Chapter 10
One franc... two francs... three francs... nine shiny French francs slipped smoothly into the pin-ball machine's slitted mouth and disappeared forever into its gaudy green and gilt stomach as the mesmerized Illinois farmer's son pumped up and down on the robot's handle. Suddenly, realizing that there was only one coin left in his perspiring palm, he stopped to scrutinize the silver circle through his thick bifocals. It was shaped like an American quarter and worth about the same at the present rate of exchange; but Benjamin Franklin's solemn head had been replaced by a flowing-haired female whose long robe emphasized the contours of her buttocks legs, and there was no mention of "In God We Trust".
Gene Puddocky frowned. If God wasn't backing the French franc, he wasn't at all sure he ought to, either. He turned toward the man beside him, a friendly older fellow who'd brought him here against his better judgment.
"Hey, uh, Elmer?" he asked uneasily.
Elmer Watkins, Faith Press Middle America Sales Representative, didn't hear the divinity student. He continued frantically feeding in fist-fulls of francs, oblivious not only to his companion but also to the jostling croWd and even to the distracting motif of bikini-clad blondes on his magenta machine. For the first time, Gene noticed that his own contrivance was covered with evil-eyed Green Berets hurling knives at blood-spattered North Vietnamese. His frown deepened, for he was, in principle, a non-violent pacifist.
"Hey listen, Elmer," he tried again, reaching out to pluck the shoulder of Watkins' sweat-stained white shirt.
"Hallelujah!" The salesman hopped up and down as his young companion stared incredulously, then grabbed a soiled handkerchief from his pocket to catch the thin stream of silver regurgitating from his box. "Hit the jackpot! Five hundred francs, Gene kid! Five fat ones! Whippee!"
The student's watery brown eyes blinked disbelievingly at the cascade of cash from behind his thick lenses. Then his hand, moving without directions from his brain, dropped his last sweat-sticky coin into the slot.
"Tough luck, kid!" Watkins clapped him on the back, amiable as he'd been ever since he'd attached himself to the innocent seminarian yesterday. "But that's gambling! Can't tell what's gonna happen with these here one-armed bandits. What the hell! I won enough for us both to take on the town tonight! Look out, Monte Carlo!"
"G-gambling?" Gene's lanky frame shuffled uneasily away from the "bandit" which had devoured his ten francs. "Yes-I suppose it is gambling," he gulped in guilty chagrin. "Isn't it?"
"Well, I figure it is, in my book at least." Elmer wiped his swarthy face with the back of his hand. "But you're the expert, professor. Sure ain't big-time gamblin', though-but now we can give that a go, whaddya say?"
As he spoke, Elmer was guiding the distracted younger man through the crowd, and he had to shout at the top of his lungs to make himself heard above the international babble and clanking coins. Soon he'd changed his tokens to five not-very-crisp hundred franc bills and was leading the bleak-faced Puddocky outside to the cafe.
The Monte Carlo Casino, a Baroque birthday cake of a building whose steps swarmed with tourists and uniformed guards, was just to the left of where they sat. Gene regarded it sadly. How could he have deluded himself into thinking that a sin exclusively confined to that extravagant edifice ... that there could be no true temptations of the Devil in a place with the innocuous name of "Cafe de Paris". Now he'd committed a sin, and deep inside he knew why: he'd been too proud to act like a country greenhorn around the more worldly-wise publisher's representative.
Ten francs ... that was approximately what his cup of cafe au hit and the International Herald Tribune had cost him this morning. Tomorrow he would do penance for his sin of wastefulness by foregoing these little pleasures-but how should he do penance for his more dire sin of greed?
"How about something to slick the throat 'fore we hit the Casino, kid?" Elmer's jovial, overloud voice interrupted the boy's reverie. "Order anything ya want-it's on me!"
"I-I really don't think I'd better go to the Casino," he was embarrassed to find his face reddening. "Thanks anyway. But you see, I don't think the authorities at my school would approve, and since I'm their official representative ..."
Watkins wanted to snort with laughter, but he contained himself. This kid was a weirdo if he'd ever seen one, but if he played his cards right he'd be able to convince him to buy a good selection of Faith Books for his damn seminary's library. Just now, he needed to make a big sale in the worst way; he'd only gotten his promotion by dint of his divorced sister remarrying the vice president, and there were ominous rumors circulating around concerning his demotion after only six months. If he had to move out of his new semi-private office and go back on the road peddling Bibles to revival meetings and hick towns in the Bible belt, he'd go out of his fucking mind!
"Up to you of course, kid," he smiled at Puddocky's worry-wrinkled high forehead and guileless brown eyes. "Now my motto's you oughtta try everything once, just for the experience, y'know. Why don't we have a drink while you think it over anyway, okay. Garcon! Garcon!"
Since Watson had pronounced garcon as though it rhymed with parson, it was some time before a waiter appeared at their white wrought-iron table. Neither of them minded much, Watson being contented to watch the well-dressed girls and luxury cars parading by, and Gene's thoughts having drifted from repentance to his beautiful blonde fiancee, Monica Blakesley. When would they meet again? tonight? tomorrow? And when they did meet, would she still love him after having been exposed to so many more sophisticated, suave men here in Europe? Until now he'd never felt a flicker of insecurity-he'd been head of his class since First Grade and he'd never considered that any other criteria might be important. Now, he felt decidedly uneasy.
"Two Pernods," Elmer puffed up his chest as a waiter finally dawdled in their direction. Then, not liking the way the man seemed to be sneering down his long Gallic nose at him, he added, "Two double Pernods."
"Pernod?" Gene craned his neck questioningly toward the older man. "What's that? I-I better just have a Coke, I think."
"Awh, c'mon kid, don't be a wet blanket!" Elmer joked. "Everyone in France drinks Pernod-you gotta try it. And it tastes great. You'll love it."
The salesman neither knew nor cared what the alcoholic stuff might taste like, for what he did know about it was far more interesting: it was an aphrodisiac! After he'd gotten this naive youngster smashed out of his mind, he'd find them some cute chicks and his sale would be clinched! Any guy who'd been stuck in a school without any girls around must be horny as hell, and therefore undyingly grateful to whomever was helpful enough to see that he got laid.
"Actually," Gene's prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his long throat. "I really don't feel I should be drinking alcohol..."
"Don't worry! Pernod's not alcohol, hot really. It's one of them liqueur things like-uh, like cooking sherry."
Cooking sherry? Surely he'd have been better off with a Coca-Cola. Not that it really mattered; the only important thing was getting in touch with Monica. Already he'd rung up the youth hostel at least a dozen times, but she was never there and when he'd asked them to leave a message the girl had been most uncooperative.
"Well, if I happen to see her I will, but after all, M'sieur, this is a youth hostel, not a courier service!"
Of course Monica must be out and about a lot with the kids, taking them on tours and picnics and things . . . but it was odd she'd not been in at ten-thirty when he'd phoned last night. Gene decided to try again as soon as they'd finished this Pernod drink. It was only about seven now, still time for them to have a romantic seaside dinner together and then a moonlit stroll along the beach. Lately it had occurred to him that he'd been a shade too platonic in their relationship, and this would be just the time and place to rectify that.
"Hey, willya get an eyeful of that one!" leered Elmer suddenly. "Y'know what I dig about French chicks? The way they wear their pants so tight! Dunno how they can walk but I sure am glad they do!"
Sometimes, Gene reflected, his constant companion was really a bit vulgar... but that was what one expected of salesmen, wasn't it? Watkins wasn't studying to be a minister the way he himself was and obviously would have different standards of behavior, especially considering that he was a bachelor on top of being a salesman.
"Yes, she's quite attractive," he said after a polite glance in the direction of a half-naked bottle-blonde poised with hand on well-fleshed hip while her pet
Afghan pissed on a bed of carnations.
"Attractive? Man, you need your glasses changed! That honey pie's one of the sexiest pieces of ass I've seen in a blue moon. They sure don't make, 'em that way back in Indiana, and not in Illinois either. Take another squint at her tits!"
Gene felt his face growing warm and ruddy once more, his friend's voice was so loud that people at neighboring tables were turning to stare witheringly at them. To hide his self-consciousness, he took a long gulp of the yellow liquid which had appeared on their round table along with a pitcher of water, little dishes of green olives and crackers, and an upside-down bill.
"Well, ain't this a classy spread!"
Watkins, too, ignored the ice-water; if whiskey was good straight, Pernod must be dynamite. The anise-flavored liquid tasted rather nasty, but he was drinking the stuff in the spirit of a medicine anyway so there seemed no reason to complain. Gene wasn't complaining either, not wanting to appear gauche, but after a couple swallows he found he almost liked the drink which reminded him vaguely of licorice candy.
'There's another one for ya, kid. Lookit' over there in the corner-the redhead in the white thing with her boobs hangin' out on the table. We sure picked the right spot to sit for the scenery, hahaha! Hey, garcon, a couple more of these here Pernods over here!"
"I don't think-"
Watkins ignored him, not on purpose but because he was already feeling half-intoxicated. All afternoon, while Gene Puddocky visited the Cathedral, Palace, and Tropical Gardens, he'd been wandering around stopping for a beer whenever he felt hot and bored. There hadn't been much else for him to do, since most of the other delegates were stuck-up snobs from the coasts or places like Chicago and didn't seem to want anything to do with him.
"And there's another blonde walking down the Casino steps-if you're one of those guys like myself who prefers blondes. Wonder what she does for a livin'? She look like a working girl to you, kid?"
He had a bit of difficulty focusing his eyes-must be the sub-tropical heat that was making him feel dizzy. Since the pious farmer's son was one of those rare personages who could honestly swear to never having over-indulged in all his twenty-five years, he took another unsuspecting swig while picking out the blonde in question. Sure, she was pretty-about the same build as Monica Blakesley, with the same sort of ripe-melon breasts and full, firm buttocks, movie-star legs-that strapless halter top and slit-to-the-thigh skirt were far too immodest. His girl was a lady who'd never dream of dressing like a brazen hussy, and he was a low-minded cad for even imagining her in such a shameless costume.
"How about us meeting a couple cute working gals like her this evening, Gene, old boy?"
"Huh. Er, excuse me. What were you saying, Elmer?"
"What's wrong, kid? You feeling okay? You ain't heard a word I've said!"
Puddocky was indeed feeling most peculiar, but he couldn't put his finger on just what was wrong. That queer pizza Provencal he'd had for lunch with its anchovies and olive oil, perhaps? . . . but no, his stomach was all right and in fact he was so hungry he'd just wolfed down the entire bowl of salty crackers and was grateful when another glass of thick liquid appeared before him.
"I feel fine!" he said, and it was true. He felt great, on top of the world, like a kid on the last day of school with three months of summer freedom stretching before him.
"Good! So what I asked ya was, how 'bout us hooking up with a couple classy Monte-Carlo working chicks and having a night on the town? Sounds good, huh?!"
Gene cleared his throat. "Well, as a matter of fact, I just happen to have a girl friend who's working here on the Cote d'Azur this month," he began, wondering why the older man's eyes suddenly bulged from their sockets. "She's with an organization called World Worshipers-perhaps you've heard of it?-who gave her this summer job as an assistant chaperone for teen tours in Europe. She had a lot of experience, you see-she's taught
Sunday school since she was fourteen. Of course it was the chance of a lifetime for her because she's never been out of the Midwest before . . . but I have missed her . . ."
"Oh, yeah? Sunday school teacher, huh? Is she blonde?" Elmer's eyes glinted with ill-disguised lechery as a lurid memory flashed through his aphrodisiac-incited mind. "Garconl'We need a refill an' some more of them Frito things!"
"Y-Yes, she's a blonde." Gene stood up, long legs wobbling at first but steadying after he held onto the back of the chair and took a few deep breaths. "I was just going to give her a call and invite her out to dinner."
"Ask her to bring a girl friend, won'tcha, pal?" They might have different definitions of a "working girl", they both appreciated fair-haired church-school teachers-albeit for quite dissimilar reasons.
"Well, I don't know. I mean, I think Monica is only working with fourteen and fifteen year olds, so-"
"Hell, I ain't got nothin' against Sunday school pupils, neither," Watkins speech was growing increasingly slurred and vulgar. "Not a goddamn thing, jist so they're old enough to have nice little titties."
The same unhelpful receptionist answered the phone at the Cap d'Ail youth hostel, but just as Gene was about to hang up in frustration someone new picked up the receiver-a male who, wonder of wonders, spoke English. "Hello?" he spoke hopefully, but carefully, for his voice was having the strangest tendency to slur. "I'm trying to get in-touch with a young lady by the name of Miss Blakesley-it's very urgent!"
"You search Miss Blakesley?"
If he hadn't seen on his Michelin map that Cap d'Ail was just a skip and a jump down the coast from Monaco, Puddocky would have thought he was talking to the Canary Islands or something. Or had something gone wrong with his ears, as well as his vision and coordination ... ?
"Yes, yes-can you help me, please? She's my fiancee, you see, and-"
"Your fiancee? Ah, yes! You must search her at the Hotel Modern, here on Cap d'Ail. But I am afraid it will be at least one hour before she returns home from the church excursion."
Puddocky thanked the man profusely and weaved precariously back to where Elmer Watkins sat before a fresh round of Pernod. The middle-aged salesman's pudgy hands were plucking up green olives and popping them into his mouth as though they'd been peanuts, and there was a debauched glimmer in his blood-shot eyes as he turned eagerly to ask, "Didja reach her? She gotta friend, huh?"
It felt good to be sitting securely on a chair again instead of balancing on his incredibly clumsy feet among the clutter of chairs on the Cafe de Paris' terrace. Gene started to reach for his glass, but something somersaulted in his stomach and he hastily pushed it toward the other man.
"Here, you have this-I just want some water," he mumbled as the wave of nausea rose and then thankfully died away. "Yes, Monica's there-or will be in an hour, anyway. Thank goodness! But I didn't speak with her, so I don't know about a friend."
Watkins accepted the Pernod, since it was obvious the ministry student would be totally incapacitated if he drank any more. "Have some olives, though," he offered. "Good to have sumpthin' in your stomach. Besides, I just remembered a buddy of mine telling me that green olives were good for the old pecker. So eat up, kid!"
Gene obediently bit into an olive, noting with detached curiosity that his taste buds seemed as dulled as his hearing and sight. The only sense which seemed fully-abnormally, actually-alive was a dull throbbing ache deep in his groin at the thought of seeing his beautiful Monica, but this emotion was even more disturbing than his general loss of physical facilities.
"Good for the old what?" he inquired.
"Your pecker, kid, your prick, whatever the hell you wanna call it. That cock of yours that's gonna be giving your girl a hell of a good time soon, you lucky son of a bitch."
Really! Gene turned bright crimson. This salesman was a good-natured, friendly fellow, but he had a foul mouth. And, what was more, he seemed to be acting the way great-uncle Horace had after getting into the dandelion wine. He wished he could think of an excuse to leave right now, but it wasn't in his nature to either tell white lies or act rude.
"Harumph!" His Adam's apple wobbled as he gulped long droughts of cleansing water. "Monica isn't-uh, she's not that sort of girl."
"Haha!" snorted Elmer. He was so amused that he choked on his drink and sputtered little bits of olive and drops of Pernod into his soiled handkerchief. 'There's only one sort of girl, kid! Lemme tell ya a story that'll prove it! 'Bout five years back, when I was still driving 'round goddamn Indiana peddling Bibles to churches and prayer meetings and all that crap, I met this evangelist lady. What was her name now... Sally?... Susie? ... Cindy ...? Yeah-that was it-Sister Cynthia! Anyhow, this gal was a blonde just like your Monica, an'..."
Puddocky drained the last drops from the water jug and tried to ignore his companion's indecent expose, but it was no use. A dull, nagging suspicion that he himself was also intoxicated was bothering his conscience, and he was certain his supervisors and advisors back at the Seminary wouldn't approve of him fraternizing with a foul-mouthed, corrupting character like Watkins no matter how interesting and lucratively priced Faith Press' offerings might happen to be. Somehow-, however, he found himself listening to Elmer's shockingly graphic account, told in a loud voice, about a voluptuous lady preacher who fell into a forbidden liaison with a teenager, but was later converted to "normal" sex in an anal attack by valiant, virile Watkins himself.
Two old ladies, obviously English-speaking, dragged their yipping poodles and shopping bags away from the next table down. A passing waiter's head jerked sharply in the direction of the salesman's sonorous voice, and his tray crashed to the cement as he collided with an unwary German dowager's dachshund fat. Two clean-cut businessmen types nearby hurried their blushing wives to a table some safe yards away.
Why couldn't he move away, too? Why was he sitting here listening to this filth? Gene made one attempt after another to propel himself into motion, but it was as though he were hypnotized by the balding man's bloodshot, beady eyes and vile obscenities. Gene had so many sins to repent for after only a day in Monte Carlo that he didn't know how he'd ever dare face his spiritual advisors back at the seminary in Illinois.
"You should've seen her! Twitching and bucking and begging for more of my cock in her hot little asshole there in that crummy tent in the middle of the woods! Christ, was she ever turned-on! Lemme give ya a hint, kid! Ya wanna show a broad who's boss, and turn her into a crazy nympho at the same time, try a good screw in the ass. If it worked with Sister Cynthia, man, it'd work with anyone!"
Puddocky's puffy tongue wetted his parched lips. He wished he spoke enough French to ask that sneering waiter for more water, or at least to buy a package of Wrigleys gum . . . anything to remove the sickening licorice taste from his mouth. More than anything else, he wished Watkins would finish his obnoxious epic, for he simply couldn't prevent himself from seeing perverted images of darling Monica in the self-same positions the salesman was describing.
"Wh-what happened to-to Sister Cynthia?" he heard his own voice inquiring as Elmer paused to drink. "What's she like now? What's she doing?
"Dunno?" Watkins shrugged, looked around for the waiter who'd avoided their table since his accident. "Heard the cops fucked the hell outta her-you know what they're like in them little towns down south-and then she took off for parts unknown. Keep hoping I'll run into her one of these days on a street corner in Kansas City or wherever .. . she was one hell of a good screw, Sister Cynthia was!"
A terrifying mental picture of Monica Blakesley poised in hand-on-hip provocation beneath a streetlight on a rundown city street sent Gene lurching to his feet. "Got to be going . . ."
"Hey, hold your horses, Gene old boy! Why don't I come along, huh? Just lemme settle this bill an' then-"
"Uh, Elmer, I really would like time alone with Monica. Why don't I call you in about an hour and we can all have dinner, Okay?"
The young man was gone before Watkins could protest. Hell, he thought, 'cause the kid wants to get into his girl's panties first, but what does that leave me? After I paid for all his goddamn drinks, too, and offer to find him a woman! Shit, if he doesn't call me, I'm just thinking I might go out to this here Hotel Modern and give him a piece of my mind."
As a matter of fact, it might not be such a bad idea to go out to Cap d'Ail a bit early. Just thinking about that night with Sister Cynthia had sent his penis swelling into a half-erection which was pressing uncomfortably against his trousers ...