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.
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