Kristin Fouquet

Cocteau's Ransom

 

 

Five cans of cheap dog food stood in a stack on the kitchen counter. That should be enough, Josie thought. Footsteps, one set heavier than the other, thumped up the side staircase to the apartment. Ron greeted her with an air of self-congratulations as he held a leather leash secured to the hope of their prosperous future: a shaggy gray Bouvier des Flandres.

 

She regarded the beast. “No problem getting him to go with you?”

 

“All it took was a dog biscuit.”

 

“He’s big.”

 

Ron stroked the canine’s thick coat. “It’s the breed.”

 

“What do we do with him?”

 

Removing the leash, he shrugged. “I guess we feed our guest.”

 

As the large dog scoffed up a can of mush, Josie and Ron worked on the ransom note.

 

She cut out an uppercase C from a magazine and placed it carefully on the kitchen table. “$50,000 is a lot. How do we know he’ll pay it?”

 

“It’s chump change for him. Of course he’ll pay. The damn store is named after the dog. Cocteau Antiques without Cocteau? I don’t think so.”

 

*

 

Arthur Piedmont sat at his fruitwood escritoire when the postman came into the shop. After the obligatory pleasantries, he flipped through mostly bills until he came to an envelope addressed to the proprietor of Cocteau Antiques. It had no return address and was apparently stamped out using a typewriter with an aging ink ribbon, which produced a light “e.”

 

“Hmm.” Arthur unsealed the envelope with an ivory letter opener.

 

The enclosed ransom note was traditionally constructed with cutout letters from a magazine and then tacked down with a lot of white glue. He raised the note and sniffed to confirm this last detail. Definitely white glue. It stated if he was ever to see his beloved Cocteau again, his instructions were to fill a briefcase with $50,000 of unmarked bills and leave it under the Dueling Oaks in City Park at 6 p.m. the following evening. After the drop-off, he was to wait by the payphone for further details. No cops.  

 

He glanced down to the empty dog bed next to his chair. “So, la terreur has not run off again. He has been dognapped.”

 

Picking up a silver oval frame, he spoke to the furry subject in the black and white photograph. “Oh Cocteau, my beautiful boy, we had thirteen wonderful years together. I should never have bought your replacement- that revolting beast.” He kissed the glass and returned the frame to the desk.

 

Crumpling up the note and envelope, he snickered. “Dueling Oaks.” The paper wad landed perfectly into the wastebasket.

 

*

 

In his Volkswagen Beetle, Ron turned the corner onto Decatur Street and pulled up on the sidewalk, narrowly missing the gallery pole, which supported his apartment. He pressed the horn several times before a few disgruntled people exited his vintage shop, Dis-n-Dat. A couple of minutes later, a frazzled Josie appeared herding the giant Cocteau.

 

Ron quickly got out and pushed the driver’s seat forward for the slobbering dog. Cocteau easily occupied the entire rear of the vehicle.

 

“I thought those Looky-Lous would never leave.” Josie plopped down in the passenger’s seat. “Are we gonna be late?”

 

“We’re good. We’ve got fifteen minutes and it’s a straight shot up Esplanade.”

 

Cocteau whimpered.

 

Josie looked back. “Shut it.” Turning to Ron, she shook her head. “That asshole chewed up three pairs of vintage alligator pumps today.”

 

Ron glared in the rearview mirror prompting another whimper as the dog put his head down, out of sight. “I think Caroline was interested in those.”

 

She grunted. “I can’t wait to get rid of this bastard. What a day.”

 

The car slowed to a stop at a red light. A disheveled man stood on the corner holding a little cardboard sign, which read: Traveling. Every bit helps. Cocteau extended his large head out the window and barked loudly at the beggar. The man lifted the sign to cover his face.

 

“Bad dog.” Josie slapped the back of her seat.

 

Cocteau gave her a low growl.

 

“Oh, I can’t wait to get rid of this bastard. What’s the plan again?”

 

Ron shifted from neutral into first. “We park and watch the Dueling Oaks. After he leaves the briefcase and takes off, we pick it up then drive to the payphone and call the other one. When he answers, I tell him where to get his dog, which we’ve tied to the fence, and we split. Simple.”

 

When they reached the park, Ron eased around the turn by the museum and glanced back at the drop-off spot. No one. He drove a little further and parallel parked between two cars to avoid suspicion.

 

“Okay, stay here with the dog. I’m going to pretend to meditate in the field.”

 

She shook her head. “Don’t do nothing stupid.”

 

He squeezed her hand. “Have some faith, babe.”

 

Only seconds after Ron left, Cocteau farted in the back seat.

 

“Oh, you damn dog.” She struggled with the nonfunctioning window crank, gave up, and pushed out the wing window. After lighting a cigarette, she blew smoke back at Cocteau.

 

Ron set up camp in the spacious field across from the spot. He checked his watch: 5:57. Perfect. Folding his legs into the lotus position, he squinted his eyes and focused on the oaks. As the minutes passed, he occasionally pulled out his pocket binoculars and double-checked the scene. 6:11. Nothing. 6:26. His nerves were getting to him and he tried to chant $50,000, but it wasn’t helping. The sun was setting and bloodthirsty mosquitos were devouring his slender legs, only partially covered by khaki shorts.

 

*

 

Sliding the letter opener under the adhesive lip of the envelope, Arthur grinned. “It would seem I now have a pen pal.”

 

This second note was constructed of newspaper cutouts and again too much white glue, which bled through the newsprint. It was more succinct than the first: $35,000. The Fly. 6 p.m. Tomorrow. No cops.

 

“Oh, Cocteau Deux has been reduced.” He folded the letter into a paper airplane and piloted it effortlessly into the wastebasket.

 

*

 

“No more ransom notes, Ron. You need to man-up and call that Piedmont and tell him we got his dog and we’re gonna cut off one of his paws if he doesn’t pay.” Josie knocked the slop out of a can for the unwanted Cocteau.

 

“Okay, okay. Calm down, babe. I’ll call him in the morning.” He came close to her and put his arms around her waist. “You’re so sexy when you’re angry.”

 

She turned her head. “Not now, Ron.”

 

Pressing his body to hers, he whispered on her neck. “When we get all that money, I’m going to buy you that ring you want.”

 

Softening, she smiled. “Oh, Ron.”

 

He picked her up and carried her under the threshold into the bedroom. Undressed, foreplay began. Josie sighed. It had been too long since they’d touched. Her moans of pleasure escalated until suddenly, they seemed to be echoed in the small room. She became still and quiet. The moans continued.

 

“Do you hear that?” She pushed Ron’s hand away.

 

“Yeah.” Ron switched on the lamp.

 

Cocteau was standing at the bedside staring at them, still emitting whimpers of erotic pleasure.

 

Josie sat up straight. “You asshole. Shut up. Stop mocking me.”

 

In response, he growled and farted loudly.

 

She slapped Ron’s thigh. “Did you hear that?”

 

“I definitely smell it.” He exerted his alpha status by pointing to the door. “Out, Cocteau.”

 

The scruffy beast whined as he slowly sulked out of the room.

 

“Oh, I can’t wait to get rid of that bastard.”

 

*

 

Arthur listened intently to the voice coming over the line. His eyes darted around his shop cataloguing the damage by Cocteau Deux: a badly bitten-up William IV rosewood and leather upholstered library chair, a formerly exquisite urine-stained Persian rug, the legs of a Russian Neoclassical parcel-gilt mahogany console table gnawed by a teething puppy, the unwanted distress by sharp toenails on an Anglo Indian ebony sofa.

 

“Oh, dear sir, I think you must have me confused with someone else. My darling Cocteau died two years ago. He was thirteen and I miss him terribly. I could never imagine replacing him.”

 

*

 

Cocteau paced the narrow balcony, barking loudly at pedestrians.

 

A handsome man in a dark blue suit walked his Bouvier bitch down Decatur Street. He stopped across from the shop and peered up at the barking dog. The loud creature ran back and forth. The man then crossed the street, tied his pet to the post, and entered the shop.

 

The scent of mothballs and cigarettes greeted him before Josie did.

 

“Hi.” She stubbed out a cigarette. “Let me know if you need any help.”

 

He approached the counter and rested his forearm on the glass top. His voice was soft with a slight French accent. “Perhaps you could assist me. I was wondering if you know the owner of that majestic Bouvier running so vigorously on the balcony above?”

 

Instantly suspicious, she tilted her head. “Why? Did he knock something over?”

 

“Oh no, nothing of the sort.” He chuckled. “I am interested in him for breeding purposes. I’m willing to pay the standard fee, if I could be allowed to briefly meet the animal.”

 

Josie’s eyes sparkled. “You mean you want to pay to have your dog get it on with that one up there?”

 

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, for breeding purposes. I may like to use him as a stud periodically, if all goes well.”

 

“Well, in that case. Let me go get him. I’ll be right back.”

 

He smiled. “Excellent.”

 

Upstairs, Josie coerced Cocteau with a dog biscuit. As he gobbled it, she wrestled a leash around his thick neck.

 

Descending the stairwell, he growled and tried to release himself from the leash. She tried to reassure him in a sweet tone. “You have a visitor, Cocteau. You be good and you’ll get more treats.”

 

The man was waiting by the door when they entered the shop. “Ah, here he is.” He waved a hand of appreciation to the dog.

 

Cocteau instantly sat at the man’s feet.

 

“My name is Monsieur Voclain. And you are?” He raised his hand to the dog instead of Josie.

 

A paw met his outstretched hand. Voclain shook then released it.
 

Josie was flabbergasted. “His name is Cocteau.”

 

He parted the canine’s lips to inspect the gums and teeth. Snapping his fingers, the dog stood. Voclain examined his rear end. “Perfect. Do you have his papers? He is younger than I thought.”

 

She twitched nervously. “Oh. I don’t have any papers for him. You see he was my sister’s dog and she just died.”

 

He eyed her. “I am sorry for your loss, Madame.”

 

“I’m no Madame, but thank you. How much are you willing to pay?”

 

“He is spectacular. I would be happy to pay the standard $1,000 stud fee.”

 

Her mind suddenly flooded with mathematical figures. Between the damaged goods at Dis-n-Dat, the ruination of their personal belongings, and the expense of feeding such a large animal, Ron and Josie were in the hole for close to $9,000, she surmised.

 

“Well, if you were gonna use him more than once, possibly periodically as you said, wouldn’t it be a better deal to buy him?”

 

“Buy him? I had not considered such an idea. Are you not emotionally invested in Cocteau?”

 

She considered trying to pet Cocteau, but was afraid he might growl. Instead, she put her hand on her chest. “While I do love him, I feel you could offer him a better life.”

 

“I see. Well, we could discuss a price.”

 

The thought of dog flatulence or some other unsavory behavior nixing the deal worried her. “Well, let me bring Cocteau upstairs. I’d feel bad talking numbers in front of him.”

 

Voclain grasped his hands together and nodded. “Perfectly understandable. I shall see you soon, Cocteau.”

 

When she returned, he had his checkbook out and a fountain pen in hand. Approaching him, she noticed his cologne smelled expensive.

 

He spoke first. “How much were you thinking?”

 

“$12,000.” She waited.

 

He squeezed the pen between his fingers. “I was thinking $10,000.”

 

“$11,000 and he’s yours.”

 

He didn’t blink. “Fine, fine. My Cherie is ready to mate. Whom do I write the check to?”

 

“Josie Wilkins.” Her volume rose as she attempted to speak over the familiar cacophony of a brass band passing in the street. “Josie Wil-kins.”

 

After tearing the check carefully from his book, he handed it to her. “Merci.”

 

“Thank you.” She held the check and not believing her luck, read it twice. She was finally getting rid of that bastard. “Ron is gonna shit.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

She waved her hand. “Aw, nothing. Just thinking about my fiancé.”

 

As the music waned, a riotous din remained outside the store. They both ran to the sidewalk where others were pointing at the balcony above Dis-n-Dat. The shocked crowd engaged in a gawking commentary. Josie and Voclain peered overhead to see Cocteau hanging from the balcony railing by his leather leash. Voclain’s bitch in heat, still tied to the post, whined beneath him.

 

Josie gasped. “Oh my god. Is he dead?”

 

He glanced up and down at the two dogs. “From the bulging eyes and surrender of his body as it sways, I would say without a doubt, ‘yes’. What a pity. He seemed quite eager for Cherie here.”

 

Turning his attention to Josie, Voclain shook his head. “I hate to be a cad in this dark hour, but...” He extended his palm to her.

 

Josie sighed and handed him the check. “Damn dog. Getting himself killed. Ron is gonna shit.”

 

Staring up at the dangling carcass, Voclain nodded. “Indeed.”

 

 

 

Kristin Fouquet writes and photographs from lovely New Orleans. She is the author of Twenty Stories, Rampart & Toulouse, The Olive Stain, and Surreptitiously Yours. You are invited to visit her humble virtual abode, Le Salon, at the web address http://kristin.fouquet.cc