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.

 

.

 

 

 

 

A Short Story Paris Part 1 of 4

 

It’s not that I don’t like Paris. I do.  But not so much the new Paris. I’m afraid the old streets and buildings creaking with age are harder to find.  Some backwaters of the city still look like the 1920s, but still I lust for what is gone forever.  

 

The café I inhabit in most mornings is what you might call old and rugged. Peeling paint on large, brown rustic doors, that open wide. You can see the zinc bar and the bar keeper, a partially bald man of fifty or so, in a white apron, busy polishing the countertop with a white rag.  I don’t usually go in, but take one of my usual seats at one of the cafe tables out front, but not too close to the street, which thankfully is a quiet street with little traffic. 

 

Tall, scuffed beige apartments with dusty windows are on either side of the street.  Clothes flutter softly on close-lines several stories up. 

 

I ordered a cafe au lait and croissant, and as always, I sat alone, at least for a short while.   

 

“Monsieur.” The waiter, dressed as usual in brown trousers, white shirt, and spotless apron tied at the waist, showed me his back even before he heard my merci. Been here many times. He knows my desires.

 

Hemingway used to sit and write at this cafe, or so I was told, but who really knows about ole Hem. It’s all a guess if you ask me. In the end, what does it matter? And the places the man himself mentioned in “A Moveable Feast” are no longer nickel and dime spots for the poor and disenchanted.  Les Deux Magots, La Closerie des Lilas, and so many others are expensive havens for tourists to push out enough to be able to say, Yes, I was there. 

Beter bring your credit card to sip where Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Picasso and dozens of others hung out in the 1920s, most of whom at the time were hungry and nervous about their next meal and anxious to be invited to the next party.

 

I want to be a writer, hopefully a good, and rich one. But to start off in a grubby apartment in a rough part of Paris, poor and soaked in enough wine and whiskey to float the Titanic? No thanks! I want it all and I want it now.

 

How about living with a wife like Zelda Fitzgerald, ninety cents short of a dollar? Deep sigh. 

 

I took a sip of coffee and sifted through my careless mind. How much whiskey did Scott have to drink? Well, it killed him.  A bucket a day of whisky will do that.

 

I’m sitting quietly, sipping and letting the croissant sit on its small white plate. I like to sit, stare and listen to the sound of traffic a block away, and a city coming awake, while I pretend to be a starving writer. 

 

Without a nod, a former acquaintance plopped in a chair at my table. 

 

Stanley Thomson. Unshaven for a few days. Thin sandy hair brushed carelessly by a stubby finger or two. Wrinkled white shirt, matching the wrinkled khaki suit. Not at all Parisian. The pot belly didn’t help. Parisian gentlemen of any age are nicely thin, and always look as if their suits were made to measure. Stanley may have slept in his suit for a few days.

 

“S'il vous plaît.” He said in utterly atrocious French, as he waved a couple of fingers. The waiter took his own deep breath and nodded.  No smile, but what the hell, this is Paris.  

 

In no time, Stanley, who distained being called Stan, was already grabbing our conversation with both hands between sips and ramming home what was already left of his croissant.  “My agent tells me he can’t wait to get my latest.  You know the last “Philip Carl” really burned up the best seller list.”  

 

“How many does this make?”  Yes, I felt a twinge of shame or anger or something. I’d read not one page he’s written, or not one word for that matter. I don’t read rubbish. Maybe I’m being cruel.

 

Stanley waived fingers again and the waiter brought another croissant, which slowed the conversation. He had “Three,” but with the help of a mouthful of croissant it came out muffled, “Cwee”. 

 

I swallowed hard and changed the subject. “How are things with Beatrice’s novel?” 

 

“0h, the dogs. ……..”   He fluttered his fingers, so-so, and lifted his nearly empty coffee cup to his lips, his eyes wide as softballs.  He put the cup down, letting a few drops spill, and finished the rest of the sentence. “The damn dogs…..well the whole novel is a disgrace to canines.” 

 

“Tell me the title again?” 

 

“She should call it Woof-Woof, The Bitch is Dead.” 

 

I took my own sip, followed the few bits of traffic pass, with my eyes, and waited.  

 

Another croissant arrived and after tossing that one down, a cluster of scattered flakes spent a long time on his chest, followed by a gulp and belch. Stanley stood-up and tossed his white linen napkin on the table. “You don’t mind, do you? I gotta run.”  

 

Beatrice, his wife, is a beauty and the perfect example of women who are cheerleaders for marriage, no matter the score. Apparently, that included a man like Stanley, belly full of everything that fit in his mouth. 

 

She really was a writer, with several novels in French. She also knows people, including those of the artistic persuasion and the others who have the money to keep artists from going hungry.

 

Oddly enough, Stanly and his wife and I get along. What you’d call bar buddies. In France a bar offers everything from whiskey to coffee to this and that to eat. Beatrice doesn’t often show up.

 

I did envy him for latching on to Beatrice. Come live with me and be my love, and we shall all the pleasures prove, said a poet who never knew Molly, a girlfriend, now out of my life, who was not French. She was all I had wanted and needed but she found pleasures elsewhere, turning love to sour milk. Her new love raced away on a race track. Yep. I heard he dumped her on the last lap.

 

I’ve had trouble with women, so, I guess I shouldn’t be pushing what I thought about women and marriage. But, damn!   Beatrice is lovely in the French women’s charming ways.  They dress so well, and flatten their skirts as soon as they sit down, one hand smooth and slow in a don’t you want to take me home in the sort of way.  My answer is yes. On the other side, Stanley...but I won’t say it.  Yes, I will. She sleeps with him? I shudder. Why are women beyond my ken? 

 

And what if I managed to...perish the thought. Bedding her would be like jumping in the seat of a Ferrari filled with mud.  

 

Next day, same cafe, but I picked another table. Stan was there with a male companion. Slicked back, greasy black hair and a snarly faced like an angry, constipated bulldog. Stan didn’t look happy. A coffee in front of him, and crumbs from an only half eaten croissant. Stan would pee in his pants before he’d give up on a croissant.

 

The companion walked away. No handshake and didn’t look back. Turned a corner and disappeared.  Stan looked like he was deciding between a handful of sleeping pills or rolling up his sleeves and using a sharp knife. I’m sure the waiter would help with the knife. 

 

Now I had to decide. Leave, or stay.  Curiosity won. I slid into a chair at Stanley’s table.

 

“What’s up Stanley?”  The waiter gave a glance at Stanley, gave an “Ho shit” look, swallowed deeply and forced himself to bring me exactly what I always order.  I sipped my second cup of coffee au lait.  Stan looked up, nodded to me, and said nothing.

 

I knew it was coming. One, two, three… 

 

“Lawyer.” He still didn’t look up. From the shady look of him, by the grease hair, I would have guessed Mafia hit man.  No telling which is worse.  I chose not to ask.  “How’s the writing coming?”  

 

He swiped the table swiftly with the back of his hand, sending the white plate and what was left of the croissant to their clattering doom. 

 

The waiter, who had been leaning over the counter in the opposite direction, spun around like a man who’d pissed and had forgotten to unzip his pants.  I looked toward him, showed him the palm of my hand. Everything is ok, then signaled for two cognacs and make it double shots.

 

The waiter walked smartly toward us and quickly swept up the reason I had ordered Cognac.  

 

I ignored him and kept the conversation running. “So, what’s up with the patron of cracks in the law.” 

 

“I don’t…”.       

 

“The hell you don’t”. 

 

The cognacs quickly appeared.

 

Stanley took a small sip without looking at me, then an honest sip. 

 

“We’re in Paris. Writing is going well. You have a beautiful wife….” My speech of consolation trails off.  

 

He sighed. “I haven’t told you everything”. 

 

“And by that you mean you’ve told me nothing.”  But I didn’t say it. Salt in the wound, etc.  

 

“The lawyer told me... “.  He took a deep breath. “Well, I’m being charged with plagiarism.”  

 

The waiter came to the table, unannounced and pointed to the empty snifters.  “Oui, s’il vous plait.” And pour one for yourself. My French is usually limited to merci and merde, but fingers pointing to his chest and cupping a hand to the lips did the job. Fingers smash the language barrier for drinks, bills, and up yours.   

 

The waiter stood behind the bar and downed his before he brought ours. He didn’t ask if we wanted anything else. One smashed dish had already ruined his day. He got back behind the bar and started polishing glasses, with a careful eye on the snifters at our table.  Shouldn’t have watched, dropped his, sending slivers of very polished glass to hide here and there.

 

A quick, sour look in my direction told me it couldn’t be his fault. 

 

Stan still hadn’t looked at me, fat fingers locked and twisted together. Watching the fingers twist, it struck me that the lawyer might not be a lawyer. 

 

Suit. Yes. Nice suit? No. This is Paris, not a Nebraska faith healer’s Bingo game.  “Stanley, who was that guy.”  

 

“I told you.”  

 

“Slick hair? Unshaven? Suit from a second hand market? Try again.”

 

Something told me the ride home was going to be a rocky one for ole’ Stanley.

 

Later in the afternoon I went for a walk, but not down the boulevards. Heavy traffic rusts the mind and I wanted to let ribbons of thought breeze through helplessly. What about Stan and the lawyer, if he was one?  I managed to forget the whole nest of troubles, and turned onto a rather narrow and definitely old street, with grayish buildings. One dotted with tiny mom and pop markets, other various shops, and a few art stores with paint brushes, simple art and such.

 

I turned another corner and stopped to listen to sweet, smooth and yet tumbled Gypsy jazz. A few people walked on, barely noticing. 

 

Musicians in worn jeans and untucked shirts, rugged whiskers, except for the girl playing base. A smile, bright eyes, and carelessly coffered hair.  From the smooth sound of the guitar, I would swear Django Reinhardt was doing the strumming, but unlike Django this one had all his fingers, and from the sounds, Stephane Grappelli’s son had mastered his father’s jazz violin. Sweet sounds and smooth tones, from the heart.  Glorious. Golden. I tossed coins in the hat and stayed to marvel through every note. 

 

When they finally took a break to chat, sip glasses of beer, and smoke French Gauloises, I moved on, not knowing where, but old buildings on every side. Once or twice faces appeared in windows high above, looking down at me, or to do the chore of putting clothes out to dry. 

 

Along the way I found an old secondhand bookstore, not unlike Shakespeare and Company, but lacking English books.  I bought two well-used books in French, with high hopes. The seller was an older lady, gray hair, glasses, and plainly dressed. She said very little as she wrapped up my books.

 

Farther down the same street I spied another tiny shop, with one tall window, filled with pen and ink drawings of all sizes, framed in black. As I stared, a man’s voice startled me. Thin man, with a white shirt, and suspenders holding up his dark gray pants. The old, gray haired ancient waved twice with his fingers, wanting me to follow him through his scared green entry way.  My English did no good. I would have used my French if I had any. No matter, he ushered me inside to a worn, but comfortable chair and pointed for me to sit.  

 

I took my time glancing around his interesting shop, filled with nothing but black ink portraits and buildings, flowers and trees, castles and old automobiles.  

 

While I sat, he held up the palm of one hand and disappeared behind a black curtain, only to reappear with a violin. He commenced to play music so sweet it brought tears to my eyes. He must have played thirty minutes. When music is so beautiful, who watches the time?  Afterwards he put the violin back in a terribly scuffed brown violin case, let it rest against a wall and offered me a drink of something like Sherry in a small crystal cup, then sat in a nearby chair. We drank and spoke in separate languages, smiling, understanding as best we could.  His warm gray eyes spoke of pleasures won and those he’d lost. His eyes held a sparkle and his tone and lilt of voice enthralled me. 

 

 It was time for me to leave. He hugged me. Startling, but comforting for both of us. Who was I in his old eyes? Loved ones long gone? Sons or daughters? Ghosts of lost friends? How much has he seen in those lost years?

 

Walking back in fading light, surrounded by even darker, old buildings, I no longer worried about Stanley or his lawyer trouble, or why the hell his beautiful wife slept in his bed. Instead, I thought of the little cafe and the middle-aged barkeeper who drank his Cognac in two swallows, and the Gypsy jazz that brought old music to the depth of my soul, and the old man with his violin skill and the wonderous unknown conversation, and of course deliciousness in a small crystal cups.  

 

I must have been walking longer than I thought, surrounded by new born memories! Somehow, I’d found bits and pieces of the old Paris I longed for.