Blag slumped against the wall of the Shadowcorps building to catch his breath. I was trying to gather my thoughts and recover from the madness we had just left behind. Outside it was a glorious summer day. I’d almost forgotten. It was Bastille Day! The shops were closed and the city was gearing up for a full-on party. So a whole night had passed while I was underground. In some ways it felt like about a month. I should’ve been tired, completely drained really, but I had this weird, sparkly, energized feeling. Relief, maybe, or hunger. Blag wiped his face with his already soaked T-shirt and gave me a weary look.
“Did you check out that hound mound, Mac? Major league kick-off, huh?”
Thinking about the gargoyles made me shudder. “But I thought they were supposed to be just scary-looking decorations on old churches, like the ones on the Notre Dame cathedral.”
Blag nodded seriously. “I’ve heard of them, never seen one before. When we were kids, the geezers told us stories to try to scare us into not going in the sewers. At the end of the stories, the gargoyles always turned to stone when they hit the daylight.” He grinned again. “Man, they were seriously ugly. Anyway, we better beat it before the smokies come lookin’ for us.”
He looked up at the sky. “’Course, they’d get pretty steamed on a day like this. Supposedly the Shadows can’t survive direct sunlight. I’ve never seen one above ground, except at night, and almost always in the club.” Here his face darkened. I supposed he was thinking about the takeover of the Moulin D’Or. He led the way to his cab, which was parked illegally, of course, on the sidewalk. He shredded the parking ticket like confetti and jumped in, opening the passenger door for me from inside. “I’m kinda beat, mind if I go with something a little mellow?” he said, reaching for the stereo, “I’ll take you to CAFTA, see if we can find rug-dome there.”
I assumed this meant Rudee and thought about having to explain myself to him again. If he’d known what was going to happen with me, he probably would’ve driven away on that first day at the Pont Neuf. I was glad, recalling my exposure to that cacophonous “Malade” band, to listen to something a little quieter. At that moment, the music started like a cannon shot, and some groaning sounds escaped from the speakers as Blag rolled down all the windows. The bass could have been measured, like earthquakes, on the Richter scale. “Hey, relax, it’s a holiday.” Like sunbathing on an airport runway, I thought.
On the way, Blag seemed to revert to his old self, running lights, screeching to stops, and shaking his Viking action figures at innocent pedestrians, scaring children and their pets with the music thundering out of the windows. I slid down as low as I could in the seat, knowing that since I was sitting in the front, no one would take me for a customer.
All of Paris was in a glowing mood, in contrast to that of my new friend Blag LeBoeuf. It seemed like the city was one giant picnic, with blankets spread out in every available green space that wasn’t host to a soccer game of some sort. At one of the fire stations, a fireman was holding a hose pointed in the air while a hundred kids danced in the spray, laughing and yelling. Looked pretty good to me. Even better, though, was when Blag stopped at a crepe stand and bought us the best lunch I’ve ever had from a street vendor.
When we reached CAFTA, I could see that it was closed but that there was activity inside. I figured it was the Hacks setting up for the big party that night.
“Okay, kid, last stop. It’s been a slice. See if you can get cock-a-doodle-Daroo to handle the Louche thing, will you? He’s got cop friends, and I don’t.” This was said with some defiance, but as I climbed out, he grinned at me. “Besides, I gotta go clean up. I’ve got a date for tonight; think I caught a live one!”
What kind of girl would go for Blag? I mean, he had a good heart, but it would take some serious archaeology to find it. Someone for everyone, I guess. I waved and thanked him again.
Looking through the window of CAFTA, I could see the Hacks hauling their gear onto a little makeshift stage in a corner of the room. Even without hearing them, I could tell that the usual bantering was going on. I knocked at the window. Mink saw me first and must have said something to Rudee, who came running to let me in. “Hey, little Mac, how are you?” he said cheerfully. “You’re just in time to help us plug in.”
I smiled, wondering if I could hear anything after riding with Blag. I said hi to the other band members. Dizzy waved his trombone slide. “Hey Mac, ça va?”
“So, did Sashay give you madeleines and tea all night, petite?” asked Rudee. I guessed that was my cover for last night’s absence from the church. I realized I couldn’t wait. I had to tell Rudee what was going on. This wasn’t a secret I wanted to keep. I started slowly. “I know you’re not going to be happy about this Rudee, but ...”
That got all their interest. The Hacks put down their instruments and stopped the set-up to hear my story. I had to provide a little background for the others, but for once I had the feeling that they believed me, no matter how far-fetched some of it must have sounded. There were occasional interruptions, but not many, some oohlalas and mon dieus and much shaking of heads as the tale unfolded. They all agreed that something odd had been going on with the light in Paris lately, and except for Rudee, they’d thought the “Lighten Up” campaign was a joke. Maurice and Henri had heard the gargoyle stories growing up in Toulouse, and Dizzy said he’d seen the Shadows hanging out at an after-hours joint called le Marché Noir, where he’d done a couple of pick-up gigs. They all seemed as shocked at Blag’s part in the events as at anything else. Rudee rolled his eyes and curled his lip at the idea of Blag as rescuer, but the part about the closing of the club started him thinking.
“Blag, eh? Well, you can’t tell an apple by the core, can you? Sashay had a feeling there were changes coming at the club. Mink, do you still have your hydraulic riser from the Colour Me CooCoo days?”
“Shouldn’t be too hard to find. Why, what’s on your mind?” Mink rhymed.
“If tonight is Sashay’s last show, and the Shadows will all be there, we should make it a night to remember, or for them to forget!”
Rudee laid out his plan to the Hacks, who agreed to help however they could. I think fatigue from last night’s craziness was beginning to overcome me, because I started to miss sizeable parts of the conversation, and I began feeling rather foggy. Next thing I knew I was in the back seat of Rudee’s cab, comforted by the familiar odour of marinated vegetables, on the way to Sashay’s. I woke up for a few moments when she got into the seat beside me and stroked my hair. I remember them talking in hushed tones on the way to the club, but little else.
Outside, the club was draped in a huge banner that read, SOON TO RE-OPEN AS THE MOULIN NOIR, written in gothic script. It was early, so the streets around the club were empty. I noticed Maurice and Henri wheeling something in the back as we arrived at the stage door, then Dizzy pulled up and opened his trunk. Sashay led me into her dressing room and sat me down on a small mountain of silk. She lit some candles and began her preparations at the mirror. I knew she was waiting for me to tell her about my journey to the underground, so I related the tale once more. I could tell she was shocked by some of what she heard, but as always she maintained her air of calm.
“Sorry about losing that beautiful scarf,” I said, and she sighed and smiled.
“Mac, will you thank Blag for me? We don’t talk....” She shrugged and made one of her famous pouty expressions. “He’ll be here tonight, I’m sure. I hope that Rudee’s plan will work.” She explained what Rudee had in mind. It was a comforting feeling to know that I didn’t have to deal with Louche and his foul gang alone again. I was ready to sit back and watch the show.