What Comes Around

CHAPTER 5

“Monsieur Torrance? Monsieur Torrance?”

“Oui?”

“Votre whiskey, monsieur.”

”Oh, hey, Maurice. Sorry. Scotch rocks,” he said to the head bartender.

“Mais certainment, Monsieur Torrance. Et, voilà.”

His drink had come like magic. Had he already ordered that? He knocked it back, ordered another, and relaxed, making small talk, le bavardage, with Maurice about the rain, the train bombing in Marseilles. Which horse might win four million euros in the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe at Longchamp tomorrow. The favorite was an American thoroughbred named Buckpasser. He was a big pony, heralded in the tabloids as the next Secretariat, Maurice told him.

“There will never, ever, be another ‘Big Red,’ Maurice. Trust me on that one.”

“But of course, sir. Who could argue?”

He swiveled on his bar stool, sipping his third or fourth scotch, checking the scenery, admiring his fellow man.

And woman.

Wouldn’t you know it? It was a rainy Friday night and he’d told his wife Julia not to expect him for dinner. Something troubling had come up with the state visit of the new Chinese president to the Elysée Palace on Sunday. And something really bad had come up. But …

“Sorry, is this seat taken?” she said.

What the hell? He hadn’t even seen her come in.

“Not at all, not at all. Here, let me remove my raincoat from the bar stool. How rude of me.”

“Thank you.”

Très 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 a fabulous body, so a possibility …

He bought her another drink. Champagne, this time. Domaine Ott Rose. So she had taste.

“What brings you to Paris, Mrs.…”

“I’m Crystal. And you are?”

“Harding.”

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

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

“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 his 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 this gal’s 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?” he asked, looking at the little drowned rat trying to pass for a pooch.

“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. 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 hotel 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—”

“Sshh,” 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?”

“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 would, however, consider inviting you upstairs to view my etchings. I 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 looked at her and smiled.

Jackpot.