The French Lady

 

Horras Wheatman was known for picking winners.  Not horses or roulette, but movies and TV shows and the occasional starlet. He could smell success, but in this case, with his sniffer on the blink, he would be forced to listen to Charlie Blankenship explain what he called “The next big thing.” Mr. Blankenship was the friend of a friend of his wife, which made listening to this clash of idiocy mandatory.

 

“Just call me Charlie.”

 

Oh yes.  And what else should I call you.  But Horras didn’t say that.  How could he? His wife insisted and on and on and so forth.

 

Horras had been through this churning of the stomach many times and knew how to think about other things like flowers and breasts while appearing to concentrate. He leaned back, fingers touching his lips like a church steeple, his brown tweed suit, with a white shirt under his one tone darker brown vest, set off with a fashionable, but subdued blue and pale-yellow tie.  He and Mr. Blankenship had already gone through the formalities, of greetings, handshakes and an offer to take a seat.

 

“So, Mr. ….I mean Charlie…tell me about this screen play…”

 

“It’s a sure winner,” Charlie broke in.

 

“Perhaps you could favor me with a hint.” Sarcasm past his visitor like a mud slide.

 

Charlie’s smile faded only a bit. “Yes, of course. You see, it’s a love story.  Well, not exactly a love story. A sort of love story that begins in London…”

 

“Allow me to interrupt. The characters are English?”

 

“No. See that’s the twist. The man is American, but the woman is French.”

 

“Go on.” He sighed, meaning go on and shoot yourself.

 

“What’s taken them to London is that they have both dropped out of art school…shall I read you a few scenes of how they met?”

 

“By all means.” And by that I mean shoot yourself again, just to be sure.

 

“Picture the both of them walking across the bridge…”

 

“Which bridge?”

 

“Well, I haven’t decided. Does it really matter?”

 

“The Tower Bridge, the Millennium Bridge, the Westminster Bridge.  Pick one.” Patience picked up a rifle and cocked it.

 

“The one that Shakespeare wrote about.  The Shakespeare Bridge?”

 

“Tough to cling to that thought, the Shakespeare Bridge being In Los Angles.”

 

“Well, anyway, the man…”

 

“What’s the man’s name?”

 

“I don’t know. No one knows. He’s without a name.”

 

“No name, yes?”

 

“Well, he’s forgotten his name because he doesn’t know who his father is and his mother has dementia and works for the CIA.  She’s still stalking the person who killed President Truman. It’s the only way she can get her memory back.”

 

“Truman was never assassinated.”

 

“I’m getting to that. See, she goes back in time to solve the puzzle.”

 

“What puzzle?”

 

“Why her son didn’t finish Med School.”

 

“I thought he dropped out of art school.”

 

“I have lots of other films in mind.”

 

“Such as…”

 

“Diapers for Waldo, Pale Muffins, Customers in Purgatory, and my favorite, The Magician Does Tricks.”

 

“Tell me about the last one.”

 

“The plot is a magician turning transvestites into football quarterbacks.”

 

What team? I want to place a bet. “I think I’ve heard enough.”

 

“One more…. A Cardinal Error. See the New Pope is a lesbian who has the Sistine Chapel painted blue and pink to be more inclusive.”

 

“Have you thought of instead of a lesbian, the new pope is the ghost of Mussolini? And by the way, have you been to the Vatican?  If not, go and we’ll speak again when you wander back.” 

 

With Charlie gone, hopefully forever, Horras sighed. He pushed a button and another wantabee came in and sat down without being asked.  This one was a woman, the daughter of a friend of his wife.  She crossed her long legs as soon as she sat. Horras swallowed hard. Tall. Slender. Blonde. French. Her English was perfectly French. Lots of z’s, and lots of common French phrases tossed in to prove it. “Jen-say-pah. Naturalment. D’a corde. Merci.”Twisting Horras’ libido into knots.

 

A beautiful voice and the way she sat and ran a hand across her skirt made Horras have to refrain from biting his tongue. My God!  This one was better than any starlet! 

 

She offered a wonderful, mair-ve-use, story about a little less than nothing.

 

“So what do you zink?”

 

I really like your dress and would you run your palm across your skirt just one more time?  And pull it up a little higher? But, of course he didn’t say any like that.

 

“I think your story about a beautiful older woman, a carpenter who becomes Robespierre’s mistress, and having his child just before he lost his head, has real possibilities. Suppose we chat about it over dinner. I know a lovely little restaurant in Bordeaux.”

 

She smiled coyly. “I louf Bordeaux, en particulier (especially) in zee Spring.”

 

She left with a smile, walked two blocks, went into a very nice coffee shop and took a seat across from a man with a movie star face, dressed as suited a lawyer.

 

“So, did he buy it?”

 

Her French accent had quickly led her from France to Iowa. “Swallowed it like a hungry fish and damn near swallowed me too.”

 

“Did you get it recorded”. 

 

She nodded and smiled. “His wife is going to love this.”

 

“You sure as hell made my job easier!”  

 

“So, does that mean you’re taking me to dinner?”

 

He smiled.  “Not in Bordeaux.”