To Die In Provence by Norman Bogner

Author:Norman Bogner [Norman Bogner]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction/Thrillers/Suspense
ISBN: 9781612308555
Publisher: New Word City, Inc.
Published: 2015-03-26T00:00:00+00:00

The Hôtel Montcalm’s army of concierges and bellmen leaped from their posts to greet Adam and Karen Gold, veterans of a score of film festivals. They trooped through the busy lobby bowing to Adam, who was barefoot and carrying crocodile loafers under his arm. He waved his hellos with a stack of $100 bills. A number of guests watched, fascinated by the raw display of power.

Boy had on a wide-brimmed sun hat and a pair of black Ray Bans. He peeped up from behind a copy of Sports Illustrated to watch the Golds’ ceremonious arrival. Bursting out of his safari jacket, Adam Gold was a short lard barrel, balding, with five o’clock shadow. According to Maddie, he could eat his own weight in pastrami. Karen’s staccato voice pierced the lobby. She’d been a TV bit-part player. Her sallow skin had a plastic surgery sheen, but she still moved with a lithe grace and wiggled her ass. Maddie called her Plastic Polly and told Boy that her mother had always played a dead body. She didn’t flinch or move a muscle when the camera was revealing her death wounds. Boy had laughed when Maddie related how Karen Gold’s career had ended. A reviewer in Variety had noticed Karen’s performance in one too many shows and commented on her many lives. “Like Esther Williams - ‘Wet, she was a star’ - dead Karen Gold should get an Emmy.”

Boy wore a pair of decent white shorts, new Reeboks, and a green Lacoste shirt, which he’d bought earlier on Rue d’Antibes while getting the lay of the land. It was now two o’clock. They were on schedule. It was ninety-three miles from Aix to Cannes. Maddie was due at five. She’d stop along the way to get her hair colored. Dinner would be at nine at the Moulin de Mougins.

The Golds were walking to the elevator. Adam wanted to know about the TV reception and was assured it was perfect. Four Sonys had been installed for their visit. Boy observed the dial of the elevator. It went directly to the eighth floor.

He left the hotel and walked quickly down the Croisette to the Quai St-Pierre. Leaning against the boat where he’d spent the night, he phoned Françoise at the pension. They put someone on who spoke a jumbled English. But he was able to understand. Françoise was out. Then he asked for Monsieur Karim. No, he hadn’t checked in yet but was expected.

Boy looked up when he heard a clapped-out engine sputtering to a halt across the street. Karim got out of a tinny old crate and Boy dashed across the street.

“How’s my main man?”

“Ah, Darrell, I’m glad to be here finally. It turned out to be a terrible trip.”

“Got to get you some new wheels, Karim. Come on, let’s grab a drink and some food.”

Boy picked the crowded fish joint next to the Pension Martell. Nobody would remember them. Karim was in an ecstatic mood. He was going to be made a partner in the porn shop.

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