THE MUDDLED MYSTERY OF THE MURDERED MUSE, Chapter 34: Monsieur Jacques du Caf

The Muddled Mystery of the Murdered Muse is a full-length novel, presented to you in Medium-sized chapters twice a week (Tuesday and Friday), that tells the story of Sebastian Holden, a paranoirmal investigator who solves the strangest cases this side of Jersey City and Brooklyn.

If you missed the previous chapter, read it here; if you’ve already read this chapter, read the next one here.

(NOTE: The character of Monsieur Jacques du Caf is not a Trigonian construct, but was created by my good friend and fellow writer Raul Garcia.)

CHAPTER 34: MONSIEUR JACQUES DU CAF

There he was as usual, sitting at the farthest booth at Miss America Diner. He had an “office” set up right there in the diner, with his own jukebox that played only the oldies and had an extensive repertoire of Frankie Valli.

There was also a bookshelf that he had custom built to fit beneath the window and the tabletop. Jacques’ collection consisted of esoteric philosophers and French poets: Baudelaire lay beside Zeno and an uneaten French fry from two days ago. Sophocles freestyled with Descartes over the dinnertime rush.

I walked past the pimped up hobo who used to frequent Al’s Diner on Communipaw for a quick glimpse at the Filipina waitress while a crew of dead beat writers ran their pens along the course napkins, no doubt writing about the various other, yet far older waitresses who haven’t changed their hairstyles since the late ’60s, back when they were the shiny new Model-Ts of the pre-fast food generation.

I walked over to Jacques, but was almost knocked over by “Speed Demon Desiree,” an aging semblance of what used to be a woman who had a severe addiction to cocaine and an ingrown hatred for her African-American husband, who happened to manage the place from 6PM to AM the next morning.

“Ahhh, Sebastián!” Jacques proclaimed in his way-too French accent, over-stressing syllables that shan’t be stressed more than they have to be.

“Jacques. It’s good to see you, my friend.”

“Please,” Jacques began, motioning to the empty seat across the tabletop from him, tattered and torn by time’s nightmares. “Sit and savor a sip with me, mon ami.”

I sat down, and “Big Man in Town” kicked in on the jukebox as if on cue. Nothing’s coincidental in this life, I thought to myself.

“You’re right about that,” Jacques replied. Strange. “Indeed.” I stopped thinking. “Life’s less complicated that way,” he said, and we both brandished awkwardly misshapen smiles like animal crackers crushed by the weight of adulthood.

“So, what brings you here?”

“You already know, Jacques.”

“Ahhhh, the case of the murdered muse, eh?”

“Not quite. But related. I think I may have been hypnotized. I think someone’s directing me away from the case. Away from the murderer.”

“Let me see your eyes, Sebastián.” Jacques gazed deep into them, his bushy gray eyebrows twitching from arthritis or intrigue, I couldn’t tell which. Then he leaned back, and a Gypsy Kings song busted out from the juke. Funny, I don’t recall Jacques ever liking them before.

“Yes, you are hypnotized, and it’s tré serious, I am afraid.” He reached for a book in his shelf. I thought he’d pull something about Uri Geller or D.B. Cooper, or maybe even something by Freud or Jung. But no…

He pulled out a thinly-spined graphic story called The Most Secret Li(f)e of Houdini.

“This is the only man who can help you.”

“Harry Houdini?!”

“Oui. Uh, sort of, actually. But first you must find Gordon Von Nestor –– graphic novelist, magician, and medium to mysteries unknown.”

>> Continue reading: Chapter 35: The Escape Artiste >>