Just Pardon My French (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 8)

by Jinx Schwartz

  "I didn't see a shower and I'm gonna be stuck on this friggin' plane for-ever."

  "Sorry, no luck there. They have them in the crew quarters at the terminals where we refuel."

  "Just peachy."

  I unstrapped and carefully walked to get my PC, making sure to hold on to something. So far the going was smooth, but you never know when you're going to hit a bump. Living on a boat teaches you to always secure yourself when you're underway, and that doubles on a plane.

  Putting my luggage on the bunk, I decided to see what I had since I didn't have time at Jenks's apartment to open the suitcases. Also, I wanted to repack and empty the faded duffle so I'd be down to my computer, briefcase, and two chic suitcases. I was, after all, headed for France.

  The first suitcase, tagged WARM STUFF, held a designer jogging outfit that still had its over-priced sales tag attached. Obviously, this was just another of many things I used to buy in anticipation of some new exercise program Jan talked me into and I talked myself out of. I consider shopping a form of cardio.

  Under the snazzy suit were a couple of cashmere pullovers, leather gloves, and some of those warm and fuzzy chenille socks, which would certainly come in handy. I laid everything out on a bunk for repacking.

  The second suitcase, the one with the GOOD STUFF, revealed three pairs of tailored trousers, two silk blouses, camisoles to go under them, my favorite Calvin Klein blazer and jeans, and best of all, a hand tooled pair of vintage red-leather Tony Lama boots. It was like Christmas morning.

  Since I now wore nothing but underwear under my jumpsuit, I grabbed the warm-ups, a pair of socks and the boots, pulled a curtain across the hatch opening, and shed my overalls. Each layer went on like a little slice of Heaven in the chilly plane, and when re-covered with the overalls, felt like a luxurious cocoon of warmth. Funny how, just hours before, I expected to arrive in France looking like a million bucks, and now I was gonna resemble Bibendum—the Michelin Man—in commando cowboy drag. Oh, well, at least he's French.

  Sighing, I put on a pair of the socks, tried to pull on a boot, and stubbed my expensively pedicured toe.

  "Ow!" I yelped, quickly removing my foot. "What the hell?"

  Snaking my hand into the boot, I felt cold metal and the familiar pistol grip of my PT 738 TCP. Pulling out the little Taurus .380, I cooed, "Oh, Taury, there you are. I wondered what I did with you." Reaching into the other boot, I found an extra clip and two boxes of hollow points.

  When Jan and I left for Mexico on the boat, I left my considerable arsenal at Jenks's place, lest the Mexican government throw me in the cárcel for possession.

  Later on, while Raymond Johnson was laid up in dry dock with blisters on her bottom, I took a job on the Arizona border, rented a house there, and asked my friend and veterinarian extraordinaire, Dr. Craig Washington, to bring me my guns and some clothes from Jenks's closet. Now the rest of my guns are at Craig's home he bought in Arizona. His house is my legal address in the States, and I am an official Arizona resident of Cochise County, rumored to have the most heavily armed citizenry in the world. I felt right at home.

  I still have to keep my weaponry at Craig's house in Bisbee due to some silly law in Mexico about folks not being allowed to have personal protection south of the border. Back when the new guys in charge overthrew the old guys in charge in the Mexican Revolution of 1910, they quickly outlawed guns to the general population, just in case the ungrateful wretches someday took a page from their own “how to throw a revolution” book. It’s a lot easier to stay in control if a disgruntled populace doesn’t have a way to overthrow them.

  So, while I knew my Taurus wasn't at Craig's, I'd forgotten where I'd stashed it, et voilà! here it was, appropriately nested in one of my red Tony Lamas. My luggage hadn't gone through any kind of security check as far as I knew, and now I was on a plane with a gun. Headed for two foreign countries, Iceland and France. Merde alors!

  "Hetta, you okay in there?" Joe asked from the other side of the curtain.

  My heart jumped into my throat as guilt oozed from my forehead. After a moment of panic, I stuffed the gun under the bunk mattress and answered, in the most normal voice I could muster, "Yeah, sure, Joe, just putting on some warmer clothes and repacking my stuff."

  "I'm gonna make popcorn if you want some."

  "Great," I choked out. "I'll be out in a minute."

  For lack of a better idea, I removed the gun from under the mattress, jammed it back into the suitcase, zipped it shut, and closed the curtain. The irresistible aroma of butter-laced popcorn hit my nose and my stomach growled.

  Guns, schmuns. We're talking popcorn here.

  Back at my computer, I crammed a fistful of Orville Redenbacher Ultimate Butter into my mouth while using the non-greasy hand to cruise the Internet for the legalities involved in smuggling a gun onto an airplane. Since the TSA hadn’t nailed me yet, and the likelihood of getting busted while refueling in Omaha was small, I figured it was going to be up to either Icelandic Customs or the gendarmes to ruin my vacation.

  Figuring I was safe from discovery in Iceland if I left the gun on the plane, another hour of Googling—with a break to pop more corn—informed me that if I were caught with an unauthorized gun when deplaning in France, I could face a three-year maximum sentence, plus a fine.

  I had expected a dire form of punishment, like death by guillotine, so three years didn't sound too bad; I could brush up on the lingo, and the food in a French prison should be good, right? They probably, like the Frenchified McDonalds, serve wine.

  Next, I asked my legal counsel, monsieur le Google, if I do get a pistol through French Customs, what are my chances of getting caught in the country packing said heat?

  My cyber-avocat had zero information concerning that possibility.

  Chapter Six

  Like a dog trying to hide a bone, I moved the pistol several times during the flight from Omaha to Iceland, all the while stuffing my worry with more popcorn, before our descent into Reykjavik.

  My plan had been to use the terminal's crew facilities there to take a shower and get prettied up for Lille, but that went down the tubes. There was no way I was leaving the plane with the gun so, just in case someone like a gunpowder-sniffing Islandic German Shepherd Customs agent came nosing around, I stayed on board with hopes of diverting his attention with a handful of popcorn. Not that I really expected a Customs raid, but nevertheless I sat tight.

  We were on the ground for four harrowing hours before the new crew, including a loadmaster, boarded. Had they questioned my decision to steadfastly refuse leaving the plane, I intended to plead an overabundance of company loyalty. As it was, they didn't seem to care what I did, but at least they sent me a big fat cheeseburger and fries.

  During the nearly eighteen hours since I boarded the C-130J in Oakland, my formerly shiny, bouncy hair had lost all pep and sheen. My makeup, so perfectly done by the Red Door pros, was now fear-sweated into blotches. I probably didn't smell too hot, either, and by the time I arrived in Lille I'd have been stuck on the plane at least twenty-seven hours, and the odds of reeking less by then were nil to none.

  I fidgeted as the crew took forever with their pre-flight safety checks at Reykjavik—something I normally appreciate because safety is a really good thing on a plane—willing them to just get us the hell off the ground. Flight time into Lille was at least another nine hours, giving me even more time to stew and stress.

  What to do? What to do?

  Hide the gun in with the cargo headed for Dubai? Should have thought of that before the loadmaster came on board. Now if I tried sneaking into the cargo hold he might get suspicious.

  Smuggle it off the plane in my panties? Hell, I already looked guilty, and any self-respecting Frenchman would surely finger me just for the crime of wearing such mundane cotton knickers. Wait, that didn't come out right.

  Or I could throw a perfectly wonderful weapon into the trash along with the increasing pile of empty popcorn bags? Nah, just goes aga
inst my nature and is probably illegal in Texas and Arizona.

  All this thinking gave me a headache, so I popped an Advil, grabbed a pillow and blankie, and curled up on a bunk. Six hours later I awoke with a start, not knowing for a second where the hell I was. Getting my bearings, I rinsed out my mouth and worked my way back to the main cockpit.

  Hunched back over my computer, I surfed Facebook to get my mind off my looming incarceration while sharing witty stuff about wine, cats, dogs, cats and dogs drinking wine, and my favorite: sarcastic anything.

  "Miss Coffey?"

  I practically levitated as the loadmaster leaned in and called my name loud enough to be heard over my headset. "What?" I yelped.

  "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. We're two hours out, so if you care to freshen up you might want to get started."

  "You think it'll take that long?"

  He grinned. "Naw, but I thought you might want me to include your bags on the cargo manifest to avoid having to go through customs. I'll need to have them in about an hour. You'll still have to pass through Immigration to get your passport stamped, but that'll be fast. I understand a Baxter Brothers rep is meeting us at Lille, and the two of you can sign off on your part of the load."

  Did he just say I didn't have to clear customs?

  I wanted to kiss him, but doubted he'd appreciate getting that close to my stinky self.

  By the time I turned my bags over to the lovely loadmaster, I'd spiffed up some.

  I managed a paper towel and bottled water sponge bath, applied a dab of perfume and a lot of deodorant, smeared on face and eye cream, wiped old mascara smudges away, put on new makeup, and did what I could to perk up my hair. There wasn't much I could do with that butter-stained jumpsuit.

  I was totally calm and in control by now, thanks to discovering a bottle of Valium I'd stashed in the same boot with my gun. There's probably something Freudian there.

  Further Internet searches revealed sketchy information about entering France without a copy of the original prescription of a controlled substance, which there was no way in hell I was gonna dump. In for a penny, in for a Euro, I figured—after popping 10mg of pure courage and stashing the rest next to the .380.

  We international arms and drug smugglers lead a stressful existence, ya know.

  The loveable effect of a tranquilizer is that you are, well, tranquil. No longer did I care that my hair looked like a grease mop. I was resigned that no amount of wet paper towel could overcome all those hours on a cargo plane. No longer did the prospect of three years in a French jail have my cotton knickers in a twist. Nope, I was confident I'd sail through Customs and beat feet to a hotel, unscathed by the French judicial system.

  In my euphoric state, none of those things mattered anymore. I was invincible. Undaunted. Fearless. Right up until the moment I deplaned and spotted Jenks waiting for me on the tarmac, his strong arms held wide for an expected embrace.

  I stopped dead in my tracks as almost all of the pill-induced serenity disappeared, leaving me in a sudden state of paranoia. What would Jenks think when I was hauled off in cuffs? Or worse yet, just how bad did I smell? I was torn between rushing into his arms or turning tail for the plane to give myself a good spray of the Lysol air fresher I'd seen in the head.

  Jenks closed the distance between us before I could make a decision—another side-effect of tranquilizers is the inability to act very fast—and actually lifted me off my feet (no easy task) for a kiss. At least I'd brushed my teeth. If he thought the rest of me reeked, he sure didn't let on.

  Putting me down, he held me at arm’s length and said, “Wow, you look great.”

  I should have been flattered, but wondered what kind of hag he encountered when he visited me in Mexico if he thought I looked good now.

  “So do you,” I mumbled, and I meant it.

  Jenks grabbed my brief case and computer, put his arm around me, and guided me toward a hangar. "Immigration guy is over here and once we sign off on the manifest we can head for the hotel. I'll bet you're ready for a drink and a hot bath."

  So he did notice.

  "Hey, if you'd just spent a jillion hours on that nightmare of a plane, you wouldn't smell so good yourself," I growled. Oh, great, Hetta. Two minutes on the ground and you're picking a fight?

  He stopped walking and turned to face me. "Whoa, there, Red. Are you okay?"

  "Nuh, no, not really." Tears filled my eyes. Crap, men hate it when women cry.

  I wiped my face with a buttery sleeve and took a deep breath. What was I supposed to say? That I was scared to death of getting busted with a gun that I had stupidly and stubbornly decided not to throw away? "I mean, I'm okay. Just dog tired. And you are so right, a hot bath and a couple of drinks will make me a new woman."

  "I don't want a new woman, I want you."

  Is he wonderful, or what?

  "I guess you have me to blame for your crappy flight. When Wontrobski said we needed a courier for a shipment of sensitive documents I suggested you, thinking they'd use a company jet. But then at the last minute, they added all that equipment for Dubai and switched to the C-130. I didn't know that until you were already in the air. I told the Trob there would be hell to pay."

  "Oh, yes, he'll pay, all right, of that you can be sure."

  "He's already doing so. I booked us into the George V in Paris because you've talked about it so much."

  My jaw dropped. "The Zhor-zuh Sank?" I blurted, using my best Parisian accent. "Holy crap. Dang why didn't I think of that? Well, I know the Trob can be generous, but it never occurred to me to stick him for a fifteen-hundred-buck-a-night hotel room. I do have some ethics, you know. Bad ones, but ethics nonetheless. You are my hero."

  "Well, we got a family discount."

  "Huh?"

  "Prince Fauoud's cousin owns the hotel now."

  "Ah. How is the prince? He getting tired of you as a permanent house guest at the Al Buri Dubai?"

  Jenks shrugged. "He's never there. And I do pay rent, you know."

  "How much?"

  "Five grand a month."

  "Ha! A penthouse at Al Buri probably runs that a day."

  "It pays to have friends in high places. He sends his love."

  "Where is he these days?"

  "Yachting."

  "Of course he is. Wow, the George V. How long can we stay?"

  "I figure," he looked at his watch, "four days? We need to be in the South of France after that."

  "We do? Why?"

  "It's a surprise."

  I opened my mouth to say I hated surprises when my phone rang.

  "Hetta honey," Mom drawled, "I had this really funny feeling that I needed to call you and tell you not to mess up with Jenks. Enjoy your trip and we love you. Bye."

  I stared at the dead phone, then turned to Jenks and grinned. "Great! I love surprises. I can't wait."

  He looked a little alarmed.

  Chapter Seven

  After Jenks and I shared another hug and a nice long kiss—thank the Lord for those Listerine pocket strips—he pointed to the hangar where my cargo was now stashed. As we walked, I asked him what he'd been working on, but really wasn't registering what he said as we neared my date with Destiny. Yes, the loadmaster told me my bags needn't clear customs, but that guilt thing went to work, and what was left of my deodorant began to fail.

  When I saw the loadmaster and a very Gallic and glum official type with their heads together looking over what was probably the manifest, I put on the brakes so suddenly, Jenks, who was walking close behind me, almost knocked me over. I yelped, Jenks steadied me, said he was sorry, and both men inside the hangar turned towards us.

  Striding forward, Jenks stuck his hand out to the French official. "Henri! Great to see you again!" then turned to the loadmaster and introduced himself.

  I held back as Henri turned and pegged me with what my guilties perceived as accusatory eyes, then broke into a wide smile. "Ah, mademoiselle Coffey. We have heard much about you from monsieur Jenkin
s. Bienvenue en France! You must be très fatigué after such a journey, so if you will just," he held out the clipboard with the manifest attached, "sign here," he tapped a line, "the formalities will be done."

  Guilt and sweat flowed as I dredged up a polite, "Enchantée," even though I was far less than delighted to meet someone who could dump me into the slammer. I took the pen with shaky fingers and scrawled something that resembled my signature to what might end up being a confession. Jeez, I wouldn't last two minutes under police interrogation.

  "Hetta, are you sure you're feeling all right?" Jenks asked, putting his arm around me again. "You look like you're about to pass out."

  "Je suis très fatigué. Yeah, that's it, I'm just very tired," I eked out.

  All three men surrounded me, expressing concern. Within minutes me, my luggage, and Jenks were ushered past an immigration official who had quickly stamped my passport, and welcomed me to France. Before you could say, contraband, Jenks and I were in his rented Fiat Cinquecento.

  With my gear stashed, Jenks put the snazzy little car in gear, and just like that the airport gates were behind us. I melted into the car seat. With the dreaded Customs agent in our rearview mirror and my unlawful goodies riding nicely in the backseat—the Fiat 500 is cute and sporty, but my suitcases wouldn't fit in the trunk—I chugged a bottle of Evian and sighed.

  Dang, if I'd'a known that fainting female thing worked so well, it could have saved me so many years of pissing people off!

  "Better now, Hetta? If not, we can stay here in Lille for the night and drive to Paris tomorrow."

  "Nah. As I remember, it's only a couple of hour's drive and I'd rather just get myself—make that both of us—immersed in a hot tub of bubbles at the George V. They used to have these old, deep bathtubs suitable for two. Hope they still do."

  "I'll drive faster."

  "My kinda guy."

  "I've been wondering why a hotel in France is named for King George the Fifth of England. If that's the story, anyhow."