“You look worried,” Babs said, as he grabbed the pitcher and refilled my glass.
“Me? No, this is just my drinking face.”
He scrutinized me a bit longer before responding.
“Well, then I can only imagine your shitting face.”
“At the moment they’re probably indistinguishable from each other,” I responded.
“Then let’s hope for the sake of the furniture that it’s the former and not the latter,” Babs said, with a little chuckle.
Lux returned looking markedly upset, and I saw this as an ominously bad sign.
“How did that go?” I asked.
“It was wonderful.”
“Seriously? It didn’t look wonderful.”
Lux sighed.
“Actually it was awful. Both personally and regarding this operation.”
“I assume you don’t want to talk about the personal stuff.”
“Not at the moment.”
“Well then, what awful news do you have regarding this operation?”
“You’ll probably be unhappy to learn that the NSA has been as busy as little bees intercepting cell phone traffic, and it would appear that nearly every known terror cell across Europe has been mobilized to find Babineux.”
“Jesus, Babs. I thought you might have been exaggerating earlier when you said hundreds. How many fucking terrorists do you know?”
“Most of them, apparently.”
“I’d say it’s more like all.”
“Well, be that as it may, I’m more concerned with our dinner plans at the moment.”
“That’s very French of you,” I said.
“Oui, so how about fillet mignon, salad, and asparagus?”
Bridgette and I looked at each other and shared the briefest of smiles. Lux, of course, caught the exchange, but Babs was oblivious as he headed off to the kitchen to make war with meat and vegetables. Leave it to a Frenchman to change the focus of the conversation from impending death to dinner, and it left me wondering how in the hell was he going to get all this wonderful food without any notice. I decided to follow him into the kitchen and was astonished when he opened the refrigerator door, and everything he just mentioned was in there as well as fresh milk, eggs, and orange juice. What the fuck? He was a fucking magical French kitchen elf and apparently had an enchanted refrigerator. I could say cold beer a hundred times to my refrigerator, but it would stay empty until I actually went to the store and bought some.
“Where did you get all the groceries?”
“I texted the cleaning lady hours ago and told her I’d be coming and needed some things from the market.”
“It must be nice to be you.”
“It is, and, now, just by being in my presence, a figa like you can at last live as man was intended.”
If this is how we were intended to live, then only a small percentage of the world’s population was getting it right, and I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of Babs’s luxurious lifestyle. We both went to good colleges then joined the military, but somehow I missed the opening for international arms dealer and third world president. It’s all about timing I suppose, and my luck was a few years behind schedule having only just made the leap to multimillionaire a week ago. Still, it all seemed like an elaborate dream considering I didn’t own a fancy car, island, or exotic lake house, though I suppose I could go buy something like that when I got home. Meh—I’d probably just end up at Costco buying booze, a new patio set, and a giant package of toilet paper—extra soft for my gentle behind.
Babs set to work and turned the kitchen into a veritable restaurant by slicing, dicing, and prepping food with the vigor of a professional chef. Within minutes the meat was salted, peppered, and cooking on the grill while he finished the salad, which he topped with a light vinaigrette, walnuts, chèvre cheese, and slices of pear. Last, he finished washing the asparagus, chopped off the rough ends, and threw it into a pan, whereupon I at last saw my opening to help. I suggested that he should sauté it in olive oil with a pinch of salt and pepper rather than steam it into a soggy mess. The smug bastard crossed his arms and looked at me as though I were nothing more than an impetuous child.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m French. I’ve been preparing asparagus that way since before I could walk. Just relax and enjoy your drink. Leave the cooking to me, Asshole.”
“Fine, hotshot—keep flying solo. See if I ever give you cooking advice again.”
Twenty minutes later all four of us were seated before a feast at his dining room table, and our view beyond the floor to ceiling windows was the twinkling lights of the small town of Lezzeno, which resided on the other side of the lake. Babs filled each of our glasses with red wine then lifted his own to make a toast.
“Here’s to new friends and the extreme difficulty of life on the run.”
“Hear-hear,” I said, as we all clinked glasses and took our first sip of Babs’s wine.
Shit. The wine was really good. Mind you, I wasn’t much of a wine snob, but I knew a good wine when I tasted it, and this was exceptional. Unfortunately, I was in violation yet again of my cardinal drinking rule, which clearly stated not to mix alcohols. Oh well, I was dining in an Italian villa on one of Europe’s most beautiful lakes, so I suppose I could make an exception. At least, I was eating a high protein meal, which would lower the rate at which my stomach absorbed the alcohol and would be my first line of defense against a hangover—hopefully, anyway.
I grabbed my utensils and cut into the steak, happy to see that Babs had listened when I had said medium. The first bite was delicious, and it obviously showed on my face, because he smiled and tipped his glass to me. Did all Frenchman cook like this? Am I to assume that while I was playing little league and building forts for my GI Joes in the dirt, young Babs was in a kitchen somewhere in France learning to make pate and foie gras? By the taste of things, the inexplicable answer was yes, but I’m also sure that what little time he had outside the kitchen was spent learning how to incorporate yellow pants into every outfit imaginable, regardless of the season.
As usual, hardly a word was spoken in the presence of such delicious food, and only after dinner did conversation begin to take root. It began with Lux and Bridgette discussing some family trip they had taken to Europe, and, more specifically, how the two of them had met some hot French guys at the top of the Eiffel tower. It might have been more interesting had it been explicit, but it was mostly tween level PG-13 boring-ass subject matter. Still, it was nice that it didn’t have anything to do with my shenanigans, and, least of all, the night that I had spent with Bridgette. Babs, looking a tad bit uninterested, started to clear the dishes, and I decided to help him, so I wouldn’t have to sit around and listen to any more of the girls’ stories. Together, we grabbed all the plates and serving trays and headed into the kitchen.
“I didn’t think presidents had to clear their own dishes,” I said.
“I didn’t think that former members of the Central Intelligence Agency’s elite Special Activities Division would help me with such a menial task.”
“Touché, but, clearly, my friend, you have no idea how little dignity I’ve got left after working in the private sector for the last five years.”
“Oh no, I see it as plain as the nose on your face,” he said, as he grabbed a sponge and began rinsing off the dishes and putting them into the dishwasher.
“I wouldn’t be so quick to hurl insults, President Palmolive. That soap may soften your hands while you do the dishes, but it also washes away your dignity.”
“Yes indeed, though I have plenty left to lose, my friend.”
He finished loading the dishwasher then walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Soft Taco Island rum, though it had a label that was different from any I had seen thus far. Unlike the standard bottle this one had a gold seal and a little stamp with a unique serial number. His next stop was at another cabinet, where he pulled out a small silver service tray and four cute
sy little glasses. He filled two of them then handed me one before holding his up to toast.
“To restoring your dignity,” he said.
“That’s obviously a rather difficult task, so I can only hope this special edition rum is up to the challenge.”
He just smiled and proceeded to clink my glass. I took a sip and had to pause, so I could process the euphoria. If you took all the angels, heaven, and even God, and put it all in a bottle, it might just taste like the amber liquid that just played over my palate. I’d had plenty of alcohol varieties, everything from spirits to liqueurs, but never experienced anything quite like this. It was smooth, spicy, and had just the right amount of sweetness, and I wanted to keep drinking it forever.
“I feel my dignity has been restored, but I hope you won’t be offended should I feel the need to ejaculate after having tasted that heavenly rum.”
“I have an entire case—so perhaps I should get you a towel.”
“Perhaps you should get me a bucket.”
“I must say, Asshole, you are not what I expected from the American intelligence services.”
“Don’t feel bad. I wasn’t exactly what they expected either.”
We went back to join the girls and annoyingly found them still gabbing away about the same two hot guys they’d met on the Eiffel Tower. Odds were pretty good their tween lovers were just a couple of pimply faced, yellow pants wearing frogs, but American girls were suckers for French accents.
“Oh, are you ladies finally done with the dishes?” Lux asked.
“Yeah, but the bigger question is whether or not you two are done talking about your skanky tween glory days.”
“Well, if we had a decent cocktail, we might be more inspired to change subjects.”
“Then your wish is my command,” Babs said, as he poured each of the girls some rum.
Now that they were properly outfitted with a proper cocktail, we all clinked glasses, and the girls took their first sip of the special edition rum. I watched Lux’s reaction and wasn’t surprised to see her expression go from neutral to orgasmic to angry.
“Wait a minute! You two assholes have been in the kitchen drinking this the entire time?”
“Not the entire time,” Babs said.
“Yeah, just in between bites of chocolate mousse,” I added.
“You two pricks deserve each other,” Lux said.
“Oh, don’t be bitter. We brought it out to you—eventually.”
Lux had another sip, and the pleasure of it made her eyes roll into the back of her head.
“Bridgette, I may just owe you an apology. I could fall for any man who served me this rum.”
“Finally, Lux, you understand.”
Babs walked over and started a fire in the fireplace, then we all joined him and took up residence on the comfy living room furniture. With the warmth filling the room and the firelight dancing in our eyes, we all talked and enjoyed the rum. It was an unusually pleasant evening considering the circumstances, and each moment of drink and conversation seemed to bring us all that much closer together. Alcohol often had this effect, though really good alcohol was apparently like human interpersonal super glue. Everyone spoke in depth of their lives and various travails, and even Babs, the elusive arms dealer and third world president, talked about his unusually privileged, though strict, childhood and eventual rebellion after graduating from college. Bucking a long Babineux family tradition, he immediately joined the French Navy—the move practically getting him disowned by the family, and it only got worse when he made it into the Naval Commandos. I guess they figured that all those hours of wine, gourmet cuisine, and French culture had been put to waste. They would never understand that it was a lot more fun to blow shit up than eat cheese and sit at a desk all day. It would be several years before he gave up his cavalier lifestyle and worked his way back into his family’s good graces so that he could start taking over their business empire. He was an interesting character without a doubt, and I found myself liking him in spite of his seedy profession—obviously referring mainly to the fact he was a politician.
I looked at my watch, saw that it was well after midnight, and decided that it was probably about time to turn in so that I would be fresh and ready for tomorrow. Babs and Bridgette said good night and disappeared to the master suite on the top floor while Lux and I headed downstairs. After parting ways in the hallway, I went straight for the bathroom to take a well deserved piss, but, when I lifted the seat and took careful aim, I couldn’t help wondering why in the hell the house was moving so much. That’s when it hit me just how much alcohol I’d had to drink. I wasn’t exactly blotto, but it seemed unusually hard to keep my aim straight at the center of the bowl. The seemingly endless flow of urine finally came to a stop, and I took a quick shower, brushed my teeth, and picked out a pistol. I checked the action, chambered a round, and set it on the nightstand before turning my gaze out the window. It was nice to have a quiet moment to myself to put my world in order, but I had some nagging questions in the back of my mind—namely, who were the fucking Fuchs and why in the fuck did the fucking Fuchs want Babineux? Unfortunately, the world of international intrigue was feeling far too complicated to ponder at the moment, so I decided to let it go and leave it for tomorrow. I took one final look up at the moon hovering like an angel over the quiet waters of the lake then slid into bed, praying that I’d have only the faintest of hangovers in the morning.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Strangers in the Night
I AWOKE IN the darkness sensing someone was in my room and wondered if I should grab my pistol, but I was still a little foggy from trying to process the dream I had just been having. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it had all the telltale signs of some latent anxiety. I was in a courtroom and had just been convicted of first degree man-whoring, and, as if that weren’t strange enough, all the women I had intimate relationships with in the last two weeks were in the jury box, and they were all naked—their nipples staring indignantly into my guilty eyes. Lux, also naked, was the judge, and, after slamming her gavel down on her bench, declared that I should receive five years of hard labor in the form of cunnilingus. At that point, all the women in the room came forward and lifted me onto the defense table and held me down, thus forming an impenetrable wall of vaginas. They began chanting the words man-whore as Lux climbed up onto the table and started inching her lady fruit ever closer to my mouth. Her clitoris had only been about four tongue lengths away when I was startled into consciousness by the presence of the stranger in my room. Sweet Lord! What the hell was my subconscious trying to tell me?
Reality slowly cut a path back through my sleepy drunken haze and, soon, I could see the outline of a person—most likely a woman judging by the body shape. I therefore decided not to go for my pistol, as I figured my visitor was most likely a member of the home team.
“Lux?” I called out timidly, wondering if perhaps the dream was an odd harbinger of an impending event.
“No! It’s me, Bridgette!” she said, with the tiniest of drunken slurs.
Sweet lord of infidelity! Not again. It was on a night like this about two weeks ago that Bridgette had crawled into my bed and, more or less, initiated my recent bout of man-whoring.
“What the hell do you want?”
“I need to talk.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“What are you wearing?”
“Why?”
“It’ll determine if I can talk to you.”
“That’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Fine, I’m wearing pajamas. Satisfied?” she asked, sounding annoyed.
“Yes, now we can talk.”
“Good. Slide over.”
Before I could protest, Bridgette slid into my bed and cuddled up next to me with her arm across my chest and her breasts pressed up against me—our orientation identical to our very first romantic encounter.
“Goddammit, Bridgette! You lied to me! You�
��re only wearing a bra and panties!”
“I was worried you wouldn’t talk to me.”
“You can’t just snuggle up to a guy dressed like that. Men are weak minded, easily aroused, and it’s ten times worse if they happen to be drunk.”
“But, I just want to talk.”
“OK fine. Talk, but then you have to go back to your room.”
“Why do you want to get rid of me so badly?”
“Lots of reasons.”
“Such as?”
“Well, aside from the fact that you used me and aided and abetted a slimy arms dealer, there’s also the possibility that your sister or Babs might come strolling in at any moment and get the wrong idea.”
“Babs is passed out drunk, and I don’t give a shit if Lux sees us like this.”
“Regardless, it’s still wrong for us to be hanging out together in our underwear.”
“What do our underwear have to do with anything?”
“Hello? Having a half naked, spoken-for, beautiful woman in my bed is hardly appropriate.”
“So, you still think I’m beautiful?”
Of course, she only heard the word beautiful out of all the words in that statement.
“Oh for fuck’s sake. There isn’t a person on this earth who doesn’t find you beautiful.”
“I thought you would hate me for what I did.”
Obviously, Bridgette was too drunk to to understand that thinking someone was beautiful was unrelated to how you felt about that person, and, in reality, there were plenty of beautiful girls I’d probably hated over the years.
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