Paradise Man by Jerome Charyn Read Free Book Online Page B

Billetdoux a glass of lemon water.
    “My treat,” Holden sang across the tables. “How’s Bronshtein?”
    “Bronshtein misses you,” the bumper said.
    “I’m glad. I’m going to the Swisser. Want to come?”
    The bumper sipped his sour water and Holden left him in the cafe. He went up the rue du Four and landed on the Swisser’s boulevard. Holden was like an infant in his partner’s territories. But Holden didn’t care. It pained him that Andrushka was in Paris. His own little bride who’d married Bruno Schatz without divorcing Holden. Andrushka was a bigamist. Holden could have hired a lawyer to keep Andrushka out of the Swisser’s bed. But he didn’t have much contact with lawyers other than Robert Infante. And Infante worked with the Swisser cheek to cheek. Holden had rats and money and he knew a couple of kings, but there wasn’t any way he could buy Andrushka back.
    The Swisser was expecting him. That old man sat in his office overlooking the church and courtyard of St. Germain des Prés. He was dressed in silk, wore a pale suit that matched the color of his eyes. Holden was pissed off. Schatz seemed more energetic at eighty than Holden could ever hope to be.
    The Swisser came out from behind his desk like a short fat engine with the pinkest shirt cuffs in St. Germain des Prés.
    “Holden, it’s embarrassing. I can never tell if you’ve come to kiss me or kill me.”
    “I work for you,” Holden said.
    “Work for me? You’re my bloody partner. But no one’s safe with you around ... where’s the sketches? Let’s have a look.”
    Holden wore Nick Tiel’s designs in a special pouch that was tied to his ribs, like a money belt. He didn’t trust briefcases. Any band of pickpockets could have bumped into him at Charles De Gaulle and disappeared with Nick’s designs. Holden unbuttoned his shirt, removed the pouch, and then unrolled the pattern paper. The Swisser’s hands were trembling, but it had nothing to do with his age. He was excited. He read Nick Tiel’s designs like a musical score, but those scribblings were an act of genius Holden would never understand. The Swisser could imagine a coat in his head from pieces of paper that Nick had numbered and cut. Holden was left out. He couldn’t hum with the Swisser, who tacked Nick’s designs to the inside door of his closet and stared at all that paper as if he’d discovered the clockwork of a doll.
    “I’m in love,” the Swisser said.
    Holden felt a panic in his gut. “What’s that, Swiss?”
    “You heard me. I’m in love with Nick Tiel. I’d like to marry him.”
    You already married my wife, Holden wanted to say. But he’d go mad if they got on the subject of Andrushka. “Well, what’s stopping you, Swiss? Marry the man.”
    The Swisser smiled. “I’d have a permanent guest in the house. You know Nick. He can’t get along without you, Holden.”
    The Swisser removed the tacks from the closet door, rolled up Nick’s designs, and locked them inside his safe. It startled Holden how swift Schatz was on his feet. His own arms and legs ached all the time.
    “Do you think I look like Lord Weidenfeld?” the Swisser asked.
    Holden shrugged. “Who’s that?”
    “Don’t get slow on me now. Weidenfeld is one of the top dressers in the world. I’ll bet he’s on Goldie’s list.”
    “Could be,” Holden said. “But I’m not doing Weidenfeld this year.”
    “You ought to. He ducks into the closet with all the fancy ladies ... Holden, you’re as thick as your dad.”
    Holden Sr. had been Schatz’s bodyguard until he died. He’d met Swiss during the war. Schatz was a consultant with arts and archives, a temporary colonel or something like that. He’d taught Holden Sr. how to steal. And Holden Sr. had remained with Schatz half his life, a bodyguard and a chauffeur. He’d never graduated beyond that. He was like a truculent child on the Swisser’s payroll.
    “You shouldn’t knock a dead man, Swiss. My dad was devoted to