Patriot

CHAPTER 3

He’d always said he’d been born lucky. And just look at him. Sitting in a cozy bar on a cold and rainy Friday night. He’d told his wife, Julia, not to expect him for dinner. Just in case, you know, that something came up. He’d explained to her that, well, honey, something troubling had come up. That whole thing with the state visit of the new Chinese president to the Élysée Palace on Sunday? About to go au toilette!

“Sorry, is this seat taken?” the scented woman said.

What the hell? He’d seen her take an empty stool at the far end of the bar. Must have changed her mind after catching a glimpse of the chick magnet at the other end…

“Not at all, not at all,” he told her. “Here, let me remove my raincoat from the barstool. How rude of me.”

“Thank you.”

Tres chic, he registered. Very elegant. Blond. Big American girl. Swimmer, maybe, judging by the shoulders. California. Stanford. Maybe UCLA. One of the two. Pink Chanel, head to toe. Big green Hermès Kelly bag, all scruffed up, so loaded. Big rock on her finger, so married. A small wet puffball of a dog and a dripping umbrella, so ducked in out of the rain. Ordered a martini, so a veteran. Beautiful eyes and fabulous cleavage, so a possibility…

He bought her another drink. Champagne, this time. Domaines Ott Rosé. So she had taste.

“What brings you to Paris, Mrs.…”

“I’m Crystal. Crystal Methune. And you are?”

“Harding,” he said, in his deepest voice.

“Harding. Now that’s a good strong name, isn’t it? So. Why are we here in Paris? Let me see. Oh, yes. Horses. My husband has horses. We’re here for the races at Longchamp.”

“And that four million euros’ purse at Longchamp, I’ll bet. Maurice here and I were just talking about that. Some payday, huh? Your horse have a shot? Which horse is it?”

“Buckpasser.”

“Buckpasser? That’s your horse? That’s some horse, honey.”

“I suppose. I don’t like horses. I like to shop.”

“Attagirl. Sound like my ex. So where are you from, Crystal?”

“We’re from Kentucky. Louisville. You know it?”

“Not really. So where are you staying?”

“Right upstairs, honey. My hubby took the penthouse for the duration.”

“Ah, got it. He’s meeting you here, is he?”

“Hardly. Having dinner with Felix, his horse trainer, somewhere in the Bois de Boulogne, out near the track is more like it. The two of them are all juned up about Buckpasser running on a muddy track tomorrow. You ask a lot of questions, don’t you, Harding?”

“It’s my business.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“I’m a writer for a quiz show.”

She smiled. “That’s funny.”

“Old joke.”

“You’re smart, aren’t you, Harding? I like smart men. Are you married?”

“No. Well, yes.”

“See? You are funny. May I have another pink champagne?”

Harding twirled his right index finger, signaling the barman for another round. He briefly tried to remember how many scotches he’d had and gave up.

“Cute dog,” he said, bending down to pet the pooch, hating how utterly pathetic he sounded. But, hell, he was hooked. Hooked, gaffed, and in the boat. He’d already crawl through a mile of broken glass just to drink her bathwater.

“Thanks,” she said, lighting a gold-tipped cigarette with a gold Dupont lighter. She took a deep drag and let it out, coughing a bit.

“So you enjoy smoking?” Harding said.

“No, I just like coughing.”

“Good one. What’s the little guy’s name?”

“It’s a her. Rikki Nelson.”

“Oh. You mean like…”

“Right. In the Ozzie and Harriet reruns. Only this little bitch on wheels likes her name spelled with two ‘k’s. Like Rikki Martinez. You know? Don’t you, precious? Yes, you do!”

“Who?”

“The singer?”

“Oh, sure. Who?”

“Never mind, honey. Ain’t no thing.”

“Right. So, shopping. What else do you like, Crystal?”

“Golf. I’m a scratch golfer. Oh, and jewelry. I really like jewelry.”

“Golfer, huh? You heard the joke about Arnold Palmer’s ex-wife?”

“No, but I’m going to, I guess.”

“So this guy marries Arnold Palmer’s ex. After they make love for the third time on their wedding night, the new groom picks up the phone. ‘Who are you calling?’ Arnie’s ex asks. Room service, he says, I’m starved. That’s not what Arnold would’ve done, she says. So the guy says, okay, what would Arnold have done? Arnold would have done it again, that’s what. So they did it again. Then the guy picks up the phone again and she says, ‘You calling room service again?’ And he says, ‘No, baby, I’m calling Arnold. Find out what par is on this damn hole.’”

He waited.

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, see, he’s calling Arnold because he—”

“Shhh,” she said, putting her index finger to her lips.

She covered his large hand with her small one and stroked the inside of his palm with her index finger.

She put her face close to his and whispered, “Frankly? Let’s just cut the shit. I like sex, Harding.”

“That’s funny, I do, too,” he said.

“I bet you do, baby. I warn you, though. I’m a big girl, Harding. I am a big girl with big appetites. I wonder. Did you read Fifty Shades of Grey?”

“Must have missed that one, sorry. You ever read Mark Twain?”

“No. Who wrote it?”

“What?”

“I said, who wrote it? The Mark Twain thing.”

“Doesn’t matter, tell me about Fifty Shades of Grey.”

“Doesn’t matter. I found it terribly vanilla,” she said.

“Hmm.”

“Yeah, right. That’s what men always say when they don’t know what the hell a girl is talking about.”

“Vanilla. Not kinky enough.”

“Not bad, Harding. Know what they used to say about me at my sorority house at UCLA? The Kappa Delts?”

“I do not.”

“That Crystal. She’s got big hair and big knockers and she likes big sex.”

He turned to face her and took both her perfect hands in his.

“I’m sorry. Would you ever in your wildest dreams consider leaving your rich husband and marrying a poor, homeless boy like me?”

“No.”

“Had to ask.”

“I do like to screw. You do get that part, right?”

“Duly noted.”

“Long as we’re square on this, Harding.”

“We’re square.”

“I’m gonna tie you to the bed and make you squeal like Porky Pig, son. Or, vice versa. You with me on this?”

He just looked at her and smiled.

Jackpot.

The elevator to the penthouse suite opened inside the apartment foyer. It was exquisite, just as Harding would have imagined the best rooms in the best hotel in Paris might be, full of soft evening light, with huge arrangements of fresh flowers everywhere, and through the opened doors, a large terrace overlooking the lights of Paris and the misty gardens directly below.

Crystal smiled demurely and led him into the darkened living room. She showed him the bar and told him to help himself. She’d be right back. Slipping into something a little more comfortable, he imagined, smiling to himself as he poured two fingers of Johnnie Walker Blue and strolled over to a large and very inviting sofa by the fireplace.

He kicked his shoes off, stretched out, and took a sip of whisky. He was just getting relaxed when he heard an odd streaming sound. Looking down at the floor, he saw that the little fuckhead Rikki Nelson had just peed all over his Guccis.

“Shit!” he said, under his breath.

“Hey!” he heard Crystal yell.

“What?”

“Turn on some music, Harding; Momma wants to dance, baby!” she called out from somewhere down a long dark hall.

He got to his feet and staggered a few feet in the gloom, cracking his shin on an invisible coffee table.

“What? Music? Where is it?”

“Right below the bar glasses. Just push ‘on.’ It’s all loaded up and ready to rip.”

He limped over to the bar and hit the button.

Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore” filled the room.

“Is that it?” he shouted over Dino.

“Hell, yeah, son. Crank it!”

He somehow found the volume control, cranked it, and went out to the terrace, away from the bar’s booming overhead speakers. The rain was pattering on the drooping awning overhead and the night smelled like… like what… jasmine? No, that wasn’t it. Something, anyway. It definitely smelled like something out here. But—

“Hey, you!” she shouted from the living room’s open doorway. “There he is! There’s my big stud. Come on in here, son. Let’s dance! Waltz your ass on in here, baby boy, right now!”

He downed his drink and went inside. Crystal stood in the center of the room wearing a skintight S&M outfit. A black leather bodysuit that would have put Catwoman to shame. She had little Rikki Nelson cuddled atop her bulging tits, nuzzling her with kisses.

“Where’s the whip, kitten?” he said.

“Oh, I’ll dig one up somewhere, don’t worry.”

Harding collapsed into the nearest armchair and stared.

“Why are you staring like that at me and Rikki?” she pouted.

“Just trying to figure out whether or not that diamond-studded leash of yours is on the wrong bitch.”

Give her credit, she laughed.

“I sure hope to hell you know how to dance, mister,” she said. “Now get up and get with it, I mean it.”

He hauled himself manfully up out of the leather chair.

You do what you have to do, he reminded himself.

And he danced.

And danced some more.