GOMEZ, AFTER HE AND Jake had separated to pursue different sources of information, strolled for a while along the brightly lit boulevards of nighttime Paris. He walked by a dozen or more sidewalk cafés, most of them operated by the Dutch conglom Bistros, Inc., and through three small hologram parks. When twenty minutes or so had passed and the curly-haired detective was completely certain that no one was tailing him, he made his way to the Boulevard Voltaire.
He paused beside a sidewalk stand where a chunky woman in her fifties was peddling plazflowers. Sniffing at a bunch of simulated yellow roses, Gomez studied the story-high illuminated archway across the street.
“You planning to buy those goddamn blooms, monsieur? Or are you just going to snuff all the smell out of them?”
“Ah, Marie, and here I thought you’d never forget me.”
“Mon dieu! Gomez.” Chuckling deeply, the heavyset vendor bestowed an enthusiastic hug on him. “You’re in Paris.”
“So I’ve been led to believe. How are you faring?”
“Better than you, judging from your appearance.” Marie shook her head sadly as she scrutinized him. “Since I saw you two years ago, you’ve gotten paler and thinner. And you reek of cheap booze.”
“I’m trim actually. And that’s expensive ale, consumed purely and strictly in the line of business.”
“You still a dick?” She tipped her head and smiled at him.
“I am, private now.” He nodded at the arch across the way, which had the words metro estates written large on it in old-fashioned neon tubing. “Fact is, I’m planning on dropping in on our mutual chum, Limehouse.”
Marie grunted. “That halfwit.”
“Well-informed halfwit. He still living down in the estates?”
“Oui, he’s down there, moldering away.”
Gomez patted Marie on her broad back. “It’s truly warmed my heart, chiquita, especially at this sentimental time of year, to encounter you once again.” After slipping her a $10 Banx note, he went trotting across the street.
The arch rose up over a large hole in the sidewalk. Two flashing arrows pointed at the broad stairway leading below.
Gomez paused to take a slow, careful look around, then headed underground.
Jake, meantime, dropped in at a Left Bank establishment known as the Hot Club. The club specialized in hologram and android re-creations of American jazz music of the twentieth century. On the ground level tonight Jelly Roll Morton and His Red Hot Peppers appeared to be playing on the small floating bandstand. There were less than ten patrons sitting at the small tables amidst the simulated smoke.
On the second level of the Hot Club Jake made his way through another artificially smoky room that held about fifteen customers. Art Tatum seemed to be playing an ivory piano in one shadowy corner.
Jake went through an arched doorway, climbed a curving ramp up to a heavy door marked control. He knocked twice.
Nothing happened.
He knocked again.
This time the thick metal door eased open a few inches. “Oui?” whispered a thin voice.
“It’s Jake, Pepe.”
“Jake who?”
“Jake Cardigan. We talked on the vidphone ten minutes ago.”
The door opened a bit wider. “It does look like you, mon ami.”
“Well, that makes sense, Pepe. Since it is me. C’mon, let me in so we can talk.”
The door opened even wider, enough to allow Jake to squeeze into the chill, dim-lit control room of the Hot Club.
Pepe Nerveux was a small, thin man, hollow-eyed and sharp-nosed. He had a tiny moustache that resembled a dab of lint and tight-curling gray hair. “Shut the door, please, quickly,” he requested, rushing back to drop into his high, padded chair at his control boards. On the rows of monitor screens that rose up in front of Pepe Nerveux were dozens of images of what was going on in the five separate levels of the jazz club. Grabbing up an earphone, he tuned in on what Jelly Roll Morton’s group was playing. “Merde, the trumpet’s a shade sour.” Anxiously, he reached up to twist a dial. “What do you think—is it better?” He held out the earphone toward Jake.
Ignoring it, Jake asked, “You implied on the phone that you’re still in the information business.”
“I am, oui, I am.” Pepe Nerveux dropped the earphone, yanked a plyochief out of his trouser pocket, wiped sweat off his forehead, picked up another earphone. “No, non, mon dieu! They sent us a defective Cootie Williams for the Duke Ellington orchestra. Just listen to that dreadful mute work.”
“You seem uneasy tonight,” mentioned Jake, leaning against the wall.
“Supervising five jazz attractions, each of which has to be perfect, is stressful.” He jabbed at a button on a control board at his right. “I’ll have to dub in a new trumpet for the Ellington aggregation.”
“Much more nervous than the last time we met.”
“That was years ago, mon ami,” reminded the small, narrow man, glancing briefly over his shoulder at Jake. “Keep in mind, too, that they call me Pepe Nerveux. That is not, obviously, my true name. No, it’s a nickname, bestowed on me because I’m always very nervous. Nervous all the time, in fact. Ah, what’s this?” He jumped up, gesturing unhappily at a row of monitor screens. “Bud Powell’s fallen off his piano bench.”
“I’m wondering, Pepe,” said Jake, “maybe you’re too busy to do business with me tonight.”
“Wait, wait.” He made a quick, shaky stay-put gesture with one hand while fooling with dials, buttons, switches. “Bon, he’s back in place and playing ‘Un Poco Loco.’ ” Sighing, Pepe Nerveux sank deeper into his chair.
“What about the background information on Zack Rolfe?” Cardigan persisted calmly.
“While his reputation isn’t spotless, I haven’t heard anything especially damaging about him. Since you called, I’ve instigated a further probe into his background.” He tugged out his plyo-chief again, mopping fresh perspiration from his face. “This evening, I just learned, Rolfe is visiting the Grand Illusion. That’s a very swank electronic bordello not far from here. A favorite spot of his.” Pepe wiped his forehead yet again. “Were you to drop in there tonight, you might find out more about him. Tell Madame Nana I sent you.”
Jake said, “I’ll maybe do that.”
“My current fee for this sort of information is $500.”
“My current payout for this kind of information is $200.”
“That is far, mon ami, from a fair price.”
Jake handed him two $100 Banx notes. “You want to be careful not to price yourself right out of business.”
“Very well.” Pepe Nerveux gave a nervous shrug. “Since we’re old friends, I’ll accept what from another would be an insulting fee.” He snatched the bills. “Should you require ... Merde! Why isn’t Jelly Roll on the stand? He’s not due to take a break yet.”
“Thanks for your help.” Jake left the control room, walked back down through two levels of the club and into the street. He’d gone less than fifty feet from the doorway of the Hot Club when all hell broke loose.