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In the blue and gold Paris twilight, the
80 people onboard, first one by one, and then by twos, and then
in knots, stood and stared and pointed behind Anastasia until the
whole tour group was standing and leaning and gesturing. Fingers
pointing, red lights on video cameras blinking, camcorder lights
competing with still camera flashes slashed into the evening like
the landing lights at Orly Airport, as the car engine snarled itself
into a low idle.
Anastasia spun, jumped at the winking tableau
of lights behind her. "Mais, pourquoi?"
Then another heavy car door opened and
there, dominating the view, decorating the night with an aura of
decadent, luxurious elegance was a brand-spanking-new silver-chrome,
Bentley stretch limousine. The taller of the two rugged, hard-looking
men holding the rear door open, palm outstretched in an expansive
gesture of welcome was Joe Louis Jones, mystery man of the harsh,
exacting Atlantic, captain of the now-silent Rocket Sled, potent
and menacing even at rest. The captain not even on the Parisian
scene a full 72 hours and already standing her life on its head...
She felt like she were about to fly, under
her own power, straight from the deck of the houseboat up onto the
quai between the champagne buckets and the iced tins of caviar,
like a cartoon character, or one of the kick-ass lady fighters from
"Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon."
And yet there was that hard, unyielding
jacket bulge too big to ignore in Joe Jones' cutaway Giorgio Armani
white tuxedo coat, another, angular, rigid, unmistakable at his
ankle, noticeable even with the perfectly tailored pleated trousers.
This second fellow (he is certainement pas Francais!), dark, lithe,
his hair a carrot red mop atop a chiseled face glinting with bright-orange
freckles, bulky, heavy, with the pseudo-grace of a man over-compensating
in each and every movement for the extra weight and ungainly presence
of a military-grade semi-automatic pistol.
Noticing even though she was quite certain
that she did not want to notice, Anastasia flew up the gangplank
over the surging Seine like a woman on fire. Then she stopped before
these two hard lean men, and to her everlasting surprise, curtsied
in the manner of a schoolgirl snatched out of the ethers of the
distant 19th century past.
She looked into Jones' sparkling eyes,
and, almost overwhelmed by the cascading walls of evanescent laughter
she saw there, ducked her head and darted into the back seat of
the Bentley. She was giggling, as flush with wild, soaring tremulous
joy as she had ever been in her complete entire life.
Jones was pouring 1958 vintage Moet into
champagne glasses, offering her a frosted bubbly glass with his
left hand even as he brushed a lush blonde curl out of her face
with his right.
Before the heavy door thunked closed, the
entire assemblage on the peniche burst into a wild joyous thunderclap
of applause, and the boat's pilot unleashed a string of explosive
"hoots!" from the whistle.
Not really knowing why, Anastasia blushed,
struggling to balance her champagne glass. As the limousine pulled
away from the quai, she lifted her gaze from the dancing bubbles
at the top of her glass and returned Jones' hard grin.
"Where do we go, Joe Jones?"
"Toast s'il vous plait, my lovely" he winked.
"Monsieur!"
"Toast!"
"Mais non!"
"Mais oui!"
"You mock me, monsieur!"
Jones leaned in close. "Mais non" he murmured.
"Toast, before the ice starts to melt."
Anastasia, lips trembling, swallowed. "Toast,
Joe Jones" she repeated.
The Bentley zipped through traffic like
a race car, crisp, nimble and brawny, the bottles in the full bar
tinkling together like wind chimes.
Jones nestled closer to Anastasia, fragrant,
American, and dangerous as a primed wad of plastic explosive. In
her eyes he seemed quite mad. She nestled closer to him, quivering.
"Toast, monsieur."
"Here's to Anastasia Bardot. Paris." He
brushed knuckles lightly against her cheek. Anastasia shivered.
"Vicious wealth." Her eyebrows formed an arch, an inverted "V."
Joe Jones' grin widened. "Vicious wealth" he repeated, his sudden
New York drawl a seamy Eighth Avenue taunt.
She raised her glass. "Vicious wealth,
monsieur." She clinked his glass, shouted "Skol!" and drained her
champagne in a perfectly well-practiced gulp - and he was forced,
smiling, to do the same.
Suddenly, she flicked her gaze through
the heavily tinted windows to the rush of passing street signs.
Boulevard Saint Michel.
His smile deepened. "They tell me if you
are going to do things right in Paris, in the city of lights, this
is the smart way to start. 'Fast start,' we call it back home. Given
the right... incentive... I am... given to understand that I can
create a nightlife presence, a powerful nightlife presence, very
quickly here." He refilled their glasses, pointed at the liquor
rack before them. "Caviar?" he grinned.
"What they tell you is so true, Joe Jones.
Many, many do... business here. All sorts of business, Joe." She
set her glass into the rack, scooped out some caviar. "Perhaps zis
is why you..." and she pointed, vaguely, with the caviar tin, in
the direction of the shoulder holster Joe Jones made no effort to
hide.
Jones kissed her cheek, poured more champagne,
settled back into his seat and smiled. "We start fast, we go fast,
mademoiselle. Maybe soon, we own the best nightclub in all Paris.
You never know. We--"
"Argent sauvage, n'est que pas, Joe?" she
purred.
"You never know, my lovely" he replied.
Jones had a black leather satchel open on the floor -- and even
without paying attention she could see the piles of banknotes sure
to be honored everywhere. Jones grabbed a stack and placed it gently
in her lap.
Her gaze darted down and she jumped. "Francs!
New Francs! New Francs!" she shrieked. She turned the money over,
riffling through it with her fingertips.
"New French Francs" he corrected, icy and
cool.
"How did you know zis?!" she grabbed his
wrist. "No one knows zis!" she persisted. "Even here in Paris, even
here in France, it was only a rumor. No one knows!"
"The Euro was a dumb idea anyway." He smiled.
"Besides, I read the Wall Street Journal... And Paris Match, too"
he winked as she drew back. Then he threw another bundle of cash
into her lap, noticing that she had gracefully made the first pile
disappear.
"I cannot believe, I do not bel..." she
moaned bouncing up and down on the car seat.
"We are now a team" Jones breathed.
"Argent sauvage" she murmured softly after
a long silence.
"Argent sauvage" he replied as the Bentley
eased up onto the sidewalk on Boulevard Saint Germain. "And now,
my lovely, it is time for us to go create some... Argent sauvage"
he finished as the car slowly pulled to a halt.
Continue to Part 3: A
Toast To Excitment
Go back to Part 1: The
Adventure Begins
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