Babayaga

The three men locked eyes with one another, as if some shared thought had simultaneously popped into their minds. The man called Kelly looked as though he was going to say something when Red put a hand on his wrist and stopped him. Leaning forward, Red looked at Oliver and Will. “Now, before we share any of our own observations on this particular subject, one thing I’m curious about is why you and this ad guy here are asking? Not exactly your usual beat, is it?”

Red had the slow, careful manner of a person who is always distrustful, and Oliver was cagey with his reply. “It’s a mix really, a little personal, a little business. First and foremost, Red, Boris was a friend, a good friend. Also, coincidentally, I think whatever is going on might be decent material for a story, and a writer such as myself needs those. Chicken in the pot, and all that. If I did get a story, I could possibly squeeze a few francs out of my pals over at the Herald Tribune. Of course, if you helped I’d be happy to provide you with a cut.”

“Sounds reasonable, though you never looked much like a man who needed to hustle for his chicken,” said Flats.

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” said Oliver with a grin. “A well-tailored suit is awfully good at hiding an empty stomach.”

Flats nodded, as if this were an acceptable enough answer, and Kelly leaned forward. “The next question is, why you coming to us? Why do you think we can help?”

Oliver moved around in his seat a little nervously as he answered. “Fair enough. The truth of the matter is Boris might have been passed some bad medicine, if you know what I mean.”

Flats nodded again and Kelly looked around the table. “Okay, bad medicine. I get it. Fact is, there has been stuff happening. Ugly stuff going down. More than a few folks keeling over of late, yours here being the third in only these last three days, which is a pretty high mortality rate, even for users. The other two were residents over at the Arc Hotel, long-timers. Be good to know what your friend was taking.”

“Yes, well, we found this…” Oliver reached into his pocket and took out the tinfoil. Unwrapping it, he placed the small resinous ball at the center of the table. The five men looked down at it like rare gem merchants studying a precious stone.

“Looks like opium resin to me,” said Kelly. “And I ain’t about to do anything other than look. They say one of those fellows at the Arc flipped into some crazy convulsions till his body stopped cold, and word is the other went running out the window like he was being chased by voodoo spirits.” He tapped the edge of the tinfoil.

“Yep, pretty clear there’s bad medicine going round,” said Red.

“Be a good time to stay clean, if you could,” said Flats.

“If you could,” agreed Kelly, nodding.

“That’s all very interesting, yes. Funny, though, I hadn’t seen any news about these other deaths,” said Oliver, folding up the tinfoil again and putting it away in his pocket.

“Well, there generally isn’t a lot of talk when a user kicks,” said Red.

“That’s true too,” said Kelly. “Though word tends to get around to those who need to know. Good time for caution and all that. One other interesting piece of news these days is that lots of people who shouldn’t have any coin at all have been flashing some pretty serious money. I only mention it because I hear they found a whole bundle of franc notes in that window jumper’s wallet. And he was an absolute nobody.”

“Right,” said Oliver, looking at his watch, “very enlightening. Quite helpful, thank you for your time, gentlemen. If I do get myself hired as a stringer for this story, I will make sure to pass along your cut.” He stopped as if a thought occurred to him. “Also, one other thing: we’re looking for Ned. She been around?”

The men shook their heads.

Oliver leaned over and crushed out his cigarette in the bright-orange ashtray. “Well, there’s some money in that for you too, if you can find her.”

“We’ll ask around,” said Red.

“Wonderful. Give me a call if you have any luck,” said Oliver, handing Red his calling card. He looked at his watch and hopped up out of the booth. “Oh, you’ll have to excuse me now, I’ve got to find a phone. I’m supposed to call an ex–merchant marine who’s got a duffel full of poetry he wants me to look over. Word is it’s hot stuff. Take your time, Will. I’ll meet you outside in ten minutes.” He tipped his hat and headed toward the service doors.

Will felt a little uncomfortable being left alone with the three strangers. He didn’t know why. They seemed like perfectly nice men. “How long you been in Paris?” Red asked.

Will shrugged. “A couple of years.”

“Quite a while, then. You like it?”