Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) by Pres Maxson Read Free Book Online Page B

the
neighborhood.”
    “Well,
I travel around a bit. I’m sorry.”
    “That’s
not important,” Trudel grunted. “I haven’t heard of you. Based on what I’ve
seen here, I’m not surprised. What makes you ‘renowned,’ as you say?”
    “I
have a few awards for local entertainment,” he defended himself with a little
more vigor. “I do not believe that I need to justify myself to you.”
    “What
awards?”
    “The
key to the city of Antony.”
    Fleuse
leaned back in his chair and huffed.
    “Congratulations,”
Trudel drove on sarcastically. “It’s just that my talent is a gift.
Furthermore, I have worked to perfect and hone that gift for many years. And
now, I must share ranks with this !” she exclaimed to the room while
motioning toward Pistache.
    “Trudel,
honey,” Fleuse tried.
    “I’m
not your ‘honey,’ Fleuse!” Trudel spat with fire as she wheeled to address him.
    Pistache
turned to me. “I get this a lot. Others get jealous of my talents.”
    Trudel
choked on the last sip of her drink.
    “Yep,
I understand,” I humored him. Attempting to steer the group away from more of
this talk, I looked to Fleuse. “How do you two know each other?”
    They
exchanged a glance.
    “We
go way back,” Pistache said contently.
    “We
are friends,” Fleuse said, obviously dodging the question.
    “Every
now and then we work together,” Pistache said with a smile.
    “Do
you hire him to do impersonations at parties?” I asked Fleuse with a grin.
    “Impressions,”
Pistache corrected.
    “Yeah,
right.”
    “No,”
Fleuse said humorlessly. Apparently he didn’t think too much of Pistache’s
talents either.
    “I
actually sell secondhand jewelry as well. He uses me as a supplier for metals
and stones, really,” Pistache added.
    “There
it is,” Trudel said with a sly smile. “I knew it. A day job.”
    “A
salesman,” Janie commented. “Makes perfect sense.”
    “Not
my day job,” Pistache interjected defensively. “It’s more like a side job.”
    Trudel
had already looked away. She’d stopped listening. I looked at Fleuse, who
didn’t seem to care to jump in either.
    Noticing
my glass feeling light, I asked, “Okay. Who’s ready for another drink?”

Chapter V.
     
     
     
    Outside the window of
the clockmaker’s shop, a rainy Paris bustled. Anyone passing by could have
caught a glimpse of Fleuse Newman, but they’d have to look carefully.
    From
the exterior, the shop looked dark and locked up. But a look through the
blackened, wet, and fogged windows would reveal the warm glow of Fleuse’s cramped
workspace toward the back of the shop, with the man huddled in the halo of his
worklight.
    From
the inside, drops of water obscured the view of the street. Shapes passed back
and forth in front of the window like an impressionist painting in motion. The
greyness of the sky kept the corners of the place slightly darker than usual. With
heavy, humid air, the room smelled like wet wood.
    The
small, one-room shop was crowded with clock faces, gears, pendulums, and
thousands of other tiny parts. The chorus of ticks and tocks that filled the
room could have driven the clockmaker to insanity. So could have the small wooden
work stool or the heat from the lamp hung casually on the end of a skeletal steel
arm directly above him. But, none of it bothered Fleuse.
    He
hovered over his work as still as if he were being photographed. His projects
were of such an intricate nature that he had to be practically frozen to
complete them. His face was adorned with a contorted look of deep
concentration. He nearly had to remind himself to blink. At a glance, one
wouldn’t have been able to see him breathe.
    The
only motion that existed was miniscule and usually at the tips of his fingers.
When he shifted in his seat or reached for a new tool, his muscles tightened
and twisted as if he’d been asleep for hours. Fleuse wasn’t uncomfortable,
though. The clockmaker was happiest when staring through the