The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle Read Online Free

could manage as her eyes, located deep beneath waxy lashes, found mine.
    Before we could go any further, Rudee hit the gas and pulled away, pushing “play” and filling the cab with the sound of a velvety male singer. In the mirror, Sashay looked like she was somewhere else. Rudee said nothing, so I thought I’d better do the same. We eased through the streets of St. Germain till we approached a cluster of cars and people standing in groups dressed for a night on the town, laughing and talking happily. On one side of a narrow passage, I could see the lights of the club gleaming on the polished steel and stone exterior. The sign read MOULIN D’OR and below it was a poster of Sashay surrounded by lights looking like she had just emerged from a silver cloud. The groups parted as we slowly drove past the entrance then stopped in front of an alley leading to the side of the building. Above a dimly lit doorway, I could just make out a sign that read STAGE DOOR . Sashay departed without a word and went in.
    There was a man in a long black coat in the shadows by the door, standing very still. I might not have noticed him if it weren’t for the glow of the cigarette under the brim of his hat.

Seven
    â€œThere goes the most beautiful woman to have ever taken the stage in Paris or anywhere with curtains,” sighed Rudee as we drove away, “you can have your Coco LaFoie, your Tipi Chaussette.”
    My mind was still on the smoking man by the stage door, but I could see that this was not the moment to mention it to Rudee. Another set of rain-slicked cobblestone streets later, we arrived at a café. Every car outside, all parked at odd angles to the curb, was a taxi. The blinking sign in the window of the smoky room said CAF TA ; then I saw that with the burned-out letters lit up, it would have spelled CAFE TAXI . It was packed, bright, and very loud, and the smell of coffee and fresh pastry ruled. In one corner, someone was getting a shave and a haircut. Card playing, arm wrestling, and arguing contributed to the chaos. As Rudee looked for a table, he was spotted by some friends.
    â€œHey, Rudee, I’ve got some goose liver for you.”
    â€œDid you bring the brie?”
    The laughter was punctuated by more voices. “Hey, who’s that? Have you given up on the most beautiful woman to have ever taken the stage?”
    â€œBusiness slow, Monsieur Rudee? Doing a little babysitting on the side?”
    That was it for me. I stood up on a chair and shouted above the crowd, “He’s not my babysitter. Rudee’s my friend!”
    This was greeted by some good-natured “ooolalas” and “wellwellwells,” and the crowd moved back to their drinks and on to other matters. Rudee looked the most surprised of all by my outburst. A tall, thin driver with a mop of hair escaping from a pork pie hat and a nose that looked like it could slice bread was waving at us and pointing to a couple of empty chairs. We sat down, and Rudee introduced me to François Caboche.
    â€œFriend of Rudee’s is a friend of mine.” He grinned through a wispy moustache that hung like a curtain over his mouth. “Call me Dizzy.”
    He saw my expression and went on. “No, it’s not a balance problem; my mom was in love with Dizzy Bluebird, and when he toured here with his hot half dozen, she was at every gig. She put a mini trombone into my hands when I was in the crib.” Dizzy tilted his head at Rudee. “Your pal Rudee’s a heckuva fine organist, you know. We jam on Saturdays upstairs; you want to come by?” Rudee didn’t jump in, so I just smiled.
    I said my dad had told me all about Rudee’s talents. “He played me the Pipeline Tour tapes. He said Rudee’s solo in ‘Strange Glove’ should be studied by every kid who wants to call himself an organist.”
    Rudee couldn’t hide his pride and asked if I’d heard my dad’s vocal on