The Alternative Detective (Hob Draconian) by Robert Sheckley Page B
Authors: Robert Sheckley
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time to meet at the Café des Innocents. I paid for the drinks and went back to my hotel room.
I have noticed that private detectives in fiction tend to be much more active than their counterparts in real life. I suppose I could have followed up a few more leads that day. But frankly, I was tired. I lay down for a nap.
TONY ROMAGNA
14
That evening, as I was walking from the hotel to meet Rachel, I saw him again. There simply could be no doubt of it. The shape, the dark suit with the bright red gardenia in the buttonhole, the broad, dark, good-natured face. It was the man who had been following me in Snuff’s Landing, and here he was in Paris.
The guy had paused near the entrance to FNAC. He was lighting a cigar. I walked up to him and said, “Well, well, small world, isn’t it?”
He finished lighting his cigar deliberately, then gave me a cool look. “Have we met before?” he asked in good New Jersey English.
“Probably not,” I said. “But I’m sure you know who I am.”
He looked amused. “Why should I?”
“Because you were following me in the States, and you’re following me here.”
“Coincidence,” he said, looking right at me and grinning. He was saying, in body English, Sure, I’ve been following you; what are you going to do about it?
“Just to make it easy for you,” I said, “my name is Hobart Draconian and I’m staying right near here at the Hôtel Cygne, on the Rue du Cygne. You probably already know that, but I just thought I’d confirm it for you.”
“Good of you, Mr. Draconian,” he said. “I’m Tony Romagna, since introductions seem to be in order.”
“What do you do, Tony?” I asked.
“I’m an investor.”
“An investor of what, if I may ask?”
Tony laughed. “Kid, I like you and I guess you’ve made me all right. It doesn’t matter. I have interests in Vegas, Miami and Atlantic City. I’m here in Paris for a little vacation. And also to look after the interests of a friend.”
“What friend? Why are you following me? Or is it Rachel?”
“I like the way you just come out with it,” Tony said. “You don’t do any song and dance pretending you’re not scared. Tell you what, I’m going to give you a little tip.”
“I’m ready,” I said, bracing myself for anything.
“The best Italian restaurant in this city is La Dolce Vita on the Avenue des Ternes. Tell ’em Tony Romagna sent you. Got it?”
I nodded, bemused. Tony winked and turned, almost losing his balance as he lurched against a trashcan. He nodded to me again and walked off. I watched him go, then decided it was time for a drink.
It was funny about Romagna. You get so used to the idea of fat men being light on their feet that you’re a little thrown when you meet one who’s as clumsy as you’d expect a fat man to be if the folk wisdom concerning these things hadn’t led you astray. By clumsy, I don’t mean that Romagna tended to tip over when he leaned too far to one side or anything dramatic like that. No, you could see at once that there was nothing haphazard in Romagna’s clumsiness, nothing clumsy. There was skill in his careful ineptitude, an eerie intentionality. You could see it in his eyes, a dark glowing hazel, the attentive, inhuman eyes of a man who misses nothing, a man who does not possess the unselfconscious grace of the truly clumsy. There was calculation in Romagna’s movements, and in his lurching gait I could sense a dark lucidity, made all the worse because it was a burlesque of itself. All this combined with his small chin and little rosebud mouth, which gave him a sinister rather than a weak look. Romagna had the smooth rosy skin of a fat man, but beneath the show of health you could sense a cadaverous pallor, as though he were feigning health itself.
I saw now that Romagna was perhaps a better mime than Arne. He was doing an imitation of a New Jersey mafioso trying to hide his affiliation under a cloud of persiflage. Unless that
I have noticed that private detectives in fiction tend to be much more active than their counterparts in real life. I suppose I could have followed up a few more leads that day. But frankly, I was tired. I lay down for a nap.
TONY ROMAGNA
14
That evening, as I was walking from the hotel to meet Rachel, I saw him again. There simply could be no doubt of it. The shape, the dark suit with the bright red gardenia in the buttonhole, the broad, dark, good-natured face. It was the man who had been following me in Snuff’s Landing, and here he was in Paris.
The guy had paused near the entrance to FNAC. He was lighting a cigar. I walked up to him and said, “Well, well, small world, isn’t it?”
He finished lighting his cigar deliberately, then gave me a cool look. “Have we met before?” he asked in good New Jersey English.
“Probably not,” I said. “But I’m sure you know who I am.”
He looked amused. “Why should I?”
“Because you were following me in the States, and you’re following me here.”
“Coincidence,” he said, looking right at me and grinning. He was saying, in body English, Sure, I’ve been following you; what are you going to do about it?
“Just to make it easy for you,” I said, “my name is Hobart Draconian and I’m staying right near here at the Hôtel Cygne, on the Rue du Cygne. You probably already know that, but I just thought I’d confirm it for you.”
“Good of you, Mr. Draconian,” he said. “I’m Tony Romagna, since introductions seem to be in order.”
“What do you do, Tony?” I asked.
“I’m an investor.”
“An investor of what, if I may ask?”
Tony laughed. “Kid, I like you and I guess you’ve made me all right. It doesn’t matter. I have interests in Vegas, Miami and Atlantic City. I’m here in Paris for a little vacation. And also to look after the interests of a friend.”
“What friend? Why are you following me? Or is it Rachel?”
“I like the way you just come out with it,” Tony said. “You don’t do any song and dance pretending you’re not scared. Tell you what, I’m going to give you a little tip.”
“I’m ready,” I said, bracing myself for anything.
“The best Italian restaurant in this city is La Dolce Vita on the Avenue des Ternes. Tell ’em Tony Romagna sent you. Got it?”
I nodded, bemused. Tony winked and turned, almost losing his balance as he lurched against a trashcan. He nodded to me again and walked off. I watched him go, then decided it was time for a drink.
It was funny about Romagna. You get so used to the idea of fat men being light on their feet that you’re a little thrown when you meet one who’s as clumsy as you’d expect a fat man to be if the folk wisdom concerning these things hadn’t led you astray. By clumsy, I don’t mean that Romagna tended to tip over when he leaned too far to one side or anything dramatic like that. No, you could see at once that there was nothing haphazard in Romagna’s clumsiness, nothing clumsy. There was skill in his careful ineptitude, an eerie intentionality. You could see it in his eyes, a dark glowing hazel, the attentive, inhuman eyes of a man who misses nothing, a man who does not possess the unselfconscious grace of the truly clumsy. There was calculation in Romagna’s movements, and in his lurching gait I could sense a dark lucidity, made all the worse because it was a burlesque of itself. All this combined with his small chin and little rosebud mouth, which gave him a sinister rather than a weak look. Romagna had the smooth rosy skin of a fat man, but beneath the show of health you could sense a cadaverous pallor, as though he were feigning health itself.
I saw now that Romagna was perhaps a better mime than Arne. He was doing an imitation of a New Jersey mafioso trying to hide his affiliation under a cloud of persiflage. Unless that
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