The Day of the Ferret by Michael Woodman

Author:Michael Woodman [Woodman, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Connlaswell Publishing
Published: 2021-11-22T00:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

Felicity’s phone rang.

“I’ve found the heart,” Dimo said.

“You remember what to do?”

“I am not an idiot.”

Felicity dodged the issue, plowing away with her recap and emphasizing the need to take the photo of the heart before erasing it rather than after. When the call was done, she waited for the photo.

92/50

That was the grave number written in the FBI/Ferret heart. She went to her laptop and was soon thumbing through Wikipedia’s account of the life of Victor Noir. What an asshole! To get shot arranging a duel where someone else was supposed to get shot required a talent for blundering that was exceptional even among males. Inevitably, that line of thinking led her to Gatlin, although there was little point in calling him until she’d heard from Dimo and he’d confirmed that the switcheroo Edith Piaf grave heart had replaced the FBI/Ferret’s Victor Noir tomb. So she waited, shuffling through Google images of the relevant tombs, and following up on Victor’s shiny dick… pages and pages of images…

Only the French.

Gatlin entered Père Lachaise by the same gate as the day before, and when he checked his map, he discovered that Jim Morrison’s grave was at the other end of the cemetery. Not to worry. It was a fine day with the sun threatening to bust through the gray clouds at any moment, and he was enjoying the promenade. After reviewing several possible routes, he took the Circular Avenue. It was longer, but easier. So at least he wouldn’t get lost. He strutted off. He didn’t have the diamonds yet, but it felt like he did.

Hold on…

Gatlin ducked behind a headstone barely two blocks into his journey.

Dimo.

He was spitting on the glass around Oscar’s tomb, then rubbing it with his elbow. Gatlin peeked over the headstone and watched him. Spit-rub, spit-rub… there he goes again. He was wearing a denim jacket and after each spit, he would tug on the jacket sleeve before grinding his elbow against the glass. Gatlin stared fascinated until Dimo stopped mid-rub and answered his phone.

Felicity was out of patience and she made that clear to Dimo as soon as he cooed her name. “Twenty minutes to draw a goddamn heart and take a photo!” she said. “What’s taking so long?”

“It is not working.”

“What?”

“Rubbing.”

She backtracked. “The erasing… the heart?”

“It is made of special stuff. I have made a hole in my jacket and my elbow is sore.” Felicity pulled up the photo he’d sent of the heart earlier. No way of knowing what it was made of from that.

She looked more closely at the photo. She recalled that Oscar’s tomb was on the Avenue Carette, a busy street. The FBI had left the Ferret’s heart at the other end where it was less conspicuous.

“Okay… don’t erase it, blank it out. Use the lipstick I gave you. Make it a red blob.”

“My lipstick is pink.”

She sprinted on the spot, pounding out her frustration with her feet. “That will be fine,” she said finally through gritted teeth. “A pink blob is good too.

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