the first page

Well, fuck. Luc Poignet pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger while he stares blankly at the floor of Penn Station. There's a pencil in his other hand and a notepad across his lap. A small white tin sits next to him and a green shoulder bag at his feet. As he breathes his eye brows rise and fall like a tide of anxiety against the sea of brown curls. He tips his head to the left and squints his eyes. Then he tilts his head right. Shuts his eyes. Exhales deeply. He lets his lips go and drops his hand on to his lap. Merde, he whispers. Twists the pencil into his hair behind his ear and opens his eyes. The sun slugs thru the revolving doors of the station like a sun-burnt and sleepy fan the evening after a well-liquored sporting event. Ok. He tosses the green bag over his shoulder with a deep sigh of rationale. With the white tin and notepad in his hands he crosses the marble hall of Philadelphia's majestic station and approaches a row of payphones. He stops at one with a McDonald's bag and bottle of Dr.Pepper shoved between the shelf and the phone. He takes the empty bottle and places it two phones to the left. He puts his tin below the phone between the two littered stalls. He draws a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and scans the screen until Henri Duris appears. Luc lifts the receiver and dials several strings of numbers followed by brief pauses before finally glimpsing at the mobile again. He palms the nape of his neck and nods his head slightly with each ring. After the sixth, a raspy and uncertain voice answers.

'Allo?'

'Henri.' Luc knows he will call him Poignet, because to Henri, Luc does not exist, only Poignet and Poignet is an immature and lackadaisical mess with an American accent.

'Poignet?'

'Yes, it's me.'

'C'est deux heures du matin, mon ami, que veux-tu, idiot?'

Luc knows it is 4 am in Paris. Luc knows Henri is sleeping. Luc knows that waking up Henri is dangerously stupid. Luc doesn't care. 'I'm in a spot.'

'Euh…merde, Luc.' Luc had expected him to say Quelle surprise, Luc so he is pleased with this response and smiles.

'I know, but I've got a plan.'

'Well, 'ave you sung yet?'

'No, no… it won't crack for a few another day or so.'

'Et puis?'

'I'm coming to Paris. I'll need you to get a for things…in order for me before I arrive.'

'Ok… well… I can get you a garden, a couple of wrenches and probably track to either LaRouchelle or Cannes.'

Luc bites his lip and runs his palm across his forehead.

'No, I'm gonna need a safe - but not for long - and I'll work on the track, I'm just lilypadding. But I also need some literature, Henri, that's why I called you.'

'Oh, my disaster of a friend…' There is a long pause. 'What kind?'

'Milles mercies, Henri, n'importe quoi… j'arrive demain, ou?'

'Oh, I see, now you speak your tongue… rue Vauvilliers, you disgrace of a Frenchman, and nothing in the area will take your stupid credit cards. So plan a 'ead, eh?'

'Moi? Toujours,' Luc smiles, 'Thank you, again.'

'Oui, oui.. bonne chance, you bastard.'

Luc laughs and the line drops. Fabuleux, he says, and now for the show.
He slides the white tin and notepad into his shoulderbag and crosses the station again. Luc enters a men's clothing store called Vinny's. The store says three words to Luc: Overpriced, instantly gratifying.