Paris High Noon

By Trent Tano

William "Catfish" Hancock, who rode with Butch Cassidy's Wild Bunch, back in the 1890's, has retired to Paris in the late 1930's. When the Nazis invade, he straps on his six gun for one last showdown. With the help of café garçon Jean Malheur, Catfish gathers a gang of French outlaws and brings the fight to the Nazis, Wild West style. From rustling horses to robbing banks, Catfish leads La Bande Sauvage to the Spanish border, all the while out running the SS posse.

With an old cowboy is putting up more of a fight than the whole French army, the Nazis send in their number one man killer, SS Major Bartholomew Schwartz, a.k.a. Black Bart, a man who shares a secret past with Catfish. For Black Bart knows that in order to catch the old cowboy, he has to think like one.

At the border, Catfish pulls reign and turns back around. He knows that you can outrun a posse, but not the consequences that sent them out. With the Nazis holding his pard, Hiccup, Catfish is determined to break him out or die trying. Teaming up with a cabaret chanteuse and a team of SOE agents, Catfish and La Bande Sauvage take on Black Bart's SS gunfighters, in a high noon showdown.

Paris High Noon puts a fresh spin on the traditional Western, creating a story that is familiar yet new, with characters trying to find meaning in a changing world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trent Tano
• Release date: May 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311910592

Trent Tano

Word Hustler Trent Tano grew up in Santa Cruz County as an avid reader; devouring epics such as “The Chronicles of Narnia” and “Lord Of The Rings” at an early age, drawn to the series’ framework of ‘the hero’s journey,’ which would come to later have a heavy influence on his work.It wasn’t until after he graduated from high school and started his stint in the United States Army, however, that Tano first became seriously interested in writing himself—while on leave a friend gave him a copy of Charles Bukowksi’s “Notes of A Dirty Old Man,” which he proceeded to take back with him and read.“I was stationed in Germany, and this guy’s talking about drinking, gambling, fuckin’ whores—just living life—and that was pretty much what we were doing,” Tano laughs.With the realization that one could write about anything they really wanted to, Tano discovered the Beats, the Classics, and eventually, the Western, opening up the long, dusty, and hard fought path that looks to be about to pay off as handsomely as a Wild Bunch holdup of a Union Pacific flyer.Tano’s new novel “Paris, High Noon” is the culmination of several years’ work, an ingeniously creative tale that introduces the character of William “Catfish” Hancock, an outlaw who roamed the Wild West with the likes of Butch Cassidy, rode with Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, and fought against the Kaiser at the Battle of Belleau Wood.“I basically based ‘Paris, High Noon’ on ‘Lonesome Dove’—if you’re going to write a Western, you might as well choose the one that won the Pulitzer as your model,” says Tano. “I wanted ‘Catfish’ to be my Gus McCrae.”When “Catfish” starts reaching the twilight of his time here on Earth, he’s living in Paris, an ex-pat cowboy who goes from telling tall tales on the lecture circuit to suddenly finding himself in the middle of the Nazi invasion, with one last chance for a proper six gun showdown.“I’ve always thought that the Western was the best canvas to paint the human condition—and I liked the idea of having this character get caught up in these major events that really shaped a lot of the culture in America,” says Tano.Readers are bound to be caught up in “Paris, High Noon” themselves, with a fast-paced, action-packed storyline that is a guaranteed page-turner. With a little more time, hustle and the right match to light the fuse on the phenomenon, the public should be able to rustle up their own copy in a major bookstore soon.–Sean McCourt, 2011

Book preview

Paris High Noon

by

Trent Tano

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Trent Tano

Cover design by Dave Caraker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedicated to my dad, Melvin Masaru Tano, 1941-2005. Miss you, Papasan.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my friends who have been there since the very beginning; Dave Caraker, Rich Horiuchi, Gravity Goldberg, and Joseph Paul. Special thanks to my friend and editor, Erin Wilcox, of Wilcox Editing Service, who, for over three years, helped bring Catfish's story to life. To Matthew James DeCoster, thanks for making sure my I's were dotted and T's crossed. San Francisco Litquake, thanks for putting on one of the best literary festivals and giving me an outlet for my writing.

Table Of Contents

Chapter 1 -- In A Small Café

Chapter 2 -- Paris High Noon

Chapter 3 -- On The Run… Again

Chapter 4 -- The Dead And Those You Can Trust

Chapter 5 -- The Trail Out Of Town

Chapter 6 -- Alone And Forsaken

Chapter 7 -- Desperados

Chapter 8 -- Hole In The Wall

Chapter 9 -- Rustler’s Moon

Chapter 10 -- Posse In Black

Chapter 11 -- Shootout

Chapter 12 -- Green Backs And Gun Smoke

Chapter 13 -- The Skull Badge

Chapter 14 -- The Outlaw Trail

Chapter 15 -- A New Sheriff In Town

Chapter 16 -- The Borderline

Chapter 17 -- Thunder Off The Mountain

Chapter 18 -- Whiskey, Women, and Trouble

Chapter 19 -- The Ways Of A Woman

Chapter 20 -- Decision and Consequence

Chapter 21-- Paying The Debt

Chapter 22 -- A Trap For The Heart

Chapter 23 -- Gun Smoke Sacrifice

Chapter 24 -- Just The Way Butch Would Have Done It

Chapter 25 -- Showdowns and Sunsets

Epilogue -- A Wrong That Cannot Be Borne

Bonus Chapters

About The Author

Chapter 1 -- In A Small Café

William Catfish Hancock walked downstairs to the lobby of the Hotel Heureux Mouffette, which looked like a saloon five years after the gold had played out. His spurs jingled as he sat in a soft beam of morning light, facing the door. Off in the distance, a score of church bells tolled ten o’clock. The chimes echoed across the facades of Paris, rolling down the empty boulevards and bouncing off statues, which stood mute like rocky mesas, disinterested in the problems of men.

Normally, morning meant the smell of croissants from the bakery just two doors down; so fresh that a haze of flour wafted down the street, dusting pedestrians. So much coffee brewed in every café that the blue sky threatened to turn a sweet milky brown. Yet today, the city slumbered, still hoping against hope that the last few weeks had been nothing more than a nightmare. Morning brought the terror of life under the Nazi jackboot, along with mundane everyday affairs. Bills had to be paid, shops needed to be opened, and dusty floors had to be swept despite the fact liberté, égalité, and fraternité were nothing more than discredited words. The Parisians didn’t resist the facts they woke up to, but continued to plod around like cattle in the feedlot, waiting for the eastbound trains.

Bernard, the proprietor of the Hotel Heureux Mouffette, a nervous balding man whose perspiration ran down his face and wicked off his waxed moustache, approached the old cowboy who had been living up in room 305 for the past three years.

Like all men, Bernard was afraid of what he did not understand, and the first time Catfish entered the parlor wrapped in a linen duster and a well-worn cowboy hat, his mouth dropped open as if he’d backed into a prickly pear. He saw visions of blazing six-guns, horses crashing through the lobby, and wild lassos flying through the air, snaring everything from bottles of wine to his daughter’s virginity. But the old cowboy had only smiled, stretching his long silvery moustache from one wind-worn ear to the other to remove all doubt.

"Good morning, monsieur," Bernard said, though in truth there wasn’t much good about it. France had fallen. Her soldiers had run like scolded children from a one-room schoolmarm.

Mornin’ Bandito, Catfish said.

The old cowboy’s French sounded like a jumping cholla in Bernard’s ear, but he had passion in his vowels, which was what counted most.

What can I get you?

I’ll take a cup of coffee that will float a pistol. And while you’re at it, how about a big chunk of crap.

You mean crepe, monsieur?

Catfish laughed and raised his hands. Got me again, Bandito.

Catfish eased back into his chair and stroked his moustache while he waited for his coffee. In all of his years in Paris, he never thought it could turn into a ghost town. Trash and paper tumbled down the cobblestone streets, and shop signs creaked in the wind like old bones. He remembered the first time he came to Paris back with Brazos Billy’s Wild West Show. It was a spark of a city back then and when he came back during the Great War, it was still sparking. Some nights, he heard the thunder of the distant guns, but it seemed folks didn’t much care; as if Paris herself would guard them from the sputtering bombers and lumbering zeppelins.

The large doors of the hotel opened. A round little man with sweat pouring over his face waddled in. Catfish smiled and pulled out a flask of Kentucky bourbon.

Touch of the brown, Hiccup? Catfish asked his Parisian host.

Hoqueter Hiccup Nerveux sat down at the table with his back to the door and waved off the bourbon.

I told you a hundred times, Catfish said to his friend and business partner, the day you don’t face the front of any entrance is the day you get shot. That’s what happened to Wild Bill Hickok. Of course he had it comin’.

I c . . . can’t believe you are still here, Hiccup stammered. The lumpy Frenchman had a stutter that at times got so bad, Catfish had to translate for him.

Sweat dripped down his jowls and dampened the lace tablecloth. Catfish grabbed a napkin from another table and gave it to Hiccup to wipe his face down. The first thing Catfish liked about Paris were the lace tablecloths in every café and restaurant. No matter how shabby, lace was as ordinary an occurrence for Parisians as cowboys farting around the campfire.

Good God, Hiccup, someone looking at you sweating like that may think you just tickled the fanny of a nun.

Don’t you understand that the Boche are here? Hiccup asked.

The old cowboy held his tongue. The whole world knew the Germans were in Paris and in Belgium and in Norway and in Holland and in Poland. Catfish thought he might roll over in his bed one night and find a Hun sleeping right next to him.

Bernard came back with his coffee. He looked down at Hiccup with the solidarity that condemned men have walking to the gallows. Catfish poured a generous touch of brown into his coffee. How about a cup of the black stuff before we head out?

Hiccup agreed to the coffee, not that he needed any more stimuli this morning. He felt a twinge of guilt for his friend. He had hoped the old cowboy would ride out his last days in Paris, sharing his stories of a vanished life with the youth of France. It was also easy money and the pair rode the lecture circuit like two cowboys on a drive full of sunny skies, fresh grass, and plenty of water. At first, the professors were apprehensive having an American cowboy speak—most of the foreign lecturers were teachers or men of standing. What could a rough old cowboy say that would make any sense of the times they lived in now? But all it took was for Catfish to smile with his silver moustache looking like the wings of a vagabond angel and the crowd was enchanted.

Now the universities were closed indefinitely. There was no one to lecture to, no halls full of excited young students hanging on every word, every nuance of Catfish’s soft scratchy voice. And here was Catfish, with his cowboy hat and linen duster on, dressing and acting like he did every morning, with a light heart and not a care in the world.

You are an American, Hiccup began as his coffee arrived. You can still get out of F . . . France. You should have left with the other Americans. Hiccup sipped his coffee and wiped the sweat from his face. You could be in New York City right now.

Catfish swirled the coffee around in his cup. Never once since the start of the war did he consider going back to America. Any wanted posters of him were probably in a museum and any lawmen who had chased him throughout the decades were either dead or so old that they would have a better chance making water than an arrest. He wouldn’t leave because he had come to love Paris for all the same reasons he loved the wide-open Wild West. It was a place bigger than he was and the thought of it being conquered tore at his soul.

The Wild West he knew, lived, and roamed was gone. Civilization had ruined its untamed beauty with bankers, speculators, and worst of all, authority. Yet Paris had the kind of civilization that reminded him of the Wild West. From the slow amblings of the Seine and the stone bridges that tiptoed across its deep waters to the rocky mesas of Notre Dame and Arc de Triomphe, the city had molded a people that lit the world with a gay and romantic civilization. Paris was a new frontier for him, a new challenge—a new home—and now the Germans had gone and dragged dirt all over the carpet.

I don’t fancy New York City, Catfish said. I already bought a grave in Montparnasse. I reckon they don’t give refunds. Besides, holes in the ground are going to go for a high premium pretty soon. I got to stay and look out for my investment.

I’m sure the coffin makers are doing brisk business, Hiccup said. If I were a young man, I would stand and fight. The Frenchman wiped a tear from his eye.

I was your age when I defended France, Catfish said. Of course I wasn’t as round or fatalistic.

Hiccup knew the story, but held his peace out of respect. During the Battle of Belleau Wood, Catfish and Lee English, his old outlaw partner from their Wild West days, rode up to the front lines to do some scouting for General Black Jack Pershing. Somewhere in all that death, blood, and fire, Catfish lost his pard, a pain that never left him.

Pétain is forming a government in Vichy, Hiccup said. Maybe he can restore France’s honor.

The only one that can restore France’s honor is France and I’m not talking about government or politicians, Catfish said. It’s the people that make a country and the land shapes them. At least that’s the way it is where I come from.

Catfish took another sip of his coffee. You see, it doesn’t take a noble man or a man of character to restore honor to the land. It just takes ordinary people.

You sound like a Communist, Hiccup said.

Well I don’t cotton to any political ideology. Any form of consolidated power is bound to go wrong.

Ah, now you sound like an anarchist.

I’ve lived by the gun long enough to know that the best way to stay alive is to keep away from death, who’s always looking for you. That’s the only law you need to learn.

Hiccup gave a smile. The old cowboy had a way of speaking that made even a man about to get his neck stretched feel at ease with the world. He almost believed that as long as Catfish was around, nothing bad could happen. But unless thousands of cowboys rode into Paris, France didn’t stand a chance of freeing herself from the Nazi grip.

A rumble shook the parlor, causing the coffee to ripple and spill on the lace tablecloth.

My God, Catfish said, if I didn’t know this was Paris, I’d swear we’re in the middle of a ten thousand-head stampede. His eyes were still on the door and his right hand rested on the edge of the table. Hiccup looked outside and saw the muzzle of a tank round a corner and roll up the street.

Looks like we better go out and surrender, Catfish said.

The panzer rumbled past the hotel, shaking the table and rattling the windows. Soon, twelve soldiers marched past the window, their rifles and submachine guns at the ready. One peered in the window at Catfish. The old cowboy’s right hand eased down to his thigh, disappearing under the table. The soldier, a young boy whose helmet looked like a stew pot on a cherry, decided that a funny-looking old man and a fat one were no threat. He quickened his pace and rejoined his comrades. Catfish’s hand went back onto the table.

They’re just boys, Hiccup said, watching the troopers as they made their way down the street.

You’d be surprised at what boys can do, Catfish said.

The old cowboy’s soft blue eyes turned hard like cobalt. It was a look Hiccup had seen during the Great War and once recently. A French army officer had made Catfish the butt of one too many jokes. He challenged the old cowboy to a shooting contest, stating that no one could shoot the center of a playing card at fifty yards—calling Catfish a liar. Those baby-blue eyes turned hard as the steel of his Colt .45 Peacemaker, and Catfish fired off a shot that blew a hole in the center of the card. He promised that next time he’d place that card on the officer’s forehead.

Catfish eased his chair back and got up from the table. He took off his hat and swept his long silvery hair back with his hand, then placed his hat back on, pulling it low and snug on his wrinkled brow. With the same hand he swept back his duster to pull a coin out of the vest pocket. Hanging low on his right hip were his Peacemaker and a gun belt full of cartridges.

Are you a fool? Where are you going armed, other than your grave? Hiccup got up from his seat. He knew the old cowboy had his pride, but didn’t suspect it would make him suicidal. The Boche will shoot you down like a dog.

Well, dogs bite back, Catfish, said, especially old ones.

Catfish smiled and stuck out his hand to Hiccup. I guess I got a bad habit of defending France. If I ain’t back by dusk, get out by dawn. See you along the trail, pard.

Hiccup took Catfish’s hand but didn’t smile back. He wanted to tell Catfish to be careful, but he might as well try and tell the sun to stop shining.

Catfish walked out the door. It was as pretty a day as there ever was in Paris. It reminded him of the summer of 1906 when he first passed through the streets of the City of Lights with Brazos Billy’s Wild West Show. He’d rode down the grand Champs Élysées, with the same hat on his head and same gun on his hip that he wore this summer day almost thirty years later. Catfish ached for a horse. It just didn’t seem proper to walk to a fight, but he would have to make do.

Chapter 2 -- Paris High Noon

The Seine ran through Paris like the Colorado cutting through the deserts of the West. Granite bridges stretched their lazy stone out over the river while the grey mesa of Notre Dame sat off the muddy banks just beyond its licking wake. Only two white clouds floated in the bright blue sky above, like lost sheep. It seemed the Creator had decided to make up for the war by giving Paris one of it’s prettiest summer day.

Along the Quai Saint-Michel, six German soldiers lounged easy outside the Happy Flower café, their tunics loosened, their hair freshly cut and faces cleanly shaved to reveal battle-bronzed skin. Cups were raised and bottles passed back and forth. Laughter followed lies while the men sat content as a pack of full-bellied coyotes. Unlike their fathers, who fought in the Great War, they were victors. They felt entitled to a roll in the dust.

Inside the café, Jean Malheur had just written down the day’s specials on the sandwich blackboard (two hard-boiled eggs, choice of pastry, and coffee for one franc).

Erase the eggs, said Moue Bouche. We don’t have many, and the cheese will stay fresh longer.

But we don’t have much cheese either, Jean said. He looked up and erased the board with his sleeve. He was a month shy of fifteen, but used to Moue telling him what to do as if he was five. And what not to do—like fall in love with her.

Moue didn’t respond. Passing time with the boy tested her patience, which she didn’t have much of to begin with. Now, with the Nazis occupying France, she didn’t have much hope either.

What does it matter? Moue finally said after Jean had written the cheese platter as the day’s special. I say we just give these jackal-laughing Boche the key to the café and let them have their way. They’re doing the same thing to the rest of the country. Why not the Happy Flower?

Jean said nothing. His mother, still in the hospital from a nervous breakdown after the blitz, insisted Jean open the café. Jean tried to argue, but his mother said, Where will we go? What will we do? Refugees choked the roads like a thousand-head cattle drive to the southern cities. Those who had money stood in line with tens of thousands of others for the next steamer out of Marseille. The Malheur family had no money, no car, no family outside of Paris; so until things changed, they would stay put.

For her part, Moue was tired of being in her small room in the back of the café, which was nothing more than a storage closet. Although she’d stayed inside so far, Moue didn’t find the soldiers that frightening. They seemed content to sit, drink, and speak their horrible language at each other, acting more like rude tourists than invaders.

She watched as Jean put the blackboard outside, where the soldiers were getting drunker and meaner. Moue’s heart quickened. She balled up her fists and squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened her eyes, Jean was coming back inside.

Hey, you in there! one of the soldiers shouted in horrible French, bring another bottle, and make it the good stuff.

And don’t try to poison us, either, said another.

Jean went behind the counter to grab a bottle. I’ll take it to them.

No, Moue said. It’s my turn.

Jean protested, but the more the boy tried to persuade Moue, the meaner she got.

This is pointless, she said, almost shouting. What else is there? How long do you expect me to be cooped up in the café? Until the Boche leave and France is free? Nothing is going to happen. When she reached for the bottle, her hands shook. The war is over. All these Boches want to do is have a drink and blow off a little steam.

Moue set the bottle down and took a few deep breaths. She pressed her hands against her temples. Outside, the soldiers laughed and shouted. Moue’s heart bucked like a bronco on locoweed.

Jean looked up at her with big brown eyes that looked like desert dirt after a spring storm. It’s just that I’m worried.

Out of all the men in Moue’s life, it seemed the boy was the only one who was worried for her. She didn’t know whether to laugh or curse her luck.

I’m a big girl, Moue snapped. I can take care of myself. You think I haven’t had a drunk feel me up? You think I’m some virgin who’s been saving herself for you?

Jean dropped his eyes. He’d rather face a thousand bullets than take one barb from Moue.

Quit your moping, she said. Act like a man. You’d think we’re the only ones that have to deal with a bunch of drunken Boches, the way you carry on. Wake up! The war is over and we lost. The only thing we can do is what they tell us. It’s their country now.

She then straightened out her hair with her fingers, stretched the wrinkles out of her skirt, picked up the bottle, and walked outside.

Ah, now that’s what I’m talking about, said a soldier with a buzzard nose.

Do you mean the bottle or the broad? asked a soldier with crooked teeth.

Hell, why not both, the first one said and reached for Moue’s leg.

Startled, Moue dropped the bottle onto the table, splashing red wine on the offending soldier’s uniform.

"Scheiße! he shouted. Look what you did, you stupid bitch!"

Moue began to apologize, the words spilling out faster than wine onto the table.

The buzzard-nosed soldier stood up. Well, I can’t go on duty with a uniform stinking of wine. I need a place to clean up. He wrapped his arm around Moue’s waist and pulled her in tight. I guess your place will do.

The other soldiers laughed as he tried to force a kiss, but Moue pushed him off. She couldn’t understand the words coming out of his mouth, but she understood his bloodshot eyes, stale breath, and wandering hands.

Jean came out from the café doorway. Herrs, he said, using what little German he knew along with whatever confidence he had, please forgive Moue for making a mess of things. Please, take this bottle of cognac on the house.

What about my uniform? the buzzard-nosed soldier said.

Jean held out the bottle of cognac. Please feel free to use our water closet to freshen up.

I’d rather go to this bitch’s house, he replied.

I’ll take that. The soldier with crooked teeth grabbed the bottle of cognac. He kicked Jean in the backside, and the boy fell to the ground. "Vive la France, boys," he said, lifting up the new bottle.

The rest of the table laughed, even the squint-eyed lieutenant, who knew the orders that came down from headquarters: no raping or stealing. But easy victory and too much wine changed his perspective, along with the sight of Moue.

I say this girl needs to be taught some manners, the lieutenant said. And if anyone else wants to teach the girl a thing or two then they are more than welcome to it. I might even have to do some teaching, eh boys?

Please, monsieur, Jean said, on his knees. Why fight over this one girl? I can take you to a place where there are plenty of whores.

Shut your mouth, kid, the soldier holding Moue said and pulled her in tighter.

Jean tried to get up and put himself between Moue and the soldiers, but the one with the crooked teeth kicked him in the breadbasket. Jean fell flat on his face.

You Frenchies should learn to lay down like the whipped puppies you are!

The men laughed while the buzzard-nosed soldier dragged Moue into the café. Moue started to kick and squirm. A fat soldier grabbed her legs. Moue tried to scream, but found herself gasping for air like a fish on the banks of the Seine.

Put the girl down!

The heavy voice came from the end of the cobblestone boulevard. It startled the soldiers. It was in English, spoken with subtle authority, like the whisper from a whirlwind.

The squint-eyed lieutenant turned and noticed an old man with a wide silvery moustache. He wore a long linen duster and a dirty brown cowboy hat low on his brow. A big six-gun rested on his hip.

I said put the fraulein down, Catfish said. He had been walking down the Rue Du Bac, listening to his spurs jingle along the cobblestone streets when he heard the ruckus up ahead. Catfish rounded the corner and saw the six soldiers ganging up on the garçon. He’d seen many a dirty fight in his time. Usually, he would mind his own business, but when they grabbed the girl, he had enough.

Old man, said the buzzard-nosed soldier in broken French, go away before you get yourself killed.

I don’t think grandpa here speaks French, said the soldier with the crooked teeth. He’s English.

I thought all the English swam away? said a young soldier from the table.

The squint-eyed lieutenant chuckled. No, my little spud. I think our intruder is an American.

Well, I speak English. He affected a Yankee accent. And I think it would be wise for you . . . how they say in movies? Ah, yes. Mosey on out.

You got the lingo down right, Catfish said. But I think it’s you all who should do the moseying before there’s trouble that you can’t stop.

The rest of the soldiers chuckled, except for one, a bull of a sergeant rose from the table. His huge hands gripped a submachine gun. He was about to raise it when he heard a loud metallic click.

Catfish pulled his six-gun and pointed its business end at the sergeant.

Hold your fire, sergeant, said the squint-eyed lieutenant. He approached the gun-toting cowboy with his hands up. I believe in the Wild West they had duel.

That’s right, said the fat soldier who held Moue’s leg. In the middle of a dusty street.

Correct, the lieutenant said. A showdown.

The fat soldier laughed and let go of Moue. The others stood confused. He’s going to have showdown with the old cowboy, he explained to his comrades.

Like in the movies? said the young soldier.

Oh, this is going to be better than poking some whore, said the buzzard-nosed soldier. He let go of Moue to watch.

Moue stumbled for the café door. Her first instinct was to grab Jean, who was still on his knees; and run as far away as possible. But just like everyone else on the empty boulevard, she was enthralled by the mysterious old cowboy who stood alone against six, his duster blowing gently behind him like the wings of a tired angel. So she watched from the glass window, hiding behind the painted words.

All right, you Boche bastard, Catfish said. You want to play six-gun stud, then ante up. But I want your boys to stand down and away from their rifles. Catfish pointed to the sergeant. Especially that bull over there with the bullet sprayer.

Put your gun on the table, sergeant. That’s an order.

The sergeant said nothing, but stared at Catfish.

I said put the goddamn gun on the table!

The sergeant placed the submachine gun on the table, leaving it within easy reach.

The first bell toll of noon echoed through the streets