X for Extortion by Garrick Jones

Author:Garrick Jones [Jones, Garrick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION: LGBT / Gay; Historical / World War II; Action & Adventure; Thrillers / Historical.
Publisher: MoshPit Publishing
Published: 2021-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

Bayonne was very beautiful in late spring.

I’d last been there earlier in the year, in late March, when the trees, although in leaf, were still that shade of pale-green that hasn’t yet seen enough sun. Now, the streets looked like a painting by Cézanne, Korovin, or van Gogh—the colours vibrant, as was the bustle in the boulevards. It was an extraordinary contrast to London.

We booked into the Château Margot, the same hotel I’d stayed in before. Horace, Aimée Girole, and Luc travelled separately as a family group and arrived about an hour after we did.

“He’s much better-looking than you let on,” Shorty whispered, pretending to be cross, but with a smile.

Talleyrand Foucault’s eyes had widened when he’d seen Horace, Shorty, Luc, and me standing in the doorway of the shop in which he worked. I could tell he was surprised, but he behaved as if I were a welcome, returned customer. He took one look at my pal and gave me the biggest grin, accompanied by raised eyebrows and a subtle wink—unspoken French for oh-la-la !

My leg continued to be very painful and I was still forced to use my cane. Talley found me a comfortable chair and placed it so I could watch the proceedings. Luc had no fascination for clothes yet, so sat at my side.

Shorty soon succumbed to Talleyrand’s charms—he was French, after all. The pile of clothing already assembled on the countertop was impressive. I seemed to be the only one without the dress-sense gene, as Horace soon also had a considerable pile for himself.

“Golly, I sure wish we had something like this in Boston,” he said to me, after asking Luc’s and my opinion on a beautiful pale-blue linen jacket. “Our prêt-à-porter is not nearly so handsomely finished—this jacket looks tailor-made,” he added, holding it up to himself and waiting for my verdict.

“You’re not supposed to draw attention to yourself,” I whispered to him.

“A man has to look good if he wants to make an impression,” he said, excited to be in France for the first time in his life. “A fellow might like a bit of company every so often, Sir T.”

He looked puzzled when I replied, “I’m sure that’s not going to be a problem, Horace.”

Although none of us had certain knowledge, Smiley had assured me that Horace was “ripe for the plucking”—at least that was what I thought that he’d said one night in the pub when we’d all had one too many. Smiley had a sixth sense for men who were willing to misbehave. It usually depended on being with the right man at the right time, so he kept telling me.

While he showed me some fabric to be made into new casual slacks, Talleyrand invited us for dinner that evening at his father’s restaurant. He told me they’d arrange for the place to be conveniently “booked out” so we could talk and eat in peace.

After we left the shop, Horace wandered behind us, whistling softly to himself as we walked down the quai, looking for a café so we could have some lunch.

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