"Lissen, lissen. Seriously now, this is seriously…serious."

Raoul nodded…or wobbled; I couldn't be certain which.

"I need to talk about my wife. My little Angel," I burbled.

Raoul lurched over and patted my cheek. "Don't cry, Grandpapa; here."

I took a pull from our communal brandy. "I'm gonna die, Raoul."

"WHAT? WHAT?" Raoul fell to hysterical sobbing. "Ohhhh, god…"

"No, no," I waved his panic off a little too vehemently and flung myself off the sofa. "Yeow, goddammit." After three attempts to haul myself back up, I surrendered. "What the hell are you laughing at, you moron? That hurt!"

He was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. "It wouldn't hurt if you had an ass, you bony git!"

"I hope you piss yourself, Comte Pinky. Go ahead and waste flesh on your ass. Mine's all in front."

"Just don't show me."

"Lissen! I'm old, is all," I groused. "I need you to look after Christine when I'm gone. I keep trying to tell her to find a good man to take care of her, but she refuses to discuss it."

"I'm a good man," he offered.

"I know; that's what I mean."

-0-0-0-0-

L'Epoque reported a series of assaults against men soliciting a prostitute in a particular area of the city. 'A prostitute'…

Trying to locate a particular whore seemed like an especial absurdity, but I'm not exactly an authority on such things. I'm more the 'Here's a ton of money; do you suppose ANYONE would be willing?' type.

Once again, I resorted to Raoul's area of expertise; who knew he had any? The boy is a marvel. Actually, he wasn't much help. I should have recalled he goes for the fancy brothel types, not the let's-just-slip-down-this-alley types. However, we paid a call to his Madam friend. I wish I could have captured the expression on her face when Raoul asked if we could speak in private.

"Aubine, you remember Erik," Raoul opened, shutting the door.

"Of course, Erik," she purred, offering her hand.

"Madame."

"Oh, no…Aubine," she laughed. "How may I help you, Erik?" She stood too close; her eyes were bottomless chocolate pools. You'd've thought Raoul had vanished off the face of the earth. It would have been a deadly routine, except she was working it on the Most Married Man in the world, poor tart.

I cleared my throat. "I'm, ah, looking for a girl…" She giggled. "A particular girl."

"Oh?" she gave a disappointed pout; nothing like my Angel's pout.

"She works the street, Aubine," Raoul interjected.

That made no sense to Aubine. "But, Erik…" she placed her hand on my chest. "Those girls are so dirty," she crinkled her nose up.

Here is something interesting I've learned: there's a particular sort of woman who'll never get be able to bring herself to help you unless you persuade her you're dying to make love to her. I slipped an arm around Aubine and whispered, "Not for me, Cheri…of course not." She made a happy sound and scooted in closer; better. "I think she knows something about those men that have been beaten."

"You're not a policeman, Erik," she reminded me, a bit of frost creeping into her voice.

"But the man who is doing this…I may know him," I persisted. I let my hand slide onto her bottom. Not bad for an older gal; Christine's was perkier, though. True, Aubine was older than my Angel, but I'll bet she hadn't borne six children. "I need to find out, Cheri. How can I find her?" I nuzzled her temple.

I finally escaped Aubine with my honor and a bit of information. Still, it took several days for me to track Annemarie down. Finally, a redhead with an easy laugh told me where Annemarie might be found. "You'll have more fun with me than Annemarie, Lover."

"Oh, I'm sure of it…" A skinny fellow like me could've crawled into her bodice and never been heard from again. I'll bet I drooled.

"Anyway, it's not safe to go with her, haven't you heard?"

"Yah, that's why I'm looking for her."

"Come back and see me?"

"I'm married, Pigeon," I confessed.

"I don't mind, Lover."

"I know; I do."

-0-0-0-0-

"Annemarie." Her smile flickered when she turned and realized it was me. Poor child didn't want to say yes, but couldn't say no to money. She tried to smile again. "No, Child; I want to ask you about those men that were attacked."

"No; I don't know anything about it," she insisted, moving away.

"The man that did it, Annemarie–"

"No, I never saw him." She started to run. Thank God I'm a former fiend; even in my pathetic condition, I can catch a little whore.

She admitted the men had been soliciting her when they were attacked. She claimed she ran and never saw the man. I didn't believe it, but I didn't want to argue. I told her I intended to keep company with her until I was jumped by her overly protective swain. She fretted about making a living with me monopolizing her time until I assured her that I'd pay her, for, ah, nothing but conversation. I found it particularly ironic that she was unwilling to actually assist the police (or me, for that matter), since a persistent suitor like Masson was undoubtedly bad for business as well. We chatted for awhile, agreed to meet at the inn the next evening, and I walked her home without incident. What a world.

The next night, I enjoyed coffee and a tart–pardon the pun–while Annemarie ate. Healthy appetite–for food, anyway. After supper we strolled a block or so, then turned down an alley Annemarie frequented. We slipped into the yard and away from the lamp, and that's all it took. A strong arm was thrown over my shoulder and a medicinal-smelling rag was shoved into my face as I was forced to the ground. The last thing I was conscious of was Annemarie, running away like the devil was after her.