Steve Martini - Trader of secrets

The clerk sprays us with a stream of French I suspect is laced with profanities. Then he points toward the door. “Sortez! Get out!” He motions for us to take our bags and leave.

I stand there like a jackass, foot in my mouth.

“All he wanted was your name,” says Joselyn. “Tell him your name, stupid!” Joselyn is staring at me, hands on her hips.

“Enough of this shit,” says Harry. “Let’s get out of here.”

“PAUL, my name is Paul. Paul Madriani.” I’m ready to genuflect, crawl on my hands and knees. All I want is a room.

The clerk looks me up and down, weighing whether to toss us into the street or try again. Slowly he pulls another card as he looks at me with contempt. He writes something on it. I’m guessing it’s my name.

“You better answer the next question correctly or we’re going to have to start all over again looking for another hotel,” says Joselyn. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired.”

“You didn’t tell me you spoke French.”

“I don’t. Mike here is from Colorado. He attends the university in Boulder.”

I look at her.

She starts to laugh.

The clerk starts to break up.

A few seconds later the two of them are belly laughing all over the counter.

“Very funny!” I tell them.

“You catch the look on his face?” She is pointing at me, talking to the clerk, tears running down her cheeks, she is laughing so hard. “I thought he was going to pee in his pants.”

The clerk nods. “Sorry, mister, she made me do it.” He speaks in perfect American English. He is still laughing.

“OK, so I’ve been had.” I start to join them.

“Mike is touring Europe, working for a stint to earn money.” Joselyn is wiping her eyes; looking at me, she starts to crack up again. “Consider yourself spit on,” she says.

“I was ready to walk out,” says Harry.

“You can if you want, but I’m staying the night,” says Joselyn.

“Sorry,” says the kid. “She put me up to it. I couldn’t resist.” He laughs.

“She would.” I smile at him and shake his hand. “How long have you been working here?”

“Two months. I took a year off school to travel. Studied French in high school and college. Actually my French is not that good.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“He did,” says Joselyn. She looks at Harry and slaps him on the shoulder. “See, not everybody in Paris spits on you.”

“Easy for you to say. You still have your toes,” I tell her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll tell you later. What do we have for rooms, Mike?”

“He’s upgrading us, third floor, street view with balconies,” says Joselyn.

“Excellent!”

“Let him piss on us again, maybe we can get the penthouse,” says Harry.

“Sorry, but it’s already booked,” says the kid.

“Is it possible to get two adjoining rooms?” I ask.

“Let me see. I think I can do that.” He checks the computer. “Yes.”

“Good. You get a bigger tip than the taxi driver,” I tell him. “Even so, I doubt if it will probably take you far in this town.”

“If you mean it’s expensive, you’re right. But then I don’t live in the Latin Quarter.”

“Where do you live?” I ask.

“I’ve got a small flat out in the suburbs. Place called Rosny-sous-Bois. And a roommate to share the cost.”

“Another American?” says Joselyn.

He nods. “A friend from Colorado.”

“How long you gonna be here?”

“Another few weeks, then we’re off to Italy. How about you guys, on holiday? Vacation?”

“Not exactly,” I tell him.

“Here on business, then.”

“You could say that. Do you work the desk every day?” I change the subject.

“I’m on nights this week. But you won’t have any trouble with the language if that’s what you’re worried about. The house operator speaks perfect English, as does much of the staff. Just tell them Mike sent you. That you’re friends of mine. They’ll treat you very well. Parisians are actually quite friendly once you break through the veneer.”

“I know. It’s just getting through that diamond veneer that worries me,” says Harry. “Guy could die on the street looking for directions.”

“It’s not that bad,” says the clerk.

“Not if you speak French,” says Harry.

The clerk hands one key to me and the other to Harry, then slaps the bell on the counter for the bellman with the luggage cart to take us to our rooms.

“Any chance of renting a car for a few hours tomorrow?” I ask.

“It can be arranged. Just call down to the desk. Phillippe is on tomorrow. He will take care of you.”

A car could be handy. It provides a place to hide out if we want to watch the front of Liquida’s hotel, especially at night, and a fast way to escape in a pinch if we need it.

I hand the kid behind the counter a fifty-euro note and watch his face as it lights up. “Oh! Merci beaucoup!” he says. “That means thank you.”

“The show was worth it,” I tell him.

“Thank you for everything,” Joselyn says to Mike as she takes my arm. “Now I am afraid to go up to the room with them.”

“If they give you any trouble, just call the front desk,” says the kid. “I’ll send up our chef, Marcel, with a butcher knife.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” she tells him.

We turn and follow the bellman toward the elevator.

“Maybe you could call down later and get Marcel’s phone number,” I tell Joselyn.

“Or we could just lead Liquida to the kitchen,” she says.

“I’d rather do takeout,” says Harry. “Call Thorpe and tell him his man’s in the frappe.”

The shadow moving across her Nook reader caused Sarah to glance upward. She found herself looking into angel eyes staring down at her.

“Hello,” he said.

“What are you doing here?”

“Seems that we are now neighbors.” Adin Hirst was standing there with a cup of coffee in one hand, a bagel in the other, and a smile on his face. “Mind if I sit?”

“No. Help yourself.” Sarah closed the cover on her reader. She had taken to spending a few minutes each afternoon in the small coffee shop on the ground level of the FBI’s condo complex.

“What are you reading?” Adin set the plate with the bagel and his coffee cup on the table, and then sat down across from her.

“Oh, just rereading some of the things I had to read in college. Doing it for enjoyment this time.” Sarah was going nuts up in the apartment, she and the dog climbing the walls. She had an hour every other day in the company of one of the FBI agents to walk the dog. That was it, her only foray out of the building.

“Can I look?” Adin gestured toward the reader.

She handed it to him.

“I’ve seen these, but I’ve never held one.” He hefted it in his hand. “It’s very light, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He opened the cover. She hadn’t turned it off. “Gatsby. You’re a Fitzgerald fan,” said Hirst.

“You’ve read it?”

He nodded. “Wonderfully written, not a word wasted. Cuts to the soul of his characters like a knife. How many books will this thing hold?”

“They say fifteen hundred, but I’m not sure. It probably depends on the length of the books.”

“That’s amazing. So what do you do, download the books through your computer?”

“No, it’s 3G. Has its own chip. You just go online into their library and order what you want, pay with a credit card, and it downloads in about sixty seconds. I have a Kindle upstairs, same thing, but a different library. That way I get a broader selection of books.”

“Incredible,” said Hirst. “What will the Americans think of next? I’m going to have to look into it.” He smiles and hands it back to her.