THE MUDDLED MYSTERY OF THE MURDERED MUSE, Chapter 38: Jacques du Caf, Part Deux

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.

And if you missed the previous chapter, you can read it here.

CHAPTER 38: JACQUES DU CAF, PART DEUX

I don’t know how I got (back) there, but I was there, sitting at Miss America Diner on the corner of West Side and Culver in Jersey City, New Jersey, with Jacques du Caf sitting directly across from me, smiling his little Frenchie smile.

And beside me, magician and graphic novelist Gordon Von Nestor, shoveling a stack of eggs into his mouth, and washing it down with a piece of burnt toast soaked in overly creamed coffee.

“Hey guys,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Sorry, what were we talking about? I must’ve dosed off a bit.”

“Case keeping you up, eh?” Gordon mumbled through his chomping teeth.

“Yeah, must be. I had a pretty lucid dream just now. I was in San Francisco talking to a drawing of Harry Houdini, and I think he was trying to hypnotize me. Or un-hypnotize me. Or is it ‘de-hypnotize’? Anyhow, I’m here now.”

Frankie Valli’s classic Top 40 hit “December, 1963 (Oh, What a Night)” cued up on the jukebox beside us. I felt an urge to speak.

“Thanks for the help, Gordon. And you, Jacques, for pointing me to him.”

They both smiled strangely. Gordon slipped me a sheet of paper, wiped his mouth with his napkin, stiffened up, and walked off into the horizon like one of those John Wayne types at the end of a spaghetti western.

“I guess I should get back on the case, too.” I said, and stood up. I donned my green pork pie and tipped it toward Jacques. “See you around, ami!”

Jacques smiled as well, and as I walked away to the trailing away of Frankie and the Four Seasons, I opened the slip of paper, and on seeing what was within, I stopped dead in my tracks, though my breath was very much intact. I was me again. I knew I was.

What could’ve ghosted my eyes the shade of white it had turned on reading that simple sliver of paper?

When Frankie Valli’s “December, 1963 (Oh, What a Night)” comes on the jukebox, you will have said “Thanks for the help, Gordon. And you, Jacques, for pointing me to him.”

Then, another sentence materialized like Fantomas’s name on his calling cards did in that old silent serial:

You’re welcome, Sebastian.

I smiled and turned my head to Jacques. He was gone. As a matter of fact or fiction (or a little blend of both), so were all of his books, his makeshift shelf, and his cane. Everything. Vanished, as if it never even (or really) existed.

You would think I’d be used to this kind of shit by now.

>> Want more of Sebastian Holden and his Muddled Mystery of the Murdered Muse? Well, so do I, and we’ll be right back after a little word from our sponsors. (Once we find some sponsors –– this could take some time…)