Hell Night

Again, Bolan kept his smile to himself. “Gargoyles,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Glasser said. “Mary Ann used to have one in the flower bed in back of the house.”

“Mary Ann?” Bolan asked. It was the first time he’d heard the name.

“Ex-wife,” Glasser said. “She took the gargoyle when she left. Along with everything else, of course.”

“Kids?” Bolan asked.

Glasser nodded, a sad expression taking over his face. “Two. Casey just started high school this year. Caitlyn’s still in junior high. I don’t see them much.”

Bolan nodded and decided to change the subject.

They passed Notre Dame and Bolan began looking for a place to park. The streets were crowded with kiosks selling everything from old and rare books to T-shirts. Finally, he spotted a parking lot and pulled up to the gate. A wizened old man wearing a blue beret came painfully down the steps from a small building, took several euro notes from the Executioner and opened the gate.

After parking the Mercedes, Bolan used the remote control to lock the vehicle, then led the way along the sidewalk. “We’re looking for a little bistro called Vincennes,” he said. “It should be about a mile from here.”

The two men kept up a brisk pace, dodging pedestrians coming from the opposite direction and passing people who were walking more slowly. They passed a park where old, and bent, men were playing bocce, making it look like each ball weighed twenty pounds. The Sorbonne appeared on their left, and they found Vincennes on the right a block later.

The bistro was tiny, dark and slightly humid as they entered through the glass door. A long mahogany bar ran the length of the downstairs room on their left, with several tables, covered in red-and-white-checked tablecloths, scattered directly in front of them.

A flight of stairs led up to a doorway over which a curtain had been pulled. But at the foot of the steps, a maroon felt rope, suspended between two movable posts, blocked entrance to the stairs.

A lone old man in a dirty brown canvas coat was the only customer downstairs. He stood at the bar, eating a plate of boiled potatoes and green beans, and drinking beer from a large schooner. He looked over his shoulder but gave Bolan and Glasser only a cursory glance before returning to his meal.

A waiter wearing a red vest and black bow tie approached, accidentally bumping into the old man as he passed him at the bar. The bump brought on a loud curse in French, which the waiter ignored. Stopping directly in front of Bolan and Glasser, the man in the bow tie said, “Party of two?”

“Yes,” Bolan said. Then he added the passwords he’d been given during their flight over the Atlantic. “But only if you serve leg of lamb.”

The look in the waiter’s eyes intensified for a second, then returned to normal. Smiling, he said, “Only when it is in season.”

“And it’s out of season?” Bolan went on, using the rest of the code phrases.

“Only upstairs.” The waiter completed the exchange, then walked to the staircase and unhooked the rope from one of the posts. Stepping to the side, he bowed slightly as the Executioner led the way up the steps and drew back the curtain.

Bolan stepped into a short hallway, still holding the curtain as Glasser ducked inside. The soft sound of voices could be heard at the end of the hall. Bolan led the way toward them.

The door to the room was open when Bolan stopped in front of it. Inside what appeared to be a small private dining room was a lone table with the same sort of tablecloth as those downstairs. Four chairs circled the table.

Two were already taken.

The two men who had been talking both looked up when they saw Bolan and Glasser in the doorway. The man on the right wore a dark gray suit with subtle pinstripes, black brogans, and had blondish-brown hair swept back over his head and carefully sprayed in place. He could have passed for an American businessman, a fraternity president about to start a meeting or a CIA agent.