I laughed as I realized what she was saying. "I'm glad to hear it."

  Carter and I both stood as she did. She nodded and said, "A good day to you, gentlemen."

  We both nodded and that was that.

  . . .

  As we walked into the lobby, Carter said, "I think you've been had, son."

  I shook my head. "Nope. I've been thinking about buying some apartments. She was just in the right place at the right time."

  Marie appeared from behind the front desk. Looking at me, she smiled, "Do you know that Mrs. Hunter has never once had tea this early in the day?"

  Carter gave me a nudge. "See?"

  I shrugged. "Doesn't matter." I looked at Marie in the eyes. "Are you happier than you were a month ago?"

  She nodded. "Oh, yes."

  I nudged Carter. "See?"

  Chapter 15

  Gymnase Triat

  46, rue Ballu

  Wednesday, February 1, 1956

  Just past 5 in the afternoon

  When he first bought it, Carter had told me the original name of the gymnasium, but I could never remember it. It had been a couple of weeks since I'd been by and it was looking a lot better. The outside had been painted and cleaned up.

  When we walked in through the front door, we were greeted by a huge framed photograph of a bearded man who was in what looked to me like a circus ringmaster outfit. It was obviously from the 19th century. The man was Hypolite Triat. I could remember the name because someone had painted it on the photograph in a curvy, old-fashioned way.

  Carter considered Triat the father of the modern gymnasium in the same way that Eugene Sandow was the father of physical culture, which had evolved into bodybuilding.

  Next to the photograph of Triat was a framed illustration of a large gymnasium that could have easily been a train station. Carter told me it was the gymnasium he'd opened in the middle of the nineteenth century. It had a soaring glass roof and a series of iron columns holding everything together. Ropes, rings, and other typical gymnasium fare were scattered around the image.

  Carter's building was not nearly as huge. It was more modest and included the standard boxing ring in the middle. But the ceiling was mostly made of glass panes and let in a nice amount of light.

  The first time he'd brought me to see the place, I'd wondered why a gymnasium was in such a nice neighborhood. Many of the surrounding buildings appeared to be houses, and quite large ones. When I'd asked Carter about that, he'd shrugged and given the usual reply that both of us had begun to adopt that could always explain the inexplicable: "It's Paris."

  As we walked in, Sammy, the manager, stood up from behind the desk with a big grin. Carter claimed he was a pure Kinsey 0, but I had my doubts. As always, he greeted me first before acknowledging Carter.

  "Mr. Nick, how very nice to see you, again." He shook my hand vigorously. Considering the size of his arms, he never did crush my hand. But his grip was always warm and, truth be told, gave me a little bit of a thrill every time I saw him.

  "Hi, Sammy. Staying warm?"

  He grinned, showing off his perfectly white teeth in the middle of his dark face. "Yes. Have you heard the wonderful news?"

  I shook my head.

  "We have a new premier, Guy Mollet. He is a socialist and was able to capture the votes of the Communist Party to form a government."

  "Is that good?"

  He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. He stood about 5'7" and was as wide as Carter, which made him look huge. He was always clean-shaven but always looked like he needed a shave. His black eyes sparkled. "Yes. Monsieur Mollet promises an end to the war in Algeria. I have many hopes for this."

  "How are your parents?" They lived in Algiers and were in their 60s. He'd shown me a photograph of a handsome man in a suit and a woman in a modest dress. It had surprised me as I was expecting something less modern.

  "I am sure they are well. I have sent them a telegram with the good news and await a reply. I expect there will be much happiness at home."

  Having given the spouse of the boss his due, Sammy turned to Carter and said, "I spoke with Antoine, and we have decided on the third location. It is in the 20th. I think you will like the building. Many windows. Perhaps we can go there next week?"

  Carter nodded with a grin and said, "And how are you, Sammy?"

  "I am well, Boss." Frowning slightly, he asked, "Do you persist in naming it Gymnase Cadine?" Carter had decided to name his gymnasiums after the famous bodybuilders. Triat was the first. Sandow, where Antoine worked, was the second. Triat and Sandow were both long gone. But, since Cadine was still alive, I had the same doubts as Sammy.

  "Yes," replied Carter.

  Sammy said, "But it is bad luck. You do not wish to bring about the early death of Monsieur Cadine."

  Carter rolled his eyes.

  I jumped in and said, "You don't even like Cadine."

  Sammy appeared to be surprised by that, and I immediately wished I'd kept my mouth closed.

  Carter smiled at me in a way that let me know I was in trouble. "Since you both agree, let's name it after Macfadden."

  "Who's that?" I asked.

  "Remember? He just passed away in October. He held the first bodybuilder competition at Madison Square Garden back in 1904."

  Sammy shook his head. "No. I think this is not good. When we talk about the diet, you always dismiss him."

  I could tell that Carter was getting steamed, so I asked, "Sammy, what would you call it?"

  Without hesitating, he replied, "Gymnase Appolon."

  I nodded. "Seems like you've thought about it."

  "Yes. He was—"

  Carter shook his head. "He was a strongman." Looking at me, he added, "And he tore his arm muscles while trying to perform a trick involving two cars. He was a performer, not a bodybuilder."

  Sammy frowned in a way that was a little scary, so I asked him, "How about something referring to the street it's on?"

  Shaking his head, he replied, "Gymnase Ménilmontant. No. It does not—"

  "I like it." That was Carter.

  Looking at Sammy, I asked, "What does the name mean?"

  "It refers to the village that was there before the expansion of Paris." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "Beyond that, I do not know."

  Carter said, "That's the name." Turning away from us, he walked towards the boxing ring. As he did, he shook hands with a customer who walked up to him and greeted him in French.

  Turning to me, Sammy said, "I am sorry, Mr. Nick."

  I shook my head. "No. You're just doing your job and, from what I can see, you're doing a good job. I should have kept my mouth shut."

  He shrugged. "Will you excuse me? I must make a telephone call."

  "Sure," I replied. As he walked around the desk, I said, "Sammy?"

  He stopped and turned. "Yes, Mr. Nick?"

  "Thanks for all your hard work."

  He smiled. "You're welcome."

  "And give my best to your parents." I'd never met them, but I knew it was the right thing to say.

  He smiled wider. "This I will do."

  . . .

  The first five minutes of our drive back to the house was quiet. The sun had set and it was getting much colder outside.

  Finally, Carter said, "You should let me..." His voice trailed off.

  I put my hand on his leg. "I know. I'm sorry."

  He nodded and put his hand on mine for a moment until he had to reach up and shift gears.

  "You were both right. Cadine probably wouldn't like it either." As he moved the gear stick from second to third, he added, "Besides, I like that name. Menil-whatever."

  "I should have kept my mouth shut."

  Carter sighed. "The truth is that you're much better at letting me help with your jobs than I am with mine."

  I wasn't sure I followed. "What do you mean?"

  "The only jobs I've ever had before now had to do with being a fireman. You've never once helped me with an arson investigation."

  "Only because I wouldn't know how."

  "But you never went on any jobs with me."

  I was confused. "Did you want me to?"

  He put his right hand on my leg and squeezed it before pulling it back to change gears again. "No. Of course, I didn't not want you to, but that's not what I mean."

  I waited.

  He sighed. "I've done a lot of P.I. work with you. And you've always let me help however I wanted. But you never told me to back off."

  I laughed. "You have Mike to thank for that. If he hadn't been involved and I'd been managing Consolidated, it might have been a lot different."

  "But that's my point. You knew that Mike needed to be in charge. And you were right. That's why it's so successful."

  "Depends on what you mean by successful. We still haven't made a profit yet."

  "You know what I mean. It's a successful endeavor. The money will come. It always does with you." He sighed again. "It's that same old thing. You make money at everything, Nick. I guess I'm jealous. I want these gyms to be successful."

  I turned in my seat to look at him. "They already are."

  He shrugged. "I don't see it."

  "I do. Look at how loyal Sammy is."

  He nodded. "He really is. He's such a good guy. And he treats you so well. He really likes you."

  "He's a good employee. He's just deferring to me like he thinks he would if I were your wife."

  Carter shook his head. "I hate that."

  "Don't change the subject. The point is that he's doing what he's doing because he respects the hell outta you. That's why. And that's what makes a business successful. It isn't money."

  "But every stock you buy, every building you buy—"

  "Do you know why?" I wasn't sure I did but, for the first time, a coherent idea was rising up out of the mists of confusion I usually had about that topic.

  "Because you're lucky."

  I snorted. "OK. That may be part of it, but I don't think so."

  "Then what?"

  "I don't give a damn. You know that."

  He put his hand on my leg again. After a moment, he said, "I know."

  "I'd be happy living in some apartment in the Tenderloin with you, still working at the hospital and waiting for you to come home from the firehouse."

  He removed his hand to shift gears as he slowed down.

  "What?" I asked.

  He slid into a spot by the curb, moved the gear into neutral, and put on the parking brake. He then reached his arm around my shoulder and pulled me in for a long, passionate kiss. Fortunately, it was already dark and there was no street lamp anywhere nearby. But, I wouldn't have given a damn regardless.

  Chapter 16

  6, rue Catherine la Grande

  Wednesday, February 1, 1956

  Just past 7 in the evening

  After we'd parked the car, we were walking around the stables towards the back door. Martin came out and met us.

  In the dim light, he appeared to be frowning and upset. "Monsieur Caron is here."

  I smiled. "Good. Is he going to—?"

  "It is not good. He collapsed a few minutes ago. I put him on your bed."

  Without waiting for more, I ran into the house, through the pantry and the kitchen, which smelled like dinner, and down the hallway. When I walked into the bedroom, I could see Joujou stretched out on the bed. He was still in his street clothes and was having trouble breathing.

  I walked over and loosened his scarf. I pulled his coat open and began to unbutton his shirt. I was shocked to see that his chest was covered in red, criss-crossing scars.

  "Nicholas," he said, gasping for breath.

  "Hold on, Joujou. We'll get you a doctor."

  He shook his head. "Non. Listen." His voice was barely above a whisper.

  By that time, Carter and Martin had walked into the room. Martin said, "The doctor will be here as soon as he can."

  Looking over at Martin, Joujou said something in French. The cook walked over, knelt by the bed, and replied. Carter ran off somewhere as I tried to figure out what was going on.

  Martin looked at me. "He wants me to translate."

  I nodded and took Joujou's paper-thin hand in mine. He squeezed slightly. As he did, a tear ran down the side of his face. He began to talk as Carter returned with a chair for Martin.

  . . .

  I sat at the kitchen table and looked blankly at my bowl of soup. Everyone was back, and we were all sitting around the table. No one spoke as they ate.

  Finally, Carter stood and walked over to the phone. Picking it up, he called the operator. After a moment, he said, "Call United States." We'd discovered that was the best way to make an international call.

  "Good evening, operator. I need to make a call to the United States." There was a pause. "San Francisco. Prospect 5-2144." That was my father's phone number. After another pause, he said, "Thank you," and quietly put the receiver on its cradle. He then walked over to me and put out his hand. "Come on, son."

  I stood, not knowing what else to do, and followed him to the bedroom.

  . . .

  "He's utterly divine, isn't he?"

  I looked up and saw a man leaning over me. He looked familiar, had muttonchops, and appeared to be about 25 or so. I wondered who he was talking to, so I looked around.

  I was in bed. It was covered with a bright red velvet bedspread that reminded me of the curtains at Eddie's, a restaurant at home. The room was dimly lit with candles. I had a sense that someone was standing in the doorway but I couldn't make out who it was.

  I sat up on my elbows. The man with muttonchops seductively ran his hand over my chest. "Oh, yes. You are quite the handsome devil."

  I grinned. "So are you, buster."

  He leaned over and slowly kissed me on the cheek. The hair on his face tickled.

  A familiar voice said, "He was so very kind to me, Paul."

  Sitting down on the bed next to me and putting his hand on my face, Paul looked at me affectionately and replied, "Of course he was. He's Alexandra's son."

  I sat up and said, "Wait!"

  Carter, who was lying next to me, stirred and asked, "What?"

  I shook my head and ran my hand over my face. "I think I just had a dream about Joujou and Uncle Paul." I sighed. "He had muttonchops and was about 25."

  "That would be right," said Carter, rubbing my back.

  Right then, the phone rang in the kitchen.

  Carter jumped out of bed. "That's probably the call. Come on, Nick."

  We were both still dressed, except for our boots. I had no idea what time it was as I padded along the hall behind Carter.

  . . .

  "Hello, Nicholas!" That was my father, yelling to be heard, and sounding very chipper.

  "Hello, Father. How are you?" The line was a little wavy so I tried to speak clearly.

  "Fine, fine. I hear it's really cold there!"

  "Yeah," I replied. "Look, I wanted to talk to you about something that just happened."

  "Yes?"

  "Do you remember me mentioning Jules Caron, Uncle Paul's friend?"

  "Yes."

  "He just passed away tonight."

  There was a pause on the line along with some pops. "I am so sorry, Nicholas. What happened?"

  "The doctor said it was pneumonia. And the cold weather."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Look, before he died, he told me a couple of things that we thought you would want to know."

  "You were with him when he died?"

  "Yeah. He came over here and then collapsed. About 7."

  "How are you?"

  "Not too good. But I want you to hear this."

  "What?"

  The line crackled and popped and then began to whistle. I waited until the whistle faded.

  "Nicholas?"

  "I'm here. Is Lettie with you?"

  "Yes, she's in the kitchen. Why?"

  "I just wanted to make sure."

  "What's happened, Nicholas?"

  I took a deep breath. "You have a brother."

  "What?"

  Speaking louder, I repeated myself. "You have a brother."

  "That's impossible. You know that my only brother died when he was 2."

  "I know. But your father had another son. And he lives here."

  There was a long silence on the line. And then, "How do you know this?"

  "Mr. Caron told us. We have his name and his address. And the story."

  "Wait, Nicholas. Don't..." His voice faded away. I wondered what he was doing. It didn't sound like he'd been cut off.

  After a couple of beats, Lettie spoke. "Nicholas?"

  "Hi, Lettie."

  "Whatever you've just said has upset your father."

  "Should I call back?"

  "No. I want you to tell me everything."

  "Mr. Caron just died. He was the friend of Uncle Paul's I wrote you about."

  "I'm so sorry," she replied.

  "Lemme just tell you the whole thing."

  "Yes, that would be best." Even several thousand miles away, and with all the crackles and pops on the line, she sounded annoyed at me.

  "Mr. Caron came over here tonight and collapsed. As he was dying, he told me that Father has a brother who lives here in Paris. He was born in 1895. His mother was French. He has two sons who are married and have children. They both live here, as well."

  "That's certainly very disturbing news."

  "Yeah, well, it gets worse."

  "Oh my."

  "Do you remember Mrs. Boudier, who used to work at City of Paris?"

  "Yes. She was the one who died on your airplane. And who turned out to be a collaborator. Is that correct?"

  "Yeah. Jean-Louis was part of the same group she belonged to."

  "Who is—?"

  "That's his name. Jean-Louis Auguste Tremont." It was a ridiculous name and I was sure I had butchered it. Knowing my father, and how he'd once been, I could only imagine what an ass his half-brother would be.

  "Goodness."

  "Yeah."

  "Did he go to jail after the war?"

  "Yeah. He was released in '49. He's now the head of a group here in France called 'The Cadre of Morality'."

  "Oh my. That doesn't sound good."

  "It isn't."

  . . .

  Over bowls of warmed-up soup, some toasted bread, and a couple of bottles of red wine, Carter and I were sitting at the kitchen table with Jake and Antoine. It was just about 10 and Carter had asked them to come over. At first, I'd wished he hadn't but when they got there, Antoine had pulled me into a big hug and had spoken softly in French, swaying side-to-side as he did. It was wonderfully reassuring.

 

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