The Black Prince of France: A True Story About the Man in the Iron Mask

By Aivan de Moya

In the middle of the night, New York policeman Scott Dewitt answers a desperate phone call from his sister Larissa, who is living in Paris. Her boyfriend Claude has abruptly disappeared, and she can convince no one that foul play may be involved.
Scott rushes to her and discovers the couple has become involved in a sinister conspiracy dating back centuries. Scott learns that the story of the Man in the Iron Mask is more than just a classic novel. It is a long-unsolved mystery at the center of a blackmail plot threatening the oldest, richest and most powerful families of Western Europe.

Scott and Larissa must unveil the identity of the famous anonymous prisoner to find the missing man and save their own lives. They chase down a trail of clues, hidden messages and enigmatic symbols across France, England, Monaco, Italy, Switzerland and the Vatican, all the while pursued by a band of shadowy assassins. They discover shocking revelations about the crowned heads of Europe while fighting to survive.

Inspired by true events, and based on extensive historical and scholarly research, the Black Prince of France takes the reader on a thrilling quest from the halls of 17th century palaces to the midst of a modern secret society. It is a plot deeper than the Da Vinci Code and darker than the Lost Symbol. It is the actual solution to the mystery of the Man in the Iron MaskLearn the lengths to which the elite will go in order to ensure that their secrets, no matter how ancient, will remain secret!

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462045259

Aivan de Moya

Aivan de Moya is the pen name of an obscure but talented historian.

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER 1

A Summoned Policeman

CHAPTER 2

At Home in Elmhurst

CHAPTER 3

A ‘Short’ Trip

CHAPTER 4

An Ancient Troublemaker

CHAPTER 5

Playing the Game

CHAPTER 6

Chez Claude de Rochefort

CHAPTER 7

Camouflage

CHAPTER 8

The Gendarme From the Metropolitain

CHAPTER 9

Dont le Nom ne se Dit pas

CHAPTER 10

Beauty and His Beast

CHAPTER 11

‘Vampiring’ the Stone

CHAPTER 12

The Mongrédien Conundrum

CHAPTER 13

Early Revelations

CHAPTER 14

Adelaide

CHAPTER 15

Saints and Kings

CHAPTER 16

Abuelita

CHAPTER 17

London Hospitality

CHAPTER 18

Larissa’s Tale

CHAPTER 19

The Stated Problem

CHAPTER 20

The Monk

CHAPTER 21

A Surprise Envelope

CHAPTER 22

Exploring in the Cave of the Archives

CHAPTER 23

The Turbulent River Seine

CHAPTER 24

The Monk in Scott’s Dreams

CHAPTER 25

Catacombs

CHAPTER 26

Le Château de Versailles

CHAPTER 27

What’s in a Name?

CHAPTER 28

Chez Brinvilliers

CHAPTER 29

Pour voir les trepassés

CHAPTER 30

The Mummy

CHAPTER 31

The Grand Pilgrimage

CHAPTER 32

The Côte d’Azur Redux

CHAPTER 33

Bastide, Bastille

CHAPTER 34

Chez Jacques

CHAPTER 35

A Gendarme and a Scholar

CHAPTER 36

Zurich Secrets

CHAPTER 37

Thoughts of Home

CHAPTER 38

Authenticated Proof

CHAPTER 39

Credit Where it is Due

CHAPTER 40

From Lourdes to Hell

CHAPTER 41

Semper Custos

CHAPTER 42

A Visit to Our Lady of Paris Cathedral

CHAPTER 43

Hasta la Vista, Paris

This book is dedicated to the officers, past and present,

of the 110th Precinct of the New York Police Department.

And to the staff of the New York Public Library.

THE BLACK PRINCE OF FRANCE PART I

WHAT IS KNOWN

CHAPTER 1

A Summoned Policeman

Sunday, December 2nd, 2007. The phone rang next to Scott Dewitt’s bed. He groped for it in the dark, and wished whoever it was would go away. Hello? he said. It was an unsteady hello, more of a grunt.

Someone, a woman, said, Scott?

The voice sounded far away. He had not heard that voice in over a year.

Hi, Larissa, he said. Is everything OK? Then he added, softly, to hide his annoyance, It’s three o’clock in the morning.

I know. Sorry to bother you. But I’m in a little bit of trouble. Well, not me, exactly… The exactly lingered.

Scott didn’t want to play guessing games at that hour. Then who? What’s this about? he asked.

Claude has disappeared, she said.

Scott drew a blank. Claude? Who’s Claude?

My friend… Her voice trailed.

He sat up on the bed. What the hell… a friend… Right. "You mean your boyfriend, or your dog? I thought you were in Paris to learn French, not date some guy we know nothing about."

Larissa’s voice was steady. Scott, no recriminations, please. I’m calling you because I need you to come to Paris to help me find Claude. You’re a policeman. You can help me.

She had to be kidding. He said, Have you been in touch with the Paris police? What do they have to say?

There was a long pause on the line. The police have been on this case since the very beginning. They talked to all the people Claude knew, at least the ones I knew about, and, in turn, the friends those friends knew about.

What about his family?

The police spoke to Claude’s parents, but they don’t live in Paris, so they couldn’t help. It’s been over a week. I’m desperate, Scott.

He searched for something to say. You know, he said hesitantly, people don’t always tell you their business. Maybe Claude doesn’t want to be found.

No, not Claude. He’s an OK guy. He was curious about some mystery that has been hanging around, unsolved, for three hundred years. That might have something to do with all this.

Scott could not put his mind around that one. It was too damned early in the morning. I don’t see why Claude’s curiosity should have anything to do with me. Or with anything, for that matter.

Larissa said, her voice one octave higher, He’s in trouble, I tell you. He told me he was dealing with information that could be dangerous, but that he was close to a great discovery.

Scott frowned, concerned all of a sudden. "Did you say dangerous? Did I hear right?"

Well, that’s what Claude said. Wait a moment. My roommate is telling me something.

Scott heard words in a language he didn’t recognize. It was not French. Larissa answered in Spanish, something to the effect that something that was missing was in a drawer.

Larissa came back to the phone. Sorry. This dumb girl never knows where she puts anything, and keeps asking me to become clairvoyant.

What was that language you were speaking?

Portuguese. She’s from Brazil. I’ve picked up a few words. She’s nice, but…

Scott was beside himself, and totally uninterested in some Brazilian roommate. Let’s go back to what you were saying he said. Why is this problem of yours dangerous? He asked, beginning to take his sister seriously.

"I don’t know. All I know is that it has to do with Le Masque de Fer . . ." she said.

Are you talking French to me? he said, mortified.

Sorry. I’m so nervous I can’t think. I’m talking about the Iron Mask.

What iron mask? he asked.

You know, the Man in the Iron Mask.

Maybe he had no sense of humor, because he was suddenly impatient to the point of hanging up. Larissa, this sounds like a really stupid situation. Whatever is going on, is going on in France. What do you expect me to do? What can I possibly do?

Come here and investigate, she said, eagerly. The French police want nothing further to do with me. I think they called me a pest last time I spoke to them. They said some word… I didn’t catch what it was. But I got the gist.

Scott was suddenly on his feet, tripping over his golf bag on his way to the light switch, and shaking his head. I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I speak Spanish and English, and a little High School German thrown into the mix… not enough…

She interrupted him. You took three years of French and Latin in college. Or have you forgotten everything you’ve learned?

How do you know what I took or didn’t take in college?

Mom showed me your transcript once, to show me all the useless crap you took in college. She said you had wasted her money.

How nice of Mom…

Oh, damn it! Forget it, Scott. I’m not going to argue with you! I don’t need your excuses. I’ll find Claude with or without you. Now I’ve got to go. Please come if you can. Click.

Larissa! Larissa Templeton! Damn. She had hung up on him. What to do? He’d be damned if he was going to call her back. Should he call their mother?

Bad idea.

He paced the floor of his bedroom. It was tiny, sparsely furnished, with only an old half of a bunkbed and an even older dresser, covered with useless and unused toiletries. It was a little postage stamp of a bedroom, unsuitable for a big guy. He went into the bathroom, cleaned up and shaved. He was wide awake as he stared in the mirror. He was very tall, but a little heavy in the belly. This made him uneven, in a way. He was glad he still had a head full of thinning blondish hair. Maybe he should shave it all to look like the late, great Yul Brynner. Maybe he would then look like Yul Brynner’s twin. But for that his face would have to look like Yul Brynner’s face, and it didn’t. He was not that exotic-looking.

And he was getting old. He was thirty-two, to be exact.

Was that old? Larissa was much younger and the issue of a legit marriage. He had been the product of his mother’s gallivanting during her teens, getting mixed up with some cradle-snatching white guy much older than his mother had been at the time. Then exit the guy. Oh, Mom. He loved her, as she had done the best she could to make sure he was properly raised, but by somebody else: an old woman.

It was the dearest old doddy he would go see this morning. He didn’t really have friends he could consult with. He thought of himself as a people person, but he wasn’t. He was not intimate with his fellow officers, even the females, who had tried to be friends with him. There was only Abuelita, Grandma, he would trust with his problems. He remembered she would take him to Shea Stadium to see the Mets play when he was a child. She would say, I’m raising a real man, not some sissy. He will be good at sports as well as at school. Yet that future man cowered like a sissy when a fly ball slowly descended on right field and almost hit him on the shoulder. He had not even tried to catch it. Some idiot above him got the ball, and didn’t even offer it to him. The ball was his; he should have demanded it. But he didn’t. Well, he had been only eight years old at the time. Sometimes he didn’t know what to do. Abuelita would know.

If someone should ever find out he consulted an old woman on stuff they would laugh their heads off. But what did he care?

He didn’t think that what his sister wanted was at all reasonable. It was actually quite crazy. What could he do? The more he thought about it, the more he fretted.

What was that Larissa had said? Something about a mask. He’d forgotten already. It was very early, but Abuelita would be up and about. He arrived at her nursing home, well, her assisted-living home, and found her reading the paper with a magnifying glass at the dining area of her floor. He marveled she could actually read at all, since she was nearly blind.

"Abuelita," he said to her, tapping her on the shoulder.

She jumped. She wasn’t only nearly blind, but also a little deaf. Scott? Is this you? She reached out to touch the ‘stranger’.

Yes. It’s me. He hugged her. Abuelita hadn’t gotten past third grade, but was very smart. She was not really his grandmother, but his great-grandmother. Abuelita hated her assisted-living apartment building in Forest Hills, even if it was in a very swank area of Queens. She was at least ninety-five years old, and maybe older. No one knew for sure, since she had never revealed her age. Her grandmother had been an African slave in Cuba who was probably raped by her owner. Abuelita had learned enough English from American movies to learn the word Massa, and she never failed to refer to her grandmother’s owner in that fashion, which made Scott cringe. She was medium-dark-skinned, with wooly hair that never grew long. It was that hair, of a greenish color due to degenerating natural hair tinting, of her own concoction, that had prompted Scott to refer to her as his baby sitter in front of his friends when he was in grammar school.

More greetings followed, complaints about the place and its food followed, and indictments of the Judas Iscariot who she always said had thrown her out of her house, followed. Finally Scott got to the point. Well, yes and no.

He sat next to her on the table. It was covered by a red plastic tablecloth, a few used napkins, and Abuelita’s hearing aid. He asked her to put it on, something she always resisted, so they could talk. A solicitous attendant offered him some coffee, which he accepted with a grateful ‘thanks’. To Abuelita he said, A cop friend of mine has asked me for advice and I don’t know what to tell him.

You’re old enough to know what to do in any situation Abuelita said. I raised you to know what to do. She then said, in a sassy tone of voice. What’s the matter with you?

No, really, this is a very sticky situation. Listen. My friend is from Colombia. His young sister may have gotten involved with some gun runner down there, and now the guy has disappeared. She has asked my friend to go to Colombia and help her find her boyfriend. The missing guy is not in the mountains, but in the city somewhere, so it should be possible to find him. Should my friend go there and help out?

Abuelita regarded Scott with an inscrutable gaze in her failing eyes. As a guess, he thought she was sizing him up. She took her time and then said, You know, I’m surprised you are asking me what that young man might do. What he ought to do should be obvious to you.

The old woman, thin and frail and dark, sipped a little of what must have been very black but very cold coffee. Scott sipped his own lukewarm coffee in turn. He waited a few minutes to ‘get comfortable’.

He said, "Abuelita, I really don’t know. My answer might be to do nothing, since it is very difficult for us to get time off from the Force for any reason. Even a good reason. I suppose one could just hope things get better all by themselves".

And leave things in God’s hands? That’s of course always something one could do. But I think your friend should get time off somehow, and he should go to his sister’s side…

You think so? He interrupted, bewildered.

She smiled benevolently. He should go there and bring his sister back home to the States, by her hair if necessary. She let that one sink in.

I see, he said. He really did see.

Abuelita lightly slammed her hands on the table. Scott, I’m getting an uncomfortable feeling that this friend of yours does not exist. What’s going on? Who’s disappeared?

He tut-tued her. Now don’t you worry. I’ve decided after talking to you not to get involved. My friend will have to decide what to do on his own. Now, I’ve got to go. Thanks. It was best to escape than to let on. She must not worry about Larissa, so far away in Paris.

On his way out he asked, suddenly remembering, "Have you ever heard of a man in an iron mask?

She seemed pensive. There was a movie, long ago, about an evil king. My daughters and some friends came home talking about it. I didn’t see it. But what was said is that how could there be so much evil in the world. I hardly needed either my daughters or Hollywood to tell me that.

Abuelita stood up. In her youth she had been almost six feet tall, but now had shrunken considerably. She reached for her walker, to send Scott on his way. She walked him to the elevator in what was a relatively nimble way and blessed him.

"Scott, cuidate, take care of yourself."

He kissed her on her forehead and left. Had he fooled Abuelita? He wondered if she had guessed the real situation. Now he regretted possibly having disturbed her thoughts.

CHAPTER 2

At Home in Elmhurst

Scott grabbed the subway at Continental Avenue and headed for 82nd Street for some tamales. The street vendors, almost all Mexican women, were not licensed, but were very clean. At least, they seemed clean. But even if not clean, how could you beat two excellent, hot corn tamales for breakfast for two dollars? Once he had filled his slightly protruding belly, probably due to a few beers too many, he headed for the 110th precinct, on 43rd Avenue, his ‘home’ away from home. He was not scheduled to report for duty until later in the day, but decided to drop by at the 110th, jump the gun, so to speak, and talk to his superior officer.

On his way there he walked by a church. It was Sunday. It was obligatory for Catholics to go to Mass on Sunday. Let those who felt obligated go to Mass on Sunday. He didn’t go to Mass, on Sunday or any other day. Not for so long he had forgotten for how long.

He looked askance at the church and continued his walk.

Elmhurst was a rather atypical Queens neighborhood. Half one family houses, and half apartment houses. He had saved for a couple of years to buy an apartment, a co-op. That’s all he had been able to afford. He would have preferred title to a house instead of shares in some corporation, but what the hell. He owned his own home, his own privacy. That was important to him, in view of his present family situation. When he got to the precinct, past the dozens of cop’s cars parked semi-illegally at an angle, he saw an ambulance parked in front, and several civilians milling around the desk of the officer on duty. Scott walked by them and stopped by the desk. From there he could see the temporary holding cell, or what he had dubbed the bird cage, where perps were kept before going to Central Booking in Criminal Court. In the cage was a blond guy he recognized, and an unknown dark skinned young man, about twenty, who was being examined by paramedics.

Scott asked the officer on duty.What’s going on?

We caught the pain in the ass gang of car thieves that had been operating here and in Jackson Heights for the longest time. The short blond guy with the braid is the ringleader.

Scott thought, this was unusual for the area. He said, We got people from all over the damned world around here, but few European-Americans. Even fewer black-Americans. Who’s the white guy? Is that who I think it is?

The officer nodded. He hangs around the yogurt shop, probably selling drugs to young kids. I bet you recognize that annoying long braid anywhere, like he was some kind of white mandarin chief.

Is he going to be charged with anything? Scott asked.

Well, I don’t think we can pin drugs on him right now, but the car bullcrap we can. Credit goes to Smiley and Rodriguez for catching him.

And the black guy? I’ve never seen him around here.

He’s a headache that doesn’t go away that easy. There’s a new twist: they’re taking him to Elmhurst Hospital. He’s got a broken cheekbone.

And how did he come up with a broken bone? asked Scott.

Officer Gonzalez clipped him.

Heck, that woman is tough. That’s a big guy. Scott felt he might have done the same thing. Who could fault the young woman officer?

This idiot lunged at her when she arrested him, so she hit him in the face with her nightstick.

He’s lucky he didn’t get shot, Scott said disdainfully.

The officer stared at Scott. "No, my friend. You got it all wrong. She’s lucky he didn’t get shot."

Scott frowned, uncomprehending. "How’s that?

That guy is fourteen years old! A juvenile, for God’s sake. You see all these people milling around? They’re his family.

Scott took a good look at the family. At first he thought they were just dark skinned, which would have even further aggravated the issues, but then saw they were from India. No saris, no turbans, so it was not easy to recognize them at first if one was not observant.

The officer continued. See the guy with the hennaed hair? He’s the father, a prominent figure in the Indian community. If the press gets a hold of this, and I think they will, it’s going to be curtains for all of us. The boss is worried as hell. Can you imagine?

Holy Molly… . Scott could not imagine. This kid was big and, yes, dark skinned, which made him a minority. Or did it?

Scott waited for the ambulance and the visitors to leave. In the final analysis, what did he care? Only that the sergeant would be in a really bad mood. He hoped that now that things had quieted down, the boss would be more receptive to what he was about to request.

He looked in at the sergeant’s office. He whispered sheepishly and uncomfortably. Sir, may I speak to you for a few moments?

He had felt bad vibes that morning all over the place. Best to play it humble. He stepped in cautiously. The sergeant’s office was sparsely furnished, the walls dirty, the light dim, the desk 1960’s issue. Typical New York police precinct ambiance: Décor from Garbage Pile and Refuse. The sergeant was younger than Scott, something that constantly annoyed the veteran officer. The sergeant remained seated. Of course, Officer Dewitt. Come in and sit down. But please make it brief. I am up to my ass in alligators.

Stupid cliché. Boring.

Scott remained standing. Excuse me Sir, but I have a favor to ask of you. My younger sister, Larissa, is right now in Paris and in some sort of trouble. If possible, may I take off for a few days to bring her back?

The sergeant sat back on his chair. What sort of trouble? Forgive my meddling into your affairs, but I need to know in order to decide if I can let you go. No details, just the main idea. You know we are short handed right now.

They were always short handed, and after a particularly exhausting shift, even Scott would find himself thinking what some of the guys said when venting their frustration: beyond food and body odors, each ethnic group represented brings its own unique brand of trouble.

Scott switched legs on which to rest most of his weight. Well, sir, let me just tell you a little bit about my sister. Larissa is my half sister. She is soon to be twenty one, in a couple of months I think, so as you can see she is still a minor. Let me give you a police description. She’s about five foot seven, five foot nine in heels, black hair, green eyes. A bit overweight but nevertheless rather attractive, I’m afraid. About a year ago my mother sent her to Paris to study French in some international language school. Apparently she has gotten hitched to some French guy, about whom we know nothing, and now the guy has disappeared and Larissa wants me to help her find him.

The sergeant laughed. You’re shitting me. You have no jurisdiction abroad. Has the Paris police been notified?

Apparently so, but Larissa tells me there is no trace of the guy. My purpose in going to France is to bring Larissa home, by her hair if I have to, which would only take a couple of days. I couldn’t care less about the guy. He’s probably an undesirable anyway.

And if she refuses?

I don’t know. I’ll have to play it by ear.

The sergeant leaned forward attentively. OK. I understand your problem. I sure hope your sister isn’t involved in some unlawful activity with that man.

That’s not likely. She is a very devout Catholic, you know, church every Sunday, big on charitable stuff, reads the Bible all the time, that sort of thing…

I get it. But remember a lot of religious people get into trouble. The sergeant sighed. All right. Try and bring her home. And do introduce yourself to the Paris police. I don’t know where their headquarters is, but I would check with them.

Yes, sir. Thank you.

Scott stepped outside, onto 43rd Avenue. It was nippy, so Scott zippered his black leather jacket up to his throat. December in New York can bring temperatures in the thirties and even twenties, a cold that got into one’s bones like creepy crawlers.

There was no sense overdosing on the situation with Larissa. He would go get her and that was that. The situation at the precinct would take care of itself without him. Well, it had never involved him, anyhow. Let those left behind for the next few days beware. In an area such as the precinct covered, one had to be very careful. Ideas, customs, outlooks, different from those of the American-European community, presented many challenges. If one was not careful, one could piss off a lot of foreign people, and bring disaster on the local police. The motto of New York’s Finest: ‘Courtesy, Professionalism, Respect’, had not been pushed down everybody’s throat for nothing. As a police officer, he went into people’s homes, places of business, places of worship, whorehouses, hospitals, even places of communion with the dead. For each ethnic group, what was offensive and what was correct was different in each case, and sometimes incomprehensible.

%%%%%%%%

Scott went home to his fourth floor co-op and called his mother. It was only 10 AM and Mr. Cooper would surely be home. Damn. Scott needed the name and address of the school, or wherever Larissa was staying. A year and a half ago, she had wanted to move out of the Park Avenue apartment because she, like Scott, could not stand their stepfather. How she had fared in Paris he didn’t know, but, for her, anywhere but New York was an improvement.

He dialed his mother.

Hello? it was her voice.

His mother had one of those cadence-laden voices that captivated even a deaf person. How old was she? About forty six or seven. Still young. Scott loved to hear her voice. He said, Mom? It’s me. I need to ask you something. Now, don’t get alarmed.

There was a momentary silence on the line. I’m alarmed already. You never call me. She was exaggerating. What do you need?

Larissa’s address in Paris.

There was a pause. Why?

Nothing special. I just want to send her a Christmas card.

The woman’s laughter cut into her son. Hah! Scott, I know you too well to be fooled this way. Since when do you send Christmas cards? Now, tell me the real reason, or I won’t give you the information.

Scott was on the verge of impatience. Seriously, I just want to call her and, well, I’m concerned for her. I miss her.

Did you speak with Larissa recently?

No… , he lied. That’s why I want to get in touch with her.

Why?

Now, Mom, stop this. Are you going to give me the information or not?

Allright. But I do smell a rat. I’ll give you the information.

No, really, don’t worry. Just trust me for now. He hated to lie to his mother, but what else could he do? Worry her to death?

Having gotten the information he needed, Scott decided to take off that very day for Paris. But first he had to make arrangements for Bobo, his darling pet bird.

Bobo was not a fancy parrot or canary or parakeet. Bobo was a crow he had almost run over with his car. Poor thing had a broken wing and was fighting for his life on the pavement. Scott was not in a hurry that day two years ago, so he had brought the bird to a vet that very day.

He had to wait a bit for the vet to see him. What can I do for you? asked the doctor. He had to weigh at least 300 pounds. Would he be gentle with the bird?

Scott showed it to him.

That’s a young wild crow you got there. Broken wing.

Can something be done for him? Scott asked.

Not really. It’ll heal by itself.

I see. I’ll keep him then, said Scott.

Crows don’t make good pets. They are wild animals.

I want to keep him only ’till he can fly again. Then I’ll let him loose. By the way, is it a boy or a girl?

Won’t know until it lays eggs. Or not. Put him in an ample cage and feed him bird seed and worms. He’ll be fine.

Scott thought, ugh… worms… The vet must have read his thoughts because he said, Worms are very nutritious. People should eat worms. Every day if possible. You can get them at the pet store. And don’t forget to give him water.

Scott had paid $150 back then for the consultation, and, although a little pricey, it had been well worth it. He had become very fond of the little fellow.

Next step before leaving for Paris was to secure the services of a ‘crow sitter’. The interesting thing about Bobo was that each time Scott had tried to get the bird to fly away, it had flown right back into his cage. So much for vets.

Scott rang the bell next door. A woman opened her door. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He said, freeing himself from hungry arms, Lucinda, I need you to watch over Bobo for a few days. Can you?

For you, anything. She said, and blew him another kiss. He was fond of her, but she was not his type. That was a problem, because he really liked her.

Lucinda was an indigenous Mexican, short, squat, with a pug nose. To her people she was undoubtedly very pretty, but not to him. But like all things that are not an absolute, Lucinda had one magnificent trait: her hair. Indian hair down to there, lustrous and seductive.

He was endlessly careful not to offend her. He needed her because of Bobo. Sometimes he worried he was only using her. He did not like to use people, especially women. But he needed her. Who was going to take care of a crow? Who was going to clean his messy cage?

Where you going? she asked.

To visit my sister.

Where she at?

I’ve never told you about her?

No…

I’m going to Paris. She’s there studying French

I’ve never met a single French person around here. Why she need French? I hope she speaks Spanish, like us. How long you going to be gone? Lucinda asked, obviously approving.

Only a couple of days. Famous last words, he thought. Perhaps. It was time to go pack. He had to go. He asked, How’s business?

You mean the racket of Ina of Jackson Heights, or my own?

Is there a difference? Scott asked, laughing.

A lot of people who go see her wind up coming to see me. Right here in my apartment. I had it redone. Want to see? She opened the door wide. He caught a glimpse of red curtains and wicker furniture. And a white bowling ball on a stand.

Not now. I have to go, he said. I have to be in the airport in an hour. Good luck.

With that, he returned to his own apartment. Now one more thing to worry about. Ina of Jackson Heights was a powerful psychic who had links with known criminals. He had heard that from his friends at the 115th. There were more than enough Botanicas, and Tarot readers, and psychics on Roosevelt Avenue, the dividing street between the 110th and the 115th precincts. It was almost a joke as to who had more crooks, north of the double yellow line or south. It seemed 50-50 to him. With all that competition, Ina would be hurting. If Lucinda was stealing her clients, well… . he just could not worry about that right now. He would get involved when he returned. He hoped he’d be in time.

CHAPTER 3

A ‘Short’ Trip

That afternoon Scott bought a coach ticket to Paris. He took off from Kennedy Airport on American Airlines Flight One to Charles de Gaulle Airport, due to arrive in Paris around 11 AM the next day. It cost him a fortune, as he hadn’t booked the flight ahead of time and holiday travel was in full swing.

The airplane trip was uneventful but the trip by taxi from Charles de Gaulle to the school was a pain. Not being able to pronounce a single word in French, he had to write the address for the taxi driver and otherwise communicate in sign language. The driver was an African, apparently one of many, just like in New York most taxi drivers are from Pakistan. Very willing to help, but would not go so far as to accepting dollars, so they had to go off the straight route for Scott to change his money to euros. It was about twelve o’clock in the morning on Monday, December 3rd, so traffic was heavy.

He took in his surroundings. Low buildings everywhere, interesting architecture, some of it intricate. Some streets were unseemly broad and others as narrow as alleys. He suspected the broad streets had been carved up from existing structures God knew when in the past. There were, of course, highways in the perimeter. But most of the structures seemed very old, as if someone had been minding what was built and what was torn down through the centuries. He thought then of an elderly friend, Ezequiel, on his return from Europe years ago. When asked what he thought of the trip he laconically said, piedras viejas, moldy stones. Paris was crawling with moldy stones. It had an alien atmosphere.

As to the ethnicity of Paris… it was almost nonexistent. He knew there were Muslims, since he’d heard they were always being profiled by the police. He knew of no other groups, maybe Algerians. Like Greta Garbo, the French preferred ‘to be alone’. Maybe that’s why they were so rude to Americans. He, of course, had never been to France. This is only what he’d heard.

He was not prejudiced. He recalled the dark boy at the precinct that morning. The broken cheekbone would have never happened with him. Well, he had not been there to see what had really happened. Again, he thought, had color had anything to do with that incident? People from the south of India could be very dark. And yet they were as Caucasian as any European.

The reverse could be true. He recalled talking to a woman once who looked European except for her sari. He got to know her because she had been running a certain business without a license. He asked her how come Indians came in such a range of colors, and whether there was discrimination in her country. She told him that discrimination was a British thing, and part of the movement to get rid of them had been this very issue. Prejudice had never taken hold at all in India. Her people considered themselves a homogeneous people, regardless of color.

He had let her off with a friendly reprimand.

The driver stopped in front of a bar, and excused himself. He told Scott something that sounded like ‘I’ve got to pee’. That was fine with him. If you gotta go, you gotta go. He was not in a hurry.

Soon he tired of the wait and became even more introspected. He missed having his weapon. But only air marshals could take guns on planes, so he had to leave his at home in the States. If