Just Follow the Money

by Jinx Schwartz

  “Gee, thanks for reminding me. Hell, I’ll be relegated to a fish camp, no Santa in sight, flipping tortillas for the research crew. But at least I’ll have Chino, when he can tear himself away from those damned whales of his.”

  We fell silent, each thinking our own thoughts while admiring the glowing resplendence of the City of Light at night.

  Po Thang gave me an icy nose nudge so I scratched his ears and leaned over to kiss his snout. “How about you, Dawg, you ready to head back to Mexico?”

  “Wouf.” In the past few weeks he'd picked up a lot of French.

  Jan harrumphed. “That hound doesn’t give a dang where he is, so long as you’re with him and there's food involved. I think he’ll miss his new French pal, Charles, though.” She pronounced it, “Sharles.” Po Thang's ears twitched and he whined when Jan mentioned his buddy. “But I gotta say, I think some of that poodle's elegant good manners rubbed off on him a tiny bit. Last night at the restaurant, Po Thang didn’t even eye-beg too much.”

  “Are you kidding? Did you read that article?”

  “We oughta sue ‘em for slander, huh, Po? Okay, so there was a little tablecloth thing or two, but the rest of the time he almost behaved himself.”

  “Thanks for keeping him while Jenks and I toured the South of France for the past week. Dog friendly as France is, hauling this big galoot around in a Fiat Cinquecento is a pain in the butt.”

  Jan jerked a thumb at the newspaper lying on the floor behind us. “Which, by the way, wasn’t easy. It isn’t like when he stays with me at the fish camp, where he can run loose and steal all the fish tacos he wants. You owe me, big time. Thank goodness Jean Luc knows everyone who is anyone in Paris, or you’d be bailing me and that rapscallion pooch of yours out of a Parisian jail.”

  “I thought you said he almost behaved.”

  “I forgot to add, ‘for a stray with questionable training’. ”

  “Hey, I’ve done what I can. I guess it will be a relief to be back in a country where my dawg, should he choose to behave so badly, will end up as taco filling.”

  We laughed, me trying to picture us even being allowed in an upscale Mexican restaurant with a dog, much less him getting his own place setting like he does in France. My moment of amusement passed quickly, however, replaced by that annoying malaise, a grinchy slap shot to the spirit, that had plagued me all day, ever since seeing Jenks off that morning.

  “Saying goodbye to Jenks, once again, isn’t all that’s bothering me. Truth be known, I’ve been thinking about other things lately.”

  “Like?”

  “Like, do you ever worry about ending up as a bag lady?”

  Jan pointed at my empty flute and raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. I nodded, and she refilled it. “Bag lady? Where on earth did that come from?”

  “I dunno. Lately it’s occurred to me that we have, like, twenty years to prepare for retirement.”

  “Twenty? I’ll probably have to work until I’m eighty if I keep hanging out with you. But on the bright side, I wouldn't worry too much about it, Chica. Our lifestyles don't bode well for achieving long and healthy lives.”

  “There is some truth in that. But practically speaking, just in case we miraculously outwit the odds and live normal lifespans, we really don’t have that many earning years left to make some big bucks for retirement, and judging by our past performance, and present for that matter, things just don’t look all that rosy.”

  “Might I remind you that I am your accountant? You are not all that broke.”

  “I have an unpaid-for boat that is the epitome of the old adage, ‘a hole in the water into which one pours money.’ Scads of money. And a dog that eats his weight daily, and to make matters worse, I am most likely unemployable.”

  Jan smirked. “And yet here you sit, in a bazillion euro apartment, drinking very expensive champagne while watching the Eiffel Tower from your let-them-eat-cake balcony,” she drawled ironically. “You po thang.”

  Chapter Three

  In all honesty—which Jan says I'm a mite loose with—if I hadn’t formed my own company, I probably wouldn’t even have a job. I am not a team player, and therefore not exactly corporate material. Unless the corporation is mine, and even so, if my resume came across my desk, I definitely wouldn't hire me.

  I am CEO, CFO, president, and sole employee of Hetta Coffey, SI, LLC. The SI stands for Civil Engineer, in an ode to peepull who are educated to spell fonetically. I am chronically single and recently turned forty; the forty part actually escapes my lips now without the aid of waterboarding.

  A civil engineer by degree, I actually specialized in Materials Management: a kind of drawing-to-field concept for the stuff required to build mega projects for global engineering/construction firms. That was before I went rogue on one of them, namely Baxter Brothers, and ratted them out to the client for getting even greedier than usual, and got myself sacked.

  I presently stay employed by virtue of a willingness—a downright eagerness say some—to engage in more or less unorthodox undertakings, so long as they pay well.

  Jan, my best friend and often cohort in these endeavors, says this tendency to tread upon a felonious path less taken by saner folks will eventually land us both in the penal facility of some country or another, but who is she to talk? She's an unemployed CPA who acts as chief tortilla patter and fish fryer in a whale camp run by her amour du jour, world-renowned marine biologist, Doctor Brigido Comacho Yee, aka, Chino. Whoever heard of an accountant who works for free? Unless it's for me, of course.

  I finally have a wonderful man in my life now, but Jenks is just as perpetually absent as I am single. His work as a security specialist—so he says, but I personally think he might run a black op or two on occasion—takes him all over hell and back. Most recently he's been headquartered in Dubai, which is why Jan says we stay together; we are not around each other long enough for me to scare him off.

  When Jenks and I are able to spend time together, all is magic. Then he leaves me on my own, and that is when I teeter on the brink of screwing up the closest thing to a normal relationship I've ever had.

  By virtue of my pigheadedness, along with a Texas temperament that can turn as fiery as my hair right after a touch up, I manage to somehow find trouble that threatens to piss off even the seemingly unflappable and patient Jenks.

  Jan says I'm stubborn, incorrigible, and morally corrupt, which is why she likes me so much.

  I prefer to think of myself as self-governing.

  Po Thang and I were still sitting on the balcony, enjoying the Parisian landscape, when Jan returned, fresh from a shower. “Hey, there, future bag lady, ya wanna go rummage in the trash bins in the back alley? We're hungry, ain't we, dawg?”

  “Wouf.”

  “Very funny. Thanks for being sooo totally unsympathetic to my concern for our futures, Miz Jan. You might want to think a bit about where you're going to end up one of these days, yourself. However, being the kind of friend to you that you should be to me, I shall address your immediate concerns. Since going out for dinner,” I scowled at my dog, “is out of the question, let us raid that giant fridge and larder in the main kitchen and see what scraps we find.”

  The three of us left our apartment and went upstairs to the penthouse floor, and its luxury kitchen. An ode to the French culinary arts, the appliances and accoutrements were fantabulous, so I figured the fridge had to be stocked with a treasure trove of goodies. One look inside told me I was right.

  “Okay, I've got it. Grilled cheese.”

  “What? Our last night in Paris and you want grilled cheese sandwiches?” Jan threw up her hands in disgust.

  “Just trust me on this one, okay? You and Po Thang go fetch us at least three, make that four, baguettes while I get dinner going.”

  Jan looked doubtful, but leashed Po Thang for his last walk of the night. She took a poop bag with her, even though she was probably the only person in Paris who picks up a dog's leavings. Walking the sidewalks of P
aris is a perilous undertaking.

  I rummaged through the kitchen and found everything I knew I’d find. After all, this was Jean Luc’s building, he’s a great cook, and my first clue was that half-round of Livradoux I spotted in the industrial sized refrigerator.

  Putting tiny potatoes on to boil, I pulled out all manner of entremets and put them in heavy crockery bowls on an antique country kitchen table that was no doubt the real deal. French elite do not go in for reproductions.

  As I was placing a bowl of paper thin viande de grison slices on the table, Rhonda entered the kitchen. “Hey, what smells so good?”

  “I'm making dinner while Jan went out for bread and to walk le dawg. Can you grab a bottle of Pinot Gris from the wine chiller?”

  “Want to spell that?”

  “W-i-n—”

  She cut me off with a laugh. “Smarty. Which wine?”

  I told her the labels to look for while I tested the potatoes and found them perfectly done. I'd fired up the raclette machine and the cheese was starting to bubble. Jan and Po Thang arrived, both sniffing the air and making approving noises. “À table!” I announced. “Grab a chair.”

  Placing a few potatoes, thin slices of viande de grison, and a cornichon onto each plate, I then scraped a blob of bubbling cheese on them.

  “Smells divine, but what is all this stuff?” Rhonda asked. Then she turned to Jan and added, “Can I even have any of it?”

  “I think so,” she pointed to the tiny cornichon, “at least the pickle. And this is beef, right?” Jan forked a slice of transparent, air-dried beef known as grison and waved it in the air.

  “Yep, and the cheese is basically Swiss, so somewhat low fat. Even though it originated in Switzerland, this is a traditional French raclette. As a matter of fact—”

  The door flew open and Jean Luc barged in. “Do I smell raclette?”

  Before I could stop myself, I said, “Merde.”

  Jan whacked me lightly with the back of her hand and growled, “Play nice, Hetta.”

  Jean Luc acted as though he hadn’t heard my expletive and bent down to pet my ecstatically wiggling dog, the fickle little turd dropper. Is there no loyalty left in the world?

  “Take a seat, Jean Luc. I'll get you a plate and a glass,” Rhonda gushed. She does that a lot.

  “Merci, mademoiselle Rhonda. My, don't you look ravissante tonight?”

  Rhonda blushed the color of my hair. I doubt anyone had ever called her ravishing in her entire life. I know the feeling.

  Jean Luc went on, “As do all of you ladies. And Hetta, you have prepared the raclette? And just the way you know I like it. Merci, ma petite chou-fleur.”

  Rhonda’s ravishing and I’m his little cauliflower? And thanks for the reminder, you jerk, that twenty years ago I made you anything the way you liked it, and for all that I got kicked to the curb without a fond adieu.

  Jan piped up before I showed how ungrateful I can be when living in someone's house, drinking their wine, and eating their food. “I happened to run into Jean Luc downstairs and invited him up to join us, of course.”

  I stuffed an entire potato in my mouth when he pulled a chair way too close, scraped cheese onto his plate and then turned to face me. “I am so pleased I had the opportunity to see you once again, and say goodbye before you leave tomorrow.”

  Better than you did all those years ago, I wanted to say, but with that potato in my throat, all I could do was grunt. Probably just as well, for I had several retorts I longed to deliver, none of them pleasant. I was actually surprised at my reaction; I thought I'd buried the hatchet with Jean Luc d'Ormesson, or Jean Luc d’Rat, as I called him. His nickname had by now devolved into a simple one-word aspersion: DooRah.

  Clearly, I was not totally immune to the effect DooRah still held over me, evidenced by the state of nervous agitation I found myself in with this drop-dead gorgeous charmer sitting by my side. One who had once permanently wounded my heart.

  I choked down the potato and jumped to my feet. “My phone's ringing.”

  “You can hear it from across the building? My, I know you have superb hearing abilities, but that is downright amazing,” Jan drawled dryly.

  Shooting her a murderous look, I scurried out of the room. Po Thang, torn between following me and remaining in a room full of food, took the low road. Two-timing cur.

  Back in our apartment, I threw cold water onto my fiery face and took several deep breaths. “Hetta Coffey,” I said to myself in the mirror, “grow up! Jean Luc is twenty-year-old history. Pull on your big girl panties and go be gracious, for cryin’ out loud.”

  Which I did, just as soon as the Valium I downed hit my system.

  I sailed back toward the kitchen and picked up the unique scent of caramelizing Calvados. As I entered, Jean Luc was spooning gelato into peach halves he’d sautéed and then set ablaze with apple brandy.

  Waggling my phone in the air I said, “Sorry, it was Mom, so I had to take it. Oooh, les pêches flambeés!”

  Jan’s eyes narrowed as she leaned forward to get a better look at me. A smirk told me she was onto that Valium fix. I ignored her and dug into the creamy gelato, even disregarding Jean Luc’s comment that he’d made the dessert especially for me because he knew it was one of my favorites. Like every dessert isn’t?

  Rhonda, who was eating peaches only, couldn't keep her eyes off Jean Luc, who couldn't seem to keep his eyes off me. Thank goodness I'd be out of France and out of sight tout de suite. My phone vibrated and caller ID said it was Jenks. I mentally crossed myself and thanked every saint I am aware of, and I'm not even Catholic.

  Excusing myself from the table again, I walked into the living area, answering the call on my way. “Jenks, I miss you!”

  “I miss you, too, and I only left this morning. We just took off from Lille.”

  “Oh, how I would love to be with you on that plane. Can Po Thang and I come to Dubai instead of going back to Mexico?” He hesitated, which didn't set well with me. “Never mind.”

  “Hetta, I would like nothing more than to have you with me, wherever I am, but it won’t work right now. However, I do have some very good news for you.”

  “I could use some about now.”

  “Is everything alright? What’s wrong?”

  I sighed. “Nothing, really. I get this way when I have to leave almost anywhere. Gimme the good news.”

  “For starters, you don't have to leave France just yet. Unless you want to, and it doesn't sound like you do. Someone we know has asked for a big favor, and since you and Jan are already in France, I thought we could work something out. It’s actually a job.”

  My heart did a dance. “Anything!”

  “Don't you want to know the details? Or how much money is involved?”

  “Not really. I need a job, any money is better than none, and since I know this one has your stamp of approval, we’re in.”

  “Shouldn't you ask Jan first?”

  “Are you kidding? She was just saying she wasn't looking forward to going back to the Baja and that whale camp. This time of the year she hardly sees Chino anyhow, he's so busy counting whales and their babies.”

  “Okay, then. I'll get the ball rolling.”

  Evidently the Valium was a little too calming, for I generously asked, “Uh, what about Rhonda? Can she get in on this?”

  “I don't see why not. You'll get an email from—”

  The call dropped. I scowled at the phone, “From who? Whom? Oh, well, who cares?” Chemically-enhanced tranquility still prevailed, so I literally skipped back into the kitchen.

  “Guess what? We're staying in France! Jenks has a friend who's hired all of us! Well, except you, Jean Luc.”

  Everyone started talking at once, so I held up my hand for silence. “I don't know what, for how long, or where, but if Jenks thinks it's okay, it must be, so who’s in?”

  Jan and Rhonda chorused, “Me!”

  “Wouf!”

  Jean Luc took a large swig of brandy directly f
rom the bottle. “Mon Dieu! Aidez la France.”

  Chapter Four

  Jean Luc's plea for God to help France in light of my tribe staying on in his country for a while longer struck us all as funny, but he was probably serious.

  Of course, he was way too polite to suggest we vacate his guest quarters, but I told him we’d most likely be moving out as soon as we heard from our new unnamed mentor.

  We cleaned up the kitchen, even though Jean Luc insisted the staff would take care of it in the morning. Raclette is yummy, but messy, and if you leave the cheese to harden on plates overnight, a jackhammer might come in handy. Kinda makes one wonder what it does to one’s innards, n’est-ce pas ? I drank a liter of water.

  By the time we got back to our apartment, Jan and I had speculated on all kinds of scenarios as to what we were going to be doing next, but Jenks hadn't given me a hint because I hadn’t even asked.

  “Well for crying out loud, you nincompoop. The suspense is killing me. Why didn’t you let Jenks tell you anything when you had him on the line? Call him back,” Jan demanded as we resumed our posts on the balcony after dinner.

  “I tried. Goes to voicemail. Betcha Jenks is catching some sleep before arriving in Dubai for work in the morning. They keep him pretty busy.”

  “Well, gee, glad he'll snatch some Zs. I won't be able to sleep a wee-unk until I know what to tell Chino. He still thinks I'll be home in a couple of days.”

  I checked my iPhone again. “Okay it's after ten here, so he's probably still out in the boat doing his whale thing. Maybe we'll get some info by midnight. Oh, oh, incoming email!”

  “Read it! Who's it from?”

  “Don't recognize the address, but it’s from Mexico. Mexico? What the hell? Okay, here we go. ‘Dear Miss Coffey, you do not know me, but I have heard many good things about you.’ ”