in a silvery white coat with a hood on his head. He had long blonde hair that spilled out of the opening. There he played for several onlookers the sweetest song on a violin. An ivory leather violin case sat on the ground full of rubles and coins.
I stood there in shock, not sure if I should question the moment or not.
Boris, you didn’t say the street performer was playing a violin. That very important.
Max and I exchanged glances.
What were the chances?
I tried to get a look at the violinist’s face, but he whipped that bow back and forth so fast, thrilling and captivating all with his song. I knew Jean-Pierre had played the violin long ago. His hands were now injured, and he couldn’t perform anymore. But performing for an orchestra in a long concert and a quick song on the street were two very different situations.
Is that him?
I leaned close to Boris. “That might be Jean-Pierre. Even though I can’t get a good look at his face. Assume the violinist has something to do with the French. Also, keep your eyes open for Giorgio and especially Louis. That motherfucker is the craziest one of the bunch.”
More people crowded around the performer, blocking my view. Several clapped along. A few took videos. A small kid did a little dance.
“Give me some money, Max.”
He handed me a ruble. “You’re going by yourself?”
“Yeah. I’ve got my guard dog.” I pulled Harlem along. “Just stay close so we don’t scare the French away.”
Max shook his head at Harlem who had hid behind my legs, not sure what was going on with the music and people.
I headed over to the performer and squeezed between two people. Harlem growled a little as we got closer, but thankfully didn’t bark. Nearer, I still wasn’t certain it was Jean-Pierre, but I knew it would be a good chance.
When the performer finished the song, I waited for everyone else to pay him. Keeping the hood over his head, he nodded and said thank you in Russian. That long blonde hair swung in the breeze.
If he has a wig on, then I’m going to laugh at his ass for the rest of the year. I mean. . .really?
I walked up after everyone left and dropped the ruble in the case.
The violinist looked my way and switched to English. “That’s it, mouse?”
It is your crazy ass in a raggedy ass wig. Jesus Christ.
“I say again. Is that all, mouse?”
Smiling, I pointed at the case. “It’s a ruble.”
“It’s Danse Macabre.” Jean-Pierre scowled at me from under the hood. “By French composer Camille Saint-Saëns. It’s worth more than a ruble.”
“What did you want to tell me?”
“Let’s walk.” He gazed at the puppy. “Did the lion buy you that dog?”
“Yes.”
“I would have assumed he would get a cat.” He handed the violin to a homeless person that came out of nowhere.
I squinted at the sad, dirty man.
Hold up. No way.
Shock hit me, and then I shook my head. “Is that Giorgio?”
Frowning, Giorgio took the violin and handed Jean-Pierre an umbrella. “I apologize for this disgusting get-up, but my cousin refused to—”
“Enough, Giorgio. No one cares that you’re dirty.” Jean-Pierre gestured for me to move forward. “Let’s go this way. I see you’ve already broken the rule, mouse.”
I held on to Harlem’s leash and guided the furry baby to stroll with us. “What rule?”
“I said only two men.” Jean-Pierre held the umbrella over my head as we walked forward. “It looks like twenty guys in the lobby.”
Damn. You weren’t supposed to see them. In fact, how did you see them?
Boris and Max strolled with us and stayed three feet behind us.
“Sorry, J.P. I was being safe.”
“You were being paranoid.” He nudged my shoulder. “We’re friends.”
“Not with that damn wig on your head.”
“You wear wigs.”
“Mine are nicer.”
“Then, we’ll have to wig shop one day.”
“Not until you tell me who is involved—”
“Back to Danse Macabre.” He gestured for us to cross the street. “Did you know that the song was based on an old French superstition?”
“No, J.P. And I don’t care.”
“I don’t like that nickname.”
“I don’t care about that either.”
“1874.”
I looked up at him as we got to the other corner. “1874? What’s that?”
“When the song was composed.”
“Jesus Christ. Who the fuck is involved—”
“According to legend, Death appears at midnight every year on Halloween. Death calls forth the dead from their graves to dance for him while he plays his fiddle.” Jean-Pierre moved his other hand around and dotted each word. “Death’s skeletons dance for