Roll away your stone, I'll roll away mine
Together we can see what we will find
Don't leave me alone at this time,
For I am afraid of what I will discover inside
Darkness is a harsh term don't you think?
And yet it dominates the things I seek.
-Roll Away Your Stone, Mumford & Sons
Bobby had an idea in his mind of what New Orleans was supposed to look like. For one, there was Mardi Gras which meant one big party, strings of beads, and girls with no tops on. There was Bourbon Street and the bars, drinking Hurricanes in the street, and tourists. Then there was music, and wizened jazzmen on street corners busking for coins. And it was supposed to be mysterious with voodoo priestesses, people dancing around with snakes, and vampires popping out of crypts.
Except Bobby had yet to see anything of the sort. Except for the crypts. There seemed to be plenty of cemeteries in this neighborhood. He was in a part of town made up largely of residential houses painted in bright tropical colors. Lush, well-established trees and plants shaded the sidewalks and lawns. People of all cultures, races, and creeds lived and worked and played here. There was a smattering of small businesses frequented by the quirky locals. Churches were on nearly every street corner. People who passed him on the sidewalk nodded and smiled and said hello. Bobby was a native New Yorker, and people generally avoided eye-contact there, so all of this was really weird.
Bobby didn't have much time to spend looking at all those crypts. He could only catch glimpses of the Cities of the Dead as Rothko pulled him down the sidewalk. He'd fashioned a leash out of a belt which he'd looped through the silver ring on Rothko's collar. Bobby stumbled to a halt when Rothko suddenly stopped. He rubbed his bicep as the dog looked back at him, his long pink tongue lolling out of his mouth.
"Would you slow down?" Bobby asked him. Bobby looked around at where they'd stopped. They were in front of another cemetery, Metairie Cemetery, which won hands down as far as weird things he'd seen so far. Even from this distance he could see all sorts of fantastical statuary, enormous monuments, and decorative crypts. It was a sea of white marble and green copper. As he stared, a group of joggers thundered past into the cemetery. Rothko took the opportunity to bolt forward and the slack leash in Bobby's hand slipped from his grip.
"Oh, sh-! Rothko! Come back!" he called and began running after the dog.
He ran for several yards before he became more and more distracted by the surrounding mausoleums and crypts. There were urns, and angels, and obelisks, animals, pyramids, and a sphinx. Each new tomb was more elaborate than the last. He passed a memorial with a life-sized weeping angel inside. It was lit with a surreal blue glow from the stained glass window above. There was another of a mysterious bearded man, his finger held to his lips as if to hush passers-by, or to warn them to keep a secret. Bobby jogged halfheartedly after Rothko, staring open-mouthed at the monuments.
"So...freaking...weird..." he said.
Just then, he heard an excited bark. He looked away from the statue of a young girl, her marble hand poised to knock upon the door of the crypt. Bobby saw Rothko's tail waving like a flag as he disappeared behind a row of tombs.
"Hey!" he called, and then renewed his chase. He rounded the corner of a mausoleum and came to a halt in front of a statue of a weeping dog. "You're not Rothko," he said to it. He was answered by another bark.
In the next row over, he saw Rothko looking at him and wagging his tail. Remy was laying on the ground in the shade of a tomb, his head resting on the marble base. He was wearing sunglasses and looked as if he were sleeping, hands resting on his stomach with his fingers laced together. The dog eagerly ran over and licked Remy's face until he moved and pushed the dog away. Remy sat up, wiping his chin on the sleeve of his jacket. Rothko ran jauntily back to Bobby as if to say: I found him!
Bobby kept the path between himself and Remy, not quite knowing what to expect. He rarely had ever seen Gambit really angry. He'd seen him irritated, annoyed, upset, even miserable. But usually, he just sat there with an ironic smile on his face like he saw everything as one big joke. Bobby found it insufferable. But now he'd seen Gambit truly angry twice in two days. First with Pollard where he looked positively maniacal, and again just an hour ago. It was not an unscary thing.
Right now, Remy's expression was unreadable behind his sunglasses. Bobby could still feel him staring at him though. "So you drew de short straw, then?" Remy asked, sitting splay-legged in front of the tomb.
"Logan and Rogue argued about it for awhile, but they came to the conclusion that I'm the one that you hated the least," Bobby replied.
The corners of Remy's mouth turned downward. "I don't hate you. I don't hate anybody."
"Really? You don't hate Rogue?" Bobby asked.
"Of course not," Remy answered.
"How about Logan? You looked pretty ticked off back there."
"No. I'm fine now."
Bobby took a small step to the edge of the path. "What about that Pollard guy and his pals?"
Remy shook his head. "Not enough to kill dem."
Bobby was on the path now, looking down at Remy. "Okay...how about...Magneto?"
"Seems like a waste of time t'hate someone who could care less what I thought," Remy answered.
"Sinister, then. You have to hate that guy."
Remy thought for a moment. "It's hard to hate someone when you live in holy terror of them. Look, what's de point of hating someone when you're de only one who feels the pain of dat hate? You have t'let it go, otherwise it eats you up inside, and you end up like Pollard. A bum ticker and nothin' to offer anyone but pain."
"Really? So you're what...going to forgive and forget?" Bobby asked. Remy looked up at him from where he'd propped himself up on his elbows.
"Haven't you ever heard: 'to err is human, t'forgive is divine'?" Remy asked after a moment.
"Uhm, maybe rings a bell...?" Bobby said.
"Maybe if you read Pope instead of Potter..." Remy began. "But it was Christ dat told us to forgive one another. We've been gifted with de ability to forgive, t'better know de mind of God."
Bobby stared at Remy.
"What?" Remy asked.
"It's just that I've never heard you talk this way," Bobby said, uncomfortably.
"I'm occasionally articulate," Remy answered. "And people usually get all awkward when you talk t'dem about faith and God. And things are awkward enough wit' me."
"Yeah," Bobby said, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking away. "But don't you think there are things that are unforgivable?"
"I have to believe dat with repentance it's possible to be," he answered.
Bobby hesitated, growing increasingly nervous about this conversation. "Why do you suppose your father was at the funeral home?" Bobby asked.
Remy pushed his sunglasses up off his nose to rub his eyes. "He told me he was going t'pay his respects. I assumed...wrongly-that he was goin' in t'see Tante Mattie. I should've stopped him."
"Could you have guessed he'd have gone to Pollard's calling hours instead?" Bobby asked.
Remy lowered the dark lenses back over his eyes. "I dunno. He and I had words. When I think on what I last said t'him..." he broke off, and looked away.
"It could have been just an accident," Bobby said.
"You don't know my father. Nothing he does is an accident. He was there for a reason. My guess is that it would be de easiest way t'take care of Pollard's crew, before they began jockeying for position. I thought I knew what motivated Jean-Luc...now I'm not so sure. I thought I knew where he'd draw the line...I was wrong."
"Well, I guess you got me beat on 'Daddy Issues,'" Bobby said.
"C'est vrai," Remy responded, looking at the dog who had settled down alongside him.
"What are you doing hanging out in a graveyard?" Bobby asked.
Remy turned and craned his neck to look at the crypt behind him. It was less ornate than many of the others, decorated only with a crowned sun. "Just talkin' t'my brother," he responded. The frieze below the pediment read: LEBEAV. "He was always good at listening."
Bobby stared at the crypt. There were several names carved on marble plaques with birth and death years. Jacques LeBeau, who had died in the early 1900s. Beneath Jacques was Jean-Luc's name with a given birth year in the late 19th century. Bobby had a bit of trouble figuring that out, since that would make him well over a century old. Henri LeBeau was below Jean-Luc, with birth and death dates that would have made him in his fifties when he'd died. Remy's name was beneath Henri's.
"Don't you think it's strange seeing your name on a tomb?" Bobby asked.
Remy sat up and crossed his legs. "We've got a different way of looking at death here," Remy replied, picking at the grass. "When you live every day with your own mortality staring you in de face, it's not so scary. It's easier t'come t'terms with it."
Bobby pointed at Remy's birth year. "That can't be right," he said. "There's no way you're younger than me."
"Are you sayin' I look old?" Remy said, the corner of his mouth hooked upward. "Or are you just mad you ain't de little baby brother of de family anymore?"
"I haven't been the baby in years!" Bobby said, his arms extended out to his sides. "Anyway, everything here is upside-down. The police are criminals...the criminals run the city...the dead are buried aboveground...! Everything here is just...weird!"
"With everything you've experienced as an X-Man, I suppose dat's sayin' something," Remy said. He scratched the top of the dog's head. After a moment he said: "Want to see something really weird?"
"Not really," Bobby said.
Remy lifted himself from the grass to sit on the base of the crypt. He leaned back against the marble wall behind him, covering his name. "Used t'be we'd bring our girls here on dates," Remy told him.
"How romantic," Bobby said.
Remy smiled at him. "De marble stays cold, and when you have no air conditioning, you look for a comfortable place to go make out."
"That's actually kind of clever in a disturbing sort of way," Bobby said. "But not very respectful of the dead person you're making out on top of."
"I wouldn't mind seein' some action after I'm dead," Remy said.
"You freak me out sometimes," Bobby told him. "Okay, so show me this weird thing."
Remy bounced to his feet. "Follow me," he said, walking away from the family crypt.
Reluctantly, Bobby trailed after him. They walked over several rows through the cemetery. Remy came to a halt in front of a white marble Greco-Roman statue of a man. The statue was larger than life, and mounted on a pillar so you had to look up at it. The man was of indeterminate age, with a face and gaze like that of a Caesar. He was even dressed in a Roman fashion, with a cape draped over a breastplate and leather skirt, his legs bare save for sandals. The marble statue held its hand out in a benevolent way as it looked nobly into the distance. "Okay, so what's so weird about it?" Bobby asked. "I've seen stranger."
Remy beckoned him closer. "Stand here," Remy instructed.
Bobby stood as directed. "Yeah?"
"Okay, now look up."
Bobby looked. Right up the skirt of the statue. "Oh, God!" he said, clapping a hand over his eyes. "That's appalling!"
Bobby hastily backed up from out of the shadow of the indecent statue. Remy pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and laughed.
"That guy must think a lot of himself," Bobby said.
"He erected it as a tribute to his own vanity," Remy replied with a smile.
"Please don't say the word 'erect.' Who is this creep?" Bobby asked, looking at the base of the statue for a name.
"We called him The Antiquary," Remy said.
"So what does that mean? He liked to go antiquing?"
Remy shook his head slowly. "No, he was a...collector. But y'can see he had a fondness for de Roman way of things."
"Okay, so he liked to collect ancient history," Bobby said.
"Not so ancient," Remy replied. "Not when the members of your family trace their roots back to Gomer."
"The only Gomer I know is Gomer Pyle."
Remy shook his head. "No, Gomer son of Japheth."
"Not helpful."
Remy sighed. "Japheth son of Noah."
"Noah?" Bobby asked incredulously.
"You know de guy...with de ark and the animals and the two-by-two..." Upon seeing the blank look on Bobby's face he continued: "An ark is a really big boat-."
"I know what an ark is!" Bobby said.
"Okay, well, then you get an idea of how far back our traditions might go then. And the Roman way is new when you compare it to Celtic Gallic culture of de Guild's ancestry."
"The Celtics are Irish, not French," Bobby replied. "Because their team jerseys are green and gold with a four leaf clover."
Remy folded his arms. "Nooo...and it's Kell-tic, not Sell-tic. Celtic Gaul extended from Britannia down through France and Belgium on into Greece and what is now modern-day Turkey. Gaul was sacked by the Roman Empire in 50 BC, and most of the Gauls were either killed or enslaved. Everyone else was assimilated into the Roman way of doing things, except for what is now the Thieves' Guild. They're basically all that exists of an ancient druidic culture."
"You've got to be joking," Bobby said dryly.
"Y'all wanted me to explain myself," Remy said.
"I didn't expect a history lesson!" Bobby exclaimed. "I certainly didn't expect that the boat your family stepped off of was an ark! Or that there were druids involved! Druids! At least that explains your weird clothes."
"Our Guild was influenced somewhat by the Greeks, at the very least when it came to textiles. We should all be thankful we're not wearing animal hides."
"I thought you guys were like, super Catholic," Bobby observed.
"We were converted by Paul...The apostle," he clarified. "And a lot of de rituals are de same."
"But then there's this guy!" Bobby said, pointing to The Antiquary. "Who thinks he's Caesar!"
"He is a Caesar," Remy replied. "A descendant of one, anyway."
"Oh for-!"
"I told you the Gauls were taken as slaves, the women and children. Rome respected de ferocity of the Gallic fighters so much, they executed them on the field of battle rather than enslave them. Caesar got himself a few lady slaves... Well, like I said, Gaul was assimilated, one baby at a time. The Guild kept itself apart and hidden, to preserve the old ways and the knowledge. Eventually, there were some Romans who came over to our way of thinkin'. But they were more soldiers than scholars. They eventually became the Assassins' Guild. They did the protectin' and the Thieves' Guild did the studyin'. And eventually there came a division between the two, and the fighters and the students have been at each others' throats for centuries over de best way t'do things."
Bobby stared. "That sounds a bit familiar..." he began. "Is that why you left Utopia for the school?"
Remy seemed caught off guard. "Wha-I...," he began. "I guess I never really thought about it."
"So is all this what they taught you in Thief University over there?" Bobby said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the LeBeau home.
"Among other t'ings," Remy said. "Like history, philosophy, art, architecture, music, math, science..."
"And don't forget picking locks, climbing in and out of windows, crawling through air ducts, and robbing people blind," Bobby commented.
"Yes, that too. But what use is that if you don't even know what it is you're stealin'?"
"Does it help your victims to know they are getting robbed by a higher class of criminal, an educated one?"
"I suppose not," Remy replied, leaning back against the statue. "Mebbe I should've had Mercy explain all dis t'you. You wouldn't have been such a jerk to her."
"I'm not a—-," Bobby began. "Okay. Fine. I'm a little tired. And also it's really hot, so I'm cranky. So, you learned all of that and managed to be a thief too. No wonder you guys don't get weekends."
"No, no weekends," Remy said, "or Spring Break. Jean Grey School is a cake walk. And they're whinin' about de toilets spewin' lava every once in awhile. We're supposed t'start studying as soon as we can hold a crayon."
"Well, that doesn't sound like much fun," Bobby said.
"I had fun on occasion. I got a later start than most."
"Did you get special privileges?" Bobby asked. "For being Le Dee-Abla Blonk?"
Remy sighed. "No, I was stuck under The Antiquary's care," Remy said pointing up at the statue. "Somehow he got de impression I was an idiot. Don't know what gave him that idea. Maybe he thought I was just another pretty face."
"I thought you grew up on the streets?" Bobby asked.
"I did, but I didn't start off there. The Antiquary paid t'have me stolen...or kidnapped...when I was an infant," he began. "I lived wit' him until I was five or so, I don't really recall. I was glad to be away from him in any case. The Antiquary felt dat since I was bought and paid for, he could do as he pleased wit' me."
Bobby's discomfort with the conversation intensified. He thought he might have understood what Remy was telling him but really didn't want to. "Well, I hope he kept the receipt!" Bobby blurted out. He felt his face turn red. Dammit! he thought. Foot-in-mouth takes another victim!
Remy pinned Bobby with a stare.
"Oh...Um...I'm-sorry!" Bobby said.
If anything, Remy's gaze became more intense and his eyes lit with an inner glow. The enigmatic expression on his face transformed into realization. He broke into a smile. "A receipt!" Remy said suddenly. "Why didn't I think of it? Super!" His exclamation sounded like: Sou-pare! to Bobby's ears.
Bobby stood there looking perplexed. He'd really thought for a moment that Remy was going to throttle him.
"Robert, you're a genius!" Remy said, suddenly enthusiastic. "And I thought Hank was de smart one!"
"Hank is the smart one," Bobby responded. "I'm the funny one."
Remy made a skeptical face. "I thought you were the dorky one."
"No, that's Scott you're thinking of," Bobby responded.
"No, no I'm pretty sure it's Jean that was the funny one," Remy said. "I got all her jokes."
Bobby was getting irritated. There was no way that Jean was funnier than him. "Jean was the pretty one!"
"I thought that was Warren."
"Okay. You got me there."
Remy shook his head. He rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin and looked down. "Gettin' in is a two person job, at least," he muttered to himself.
"What's that?" Bobby asked.
"Mebbe I could convince Emil...he's talked me into going along wit' plenty of his hare-brained schemes b'fore..."
"What scheme?" Bobby asked louder.
"No...it's too dangerous. I could get him in real trouble if we were found out..." Remy continued. "I can't risk him getting into trouble on account a me."
"Hey! What are you talking about?"
Remy looked at Bobby absently, still absorbed in his own thoughts. "I have t'break into de Velvet Ministry," he said.
"The what now?" Bobby asked.
Remy shook his head dismissively. "Our Guild archives," he said. "Dere's information dere I need. But I won't be able to get to it so easy."
"Well. Maybe I can help."
Remy regarded him skeptically, his eyes looking Bobby over. Suddenly, he came to a conclusion. "You are de smart one!"
"Hank will be in for a surprise."
"You're perfect!" Remy added. "Y'think you're up for a little B and E?"
"I'm not going to a bed and breakfast with you."
"No, not BEE and BEE. BEE and EEE, as in: breakin' and enterin'!"
"Oh," Bobby said, and suddenly he imagined himself suspended from wires, Ethan Hunt style, while performing high-tech theft and espionage. "Sounds awesome!"
Remy beamed at him. "Great!" he said, pulling out his cellphone to check the time. "We don't have much time...We'll have t'go now."
"Shouldn't we change?" Bobby was envisioning himself in black Kevlar. It went great with the wires. Maybe a cool headset too.
Remy looked at him. "No, you're fine as you are. Cheap rumpled black suit, tired expression... Yeah, dat's perfect. Can you look a little more like an accountant? Like, I dunno, glasses or something?"
"What?" Bobby asked, and his dream scenario vanished.
"You're right, I guess you can't. Dat's okay. Can you do a British accent?"
"'Ello, guv'nah! Pip, pip, cheerio!" Bobby said.
Remy cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Nope. Nevermind. Your usual New York accent should be fine."
"I don't have an accent," Bobby said.
"Yeah, you do," Remy responded.
"I do not!"
"Sure. Say: carport," Remy asked.
Sensing a trap, Bobby responded: "No!"
"Do it!" Remy commanded, pointing at him. "Say 'carport'!"
"'Carport.' There, I said it."
"No, say it how you normally say it."
Bobby sighed, defeated. "Okay. Fine. Cah-pawht. Happy now?"
Remy laughed. "Doesn't even sound like English!" he crowed. "Cah-pawht!"
"Okay, you've made your point."
"Not so funny when someone's makin' fun of your accent, is it, New Yawk?"
"Didn't you say we don't have much time?" Bobby asked.
"I just need t'get a few things, but we're good t'go."
"What about the dog?" Bobby asked, pointing to Rothko.
Remy looked at the dog. "I need him. I could use an extra pair of eyes, as a lookout."
"I thought that was my job," Bobby complained. "I thought we were going on a heist."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm going on de heist," Remy said. "The dog is de lookout."
"What am I supposed to do?"
Remy smiled. "You're the diversion."
"What is this place?" Bobby asked. They were standing across the street from a sprawling brick Greek Revival home with bright white columns and black shutters at each of the tall windows. It had a large front porch and balcony on the second floor. The house was surrounded by a decorative but tall wrought iron fence. The walkway leading to the front of the home was blocked by a gate that stood between two tall marble pillars.
"Dis is The Velvet Ministry," Remy told him. "It's where de Guild scholars live, where we keep all de knowledge and history of de Thieves' Guild."
The house was a stark contrast to the LeBeau family home; opulent and pristine whereas the LeBeau home was spartan and worn. "Fancy digs," Bobby said.
"Yeah, de lap of luxury...," Remy said, staring at the house.
"Why is your guys' house so...well, not so fancy as this?"
Remy turned away from the mansion. "We've pledged ourselves to a life of simplicity and near-poverty, taking only what we need t'live. Food, clothing, a roof over our heads. To make up for de sin of theft."
"Seriously?" Bobby asked, looking at Remy. "But what about all the stuff you steal? What happens to it?"
"Used to be we'd tithe de majority of our takings to our Benefactress, Candra, in exchange for an extended life. What was left went here," he gestured to the house, "and de remainder was disseminated to de nine clans. Our power was in knowledge, and dat knowledge was preserved here by our scholars."
"What knowledge?" Bobby asked.
Remy was pensive. "Knowledge of de Old Kingdom," he finally said. "Or what you might call Eden."
"As in: Garden of...?" Bobby asked.
"Yes. Paradise on earth, the knowledge of which was passed down from generation to generation of thief. Our lives were prolonged so de knowledge wouldn't be diluted. But after several millennia, things do have a way of changin'. Things get forgotten, lost, or stolen."
"Stolen. Go figure."
"It's a terrible crime t'steal from de family," Remy said.
"First rule of the Thieves' Guild...don't steal from the Thieves' Guild."
Bobby could tell by Remy's expression that he didn't understand the Fight Club reference. "You might as well have lived under a rock," Bobby told him.
"I was raised by a mystical cult of thieves," Remy said. "Would you cut me some slack?"
"Okay, fine. But when we get back home, you're going to be watching a lot of DVDs. Total pop culture immersion."
"I have at least made it to de mid-seventies..." Remy replied. "I know who Spock and Big Bird are."
"It's a start," Bobby replied. "So we're going in there? What do you need me to do?"
"Well, if you think I'm out of touch, be prepared. De people who live here...are outside of de realm of what passes for Guild normal," Remy explained.
"Oh, geez. How weird are we talking?"
Remy hesitated. "Dis is going t'sound...not politically correct," he began. "But de people who don't conform to Guild standards get sent here, pledged to a life of scholarship to serve in whatever capacity they can. Some are...physically impaired. Or have other disabilities. Or are homosexual. In older times, it was considered an honor to have a place here. You were given special leeways and treatment. Revered."
"And you were placed here?" Bobby asked.
Remy nodded once. "When The Antiquary came into power years before I was born, things changed. He turned what should've been a life of quiet scholarship and contemplation into a bastion of power, keeping de knowledge for himself. He started his own side-business, acquiring anomalies... Children who were diff'rent, which he purchased and traded for favors. One of his clients was Candra. He had some sort of agreement with her, and my father had no say in de matter. The Velvet Ministry was no longer a place where people who didn't fit in to de structure of de Guild could go and still have a home. It became a house of...vice."
"That's awful!" Bobby said, aghast.
Remy's face was sad. "Jean-Luc eventually found a way to displace him. The Antiquary is gone now. Dead, I hope. And de kids dat were kept here are free, at home wit' Mercy and Emil and Zoe, who are all a little outside de norm themselves. I won't let anything happen to those kids. Think what you like about de Guilds, about me, but de world outside with Les Autres would be a shock to them."
"I don't know what to say. I'm glad they've got a home, any home where they're not going to be...," Bobby began, then stopped himself. "So what's the plan?"
Remy nodded and handed Bobby items they'd purchased at a local convenience store from a plastic sack. A folio with paper, a fountain pen, and auction catalogs from Christie's and Sotheby's. He loosened Bobby's tie. "Follow my lead," he told Bobby.
They crossed the street to the front gate. There was an intercom on one of the pillars. Remy depressed a button below it. When there was no response, he pressed the button again and again, then leaned on it. Finally, a voice spoke from the intercom.
"What is it!" it asked impatiently.
"The prodigal son has returned!" Remy said brightly.
"LeBeau..." the voice growled. "What do you want?"
"Open up, I've got business t'attend to."
"You have no business here," the voice snapped. "If you wish an audience, you need to make the requests through the proper channels."
"No time for dat, Tome or Hoard or whichever one you are," Remy said. "I have a special guest here from New York who's here t'appraise de collections. For insurance purposes. I'd be so sorry for dere to be another fire here," Remy said, not sounding sorry at all.
The voice on the other end of the intercom cleared his throat nervously. "You...you can make an appointment and come back at a more...reasonable hour!"
Remy wrapped his hands around the bars of the gate. "I don't have time for dis!" Remy said. "Now open up, or I'll huff...and I'll puff..." His hands began to glow.
There was a loud buzzing noise and the gates were opened.
Remy smiled at Bobby. "It's time t'get things started!" he sang.
"The Muppet Show. I'll check that off the list."
They proceeded up the walk with the dog walking between them. They were greeted at the door by two men, one short, one tall. Both unfriendly.
"Dis is Drake Roberts," Remy told them. "You'll be nice and show him 'round de place. Let him get a feel for de collections."
Bobby nodded at the two men, attempting an air of detached superiority.
The two men, Tome and Hoard as Remy had named them, looked at one another. "Very well," the short one said.
They were permitted entry. "The animal stays outside," the tall one said, pointing at the dog.
"He's a specially trained guard dog," Remy told them. "We're testin' out some new security measures."
Tome and Hoard sneered but relented.
The entryway was large with two curving staircases that led up to the second floor landing. There was a bronze statue of a nude man falling on his broken shield in the center of the foyer. Above was a glittering chandelier. At the top of the staircase centered on the wall was a large oil painting of The Antiquary in the same Roman garb as his monument in Metairie. He was holding an infant with black and red eyes in one arm and held a key in his other outstretched hand. He was portrayed leading his followers from darkness, all young men, into the light shining upon him. Bobby almost barfed in his own mouth.
"Why don't we start in de study?" Remy said. "Show him all de good stuff first. Then he can make a guesstimate based on that-so we can get de hell out of here."
"I should probably see everything," Bobby said authoritatively. "I don't do 'guesstimates.'"
Remy let out a belabored sigh and rolled his eyes. "How long is dis going t'take?"
"I'll need at least an hour," Bobby said and Remy blinked at him. Twice. "Or two," Bobby amended.
"Fine!" Remy said with exasperation.
"If you will follow us..." Tome or Hoard said. They walked off the entryway into a library that extended to the second story above. The curtains were drawn and the room was dim. Where there weren't bookshelves, there were paintings and statues and artifacts in cases. It was like a museum. The carpeting was plush beneath their feet. The room was filled with dark shining wood tables and chairs all lit with the soft glow of desk lamps, empty of their scholars.
"Well," Remy said, gesturing airily at the room around him. "Do your thing."
Bobby straightened his tie. "If you'd like to direct me to the more substantial pieces you wish to insure...?" Bobby said to Tome. He decided that the one carrying the book in his arms as if it were a baby was Tome.
Remy sighed and picked up a Faberge egg from a display case and tossed it from hand to hand. Tome set his book down and ran over to Remy, snatching it from his hands.
"Don't...touch!" he scolded. Bobby put his catalogs down on top of the book Tome had set on the table, then opened his folio and clicked his pen open smartly.
Rothko was sniffing inquisitively at a suit of armor. He turned, positioned himself, and lifted his leg. "Nooo!" screamed Hoard.
"Get out!" Tome yelled at Remy, pointing to the door. "Take that dog with you!"
Remy shrugged and whistled to the dog. They left the room, abandoning Bobby to the two scholars. Bobby looked at the clock. Two hours starting now...he thought morosely.
"Can you believe that idiot was to be trained for a life of scholarship?" Tome asked Bobby.
"If we could just get started...? My time is not inexpensive," Bobby informed him.
Apparently, Tome and Hoard responded well to disdain because they bowed and scraped and went on and on in expansive detail about the collections. Bobby picked up his catalogs, the folio, and the book Tome had been so protective of in his arms and followed them. Minutes stretched on for years.
"One fountain pen...twenty dollars...One folio...thirty-two dollars," Bobby wrote. "Time with Gambit's creepy family...priceless." He scratched the last part out and wrote: "an interminable nightmare."
Hoard tried to look at what Bobby was writing. Bobby held the notepad to his chest protectively and gave the man a glare. "Anything else you see as important?" Bobby asked.
"Well, if you'll look over here at this vaaahse," the man began. "You can see it is a significant example of-."
"I'll be the judge of that," Bobby said snippily. The clock slowly ticked. Come on, Gambit! he thought.
Bobby continued to doodle and the two squirrelly men droned on and on. The clock ticked. "Let me come up with some figures," Bobby told them, sitting himself at one of the tables.
"We still have numerous rooms to go through," Tome said. He now seemed to be thrilled that he had a captive audience.
"Don't tell me how to do my job," Bobby told him, and flipped through one of the auction catalogs. He was finding it surprisingly easy to be mean to these men. Maybe because they were complacent with the purchase and sale of innocent children.
More bowing and scraping. The clock ticked. Fifteen more minutes...Bobby thought, glancing sidelong at the clock. Fifteen minutes turned into twenty, then twenty-five. Where was Gambit?
From the foyer came the soft jingle of a dog's tags. Rothko appeared in the study entryway. Bobby nearly groaned aloud in relief. Remy followed behind the dog, looked around the room absently and yawned. "Can we go now?" he whined.
Bobby slammed his folio shut. "I think I've seen enough," he said.
"But-but the other rooms..." Hoard began.
"If this is the best you have to show me, then I think we're through here," Bobby responded. "You won't be pleased with my estimates," he informed Remy.
Remy shrugged. "Meh," he said. "I'll take you back t'your hotel, Mr. Roberts."
"Good day," Bobby told the two men.
"But-," Tome said helplessly.
"I said 'good day'!" and turned to follow Remy from the study.
Together, they walked down the walkway and through the gates. Once they were out of sight of the mansion, Bobby turned on Remy. "What took so long? That was horrible!"
"De thing I was lookin' for wasn't where I thought it'd be," Remy said.
"What were you looking for?" Bobby asked.
"We keep records in de archives...who stole what, when, and from who. If what I was told was true...which is isn't...then there should have been a record of Jean-Luc's theft and a description of what he stole twenty-six years ago...namely, me."
"You'd think you wouldn't want a paper trail for that kind of thing," Bobby observed.
"The records are not in any place dat's easy to get to...and sometimes it's useful t'go back to de them when you need t'steal somethin' back or blackmail someone."
"Oh, right. Of course, I should have thought of that. Speaking of which, I got you something."
"What's dat?" Remy said, pausing on the sidewalk.
Bobby turned to him and presented him with the book. "Tome had this. It looked like he was nursing it. So I thought it might be important."
Remy took the book from him, his expression dazed. "You stole dis? For me?"
"Five-finger discount!" Bobby said, raising his arm to show Remy his palm. Remy was still looking at him with an expression of bewilderment. "C'mon man, don't leave me hangin'." When Remy continued to stare open-mouthed, Bobby took his other hand and forced Remy to return his high-five.
Remy looked down at the book. "I don't know what t'say. I'm...touched. And it's not even my birthday yet!"
"See next time, I can be upgraded to lookout!" Bobby said proudly and Remy grinned at him. "You were saying about the theft records...?"
"Right...there was no record of any theft of a child. I thought at first that maybe Jean-Luc had de record redacted."
"Why?"
Remy hesitated. "Dere's something he didn't want me t'know. Somethin' he and Tante Mattie had kept secret."
"And you didn't find it?" Bobby asked, disappointed.
"I started thinkin' about what you said about a receipt...," Remy began. "So on a whim, I looked in de purchases...not de thefts. You were right. Dere was a receipt, a written agreement."
"Really? So he didn't pay to have you stolen, he bought you straight up. From whom? What kind of person sells a kid?"
Remy pulled a file from under his jacket where he'd tucked it into the back of his jeans. He was holding it in his hand in front of him. His face looked a little pale.
"What's wrong?" Bobby asked, suddenly afraid. "You're not going to flip out again are you?"
Remy took a deep breath, then opened the file. He pulled a document from the sheaf of paperwork inside. It was a signed agreement. Remy's hand shook a little as he held the document out to Bobby. Bobby looked at the signatures at the bottom of the agreement. One bore the seal of The Antiquary. The other was a woman's name. A name he recognized. "Oh...my, God," he said. He looked back up at Remy. "What does this mean? Does it mean...is this...do you think she could be-your mother?"
Remy shook his head slowly. "I don't know," he said, his voice hoarse. "If it is...if she really is...then, I don't know what to think."
"There are ways to find out," Bobby said, trying to sound certain in light of Remy's sudden doubt. "We'll find out for sure. If not, then...good. Maybe you won't know who your real mom is, but..."
"And if she is?" Remy said, his eyes anxious.
"We'll figure that out later. For now, we'll just say nothing at all about it. To anybody."
Remy nodded and took the document back. He looked at it one last time before returning it to the file and hiding the folder under his jacket.
"Okay. Sounds like a plan," he said.
Here's the statue in The Antiquary's House: .org/wiki/Dying_Gaul
Learn about Gaul: .org/wiki/Gaul
The most famous Gaul of them All: ..fr?rub=francais
Next time: You can't spell funeral without F-U-N! And Gambit comes clean...mostly.
