as it were. It was a question of clearing the mind, and total relaxation, insofar as that was possible while still up and walking around…and maybe not quite dead yet.

“Yes, you did, didn’t you.” There wasn’t even a smile to go along with that one—

“I can only wish all my patients were that smart.”

Next, Gilles had to stand on the scales, taking off the shoes and the jacket, but thankfully still dressed…he was down about a kilo and a half since his visit six months ago. Naturally his family doctor knew all about that last case down in Bagneres de Luchon.

The one where’d gotten that bang on the head.

Then the doctor’s assistant, a middle-aged woman named Rita, had to measure him, even though they’d done it a hundred times before and presumably knew exactly how tall he should be.

Finally it was done, and the doctor sat down to write up his notes as Gilles sat to pull on the shoes. Pen poised over yet another form, he looked up.

“So, how have you been feeling.”

“Fine, doctor. I feel fine.”

“Have you been having any headaches? Have you had any dizzy spells, fainting, or nausea?”

“Er—”

“Er, what? You’ll have to be a little more specific than that, Gilles.” The doctor sighed, the attitude not entirely unfamiliar to him. “Have you had any sense of disorientation, a momentary confusion, how does your memory seem? In many cases, it all comes back to you, but in some cases, by no means the majority, there will be permanent gaps. Especially, ah, right around the time of the incident.”

“I had a headache…I don’t know, maybe about a week ago.”

“And that’s it? What did you do?”

“I took a couple of aspirin and it went away.”

“Very well.” The doctor scribbled away for a moment. “Here. Take this to the lab.”

“What now?”

“Blood sample, urine sample, stool sample—”

“Which lab?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t you try the crime lab?”

“Argh.”

“Now, now, Gilles.”

“Damned bloodsuckers—”

"That's nothing. Just wait until you see my bill."

“That’s nothing, Gilles. Just wait until you see my bill.” He handed over the offending paper. “The name and address is right at the top there.”

Huh.

“Gilles.”

“Yes?”

“A doctor is a professional. Basically, what that means is, we don’t say shit, piss, fuck or damn…”

“Oh, nice.”

The doctor nodded.

“…so, now I want you to do me a favour and get the fuck out of here, Gilles…I have some genuinely sick people to see and you’re just taking up space…” He impaled him with a look. “Incidentally, Gilles, regular masturbation is a real help in keeping that nasty old prostate gland of yours under control…”

Ha.

“That’s all right, Doctor. I guess I can take a hint.”

Holy.

Stepping out into the bright light of day, he stood there blinking, looking up and down the street.

All he had to do now was to find Édouard.

***

Compared to Faubert and Fritz, Monsieur Maissen, Alain Garreau looked positively devastated after a night in the cells. Scared shitless, in other words.

“Good morning, Alain.”

The kid hadn’t even called a lawyer.

“I’m terribly sorry about the other day, Alain. You really shouldn’t have run.” Pelletier had caught up to him, running alongside, yelling at the kid to stop.

In the end, he’d thrown the best tackle of his life so far, and they both had the abrasions and the contusions to prove it, what with falling headlong onto some pretty hard pavement. Gilles had pulled up, and he’d cuffed the kid and put him in the back. It was only then, that he had begun to wonder.

The young man had no money. He’d never spoken to a lawyer in his life, didn’t know who to call, and he’d never been in trouble before—and he wasn’t in all that much trouble now. He was just scared, for unknown reasons. As for Édouard, he had a few questions.

“So, why’d you run, anyways?”

“Don’t you have any fucking problems of your own—”

The tone was bitter indeed.

“I suppose I have a few problems, everybody does, Alain.”

“I’m not going home.”

“Look, Alain. Your parents are still responsible for you, right up until the age of majority, twenty-one years of age…” He waited. “I’d really like to be your friend, if you would only just let me…”

Alain put his head down on the desk and cried.

***

“I have to be honest, Gilles.” Pelletier was stricken, there was no other good word for it. “But that one, that one was a real punch in the guts.”

“I understand.” Gilles had rarely run into this kind of revelation, in what would appear to be pure coincidence…and sometimes truth was stranger than fiction.

The trouble with fiction, was that it had to make sense—otherwise the editor would send it back to you, at least that was how Gilles saw it.

“Yes. So, the kid, Alain, says he’s been sneaking out, or claiming to have worked a bit late in the stockroom. He's been claiming to the parents, he had to work when he was basically just going out. And he’s been meeting this girl, whom he admits is a bit underage, but then they both are. They were meeting in a park a couple of kilometres from her place, and it’s a pretty long ride on the bus or the Metro for him.”

“Uh, huh.” Sometimes it was all one could do, just to listen.

“He also admits to skipping out of school, pretty regularly. It seems he finds school boring, and so he went downtown to a park where all the casual labourers hang out, hoping to find almost any kind of work—usually unskilled, back-breaking labour…” It was a funny thing, skipping school.

There you were, all free and easy, and with nothing much to do except to kill as much time as possible.

“And this is how he got the brick-laying job.”

“Mostly just as a helper, Gilles. He mixed mortar, carried bricks and blocks, wheel-barrowed sand and stuff, lugged big pails of water, planks, and stuff like that.” Many a bricklayer had started off in exactly the same way, although there were trade schools and vocational schools.

But this was very much old school—on the job training.

“Okay.”

“And this is how he ended up on the Boitard job.”

“Ah…”

Pelletier: one real punch in the guts.

“That’s right, Gilles. Him and an old guy named Rolly. Rolly’s a certified alcoholic, and the kid’s not real big—they got the shitty little jobs that had to be done, but weren’t all that important in the grand scale of things.” Rolly arrived for work, already half-lit with a stiff red wine that he carried in a big crock in the back of the van according to Alain.

“Rolly was invariably good for the three-beer lunch, and short little snaps of the wine all damned day long, which is why Alain, as part of his training, as he said…ended up doing most of that fucking wall. Huh! Which explains at least one thing.” The kid, deflated as he was, had seemed proud enough of the accomplishment; his first real wall sort of thing.

“I see.”

“It gets worse, Gilles. This is where he met the girl. Cynthie. Home for the summer and just bored, mostly. Mama’s a bit of a stickler, and she was grounded for coming home a little late. Some sort of house party. Other than books, magazines, the radio…there wasn’t much for her to do, locked up in what is a pretty big house. And she saw him, and he saw her…and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Merde.”

“I don’t see Alain as a serious suspect. He’s devastated—truly bereft, and fuck, Gilles, this is even worse. I don’t think he even knows she’s dead.” It was easy enough to miss the daily news, or maybe he never read it anyways.

There were plenty of people who didn’t care for the news, and young people tended to ignore it as best they could, other than the sports pages and maybe the funnies.

Gilles sat there, eyes far away, mouth open.

“Fuck.”

“Er—he says they necked a bit, hugged and kissed a bit, in the park and in the cinema. That sort of thing. Emotionally, it was serious enough…one wonders if the girl was perhaps a little more innocent than our impression so far…” He might have copped the odd feel, and she might have let him.

“Huh.”

“And?”

Gilles shrugged.

He shook his head.

Finally—

“Yes. This is a tough one…”

“Whatever you decide. God knows, I sure as hell don’t want to be the one that tells him she’s dead, Gilles.”

The kid was already busted up enough, in his estimation, thinking she’d dropped him without a word, and yet he had admitted to have gone past the Boitard place, often enough, as often as he could stand it in other words.

Just hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl, perhaps catching up with her alone, out of doors, and maybe try talking to her. He wouldn’t dare to just go and knock on the door, not in that neighbourhood and sure as hell not that particular house.

It could be like that.

It would certainly be in character, for a callow youth, and sheltered enough in his own right.

The kid had at least promised to go home, in exchange for being released. They would definitely need to find him again, although it was taking an awful chance.

“…and if he finds out all on his own, he will never, ever forgive us, Gilles…”

It was one hell of a proposition, one had to admit.

Jesus.

END

Previous Episodes.