 On the other hand, I had just completed an exhausting mission in Budapest and was down for a bit or R & R. Usually that meant me getting drunk in a hotel room, accompanied by heading out for a ham and cheese baguette and a paper the next morning. However, after arriving in Paris by train just a few hours before, I had collapsed into my hotel bed after a quick quarter grooming ritual. I was just shutting my eyes when the phone rang. Only la Confrerie knew that I was at this hotel, so I picked it up. Ignoring calls was never an option. “Randolph,” I answered without trying to disguise my annoyance. Randolph was a cover that I used for this particular hotel. “A call from LaSalle Confectioners, Monsieur Randolph.” “Put it through.” LaSalle Confectioners was a front. In this case, I didn’t seem like a particularly good one. I didn’t think that too many people got calls from candy shops at their hotel at night. Maybe it didn’t matter because no one was paying attention, but I have no patience for inattention to detail. “Monsieur Ransom, hold for a priority client.” This would be the switchboard at Marseilles. There was really no point in yelling at them. The switchboard operator was following orders. “No, I’m on leave. Do not put that call through. Give it to…” Just because it was futile and didn’t make sense, didn’t mean that I wasn’t going to try it. I heard a series of clicks in rapid succession. “Chance, its Faud.” God damn it. Of course it was. Faud was one of our wealthiest clients. In fact, he was actually one of the wealthiest men in the world. When Faud called he received preferred treatment from la Confrerie. “Yeah, Faud. What is it?” “I know you’re in France. I need you. Does your hotel have a helipad? I will send my chopper for you.” “The switchboard operator should have told you that I’m not available. There’s got to be twenty Wingman in France right now that can…” “No, Chance. I don’t want another Wingman. I need you right here, right now.” “Faud, I’m dead tired. It’s just not going to happen.” People generally didn’t tell Faud “no.” He had earned his wealth by having the good fortune of being born into a royal family that reigned over a sea of oil. People who didn’t share Faud’s DNA never argued with him. “You listen to me, Ransom. You need to get your Yankee ass down to the Hotel de Crillon, A.S.A. fucking P. You think…” I hung up on him despite the realization that I could be facing fairly severe consequences. Of course, now that I was wide awake, I started to get ready. I knew in the end I was going to take the assignment for a few reasons: - Faud would pay me an obscenely huge amount of money. What good is a hired gun if he can’t be hired? - La Confrerie would insist that I catered to Faud because they were on retainer and the accounts of him and his associates made up a substantial portion of their income. - I could leverage Faud’s insult into favors from him and la Confrerie. - Most importantly, I was already staying at the Hotel de Crillon, so apparently I just had to get dressed and go downstairs. For a client like Faud, I would generally perform a full grooming ritual before I headed out the door, however, under these circumstances he was lucky to get me at all. A swig of mouthwash and a splash of cologne would have to suffice. My uniform for the evening would consist of a dark tailored suit, a single breasted, beltless trench and a narrow brimmed fedora. My phone rang as I was knotting a striped Brooks Brothers tie. I went with the four-in-hand first and then unknotted it and retied it into a half-Windsor before answering the phone. “Chance, I’m sorry. Please, you know that I respect you. I need you here.” I thought he was being sincere, but who knew. “Let’s get a few things straight first, Faud.” “Chance, I…” “Don’t fucking interrupt me, Faud. To begin with, you need to know the value of your friends. If you ever talk to me that way again, you’re going to lose an important one. Also, there is nothing about my line of work that constitutes a legitimate emergency. You just want to get laid.” I lit up a cigarette. The suite was non-smoking, but I did it out of habit. “If I decide to do this, you are going to give me a hundred grand whether or not we are successful.” I was confident that we would be. We always had been. “That’s pounds sterling, not dollars.” “Is that everything?” I didn’t answer. “Chance, I really am sorry. I’m on a date with ______ _______ _______ (pretentious three word name redacted to protect the innocent).” “The cinema star? I thought she was dating that soccer player.” I sat down at the desk to write some notes on a pad. “Football, Chance. It’s called foot-ball, and no. They broke up a few weeks ago. I didn’t want to let the opportunity go. We were on a date, having some after dinner cordials. I was keeping the evening simple and elegant like you told me.” So he did listen to me occasionally. He used to do things like fly women off on a private jet to his Mediterranean island for dinner on the first date. The problem was that he travelled with such a huge security contingent that in the best cases the women were intimidated and in the worst they thought they were being abducted. Most of the time, he couldn’t get them to stop crying. “Okay, so why am I awake, Faud? What went wrong?” “Her friend is what went wrong. This girl got dumped and is crashing our date.” I crushed my cigarette out in the bathroom sink. My God. L'Amie Pleurante - The Crying Girlfriend. It looked like I would be earning this bonus. “All right, I’ll be down in a few. Are you at the bar?” “Down? What do you mean you’ll be down? You’re staying at le Crillon? I’m paying you a hundred grand and you’re right here!?” I hung up the phone to save Faud from embarrassing himself. He wasn’t really a bad guy for an entitled billionaire. The grand lobby of the Hotel de Crillon was unlike those that you would experience anywhere outside of the major European cities. The activities of guests checking in and out were incidental to the social scene that dominated the great room. In the center, was a pianist playing an ambitious rendition of Sergie Rachmaninov’s Allegro Ma non Ranto from Concerto Number Three on a Grand Piano resting upon a vast expanse of Persian rug. The vaulted ceilings made an acoustically flawless venue for the soloist. Champagne cocktails were being served by a waiter wearing an impeccable white tuxedo jacket. The security men were virtually invisible except for the small translucent earpieces that they all wore. Occasionally, you would notice one muttering to himself. They would be alert to any number of threats from potential terrorists, to confidence men, to party crashers. Le Crillon was known for its never-ending cocktail party. Libations and hors d’ouevres were on the house. As one might expect this was quite a draw, even to the elite guests, and le Crillon’s chef was unparalleled in his mastery of bite-sized snacks. The hotel absorbed the costs by increasing the price of nearly every other service that they offered. Officially, the party was for the hotel guests, but this formal rule would be overlooked if you brought the proper credentials. In this case, proper credentials were generally a mixture of your social standing, physical appearance, manner of dress and breeding. Money was a requirement but not a guarantee of admission as a scandalous female singer from America found out when she and her entourage were politely but firmly refused admittance. As a guest at the hotel, I was invited to attend the function providing that I wore suitable attire. I always did. It also didn’t hurt that my associates and I had greased the palms of over half of the hotel staff. I took a flute of champagne from an offered tray as I scanned the room looking for Faud. I saw him sitting in the bar that was located off of the main lobby with the target, who I recognized from the ads for her films. I knew that he had spotted me when he slipped his hand inconspicuously behind his back and made a closed fist. It was the universal signal for “stop.” I looked for a dump off point. The restrooms would have a valet. I wouldn’t be able to talk to Faud there. Faud watched me in the mirror as I walked to the cloakroom, where I knew the attendant Maurice. I handed him a twenty Euro note. “Take a break, Mau.” He slid it back to me, but kept two fingers on the bill, “I cannot. I am working.” “I have business and I need a quiet spot for like fifteen minutes. I’ll cover. No offense, but…um…how hard could it be?” I laid another twenty down beside the first. “Every service performed at le Crillon demands perfection,” he pocketed the bills, “However, as many of are guests have already arrived and few will be leaving for a while, I will risk it for an even sixty.” Had I declined, I doubted that I would get the other forty back, so I produced the extra twenty and walked behind the counter. It was at that moment that I realized that as easy as coat checking might seem, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I heard the footsteps of a male approaching and I started to look around for the roll of tickets. Thankfully, it was Faud. “Chance, thank you so much for coming. I have not much time to explain.” “Yeah, let’s do this before someone wants their coat.” “Her friend, Vanessa, arrived just as you did. She is an ungodly mess. She was dating a stockbroker from Moscow for three months and found out he was cheating. When she confronted him, he dumped her. I mean what did she think was happening? A Russian stockbroker who she saw once a month maybe?” I made a hand motion for him to get on with the briefing. “Well, I just excused myself when she arrived, but from what I gathered, she is not doing well.” His explanation left him short of breath. “Also could you, please, check her coat?” I took the coat from Faud and shoved it under the counter. “Compose yourself. Pace your drinks. Go back to them. Order her whatever she wants. Tell her that you just received a call from an old friend who is stopping by. Don’t ask permission. He’s coming and that’s it. I will be out in ten minutes.” “Thank you, Chance.” He walked a few steps away and turned. “Chance, I am sorry.” “Let’s just focus on the mission, Faud.” This time I could tell that he meant it. During the next five minutes that it took for Maurice to return, I checked three more coats in the same pile that I started with the one that Faud had handed me. When Maurice returned, he was less than pleased. “Can’t you just keep them separate until their owners come back?” He responded with a series of French expletives, so I just headed out into the bar. I went back out into the lobby and eyed Faud from across the bar. When I approached him we embraced at the elbows and he kissed both of my cheeks. It was very Parisian, but I have to admit that I have never become used to the custom. “Ladies, I would like you to meet an old friend of mine, Doctor Chance Ransom.” I wasn’t a doctor of anything, but Faud was obsessed with my signature Maneuver Chirurgiens de Plastique - Plastic Surgeon Maneuver. I had other moves, but it was his money. “Chance, allow me to introduce the two loveliest ladies in Paris on this night. My companion for the evening…” “Requires no introduction. I am a big fan.” I had never seen any of her films. I turned to her friend, “It is my pleasure to meet you. Enchante.” “You know they have a coat check here…was it Chance?” She waved her hand vertically to indicate my standard uniform. I surmised that she was an American, not unattractive, but clearly a man-eater. “Yeah, but I distrust the attendant. He has a sinister look and I have the distinct impression that he doesn’t like me.” Faud, the starlet and I laughed a little at my joke. It wasn’t meant to be too funny. I’m not a comedian. “Well, it makes me uncomfortable. You look like a gangster or something.” I really detested this woman for pointing this out, but in truth I was the only one in the bar with a coat and hat. “The martinis here are so dry that I don’t think that I’ll need them.” I tossed my hat onto the bar and draped my coat over the back of a leather chair. If you’re thinking that it was a horrible line, you’re right. I was off to a bad start. I noticed Faud grimace the way that only a man who had just wasted a hundred thousand pounds could. Vanessa was the subject of tonight’s mission. Faud was in a difficult position. He urgently wanted to bed this starlet and this friend was the only thing in his way. She was irritable, clingy and not very ladylike. Left alone with these two ladies, Faud would have been consumed in the conflagration of emotion that erupts when members of the fairer sex are discussing heartbreak. Without my careful intervention, this evening would be a dismal failure. The problem was that I was having an off night. “They have some pretty serviceable champagne cocktails in the piano bar. The pianist is also exceptional even for le Crillon entertainment. Would you like to take in a little music?” “That sounds like an excellent idea,” Faud said following my cue. When I first met Faud, he would have pulled out all of the stops. Pay everyone in the joints bill and then evacuate the restaurant, order a private string quartet up to his suite, $3000 bottles of champagne. Gaudy displays of wealth. He had finally started following my advice and allowed himself to live like a normal person once in a while. Well, normal for le Crillon. The piano bar was perfect for this mission. Faud and his date agreed that I hadn’t exaggerated on the quality of the entertainment. I actually never exaggerate. It’s bad business. The pianist was playing something that I didn’t recognize. Maybe a piece of her own? It didn’t matter. I was more interested in the geography of the room. Faud summoned a waiter who was carrying a tray of champagne flutes. I saw him deftly slip an impressive wad of bills into the coat pocket of the waiter. He used the tray to shield the gesture from the eyes of the ladies. The waiter nodded his gratitude. Without too much finesse, I interposed my body between Vanessa and the other couple, “What do you think of the movement?” Vanessa hadn’t commented yet. “Huh? It’s alright I suppose. I don’t mean to be rude, but I really wanted to just come here and talk to…” “Then don’t.” I said a little too quickly. “Excuse me?” “Don’t be rude. Talk to me. I don’t want to intrude on them, do you?” “Intrude? I don’t think you know how close we are. We went to…oh, wait a second. I see what’s going on here. You’re not getting laid tonight, honey. You can forget that.” She was charming. I was starting to realize that this was not going well at all. I was trying to calm her down and get her mind off of the break-up. Instead, I was making her angry. The next thing that I said would be crucial. “Vanessa, making love to you is beyond my wildest expectations for the evening.” I almost didn’t care whether or not she caught the sarcasm; “I was hoping that you would deign to finish a little champagne and caviar with me while we take in the scene.” Intentionally, softening my tone, “Listen, you don’t need to be a shrink to see that you aren’t having the best night.” I paused to read her reaction. There was none. “Look, if you’re going to celebrate le Crillon is the place to do it, but on the other hand, if you’re going to be miserable, why not be miserable in a place like this?” I delivered the last part with a little smirk that gained my first point with the ice queen. “Fine. I will drink this piss and listen to this lame piano music, but you can keep the fish eggs. I’m only doing this because you took your hat off. Besides, I like Faud better than her last guy… where did they go?” I indicated to her that they were on the other side of the piano. What was actually occurring is that as I was speaking to her, Faud was easing his date away from us staying in a counter-clockwise orbit around the piano. In the mean time, I would take infinitesimally small steps toward Vanessa. Although she did not realize it, she was backing up clockwise. Faud needed the separation to get anything done. We had done this before. The crowd masked our movements by filling in the gap. “Let’s go over to them.” Damn this woman. I had to buy some time. “I believe Faud is waiting on a table. We can rejoin with them in a few minutes.” Now to fall on the grenade, “I don’t mean to intrude, but are you okay? Faud had said something about a break up.” “I do not want to talk about that with you, Chaz.” “Chance.” “What kind of name is ‘Chance?’” She drank down her champagne without the slightest hint of elegance, “Never mind. I don’t want to know. All men suck.” “I…” “I mean, you all cheat. You can never be happy with what you have.” I had no doubt that whoever had dumped her had cheated on her. She made me want to start dating her with the specific purpose of being unfaithful. I began nudging her gradually back in the direction of the bar where I had left my coat and hat. In lieu of detailing the entire tedious conversation of that night, I have elected to list some selections from the hour long harangue to which I was subjected. “Why do all men suck?” Again. “You’re not getting laid tonight.” Again with this nonsense? “Who do I have to fuck to get a drink in this place.” I was hoping that no one heard this or we would be removed from the premises. My bags would be sent for. “You know this place sucks. I want to grab Kay and head down to the Champs d’Elysees. You and your friend can go try to pick up some other chicks in this dump.” I watched silently as she sucked down the fresh Bombay martini that the irritated bartender had set down in front of her. There are times in this business that you just have to throw in the towel. Give the money back to the client and tell him that it’s just not going to happen. It’s been known to happen. Before I was forced into hiding for writing these stories, I had a 92% success rate, but that still means 8% of my clients ended their evening with only a pack of smokes and a bottle of gin. Not to mention a bill for la Confreries non-refundable scheduling fee. Not even the best of us had a 100% success rate. Not even the Frenchman. I was reminding myself that I was allowed to fail, because I really wanted out of this mission. It wasn’t that Faud had rubbed me the wrong way earlier. It wasn’t even that this was the most annoying woman that I had met in a long time – she was. I was burnt out from Budapest and an endless trail of missions with no breaks in between. I remember thinking that I had a full drink in my hand a moment ago as I put the empty glass back on the bar. “We’re done here,” I heard myself say to her. he bartender walked over seeing my empty glass. “Pièce cinq zéro une, sil vous plait.” Billing the room in front of this woman was bad trade craft. Wingmen always carry cash to reduce the paper trail, but I just wanted to get away from her as fast as I possibly could. “Where the fuck are you going?” She slurred. I didn’t bother responding. I just headed straight for the door. I wanted a walk in the cool night air. I loosened my tie as I passed the doorman and headed toward Place de le Concorde. It was only then that I realized that I left my coat and hat inside the bar. It was cold and rainy, but I was damned if I was going to walk back in there after storming out. Other than being humiliating, I didn’t want to witness Faud’s demise as Vanessa dropped an atomic bomb on his night. I looked around to see if I could bribe one of the valets to go grab my accoutrements. It only took me about 30 seconds to realize that my things were small potatoes compared to the $100k that I wouldn’t allow myself to collect and that the Seine was only a half a kilometer away. I walked over to the corner to head south when I heard a voice. “You forgot your things.” When I turned around to see a drunk Vanessa holding the coat and hat that she had mocked earlier, I was struck with a flash of anger. She was the personification of the evening’s failure. I went over and snatched them from her hands. As I was shrugging my shoulders into the jacket, she smacked me hard across the face with her open hand. It stung, but I didn’t show her any reaction. In Wingman Camp we were smacked every day to prepare for just such inevitability. A disconnected hand lifted a cigarette to my mouth as the other casually searched for a light. However, a second blow across the jaw made the effort pointless. The rain increased in velocity and cut at a sharper angle. “You’ve got a decent left hook, honey. Are you just going to stand there and slap me all night…” Honor demands the acceptance of two slaps from a woman. If she proffers a third, it’s just rude on her part. I saw it coming along the same trajectory as the first two. I lifted my hand to grab her wrist. I knew that it would hurt her because of the velocity with which she was striking but I just held her wrist in my hand and looked hard into her eyes. For me she was the loss of a hundred grand. For her, I was the manifestation of everything that had gone wrong in her life: a weak and disappointing boyfriend taking her virginity; a man getting cold feet two weeks before the wedding; a beater; a rapist; a cheater. A Russian that made a promise that he wouldn’t keep. The skies opened up and I didn’t feel like stopping her from hitting me anymore. I let go of her wrist, but she didn’t continue her barrage. Instead she just sank her face into my coat and began sobbing. I wanted to get away from her, but I couldn’t. She clung to me and just kept crying. It seemed like five minutes had passed when she broke her embrace, but it had probably only been 30 seconds. When she pulled away from me, we did the only thing that there was left for us to do: we kissed. I used one of my hands to fix her hair and brush the rain off of her face while I hailed a cab with the other. “Come with me. I’m going to walk along the Seine,” I said as I wrapped her in my coat. A cab stopped and I opened the door for her. “The Seine? We’re going to get soaked, Chance.” “Yes, and then we’ll get dry.” We walked for hours until the sun came up. I kissed Vanessa, but didn’t take her to bed. She talked to me for ten hours that night without ever really asking me anything about myself. I didn’t mind; I never have much to say. Besides, how many therapists average ten thousand pounds sterling an hour? |
THE HOTEL INCIDENT |
