The Dud Avocado - Elaine Dundy [50]
Out in the street in front of the Etats-Unis Dave Beckenfield was bawling out his friends.
“Jesus, have you left these suitcases in the car all evening? You’re damn lucky they’re still here, you jackasses. Hey, don’t take that one out, it’s mine. Christ, you fools, you ought to know better than to leave our stuff in the back of an open car like this in Paris. You might have told me.”
“Where else do you suggest we put the luggage in a Stutz Bearcat? Is there a trunk compartment under the wheels?” asked one of the boys, fed up at last.
“Aw, quit picking on it, will you? Let it be,” said Dave, flying as usual to the defense of his beloved. “Hey, I said leave that suitcase alone, it’s mine. Yeh, leave it. Just leave it.” He hopped huffily into his car. “I’m off to the Rotonde. Anyone coming?”
We went along with him, Zop-zop, Jim and I. I don’t know why. It was four o’clock in the morning and the night had fallen to pieces around us. I looked in a mirror and rubbed some of the lipstick off my mouth into my cheeks. The effect was still terrible. We sat down at a table at the Rotonde, too tired even to talk. Suddenly Jim galvanized us by leaping to his feet and racing outside. I went over to the window and looked out, expecting to see—I don’t know what; a train pulling out or pulling in, at least. I remember feeling very angry at the idea of being subjected to guessing games at this late hour, but mercifully, the tableau that followed was immediately explicit. Crazy Eyes, Jim, and Dave Beckenfield’s valise all arrived together, or rather separately, each on the arm of a flic. Crazy Eyes was snarling ferociously and at the same time rubbing his jaw, Jim was grinning an elfin little smile, and the suitcase just looked heavy. This group was closely followed by the Sinisters, who automatically fell into their favorite semicircular formation.
“Hey, what are you doing with that?” Dave Beckenfield demanded of the police, pointing to his case.
“It is yours?”
“You’re goddam right it is. What’s up, Jim?”
“I could see from the window this creep”—he pointed to Crazy Eyes—“trying to steal Beckenfield’s suitcase. He pulled a knife on me and I hit him, and then his friends tried to jump me.” The Sinisters closed in, trying to understand what Jim was saying to us so they could object, and in no time at all the air was thick with accusations. The flics finally took over. They wanted to know if Dave was going to charge Crazy Eyes with attempted theft.
“Of course,” he said without a moment’s hesitation.
So at five o’clock in the morning, dawn lighting our path, we were all carted off to the prefecture in the Paddy Wagon, or whatever it’s called in French; the Corsicans (as they turned out to be) keeping up their spirits by heaping hot coals of curses upon us by the headful. The big surprise when we got there and told our story to the Chief was that he didn’t particularly believe us. And when Crazy Eyes advanced his fairy-tale version of what had happened—how he’d simply stumbled across a suitcase lying right in the middle of the sidewalk, only to be assaulted by this American ruffian who had earlier and without any provocation tried to pick a fight with him at the Etats-Unis, it was unfortunate that the Sinisters who backed him up could technically be described as witnesses. As for the knife that Jim referred to —naturally, it couldn’t be found.
We were told that the magistrate would arrive in the morning. Everyone was to come back at nine. Everyone except Jim and Crazy Eyes. They were being detained. This was a shock to all of us, and for a moment no one spoke.
Finally Dave stepped forward and said in a surprisingly quiet and reasonable voice, “Will you be needing me as well, officer?”
“It is your suitcase is it not? Are you not accusing this man?”
“There may have been some misunderstanding officer,” said Dave thoughtfully. “Maybe the suitcase ivas left out on the sidewalk—some of