One Night, a short combat story

 

DaNang is called home to hundreds of airplanes from Air Force, Navy, Marine, Army, Vietnamese Air Force, CIA, and God only knows how many handfuls of government this and that. To say Da Nang is a big, busy base is like saying a hurricane is a nice breeze. Two long runways and everybody has to use them. Morning , noon and night.

 

Strange things could happen fling in combat in Vietnam. Weather does it’s best, Pilots get shot at everywhere they fly. Some make it back, but not all. Flying through heavy cloud cover can damage airplanes. Big mountains often hide in clouds and some poor souls find out the hard way.

 

And sad to say, some pilots break commonsense rules.

 

A young pilot by the name of Roy Bland, and his last name suited him, was on his third or fourth sortie over northern Laos, on a night mission. His backseater, Harry Smiths, had flown together six or eight sorties in Vietnam. Hard to remember exactly how many. Schedulers put names on the chalk board where they could squeeze them in.

 

Harry was busy studying the radar scope and ignoring a few dozen antiaircraft explosions, mostly too far away. Then they weren’t. Lighting up the moon.  One came close enough to rattle the aircraft. “Damn close!”

 

Roy said nothing.

                                                                                                                                                                 “Roy, did you feel that? Man, what a blast! Worried the little friend in my pants!”  Still nothing from the pilot, but everything seemed ok. Instruments in the back cockpit were smooth, then another close one, then a blast tried to turn the jet on its side! “Damn Roy, I know you heard that one!  Christ! Another! Zeus damn near lost his Sandals!”

 

Roy mumbled something, soft, then louder, almost screaming, “We’re gonna die!”  

 

“What are you talking about?”   

 

The jet dropped the nose for no reason. Harry grabbed the stick. Shouldn’t be falling out of the night sky!

 

The voice spewed out, “We’re going to die. We’re both going to die.”

 

Harry tightened his hand on the stick, pulled it back, getting the plane to what seemed level. “Let’s not die now. That’s for later, after breakfast.” 

 

“We’re going to die!” It sounded like Roy.  Harry still had the stick, still had the plane steady and level. But the hell! Maybe Roy had gotten pieces of shrapnel that had gone through the front cockpit. Maybe they really would be dying.

 

“You ok?”  

 

“Oh, my God! Dead! That’s what we are!”  The word ‘we’ finally scratched the surface.

 

Roy’s voice was normal, except what was coming out wasn’t. Roy wasn’t crying. In fact, he was calm, as if death wasn’t nearly as bad as not getting laid.

 

“Take it easy! I got the stick! I’m not dying and neither are you!”

 

The engines sounded perfect. Then the stick was jerked from hand to hand and the nose of the aircraft went down fast.  Real down. Ready to kiss the ground down! Even in scraps of moonlight, Harry saw nothing outside but black. No more antiaircraft guns following them.

 

 

Hey, Roy, how ‘bout you let me fly the plane.” Harry grabbed the stick. Roy didn’t fight him.

 

“Why don’t you just play with God’s gift to man, while I have the stick. We can just wait until we get to home plate and grab a beer.”

 

No answer, but must have his mind somewhere, if he still had a mind. Anyway, there was another problem. Hard enough to land a Phantom from the back seat in daylight. Even with runway lights and other lights around, it was still hard to put a Phantom on the ground at night.

 

Harry checked the fuel gage and the distance home. Looked ok. Both.

 

The stick pushed down twice more. He managed to talk him down. 

 

Finally, the base was in sight. But landing was still a big problem. Harry contacted the tower. “We’ve got a problem.”

 

“Roger, Bongo One. Say your problem.”

 

Roy spoke up, “What problem?”

 

“You feeling better?” Christ! Harry was not sure which Roy he was talking to! The one who was trying to kill him or the bastard who suddenly was once again a pilot. 

 

Time to take a wildly hopeful chance. “No problem, Roy. Put us on the ground!  Tower, problem solved”

 

“Rodger, you’re cleared.”

 

Then the damn stick went straight down!  Harry pulled.  

 

“Quit that shit! We’re going to get on th ground!” There wasn’t much leeway. Christ! Maybe two thousand feet. Maybe a bit more.  “Tower we got that Problem again!”

 

“Bong one, stay your problem!”

 

“We’re close to the ground!”

 

“Say your problem!” This time the tower was getting loud and determined.

 

“Put the Commander on! Right now!”  

 

“Roger!”

 

Lest than two minutes, “This is Colonel James! Say it all! Tell me…do it now!”

 

“Problem is he can’t fly the plane…thinks we’re going to crash!”

 

Colonel James took a deep breath.

 

“I can’t land!”

 

“Is he hurt?”

 

“Damn! He’s gone crazy. I’m going wet!  (Going over the sea)

 

“Let him talk to me!”

 

“I’m tell you Colonel, he doesn’t want to talk to me to you to anybody! He says we’re going to DIE! And I’m close to it!  Gone wet! Just pasted over Monkey Mountain.”

 

“I understand! Bale soon when it’s safe! Choppers on the way!”

 

Now the biggest guess. Bale out by himself, to drop in the water and maybe let him drown!  The F word echoed in his helmet!  “You hear me?” No sound.  “I’m pulling it! We’re going in the water! Choppers are coming.”

 

“NO! Don’t Pull it!”  

 

Christ the guy was nuts!

 

“Get ready, lean back now, Roy! We’re going for a dip.” 

 

 

“Don’t!”

 

Canopy Jettisoned, seat catapult and rocket boost, a flash and Harry was under a parachute over the ocean, followed by Roy a split second later!

 

Seats released and Harry found himself, floating in the dark of night. He looked for Roy, saw nothing but the lights of DaNang. No light near him. 

 

As soon as he hit the water, he released his parachute and made sure his vest was solid to keep him afloat. He called Roy on his radio. No answer. The water wasn’t too rough, but maybe just a little too rough to see Roy’s blinker. His was on. 

 

A chopper flew by ten minutes later. Lights washing across the water, and caught sight of Harry, then settled low and a rescue swimmer grabbed Harry and hoisted him up.

 

Colonel James met him in the hospital.  “Glad you made it back, but what was the problem?”

 

Harry hesitated. “I don’t know how to explant.”

 

“I understand. You jumped out of a airplane and landed in shark invested water.” The Colonel smiled. “You probably need some sleep.”

 

“No sir. I’m ok.” His eyes were wide awake. No way he was going to sleep.

 

“So what happened?”

 

The Colonel listened for a while. The smile disappeared.

 

The same helicopter picked up Roy Bland the next morning. He was severely tired and fell asleep on his way to the hospital.

 

The next morning, Colonel James told him with a smile it was great to have him back. Then came the very strange conversation.

 

“Sir, I really don’t know what happened. Harry…..my backseater kept saying something about we’re going to die.”

 

“You didn’t make the call?”

 

“No sir.”

 

“You didn’t call the tower for an emergency?”

 

“No sir.”

 

Very strange. Very weird.  The Colonel knew who he had talked to through the tower, or thought he knew.

 

“You didn’t say you’re both going to die?”

 

“WHAT?”

 

The Colonel went silent, but his mind was churning. Christ! Maybe Captain Smiths….Well damn if he could tell one for the other. 

 

The next day the Colonel spoke to several generals in headquarters, doing his best to explain the unexplainable. 

 

All up in the chain of command decided not to try to explain the unexplainable. But Colonel James knew better.

 

He sent Captains Bland and Smiths back to the hospital to separate them and let all the smart doctors take a shot at figuring it out. 

 

That didn’t work out well, tossing in and out everything they could cover. Perhaps combat fatigue. Perhaps normal excitement. Perhaps anything…

 

The aircraft was in deep water. The colonel in charge of aircraft mechanics spoke with those in charge and familiar with the working of control sticks.  Without seeing the aircraft, well….They knew the beast was good when it took off.

 

Eeny-Miny-Moe.  Colonel James sat in his office, looking out the window. 

 

His Chief Master Sergeant knocked. “Come in, George.” A pause. “What have you got?”

 

“Sir, there was something about a crash.”

 

“Two days ago.”

 

“Yes Sir. I heard there was a big problem. I might be able to help.”

 

“Great idea, Chief.”

 

The next night, two training ships took off. Harry was in one, with a solid pilot in the front seat. In the other plane with Roy as a pilot and a well-known instructor pilot in the back seat. 

 

Things were going well and then…After a two-hour flight, one plane called the tower for an Emergency.   The all 

The Interview

 

1950 

 

“How long have you been working here? I’m assuming you are an in and out kind of woman.” It wasn’t he was being abrupt. Well, yes he was, and knew it. Reporters tend to be abrupt and rude. He worked for a relatively well known paper, and as a side line, he also worked as an interviewer for a trash paper that paid the rent. 

 

He’d been sitting in this rather nice hotel, just scanning the coming and going. As soon as he saw her, he picked her as the type, hoping not to end up on the street with his suit ripped and hearing sirens heading his way.

 

None of that happen. Apparently, she had no trouble being asked by a nicely dressed and good-looking man who might be able to afford her.

 

“You are a lady of the night, or pardon me if I’m wrong.”

 

She smiled smoothly.  “I prefer Woman of Glory, and to answer your question, that’s not any of your business. Your real question is, am I what you’re looking for?”

 

“How old are you?”

 

“Where is this going? I know you’re writing something that will end up somewhere.”

 

“You needn’t worry.”

 

“Please don’t lie! Once on paper……Say something worthwhile or leave me alone.”

 

This was suddenly going nowhere, so he changed the tone quickly. “I will not use your name or where you…..ummm…where you work or with whom you work.”

 

“I need to know a bit more before I give you……well, I’m sure you understand,” she said and lost the smile.

 

“I write for Bedroom Antics.”

 

“I know of it.”

 

“Glad to hear it. It’s become popular, especially among the ladies,” he said.

 

“Why do you think that is? I would have guested men are the biggest readers.”

 

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but my guess it has fewer partially nude pictures. Women are more interested in…”

 

“Women, see men as open books, which they are. Men see women as mysteries,” she said.

 

“You really think men are open books?

 

“Of course not. Men come to me to chat about Shakespeare, poetry and the Stock Market.”

 

“Well, Bedroom Antics has a lot for men readers too. I didn’t mean to say only women read it.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like I’m an interviewer. I gather as much as I can about women in general and especially those of your……your …… is ‘profession’ a word you like? Anyway, men are interested.”

 

“I prefer An Element of Charm.”

 

“So how long have you worked as An Element of Charm?”

 

“Since I was married five years ago.”

 

“I’m shocked!” His eyes blinked.

 

“Are you married?” she asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Happily?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What do you think a wife does?” she asked.

 

“You mean sex?”

 

“Is your wife An Element of Charm?”

 

“I certainly wouldn’t call her that!”

 

“What would you call her?”

 

“She is sweet, intelligent, and really lovely.”

 

“Another way of saying, you’re not getting enough.”

 

“Let’s leave my home life out of this! I am doing the interviewing! And my wife has nothing to do with it.”

 

“In other words, she’d much rather be doing the laundry.”

 

“Ok! Ok!  My turn!  Would you rather be doing the laundry for you husband?”

 

“Would you like me to show you?”

 

----------------------------------------------

 

“It went well?” Her girlfriend, another An Element of Charm, asked.

 

She smiled. “Of course. I picked he out in ten seconds.”

 

“Jesus! that’s all it took? How do you do it?”

 

“I got him to talk. He thought he was interviewing me!” She smiled.

 

“Did he …..? “

 

“Of course. Very generous. Lovely room in that hotel. Very nice guy. And you can bet he has a lot more interviewing to do.”

 

“Have his name and phone number?” The girlfriend had that hopeful look.

 

“Oh yes, but his business phone. He insisted. Just, tell him you want to be interviewed. Men are open books, especially married men.”

 

France and England 1937 Short Story, Part 2

 

                                      France and England 1937

                                             Short Story, Part 2 

He wanted to oblige with coffee, but it did not turn out the way he thought when they got to his room in the hotel.

 

No dispatching of clothing. Glasses of water substituted for wine, and a lengthy diatribe of more divorce procedures and a deluge o tears instead of pillow talk. 

 

An hour or more, and the deluge washed away, along with thoughts of anything else, including breakfast. 

 

He sent her back to her hotel in a cab. A good-by hug satisfied the both of them.  

 

He slept well all alone and happy, and made it to breakfast on his own. 

 

Lovely white table cloth, and a waiter with black trousers, white starched shirt and black bow tie. 

 

Allain, dressed stylishly in a suit, passed on a full breakfast. Coffee and a tall glass of fresh orange juice, slowly sipped, did its job of freshening him up. 

 

He casually picked up the carefully folded, crisp morning’s newspaper, hoping for a clue of what’s happening today or yesterday, when a man approached with unhappy thoughts. 

 

“My wife said you made a pass at her!” Followed by bulldozer of a slap so hard it sent Allain’s brain on a boat to China, leaving his face to decide if his teeth had given up. Maybe it was a centurion forcing him to divulge the secret of how Christ rolled that damn stone away? 

 

The man was tall, in a bespoke, dark woolen suit, white shirt and red tie. The slap tossed Allain’s thought to a place far away. 

 

The man leaned forward and smacked the palms of both hands flat on the table. Allain may have lost his thoughts, but was accomplished at spying a face filled with anger, and was beginning to catch the scent of garlic or the scent of a long dead rodent. The man’s knee caught the edge of the table, not giving Allain’s pants time to avoid a flying cup of scalding coffee and a glass of orange juice. 

 

An alert waiter strode quickly, and carefully stepping between them. “May I help you gentlemen?” 

 

“Nothing worthy,” Allain said with a smile. “Just a discussion of manners.” 

 

Still another waiter asked if Allain would like another breakfast. “I think not. I didn’t enjoy the first one.” 

 

The waiter promised his suit would be renewed, with a half dozen apologies.

 

Allain skipped asking for a doctor or help getting to his room. He finally got to his feet, and the man whispered, “Il faux parle”, but the accent was a bit short of good French.

 

We have to talk? Allain understood the French phrase, but not the sense of it.

 

“By the way, who is your wife?”

 

“You know who she is!”

 

“Not yet I don’t, but I’d like to. You going to tell me or maybe show me a photo of your monkeys.”

 

The waiters quickly grabbed the man’s arms, let him to the front door and made sure the doorman didn’t let him back in.

 

As he left, the waiters looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders, as if to say, who is his wife and who the hell is he?

 

--------------------------------------------------------------

 

Allain undressed, put on a complementary white bath robe, left his suit at the door to be cleaned. Then locked the door, tossed the robe on the bed, and looked in the mirror before taking a shower. Then put on pajamas and climbed into bed. 

 

Early morning yearned for him, but he was still sleeping when there was a knock at the door. Certainly his suit was not ready. Too early.  And the knock was more than a tap, and wasn’t followed by a soft courtesy call.   

 

Thoughts rippled across his mind, none of them good. Couldn’t be the OVRA, Mussolini’s secret police, or maybe the husband he’d met at breakfast?  Still thinking, he put an ear to the door. Mussolini’s brutes were all over France.  But, England? They wouldn’t dare. 

 

Hitler’s killers, on the other hand, were a different story. Over forty thousand British citizens followed Oswald Mosley and his British Union of Fascists who thought Hitler is top hat. Swell guy! Let’s all have a pint of Berlin’s best Bier!

 

The knock came sharper, louder, like the wood was about to be turned into Billy clubs.

 

“Hold on for God’s sakes!” He wrapped his bath robe, slid into slippers, pitter pattered to the door, unlocked it and cracked it open.

 

Two men pushed the door with heavy force, grabbed him and did their best to drag him out. Didn’t happen. Allain pulled back as hard as he could. The heavy door did a good job of cracking a couple of fingers. The closest man yelled, the other took a foolish moment that loosened his hold. Allain swung a fist at a delicate area. The man winced and tried to hold Allain’s arm, but ended with one knee on the floor. Allain grabbed that man’s fingers and pushed one finger hard enough to make him forget why he was there. A good kick left them back out the door, sturdy enough to get the door latched.

 

With the door secured, Allain pressed his back against it and heard some words. Dialect: Neapolitan, Sicilian, Venetian?  All he really heard for sure was heavy shoes moving away.  He looked down to see a very nice Baretta automatic pistol. Italians? A pistol almost never tells the whole story.

 

Allain once again showered, dressed and was about to leave when another pounding on the door made him pick up his new Baretta.

“Who is it?”             End of Part 2

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.

 

.

 

 

 

 

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