The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle by Christopher Ward Page B

music and from a shopping bag produced a collection of matching Hawaiian berets. “Part of the ‘Lighten Up’ campaign. What do you think?”
    He tossed a beret to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to try it on. Since there were no extra chairs, I curled up on a mound of coats and watched the Hacks storm through their repertoire. They seemed to forget I was there as the laughter got louder. They took turns playing solos, and the best ones were greeted with “bravos” from the others. The endings of the songs were ragged at first, sounding at times like someone dropping an armload of dishes. Gradually they got better as they went along, then they were on to the next tune, Mink coolly counting each song in by clicking his sticks together over his head and calling out, “One two, you know what to do.” The song list included all their favourites, geared to keeping a party going, and there were a couple of heated moments while a sequence was arrived at.
    â€œNonono ... ‘Grasse Matinee’ can’t follow ‘Kiss My Sister.’ They’re in the same key!”
    â€œWell, what about ‘Gâteaux To Go,’ then ‘Stinkbomb Serenade?”
    â€œAre you crazy? They’ll be throwing things at us.” And so on.
    It all culminated with an almost unrecognizable version of the French national anthem, “La Marseillaise,” a very difficult song to disguise. My mind wandered as a long jam rambled on into the afternoon. Rudee and Dizzy were standing over me smiling when I came to as the others packed up their instruments. “I thought you California girls were partypoppers,” said Rudee.
    â€œMusic for dreams ... so it seems,” called Mink from behind his hi-hat.
    â€œNice to meet you, Henri, Maurice,” I said.
    â€œ Enchanté ,” they replied as they headed for the stairs carrying their instruments.
    â€œHey, Rudee, let’s grab a bite at Le Losange,” said Dizzy. “I’m tired of the food at CAFTA , and we’ll be seeing plenty of it at the party.”
    â€œSounds good, Diz,” said Rudee, who was polishing the chrome of his organ stand.
    â€œMac, you want to ride in style for a change?” asked Dizzy.
    I looked at Rudee, who grinned. “Go bohemian, little one, you’ll appreciate the higherlife after that.”
    As we walked toward the cab, Dizzy put his pork pie back on and tossed the Hawaiian beret into the trash. “Lighten up, mon derriere ,” he chortled.
    The engine sputtered and coughed as he looked over at me. “Not that it’s any of my business what you were up to in Les Halles in the middle of the night, Mac, but I figured we’d at least better have our stories straight. Rudee’s my best friend, and he really cares about you. Since you arrived in Paris, he feels responsible for you.”
    I felt terrible knowing how last night’s outing would affect my friend and protector. We wound our way up the hill to Montmartre. Dizzy pointed out an impossibly narrow brick building shaped like a lookout tower and identified it as Madeleine’s office before stopping in front of the Sacre Coeur church.
    â€œDizzy, I know it was stupid, but I had to find out what I could. You know Paris is getting darker, not lighter, and I think I know who’s behind it. Did Rudee tell you about what I overheard at the club?”
    He nodded, and I went on to tell him the story of my late night visit to Shadowcorps. His eyes widened, and he pursed his lips. “Whew, this is serious stuff. Let’s go. Rudee will be waiting; he has to know.” I didn’t like it, but I knew he was right.
    Le Losange was a vaguely diamond-shaped brasserie on a busy corner. Rudee was already in a red vinyl booth by the window and waved us over. We all settled in and gave our orders to a waiter in a red apron that touched the tops of his shoes. He had an if-you-want-to-be-so-foolish tone as