Swimsuit - James Patterson [77]
The concierge’s nametag read “Georges.” He was flabby, fiftyish, and pissed that he had to break off his phone conversation to deal with me. After Georges ran my credit card and locked my passport in the safe, I took the stairs, found my room on the third floor at the end of a frayed runner at the back of the hotel.
The room was papered with cabbage roses and crowded with century-old furniture, jammed in wall to wall. But the bedding was fresh, and there was a TV and a high-speed Internet connection on the desk. Good enough for me.
I dropped my bag down on the duvet and found a phone book. I’d been in Paris for an hour, and before I did another thing I had to get a gun.
Chapter 103
THE FRENCH TAKE handguns seriously. Permits are restricted to police and the military and a few security professionals, who have to lug their guns in cases, carry them in plain sight.
Still, in Paris, as in any big city, you can get a gun if you really want one. I spent the day prowling the Golden Drop, the drug-dealing sinkhole around the Basilica of Sacré-Coeur.
I paid two hundred euros for an old snub-nosed .38, a ladies’ pistol with a two-inch barrel and six rounds in the chamber.
Back at the Green Monkey, Georges took my key off the board and pointed with his chin to a small heap on one of the sofas. “You have a guest.”
It took me a long moment to take in what I was seeing. I walked over, shook her shoulder, and called her name.
Amanda opened her eyes and stretched as I sat down beside her. She put her arms around my neck and kissed me, but I couldn’t even kiss her back. She was supposed to be home, safe in L.A.
“Gee. Pretend you’re glad to see me, okay? Paris is for lovers,” she said, smiling cautiously.
“Mandy, what in God’s name are you thinking?”
“It’s a little rash, I know. Look, I have something to tell you, Ben, and it could affect everything.”
“Cut to the chase, Mandy. What are you talking about?”
“I wanted to tell you face-to-face —”
“So you just got on a plane? Is it about Henri?”
“ No —”
“Then, Mandy, I’m sorry, but you have to go back. No, don’t shake your head. You’re a liability. Understand?”
“Well, thank you.”
Mandy was pouting now, which was rare for her, but I knew that the further I pushed her, the more obstinate she’d get. I could already smell the carpet burning as she dug in her heels.
“Have you eaten?” she asked me.
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
“I am. I’m a French chef. And we’re in Paris.”
“This is not a vacation,” I said.
A half hour later, Mandy and I were seated at an outdoor café on the Rue des Pyramides. Night had blotted up the sunlight, the air was warm, and we had a clear view of a gilded statue of Saint Joan on her horse where our side street intersected with the Rue de Rivoli.
Mandy’s mood had taken an upturn. In fact, she seemed almost high. She ordered in French, put away course after course, describing the preparation and rating the salad, the pâté, and the fruits de mer.
I made do with crackers and cheese and I drank strong coffee, my mind working on what I had to do, feeling the time rushing by.
“Just try this,” Mandy said, holding out a spoonful of crème brûlée.
“Honestly, Amanda,” I said with frank exasperation. “You shouldn’t be here. I don’t know what else to say to you.”
“Just say you love me, Benjy. I’m going to be the mother of your child.”
Chapter 104
I STARED at Amanda; thirty-four years old, looking twenty-five, wearing a baby blue cardigan with ruffled collar and cuffs and a perfect Mona Lisa smile. She was astonishingly beautiful, never more so than at this very moment.
“Please say that you’re happy,” she said.
I took the spoon out of her hand and put it down on her plate. I got out of my chair, placed one hand on each of her cheeks, and kissed her. Then I kissed her again. “You are the craziest girl I ever knew, très étonnante.”
“You’re very amazing, too,” she said, beaming.
“Boy, do I love you,” I said.
“Moi aussi. Je t’aime you to pieces. But are you, Benjy? Are you