Of Two Minds by Charles Hugh Smith

Author:Charles Hugh Smith [Smith, Charles Hugh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Action & Adventure
ISBN: 9781438258690
Google: 63iVQQAACAAJ
Amazon: 1438258690
Publisher: CreateSpace
Published: 2008-08-07T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Unfortunately, the walk did nothing to clarify my thinking. I was still unsure of how to respond to Rumford's warning and the possibility that Fredricka was secretly following new orders. The notion of quitting came up again, of course; but the question, "And go back to what?" always hammered it down. In for a nickel, in for a dime, I thought with a tired smile; all I have to do stay away from evil-looking white guys between the ages of 45 and 55.

The fusty hotel on the Left Bank that CSI had booked for me would have been quite charming--back in the 18th century. What the hell, I thought as I walked through the shabby lobby; a hotel room is just for sleeping. I'll make it up on an extravagant meal with a great wine and a lavish dessert.

A sallow-cheeked young clerk with badly dyed black hair and a ridiculously oversized red jacket tore herself away from a soap opera long enough to take my registration and give me my room key. The fourth floor again, I noted sourly, as I waited for the elevator. The door opened with an unsettling loud rattle and I stared in dull shock at the interior. It was approximately the size of a shower stall.

After enduring a cramped ride amidst weird creaks and groans-- images of steel cables frayed to the breaking point kept coming to mind--I found my room and had a moment of frustration getting the old brass door knob to open. It finally unjammed and I dragged my black nylon bag and computer briefcase inside.

Old-fashioned wallpaper of blue vertical lines festooned with small pink roses made the cramped space feel even smaller, but the claustrophobic sensation was countered by large French doors that opened onto a narrow wrought-iron balcony. The faint sweet aroma of a previous occupant's pipe tobacco hung in the air; I swung open the doors and sat down at the small writing table nearby.

Lights came on in the apartment windows across the street, punctuating the half-light of approaching dusk, as residents prepared dinner, read the paper or watered their balcony plants. Other than the language, life here didn't seem much different from home--sickly house plants to care for, dinner to cook, headlines to fume over.

I squeezed into the bathroom--more a closet stuffed with plumbing fixtures than a room--and carefully bathed and rebound my wrist. Then I walked to a sidewalk cafe a few blocks away for dinner.

I'd told myself earlier that only the finest meal would do, but I was tired and the prospect of eating typical Parisian fare appealed to me.

Like many of the cafes, this one occupied a corner; small round tables lined both sidewalks outside, while large windows allowed those sitting inside to enjoy the street scene. A red canvas canopy covered the outdoor tables, and a chalkboard by the entrance announced the daily specials.

Several other nearby brasseries shared these features, but this one's Labrador dog and friendly waiter pulled me in. The dog,

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