Blonds Are Bad Luck

 

You ever shot anyone?  I’m guessing not. Well, the rules are simple.

 

Load the gun. If the first thing you hear is a click when you pull the trigger, you won’t hear what comes next.  

 

Get close. None of that cowboy crap in the middle of the street, hoping for the best. A long shot is called that for a reason. Aim for the chest. Big target.  

 

Shoot first.

 

Use a stollen gun and leave it behind with no fingerprints. If it’s yours, best of luck. 

 

Your dad?  Yes, I knew him. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be talking to you. 

 

Don’t have to guess that you want to follow in his footsteps. He was a good man, just had some bad luck on a very bad day. Bad guys don’t play fair. Be careful where you step.

 

And no matter who you are and if you have a good reason or not. I can assure you the prosecution doesn’t believe you. Lots of reasons you shot somebody and even more reasons you shouldn’t have. I learned all of that long ago. The hard way.

 

Hope you have more luck than your dad.

 

 

I wonder if I should have talked to that young fellow, but my mind better focus on today. I’m the one who’s going to put all of my knowledge to good use. 

 

Jack Thorne is the reason, and the best reason is money.  I don’t even know Thorne, but I know of him, what he looks like, where he works, and the best hotel where he plays ‘let’s get naked’ with his girlfriend, Sara Miles, his blond secretary. 

 

His wife is another Sara with dark hair. I don’t know the secretary or the wife more than what they looked like. Maybe both are bitches. Maybe Throne is a good guy or bad guy. That’s not my business.

 

Jason John Thorne is his full name, but he goes by JJ. He made his millions in real estate, mostly in the big city where he and his wife live in a huge condo overlooking Green Park. 

 

People like JJ normally have a bodyguard or a driver. Sometime it’s the same guy. He calls his driver Muscle with good reason. He is truly packed, along with beady eyes. The one time I saw him, those beady eyes were searchlights and the bulge under his black suit carried something that could make a loud bang.

 

Today, as I mingle among the many pedestrians passing by Jack’s penthouse, I’m waiting for JJ to appear. 

 

When he goes to his car, I’ll be close with the other folks on the sidewalk. When they run, I’ll run too. Until then, I pass the time looking around. You never know. There may be others just like me, waiting. I need to know.

 

The first suspicious character was across the street. Doesn’t mean much. Big cities have plenty.

 

Another face popped up. A fat guy. Another nobody, but maybe not. He’d been standing just outside a five-story carpark. He’s been there a while.

 

Scanning the park itself is difficult. Walkers, children racing here and there, with mothers or their nannies trying to keep up, and the occasional father looking. 

 

So far, the traffic was only moving at glacial speed.  A motorcycle was winding through at a good pace, while traffic didn’t seem to give a damn. Horns tried to help the cars in front of them without helping.

 

Another motorcycle moved more slowly and finally stopped close to the curb. All sorts of bikes scurried barely noticing the motorcycle or anything else. 

 

Something about the cycle. The rider kept his black helmet on and lifted something black and long behind the seat. Hard to see exactly, what with traffic barely moving.

 

So here I am, not too close to the condo’s heavy brass entry doors. I’m watching trash on my iPhone and leaning against a large oak tree.

 

A woman comes by, pushing a baby carriage, and a couple holding hands with a kid about three or four. Those were just ones who caught my eye.

 

This is a good place if I wanted to give Thorne a chat with St Peter.  

 

Crazy this time of day. Traffic, pedestrians, horns honking, people chatting, talking on phones, or just walking with something else on their minds.

 

I was casually looking around, just in time to see a car rearending a city bus. 

 

Did I stare? No, I did not. I’ve got to pay attention of the big picture. 

 

Thorne and the doorman were just coming out of the front door as his chauffeur pulled up and rushed to open the car door.

 

The doorman said something that stopped Thorne on the last step. He said something that may have been instructions to the doorman.

 

Strange things were happening. JJ was about to move toward the car. The doorman waved both arms. JJ turned stopped and gave a soft wave.

 

I didn’t pay that much attention. I was close enough and the crowd was perfect. I was about to takes the perfect shot, but another shooter beat me to it. Must have been a rifle, that was a little off, when Thorne turned. Must have caught it on the shoulder. He leaned over, dropping to his knees and braced with one hand. 

 

If others are in on the game, why pay me? Different reasons?

 

I had my gun out, but quickly bent over slipped it down. People were scattering. Sounded like another rifle gave it a try, just as an unlucky cop raced up and took one half way up the steps.

 

Somebody screamed!  “Cop down!”

 

I ran toward the cop, not to kill him of course. And I’d already changed my mind about Thorne.

 

The cop was breathing. I turned around to see two more cops coming. One pushed me away. One was already on his phone. Another cop, standing on the road, decided the small crash wasn’t worth the trouble. He too came running.

 

Within five minutes a good-sized ceramic pot came crashing down from somewhere high up. Must have come from a condo’s balcony or window. I couldn’t tell which.

 

Lucky I’d been pushed away. The force of the pot did a job on one of the cops, leaving a good trail of blood. He yelled something I didn’t understand and grabbed part of his uniform. At least for now he was alive. 

 

The pot must have missed Thorne, but a second was spot on. Bloody face, eyes wide, not blinking.

 

A woman’s voice from high above screeched something. Who could tell exactly from that height and all the turmoil. Cops were yelling, people on the streets were shouting and scattering, others were still climbing out of the bus.

 

An ambulance, no, two, maybe three were trying to break through traffic and what was now a pack of cop cars. 

 

I glanced. All I saw was a big collection of confusion.

 

That’s when a female body came tumbling from on high. I didn’t truly see it. Heard some yelling. Somebody else yelled. Sounded like a woman, screaming on her way down. 

 

The body landed on Mr. Muscles, who probably would have been ok, except for his head colliding with the edge of the concrete steps.

 

Something had me guessing it was somehow woman versus woman. Good reason not to get married. The woman who took a one-way flying lesson had bond hair. 

 

Didn’t matter. I’d gotten paid, by the blond’s husband.

 

Whoever shot Thorne had done a bang-up job, messy job. 

 

It should have been me, but it wasn’t. Cops found my gun. Not really mine. As I’d said, be careful. Stolen piece. It still had all the bullets, and no fingerprints.

 

 No way the blond’s husband would know me. I’m not an amateur. I know what I’m doing. I’m a cop, or was a cop. Different city. Being a killer pays a lot more than trying to catch a killer.

 

.

 

 

 

 

A Lonely World

     

             

 

Much of me, weathered and jaded

 

Seen through curtains of a tired past.

 

Sighs of youth, scattered and faded

 

Losing bits I miss the most

 

Shreds of summer turn to winter

 

Hopes now amble in a hall of ghosts

 

Kisses perished, sweetness lost

 

Melted smiles pass through a fog

 

Lips have cracked and lost their gloss

 

Melodies now spin songs of strife

 

That joins a bruised and rusting heart

 

All slower beats in a swirl of life.

 

I no longer look out over that cliff

 

Enjoying reflections of times long lost

 

The warming sun still such a gift

 

My life is mine, and all worth living

 

New softer voices replace the old

 

Smiles still bring loads of giving

 

Such beginnings sweep dust of old

 

And bring back stories to be told.

Short Story Paris Part 4 of 4 That's all!

 

The café, was once again my place of refuge, in spite of the rain and a considerate number of patrons. And also once again, Stan was missing. 

 

I found Beatrice alone at a table near the back, smiled as I stepped through the door. She waved to me.  I unfolded my umbrella and put it the barrel next to the door before I took a chair.

 

“Did you have a good time with Madam de Rohan?”

 

“And why did you tell me she was in her nineties and wanted sex?”

 

She skipped over my question. “She’s nice lady.  Good time?”

 

“Helen is very nice. It was a special evening.”

 

“It surprising me.” Heavy French accent, without this and that in English, but much better than my café French. 

 

To change the subject: “How is Stanley? I haven’t seen him lately.”

 

“I don’t seen him late. He has troubles.”

 

“With the lawyer?”

 

“What lawyer?”

 

“The one who met him here. Something about his writing.”

 

“I know nothing of that.  I know he does….how do you say it….putting money down.”

 

“You don’t mean betting?”

 

Her eyes lit up.  “Yes! That things!”

 

“He’s in trouble?”

 

“Yes. I warn him. He do not listen.”

 

Well, that was another conversation and another glimpse into the strange life of Mr. Stanley.

 

“How is his writing going?”

 

She shrugged. “He has to finish.”

 

Finish? “A new book?”

 

“It is complication. The bookers want him to write more to pay more.”

 

“And he hasn’t?”

 

Another shrug.

 

“Will he be here, maybe today or tomorrow?”

 

“Qui sait?” Who knows is right.

 

Today or tomorrow turned out to be never, at least for this café.  Beatrice dropped in, met me for an early coffee and told me when and where.  It was quiet between sips. The bookers, as she put it had not showed up the times she had come by.

 

“And you hear more about Helen?” she asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“You have things together?”

 

“Art museums, déjeuner, Lunch. Le dîner, Dinner.”

 

“Seul?”

 

My turn to shrug, but without a smile. Damn if I was going to tell her if we had supper alone or any other secrets.  Pretty certain Helen wouldn’t.

The next time I saw Stanley I didn’t approach him and he didn’t see me. Le Lit des Roses, The Bed of Roses Café was fairly filled almost out to the road.

 

The same greasy, naughty lad sat across from Stan and neither of them looked happy and neither was sipping their cups of red wine.

 

I eased closer, with my back to them. I did sip my wine.

 

“You still own me money.”

 

“I gave you every Euro.”

 

“Not enough.”

 

“What do you mean, Recardo, you cheap bastard?”

 

It went on and on until I left.

 

Sometimes you just have to let things go, friend or not. What was I going to do? Track him down and slit his throat?

 

The next evening, I met Helen at her lovely little cubby of artistic wonders. Gaston made dinner for us. Of course, a well-known chef was a close friend. Not my friend of course. What one man could do with one chicken, butter, wine and herbs de Provence would fascinate hungry angels.

 

Gaston sat with us. Like many classic chefs, he spoke English and god knows how many other languages. But, when necessary to help poor me, Helen jumped in.

 

The conversation drifted past cooking and politics, to weather, trips taken and going to taken, until we got to friends.  Somehow, writers came into the stream. Of course, Gaston had never heard of me, or at least the author me.

 

For reasons that confounds me, Gaston mentioned Stanley. He’s read a couple of his books, which astounded me.

 

I couldn’t help myself. Not right then, but a few days earlier. Helen had somehow crossed the line from let’s have dinner to more subtly conversations, that led to our own fascinations. And eventually pillow talk to my worries linked to Stanley’s mix-up. Not the whole thing, more like half of this and that.

 

“Funny you mentioned that author, Gaston. He’s a friend of ours. There’s a hoodlum giving him something of a bit of trouble.”

 

It pays to know people who know people. With the right people, bad things can disappear, or bad things can happen to bad people.

 

I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t say a word when Stanley is back in our favorite café and Recardo never did.

 

I won’t tell the rest of the story, but I’m happy and so is Helen. That’s enough for the two of us.

 

 

Short Story Paris Part 3 of 4

 

Madam de Rohan lived as one would expect. Large. In addition to the wonderful art, there were museum pieces of dark, heavy furniture, bright carpets from across the other half of the world, several chandeliers of crystal and gold, bravely holding steady from tall ceiling. Palace of Versailles was probably missing some wallpaper.

 

A hand maiden in a lovely light-yellow dress, with a delightful yellow belt around her size zero waist, walked in the room with a smile and the mandatory bonjour, before she ushered us in a smaller sitting room.  “Madame will be with you shortly. May I get you a refreshment as you wait?”  All in perfect English.  Bernice smiled and said no to the refreshments.  She nodded and quickly disappeared. I’d have felt better if she’d winked. So cute she made the beautiful antique furniture ashamed. 

 

Madame walked in on cue, with a bright smile, a baby blue dress, and enough jewelry to embarrass royalty. Of course I stood up, but held back from dropping to my knees and bowing my head, also skipped kissing her what must have been an eight carrot ring. Beatrice also stood and snapped open a smile.

 

Before sitting down, Madam de Rohan motioned to Beatrice and said something in French. Beatrice did a little bow of her head and let the hand maiden guide her to the elevator.

 

Madam sat on the plush white sofa and patted the spot next to her. I sat before I could sing Old Man River.  Maybe she was older than I am, but nowhere close to 92 or 96 or whatever. I am in my fifties and she was close to sixty at most.  Words sprang out of my astonished mouth before I could calm myself.

“You…..I mean Madam de Rohan….”

 

“You expected something different…and please call me Helen.”

 

I was stunned, like an open-mouthed oaf.

 

“My guess is that Beatrice told you of my tante….my aunt. She is quite old. She struggles these days and sometimes asks for things that are not very delicate”

 

“I….I was told she wanted….!” And let the rest go.

 

Helen laughed! “A ninety-five year old woman?”

 

“I didn’t mean to be ….”

 

“Of course not,” she said. “I on the other hand would love some company of any sort.” Her smile was close to a laugh. Something in the way she smiled brought a luxurious beauty to her face. 

 

She spoke a delightful King’s English and went on to explain her mother was French and her father was from London. Both had passed away, which was why she lived with her tante.

 

The maiden brought sparkling wine, which kept the conversation moving at a gentle pace.

 

“And so, you are a writer and long for the Paris that no longer remains.”

 

“Well, yes. The 1920s.” How much more of me did Beatrice spill?

 

Helen, still chatting, led me back into the main room, letting her arms sweep slowly, pointing out details of paintings and furniture, name by name. 

 

My mind was left cluttered and swollen. My god what beauty! What a collection! And to top it off, many of the impressionists had visited this very spot, as well as Picasso and Dadi and Miro.  

 

“Not that I’m old enough to be alive to meet all of them, but I did chat with Picasso and Dadi.”

 

Hard to keep my attention as I let my eyes wander.

 

“What if I told you, I would like to take you out for dinner, not only delicacies that will tempt your palate, but with a step back into the Paris you want to enjoy? Not terrifically elegant, but the deep asides of the real Paris.”

 

She politely excused herself to change her clothes and came back wearing very stylish attire, but not with the elegancy she’d wore earlier. Light brown dress, matching high heels, a dark brown, thin leather jacket. Gold on her wrists, and around her neck, but not nearly the King’s ransom as before. Gone was the glitter of diamonds. I guessed it was her version of dressing-down.

 

Next to her, anyone would look shabby. Of course I was not. My brown slacks, white shirt, dark brown sportscoat and un-scuffed brown loafers did the job. I’m willing to bet she matched us on purpose. What a stylish couple! I rather liked that.

 

“We’ll take a taxi instead of bothering my aunts chófer.” 

 

Well dang, I was ready to sit in the back seat of the Bentley, roll down the window and wave to the peasants.

 

La Belle de Niece filled the bill for me. Maybe it wasn’t a restaurant of elegant for Paris, but it sure as hell wasn’t MacDonalds, or Wild Willie’s Pizza.

 

The waiter was dressed in a black suit, white shirt with a white bowtie, was about Helen’s age, or at least that’s what I guessed, and he sure made a girl feel special.  He blushed to a quick bow, and ushered us to a lovely red leather, rounded booth in a back corner, with spotless white linen table cloth and napkins.  The silverware and water glasses sparkled.

 

“You’ve obviously been here.”

 

“Yes. My husband and I came here a few times. At other times, he took others here.”

 

A gentleman doesn’t ask awkward questions, but I had one on my mind.

 

“Sorry to ask, but I wonder how all of this happened.”

 

She was about to answer, but gave it up and took a sip of the extraordinary white wine. I should have looked at the label, but the waiter had wrapped it in a white napkin, poured, and, plopped it in an icy silver wine bucket.

 

She smiled, obliterating my selfish question. “You’d like to know about my husband.”

 

Well, ok, if you insist, but my eyes met hers and said nothing.

 

“He was a tall, maybe taller than you.  A man of power. What he wanted, he got. But, his heart gave out over ten years ago.  And yes, he got a lot of things I knew nothing about, mostly in business, but other things.”

 

“Did you love him?”

 

“Did I love him? Hummmmm, yes of course, in a way. He was good to me.”

 

“Am I digging too deep?”

 

“This is Paris. He had lovers. I had lovers. Being a man, you want to know if I still have lovers.”

 

I sighed. Not deep. But it was more than time to move on. “I want to know more about you.”

 

“I love art. I spend time here and Niece, London, and Rome.”

 

“And what are your pleasures?”

 

“Probably just like yours. Art. writing. Travel. I could say lovers, but for me that has been to come and go. These years I’ve become very particular.”

 

“Beatrice? Also has lovers?

 

“None that I know of.  And perhaps I misspoke. My lover days are a nearly a decade ago.”

 

She took another sip. “Do I surprise you?”

 

“So, why am I here, talking to you? I really don’t understand.”

 

“I am restless. I do my best to help my tante. I have friends. Cocktail parties, Art parties.”

 

I started to broach the subject in a different direction, but she stepped over me.

 

“I want a friend. A male friend.”

 

“Does Beatrice supply male friends?”

 

“If it weren’t such a good question I’d slap your face!” She laughed. “She introduces interesting men at parties.  Beatrice knows a lot of people. But other than a group at cafes, no one has turned up.”

 

“And for some very odd reason, you find me interesting?

 

“Yes. You are real, not phony. You don’t want much and you know a lot without being stupid about it.”

 

“No idea what the hell that means.”

 

“Mostly old friends, or my late husband’s friend, taking me out to luxurious dinners, to impress. Mostly with other couples. Some pleasant, others thrilled with themselves. And some handsome, but like Louis XV China cups, with chips and cracks.”

 

The meal and conversation entranced me.

 

The taxi ride back to her home was silent, but holding hands.  

 

“May I walk you to the door?”

 

“May I ask you to up for a drink?”

 

I declined.  

 

She asked, “Shall I see you again?”

 

“At your pleasure.”

 

“You are such a gentleman. Especially for …..” She stopped.

 

“An American?”

 

“I was going to say for being so kind.”

 

She kissed me gently on the lips as the doorman held the door.

 

I was quickly in the cab, and looked back as it pulled away. I saw her wave.

 

                          END OF PART 3 TO BE CONTINUED

Short Story Paris Part 2 of 4

 

The café was the same, but I arrived later in the day. Thankfully no rain. Surprising for this time of year. Same barkeep that brought a glass of my usual red wine, while I pulled my computer out of my old, scared, brown briefcase. He walked away to leave me in peace. 

 

Edging just past noon. No Stanley. A sigh of relief. Morning is his coffee spot.

 

I’d finished going through the three pages from yesterday.

 

Time to let my mind wander. That’s what wine is for. 

 

Piddling thoughts. What would my life be like if I reconstructed it, tossed out my todays for new tomorrows?

 

No, can’t be done.  But the more I thought, the more reconstruction charmed me.  I’m a writer. But, I could stop writing, or at least stop writing trash.

 

Another thought swirled. My wife, Molly, had led me into the world of the ordinary.  Maybe she just followed me into it.  Perhaps, new wife, knew life. But, wives are wives for the most part, built to be ordinary in my experience, and soon the sex would become a good reason to play dominos instead of raising the dead.

 

Perhaps an affair? Stanley’s wife? Beautiful. Arrogant. Unapproachable? Probable. To think of her in bed with Stan brought on nausea.

 

I thumbed through one of the French novels I’d purchased, pretending I knew every word, doing my best, and knowing less with each turn of the page. I think it was the French Prime Minister Georges Clemenceau who said English is badly pronounced French.

 

Or, to turn around what ole Cleme’s say, French is close to English.  Clem, I disagree. French is closer to a snarling wolf in a trap in the pouring rain. 

 

I had just pushed away the snarling wolf when a woman approached. I may not know French, but I know women can sense angst like an ant to sugar. 

 

Maybe I squirmed and pushed fingertips through my hair that sent the message. Either way, I grabbed my book again and read on in deadly silence.

 

“Monsieur?” Beautiful, long auburn hair, green eyes, a smile that turned rain into sunshine. If only. She didn’t fit my yeaning. Nothing special.

 

Not a bad body, wearing the normal French woman’s attire. White blouse, but this one was nearly see-through, showing a hint of a bra under it. Blue skirt, tight around the bottom. High black heels and colorful scarf. The heavy makeup and gaudy red lipstick trashed it. I guessed she wanted me to buy her a drink, then follow her back to somewhere congenial. 

 

“Merci, but I’m expecting someone.”

 

“I speak En-gleensh. I can see you have sooom troubles.” She leaned closer. Oh what big sooms you have Goldilocks. I almost spilled my wine.

 

I gave her a smile, and shook my head, the signal to part company in any language.

 

Back to dropping the book and going on the trail to writing. I like to write under a moody, dark gray sky. Not sure why. Bright days are for laughter, drinking forcefully and feeling like suggesting a new friend to help me with the last of the champagne, and on the horizontal would be nice.

 

The first blank page began with, “Jack first saw Margaret in blah blah blah….”, to hell with that. Maybe, “He saw her at a small…” I took a sip of wine.

 

“Bonjour! Are you always here?” said another soft feminine voice behind me.

 

I’d barely turned. Beatrice kissed me on both cheeks. 

 

I’m too damn American to kiss back. I just smiled, touched my glass of wine and offered an apology for drinking at noon.

 

She gave a soft smile. “Never too early or too late with wine, mon ami. Some friends use it to brush their teeth.” Yes, I wanted to meet some of those friends of the feminine variety. 

 

“I already checked. Stanley isn’t here.” I stood up.

 

“Quel dommage.”  

 

Yes, it is a pity, but why is she here? I kept standing and pulled out a chair.  She sat. Seldom has she spoken a word to me. My haunting question fluttered in the wind.

 

The waiter brought another glass and a full bottle of wine. “C’est l’ami de mon ami”. A friend of a friend. I nodded, as in the Parisian way, looking as if not caring.   

 

“I wish to speak to you,” she said.

 

I smiled, and waited for whatever was coming.

 

“Stanley and I….well….there of our marriage.” It came out sounding more like a mirage. 

 

That pretty well covers all marriages. 

 

“Do you want to know?”

 

“Do you want to tell me?” Conversational ping pong.

 

I took a sip.

 

“Well, we are not married…..” followed by a smile and pause.

 

I waited.

 

“Well, we are, but we’re not…. sais pas.”

 

That made two of us who didn’t know.  I stayed silent to let her mind her own business.

 

“He wanted to stay in le France.”

 

I shrugged. “A marriage of convenience.” Which turned out to be very close in French, but with a dog tailed accent.

 

I wanted to ask for more secrets, but refrained. Knowing others’ details usually led to more than less. 

 

“You don’t want talking about that with me, n’est pas?” She said, and took a dainty sip of wine.  “But maybe a favor?”

 

“Depends. What kind?”

 

“Not for me.”

 

“Your husband?”

 

“Une de mes amis”

 

“Man? Woman? Lawyer who needs his throat slit?”

 

“A woman.”

 

“Anyone I know? Hopefully not one married to an angry husband who’s a crack shot!”

 

“Her husband is deadly.”

 

“Damn I hope the hell not!”

 

“Oh…..non….my English…” She rolled her eyes. “I mean he is not living.”

 

“Dead you mean.”

 

She nodded. “Yes. She told me.” A shrug of her shoulders. 

 

“How long ago?” I get particular about doing favors for women, especially those I don’t know, and who’s husband is only maybe dead and thinks pulling a gun and giving it a try is reasonable.

 

“She is quite old.”

 

“Let’s not beat around the old lady’s bush.”

 

“She is 92. Maybe 96.”

 

“How long before she’s dead?”

 

Beatrice paused, but kept her narrowing eyes on me. “She is not close.” Anything close to a smile had vanished.

 

These ‘close’ and ‘maybes’ ruffle my feathers and maybe many other’s people’s feathers. Maybe a cast of feather beaters.  “How close?”

 

“She has not to have some sex and wants to have more of it before she in too old.”

 

My god, how long does she figure she can hang on? “Sounds like she needs to take her wheelchair into the confessional for the last rights. Maybe just a handshake would do the trick on the way to the cemetery.”

 

“She wants more.”

 

Don’t we all. “Butter her toast? Spill tea on her delicate places and call it a night?”

 

“She wants….well you know.”

 

“Wants to suck on the lollypop?”

 

‘’I don’t know what that is. She wants real…well you know things.”

 

Sex in the graveyard is a great way of saying goodbye, and zipping up one’s pants.

 

How much am I supposed to know? I followed her intent, with yet another sip of wine. Larger sip. Closer to a gulp. Then I gave myself a top-off. 

 

“She pays well.”

 

“Why not get a pimp to settle the bargain?”

 

“She’s afraid of diseases.”

 

“Me, too!”

 

And I’m afraid of things I’m afraid to think about. My wonder stick is even more afraid. I’m already praying to Jesus for redemption.  

 

But sure, I think. No, I don’t think, but what the hell? Her morgue or mine? I didn’t really think anything was going to happen. Make that hoping.  Maybe she just wanted company or maybe I could read her a naughty version of Goldilocks where she grows to love the wolf who has more than big eyes. 

 

Yes. Guessing turned into going.

 

Madam de Rohan lived as you would expect, in a lovely part of Paris. Beatrice and I took a taxi to a huge apartment building, just a little shorter than the Eifel Tower and probably older. A heavily built doorman in blue livery opened the taxi door and then the heavy brass door with thick glass. It swung open easily, only if you were the size of angry ape. 

 

The ape ushered us to the elevator. The elevator boy, who looked about sixty-five, with arthritic knees and a wrinkled face, was in the same uniform. 

 

On the way up, yes, the thought grabbed me. What would it be worth to have me push the old lady’s buttons?

 

Eighth floor was sure to be elegant, with an elegant sight of the city.

 

Before we could say shiver my timbers we were in. Thick carpet. Walls hung with what I guess were original pieces from the late 1800s. Toulouse-Lautrec. Monet and other wonders I didn’t recognize and could never afford unless I got to know the old lady very, very well.

 

                                     End of Part 2 TO CONTINUE