Shelter from the Storm Chapter 3
All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.
The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.
Staring down at his feet, Duncan watched himself put one foot in front of the other. He lost himself in the calm nearly hypnotic rhythm of his steps. He lost all track of time. Lost all sense of his surroundings ... then some inexplicable impulse lifted his head.
He stood for a moment as he let his mind return to reality, then he looked up. The building he'd stopped before had a sign above the door. It read, Le Blues Bar. He smiled, and shook his head. His feet and his subconscious mind had taken him to Joe's. Accepting that as a sign, he stepped up to the glass-paneled doors.
Unlike the bar Joe had run in Seacouver, Le Blues Bar attracted a more sophisticated night owl crowd, so he rarely opened before nine in the evening. Using his hand as a shield to cut out the sun glare, Duncan peered inside. After his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he could see someone moving inside.
The man stood behind the bar. From his motions, it looked like he was replenishing the stock, but he was too burly to be Joe Dawson. Figuring he had nothing to lose, Duncan tested the door. It opened at his touch, so he stepped inside.
"We're closed," the man muttered without glancing up from his task.
Ignoring the admonition, Duncan ambled over to the bar. "I'm looking for Joe Dawson," he said. "Is he around?"
Before the man could answer, a thumping sound on the left caught Duncan's attention. He turned his head to check it out.
"Ya leave the door open, ya never know what'll blow inside." Joe Dawson smiled as he hobbled to Duncan's side. "Long time, no see ... how the hell are you, MacLeod?"
Duncan shrugged the question away. "I'm alive," he said, though lately he'd been wondering just how true that was. "Yourself?"
"I'm good, Mac," Joe answered, taking Duncan's outstretched hand in his. "I never thought I'd like living in Paris full time, but I'm now that I'm settled in - I like it here. Business is good. Word is spreading, and we usually get a big crowd on the weekend. I've even polished my French up enough to haggle over the price of beer."
Still struggling with conflicting emotions, Duncan couldn't maintain eye contact. He glanced around the bar as Joe spoke.
"Speaking of French," Joe continued ignoring Duncan's silence. "If you've got a few minutes, I have some invoices in the back - maybe you could help me translate them."
"Sure," Duncan said as he followed Joe to his office behind the bar. "No problem." He could handle the simple request. It gave him something to do ... and it gave him an excuse to stay.
Joe stopped at the door, then looked back over his shoulder. "Like a drink? I've got a bottle of very old single malt ... I've been saving it 'til I could share it with a friend."
Between the year in the monastery and the cleansing diet Duncan had been on, even the occasional glass of wine sent him reeling after a few sips. Still he hated to refuse. Part of him ached to get back into the mainstream of life, but the part of him that cherished the peace of the backwater still held the oars. There had to be a middle channel, but he had yet to find it.
Besides even though it was finally afternoon, it was way too early in the day to start drinking. Duncan shook his head. "Don't suppose you have any tea?" he asked.
"Tea? No, sorry," Joe said with a grin. "I just ran out." He shook his head and chuckled softly as he continued on into the tiny office. "But I do have a fresh pot of coffee."
"Coffee's good," Duncan answered, then he glanced around looking for a place to sit.
There weren't many choices. On this side of the desk, the only chair - a grey metal straight-back with patched green vinyl padding - held a stack of computer printouts. Duncan picked them up, then searched for a place to put them - not many choices there either.
Joe set a white ceramic mug filled to the brim on the desk, then reached out for the stack. "I'll take those," he said, then he dropped them on top of another pile that filled the far corner. Hooking his cane on the back of the wooden chair behind the desk, he lowered himself between its arms.
Duncan smiled, then he watched the steam curling up from his coffee. He stared at his hand as he traced the contours of the mug handle with his fingers. He had so much he should say, but no idea where to begin.
"So how have you been?" Joe asked, repeating the question he'd asked earlier. Apparently, he couldn't think of anything to say either.
"Good," Duncan answered, then he lifted the mug to his mouth. "I've been good."
"You look tired," Joe commented.
Duncan shrugged. "I've been staying up nights, lately ... reading," he lied.
They sipped their coffee in awkward silence for a few minutes, then Joe broke it. "So have you heard from Methos or Amanda?"
Duncan set his mug down, then stared at his finger as he ran it around the rim. "No ... ah, actually, I haven't," he answered without looking up.
Joe's chair creaked as he shifted his position. Still Duncan didn't look up.
"One of my people saw them on Mikonos ... together," Joe said, softly.
Duncan didn't want to hear that. "Mikonos is nice this time of year," he said for want of anything else to say. "I've been there a couple of times."
"Mmm," Joe murmured, then they fell into silence once more.
"So," Duncan said, setting his mug down at last. "I thought you had some invoices you wanted me to look at."
"Oh, yeah," Joe said. "They're right here."
Duncan thought he detected a note of relief in the other man's voice.
Joe leaned over to open one of the drawers, then he pulled out a stack of papers. He dropped them on the desk, then slid them across to Duncan. "I've been reading them without too many problems, but this new wine supplier has me stumped. I'm not sure what he's charging me. He speaks English, but he's a snooty son of a bitch and he refuses to explain his bills."
Duncan laughed. "I've met the type," he said picking up the top invoice.
For the next half hour, Duncan went through the bills with Joe. They discussed the snobbery of most wine merchants, and they chatted about France in general. They talked about the bar, and duties on imported beer. They touched on the weather, and the price of single malt. Before long, they slipped easily into a comfortable camaraderie.
Duncan thought perhaps they'd made it over the hump. Perhaps they were back on familiar ground. He held onto that thought until no more invoices littered the desk top. Once again, silence and innate male reluctance to discuss emotional subjects slammed the door between them.
"More coffee," Joe asked, breaking the silence at last. More trivialities - that's all they could deal with lately - trivial matters. Coffee, the weather and the price of booze. Were these the only safe topics of conversation?
"Thanks," Duncan replied, then he held out his mug. As he watched Joe refill it, a question that had been skating around at the back of his mind spun to the forefront. It dared him to ask it. He struggled with temerity and struggled with his conscience.
Waiting for Joe to sit down again, Duncan shifted in his chair. The question continued to nag. A year ago, he would have asked it without hesitation. Now, he wasn't sure he had a right to ask such things. He owed Joe so much. Dare he add to his debt?
The question refused to go away. "Um, Joe," he began.
"Yeah, what is it, Mac?"
"Have you ... ah, what do you know about an Immortal who calls herself Leyza Berard?"
Joe leaned forward in his chair. His eyes sparked with interest, as he wrapped his hands around his mug.
"Leyza Berard," he mused, casting his gaze to the ceiling. He scrunched up one side of his face, rubbed his chin, then shook his head. "The name doesn't ring a bell." He pinned Duncan with a speculative stare. "Why?"
Duncan shrugged. "I met her last night on Pont St. Louis near Notre Dame," he answered, watching his fingers turn the mug so he could avoid Joe's eyes.
"You fought?" Joe asked, his voice rising on a bubble of excited interest. He leaned forward.
"No," Duncan answered with a shake of his head. "We didn't fight."
Joe sighed as he sat back. "Oh," was all he said.
Duncan looked up at that. "You sound disappointed," he said, bothered by the fact that it was the first thought Joe had. He was bone-weary of the fighting and the killing. He thought Joe understood that.
"No ... ah--" Joe shifted in his chair. He leaned forward, then sat back again. He stared down at his hand as he ran it along the edge of the desk, then he laughed. "But you know, Mac ... there's damned little to put in your chronicle these days. It's a hell of a thing when the only entry in the last few weeks is that you played bocce with ah ... what's his name?"
"George Thomas," Duncan supplied, as he suppressed the twinge in his heart. "His name was George. And he died, Joe."
Joe winced. "Yeah, I was sorry to hear that," he said. "Nasty business."
Duncan shrugged. At least it hadn't been his fault - hadn't even been connected to him in any way. "What about Alex Raven? Didn't you write about her?"
"Yeah, yeah, I got that," Joe answered, "but you have to admit it wasn't exactly significant."
"What do you expect, Joe? Even an Immortal can't go around dodging swords, leaping tall buildings and rescuing the world from evil every day."
Joe sighed as he tipped his head. "Yeah, you're right," he said. "But I've kind of come to expect that from you. Right now, from my point of view, your life's a little boring."
Duncan looked up at the note of mirth in Joe's voice, and he caught the Watcher's wide grin. He grinned back. "I guess," he said. "Easy job, though."
Joe laughed. "That it is."
Again silence drifted between them, but it held less tension than before. They could laugh again and that was good.
"So do you think you could find out about Leyza Berard for me?" Duncan asked, softly. Again he didn't look up as he asked the question.
"Why this sudden interest in Leyza Berard? Did she challenge you?"
"No," Duncan said, shaking his head. "She's living in Paris, and I just like to know who's in the neighborhood." Why did he have this sudden urge to learn more about her? He didn't know.
Joe didn't respond right away, and Duncan looked up to check if he was still listening. As he did, he caught the Watcher staring at him with an intense scrutiny. The intensity puzzled him. "What?" he asked.
Joe grinned. "Well, I'll be damned ... you're interested in her aren't you?"
"Didn't I just say that?"
"Nah - you're not just interested in learning about your neighbors - you're attracted to her. And it's about time."
Duncan stood. "I think you've been sampling too much of your bar stock," he said. He tried to pace, but the room was too small, so he just stood glaring down at Joe. He shuffled his feet, then shoved his hands into his pockets.
Joe chuckled, as he shook his head. "Welcome back to the land of the living, MacLeod," he said. "In case you forgot, it's what happens between men and women ... yin and yang ... opposites attract ... all that stuff."
"Very funny," Duncan said with a snort as he sat down. This conversation was headed in the wrong direction. "Are you going to check her out for me or not?"
"I don't think so," Joe said, continuing to regard Duncan with an amused expression. "I'm your Watcher, not the Lonely Hearts Detective Agency. Why don't you just ask her what you want to know?"
Simple question. Why couldn't he answer it? "Because I don't know where she lives. I don't know if I'll see her again," he answered after a few moments.
"That's a problem then," Joe said. "Have you tried looking her up in the phone book?"
"Do you really think I'll find her in the phone book?"
Joe chuckled. "Probably not ... but there are other ways."
"You're not going to help me ... are you?"
Joe was still grinning as he shook his head. "Not this time. I don't look good in a diaper, even with a bow in my hand. I'm not gonna play Cupid for you."
Duncan glared. Joe didn't budge.
Is that what he was doing? Asking Joe to play Cupid? He'd convinced himself that his interest in Leyza was purely academic. But was it?
The details of her soft voice, her sensual smile, the heady scent of her perfume lingered in his mind. They were etched deeply, even now hours later, and merely thinking about her brought on a tingling thrum of something he hadn't felt in quite awhile. It startled him to realize that Joe was right. His interest had much far more to do with carnal knowledge, than intellectual pursuit.
This revelation would take some getting used to, and he couldn't do it with Joe staring at him like a zoologist studying a new species. He stood. "I'd ah ... better be going then," he said, trying to figure a way to make a graceful exit.
Joe stood. "Thanks for helping out with the invoices."
Duncan nodded. "Any time. You know where to find me."
Joe smiled as he came around the desk. "That's right, I do." he said, clapping Duncan on the back.
Duncan moved toward the door, then he turned. "I'll see you around, Joe."
"Yeah, see ya," Joe responded. "And Mac ... mind your head, eh?"
"Always do, Joseph," he answered chuckling. "Always do."
Their shaky relationship seemed to have righted itself again, and he caught himself humming as he left.
