festival, bacchanalian and remotely quasi-religious at the same moment, he could find a niche and enjoy himself.
They’d have downtime with one another. Which created its own expectations and tension. É mile and Sandra aspired to connect again, to undertake a revival of some sort—quasi-romantic, perhaps, or even, who knows, bacchanalian. Rather than place their expectations at the risk of a crummy hotel room, they made peace with the likely dull security of the Hilton.
All that decision-making resulted in Sandra receiving a solid, undignified bump from a man in the lobby upon their arrival. A pair of men in their thirties were crossing each other’s path as the couple entered. In sidestepping that collision, one tripped right into Sandra, giving her a jolt, then the other, stumbling himself, reached out to break her fall as well as his own. É mile reached for her also, flinging out his arms, but in that instinctive reaction he also caught the scene in his mind’s eye and detected a foreign hand at his hip. Whether it was his police training, observations over a long career, or simply an impulsive intuitive notion, his right hand jumped to his rear pocket and his wallet there, and fell upon an uninvited paw. In the ensuing jumble, apologies were uttered by the men for their clumsiness and Sandra assured them to never mind and laughed the moment off. É mile Cinq-Mars, though, stood still and silent, arms crossed, certain that he had thwarted a carefully choreographed picking of his pocket.
Then he noticed that a clasp on Sandra’s purse had been tripped.
He smiled at the fellow who had fallen into his wife, stretched out his hand ostensibly to thank him, then took the fellow’s hand in his own and squeezed quite hard. He leaned into him, squeezing harder. He whispered in the man’s ear, “Return my wife’s wallet or I’ll break your fingers in five, four, three seconds.”
The man was small, casually well-dressed, with a smooth olive complexion and dark eyes. Under the pressure on his hand, his face was distorting rapidly and he involuntarily exhaled.
“Two,” Cinq-Mars said, and squeezed even harder. He gave him another friendly, encouraging pat as the man’s mouth stretched open in pain.
The other man among them appeared confused. He and Sandra were united in wondering what É mile had whispered.
“Oh! Look what fell,” said the man in the ex-policeman’s grip and knelt down even though Cinq-Mars still held his right hand. No one saw anything on the floor, but when the suave fellow popped back up again he held Sandra’s wallet out to her.
Suddenly she understood. Her wallet had appeared out of thin air. She did a rapid check, then said, “It’s okay. You can let him go, É mile.”
“I’ll be here for several days,” É mile let the man know. “You won’t be.” He patted the fellow’s wrist, then released him.
Supposedly, the two men were strangers passing in the lobby, but the jig was up and one gave an indication to the other with his chin. The pair departed out the front door together. One wore a pink sports shirt, elegant gray slacks, and kept his hair spot-on with gel. The other, tricked out in a spiffy lemony suit, used less gel. They could be brothers.
“Welcome to the safe Hilton,” Cinq-Mars murmured as he watched them go.
“Welcome to New Orleans,” Sandra tacked on.
They smiled at one another and carried on arm in arm. What might have been a huge annoyance at the outset of their time away had been thwarted. Perhaps good fortune shone on their side.
É mile was glad that the situation had stayed calm. Any altercation at that moment might have found him deficient. In the Big Easy, apparently, men with slippery fingers knew how to keep their cool. After the cramped flight—for him, most flights were cramped—he was sore, stiff, and needed to exercise, so after checking in they went up to their room on the seventeenth floor where he performed his diabolical stretches.
They’d have downtime with one another. Which created its own expectations and tension. É mile and Sandra aspired to connect again, to undertake a revival of some sort—quasi-romantic, perhaps, or even, who knows, bacchanalian. Rather than place their expectations at the risk of a crummy hotel room, they made peace with the likely dull security of the Hilton.
All that decision-making resulted in Sandra receiving a solid, undignified bump from a man in the lobby upon their arrival. A pair of men in their thirties were crossing each other’s path as the couple entered. In sidestepping that collision, one tripped right into Sandra, giving her a jolt, then the other, stumbling himself, reached out to break her fall as well as his own. É mile reached for her also, flinging out his arms, but in that instinctive reaction he also caught the scene in his mind’s eye and detected a foreign hand at his hip. Whether it was his police training, observations over a long career, or simply an impulsive intuitive notion, his right hand jumped to his rear pocket and his wallet there, and fell upon an uninvited paw. In the ensuing jumble, apologies were uttered by the men for their clumsiness and Sandra assured them to never mind and laughed the moment off. É mile Cinq-Mars, though, stood still and silent, arms crossed, certain that he had thwarted a carefully choreographed picking of his pocket.
Then he noticed that a clasp on Sandra’s purse had been tripped.
He smiled at the fellow who had fallen into his wife, stretched out his hand ostensibly to thank him, then took the fellow’s hand in his own and squeezed quite hard. He leaned into him, squeezing harder. He whispered in the man’s ear, “Return my wife’s wallet or I’ll break your fingers in five, four, three seconds.”
The man was small, casually well-dressed, with a smooth olive complexion and dark eyes. Under the pressure on his hand, his face was distorting rapidly and he involuntarily exhaled.
“Two,” Cinq-Mars said, and squeezed even harder. He gave him another friendly, encouraging pat as the man’s mouth stretched open in pain.
The other man among them appeared confused. He and Sandra were united in wondering what É mile had whispered.
“Oh! Look what fell,” said the man in the ex-policeman’s grip and knelt down even though Cinq-Mars still held his right hand. No one saw anything on the floor, but when the suave fellow popped back up again he held Sandra’s wallet out to her.
Suddenly she understood. Her wallet had appeared out of thin air. She did a rapid check, then said, “It’s okay. You can let him go, É mile.”
“I’ll be here for several days,” É mile let the man know. “You won’t be.” He patted the fellow’s wrist, then released him.
Supposedly, the two men were strangers passing in the lobby, but the jig was up and one gave an indication to the other with his chin. The pair departed out the front door together. One wore a pink sports shirt, elegant gray slacks, and kept his hair spot-on with gel. The other, tricked out in a spiffy lemony suit, used less gel. They could be brothers.
“Welcome to the safe Hilton,” Cinq-Mars murmured as he watched them go.
“Welcome to New Orleans,” Sandra tacked on.
They smiled at one another and carried on arm in arm. What might have been a huge annoyance at the outset of their time away had been thwarted. Perhaps good fortune shone on their side.
É mile was glad that the situation had stayed calm. Any altercation at that moment might have found him deficient. In the Big Easy, apparently, men with slippery fingers knew how to keep their cool. After the cramped flight—for him, most flights were cramped—he was sore, stiff, and needed to exercise, so after checking in they went up to their room on the seventeenth floor where he performed his diabolical stretches.
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