“What the hell are you doing here?”
Striding toward us is the man in the yellow slicker, the runaway mutt now leashed and shivering.
“Many a thief has underestimated Napoleon and has paid for it in a pound of flesh, haven’t they?” the man says to his dog. He pulls at the leash and Napoleon barks pitifully.
“I’m not a thief,” I say in French.
The man wrinkles his nose. “Worse! You are a foreigner. I knew you were too tall. German?”
“Dutch.”
“No matter. Get out of there before I call the gendarme or let Napoleon loose on you.”
I hold up on my hands. “I’m not here to steal anything. I’m looking for Jacques.”
I’m not sure if it’s the dropping of Jacques’s name or the fact that Napoleon has started licking his balls, but the man backs down. “You know Jacques?”
“A little.”
“If you know Jacques even a little, you know where to find him when he’s not on the Viola.”
“Maybe less than a little. I met him last summer.”
“You meet lots of people. You don’t board a man’s vessel without an invitation. That is the ultimate violation of his kingdom.”
“I know. I just want to find him, and this is the only place I can think of.”
He squints. “Does he owe you money?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? This isn’t about the races? He always backs the wrong horses.”
“Nothing to do with that.”
“Did he sleep with your wife?”
“No! Last summer he took four passengers through Paris.”
“The Danes? Bastards! He lost almost his whole charter fee right back to them. He’s a terrible poker player. Did he lose money to you?”
“No! He got money off us. A hundred dollars. Me and this American girl.”
“Terrible, those Americans. They never speak French.”
“She spoke Chinese.”
“What good does that do you?”
I sigh. “Look, this girl . . .” I start to explain. But he waves me away.
“If you want Jacques, go to Bar de la Marine. When he’s not on the water, he’s in the drink.”
I find Jacques at the long wooden bar, slung over a near-empty glass. As soon as we walk in, he waves at me, though whether it’s because he recognizes me or because this is just his standard greeting, I’m not sure. He is carrying on an in-depth conversation about new slip fees with the bartender. I buy the boys a round of beers, settle them into a corner table, and sit down next to Jacques.
“Two of what he’s having,” I tell the bartender, and he pours us each a glass of teeth-achingly sweet brandy on the rocks.
“Good to see you again,” Jacques tells me.