Bringing Home the Birkin

by Michael Tonello

  a. Show up unannounced at his apartment with a can of Mace and a baseball bat and rescue my investment.

  b. Pay him the five grand and call it an expensive lesson.

  c. Wait him out.

  d. Kill him.

  While I liked both (a) and (d), they really weren’t my MO. And there were some other flaws with those two options: first, they were both, strictly speaking, illegal; and second, I didn’t even know if the bag was at his apartment. Meaning I could potentially end up imprisoned in the Bastille and still not have the Birkin. That would really suck. (I wondered if Hermès made iron masks.) (b) had the most straight-up logic, with the added bonus of ensuring I would never have to deal with Luc-the-megalomaniac again. Plus, I vaguely remembered that on multiple-choice tests, (b) had the best probability of being right. Despite this ironclad logic, I knew I couldn’t pick (b), because I would be giving in utterly, and I wasn’t going to let some little French wannabe gangster extort money from me. Fuck that. Obviously, this left (c). (c) appealed to me, since it required nothing, but it sort of niggled at me for the very same reason.

  I stopped thinking and checked my e-mail in hopes of receiving Choice (e) from Sarah.

  From: DeluxeDivaMe@yahoo.com

  To: BirkinBoy1@yahoo.com

  OMG>>>out of fucking control. Edward thinks you should just pay him the dough and be done with this prick…write it off as a bad experience. Keep me posted.

  So it appeared that Sarah and her husband were staunch (b) supporters, but I realized I’d sooner wipe my ass with the money and flush it down the toilet than send it to Luc at this point. The depth of my resolve was surprising me, but I’d definitively settled on choice (c). I decided to ignore Luc for some time, let him stew in his own juices (or, knowing Luc, someone else’s). Perhaps he’d come back to me, tail between his legs, with a big kiss(-ass) e-mail. I hoped that if he didn’t hear from me for several days, he might turn into a nervous Nelly.

  Over the next few days, I concentrated on listing items on eBay to try and keep my mind off the Luc situation. I began to feel like a fourteen-year-old girl suffering her first crush: will he call, when will he call, is he going to call? I jumped every time the phone rang and constantly refreshed my in-box. Much to my despair, no e-mail or phone call ever came—I was Carrie at the prom.

  Five days later, I did get an interesting e-mail, although it wasn’t from Luc.

  From: DeluxeDivaMe@yahoo.com

  To: BirkinBoy1@yahoo.com

  I got an email from my friend Alana and she was just offered a bleu roi croc from a guy in paris. What size is your bleu roi croc? Hardware? Do you think it could be Luc? Have you heard from him, what’s going on with that? Did you already pay for that bag? Sarah

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I fired off a response:

  From: BirkinBoy1@yahoo.com

  To: DeluxeDivaMe@yahoo.com

  mine is 30cm, palladium, porosus croc. does alana have an email or anything from that guy? i haven’t heard shit from Luc for like a week, so i am little nervous, bc yeah, i fronted all the money for the bag and now he is just holding it, like extortion style. keep me posted. mt

  I sat hunched over the keyboard now, anxiously awaiting e-mails from anyone, something to distract me. Please, give me something here, even an e-mail about erectile dysfunction would be welcome at this point. Anything arriving in my inbox would give me a lift, no pun intended. The suspense of not knowing whether Alana’s seller was Luc was killing me. After a torturous fifteen minutes, salvation arrived.

  From: DeluxeDivaMe@yahoo.com

  To: BirkinBoy1@yahoo.com

  Alana says his phone number is xx xxx xxxxxx. the bag is the same as yours. Oh, and his name is Jérome. She said she was going to meet him in paris to buy the bag, let me ask her if she has an address. BRB

  Whew, the phone number doesn’t match, name isn’t right, so I guess it’s not Luc after all. By the time Sarah’s next e-mail arrived, my heart rate was almost back to normal.

  From: DeluxeDivaMe@yahoo.com

  To: BirkinBoy1@yahoo.com

  I’m sure it’s just an odd coincidence, there are more than one bleu roi 30cm on the planet right now. Alana is going to paris on Monday to meet this guy and buy the bag, they have a plan to meet at his apt, 13 rue manet.

  No…fucking…way. Luc’s address—13 rue Manet. I couldn’t believe this. He was really going to sell this bag from under me.

  From: “michael”

  To: “sarah”

  that’s MY fucking bag!! that’s Luc’s address!! I need to speak with Alana, is this possible??? HELP!

  Sarah, sensing the seriousness of the situation, immediately e-mailed me back to say that Alana would phone me in fifteen minutes. When the phone rang, after centuries had passed, I grabbed it like a free ticket to a Babs concert.

  “Hello!?!”

  “Hi, this is Alana, is this Michael?”

  “Hi Alana, yeah it’s me. Tell me about this bag, I’m pretty sure it’s mine.”

  “Okay, so I got a call from my sales associate at George the Fifth about a bleu roi that some guy is trying to sell; she says the bag is authentic. I spoke to this guy, his name is Jérôme, and I’m supposed to be meeting him on Monday in Paris to see the bag and pay him $25,000.”

  As she was telling me this, I was amused that $25,000 was the exact price I had quoted Sarah, which represented a $3,000 profit. However, for Luc, of course, this $25,000 was like a winning lottery ticket showing up in a birthday card. It was all profit, he hadn’t paid a damn cent for it. What a windfall that would be for him.

  “So you’ve actually spoken with Luc?” I asked her.

  “Well, his name is Jérôme,” she replied.

  “Alana—here is the thing. Your Jérôme is actually my Luc. The address you are supposed to be meeting him at is Luc’s apartment. He was one of my shoppers, and I paid for that bag, and he’s going to screw me over for all that money.” I hoped to God she wasn’t still planning to go through with this.

  “I don’t like the sound of that. At all. I don’t think I want anything to do with this Luc or whoever he is. I guess I’ll call and cancel.” Alana sounded flustered.

  “No, wait. Let me think about this, I don’t want to lose track of this bag. Do you mind calling him and changing the meeting to another place?”

  “I don’t want to meet this guy, Michael.” Now I noted nervousness in her voice.

  “No, I just want you to change the meeting to someplace more public, a café or something. Yeah, a café. Tell him you want to meet him at Ladurée, but don’t use that name, just tell him the café across from Gucci on the corner of rue Royale and Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Yeah, that’s perfect.”

  Yeah, perfect. That way I could intercept. Which, of course, begged the question—what would I do then? I guess I could figure that out later.

  “All right, I’ll call him and call you back.” She hung up.

  Hmmm. Luc the Leech was trying to make a major chunk o’ change on my investment. That wasn’t going to happen. Unfortunately, I had no clue what was going to happen. I felt underqualified for my predicament—I needed a weekend seminar at the FBI. And some gumshoes. What are gumshoes, anyway?

  The phone rang—Alana. Everything was set. Monday at four o’clock at Ladurée. I told her I owed her a nice dinner and Champagne.

  “Alana, when I get the bag back, are you interested?” I figured I’d ask.

  “Um, no, I don’t think so, Michael. Bad bag karma, I think.”

  “Okay, that’s fine, I understand.”

  Bad bag karma? Oh boy. I didn’t really blame her; it would be hard for her to look at it without thinking about this whole mess. I personally never wanted to see a bleu roi Birkin again—after I got this one back, that is.

  I immediately called Sarah for advice. I brought her up to speed on my conversation with Alana.

  “Michael, I hope you’re planning on having a coup
le of bodyguards.” I laughed. “I’m totally fucking serious,” she said. “How do you know he’s going to show up alone? He thinks he’s going to get twenty-five grand, I bet he’s not going to show up alone. Michael, you cannot go there by yourself, no way! You’ve got something like a twenty-thousand-dollar investment you’ve got to protect, not to mention yourself.” Sarah sounded like she’d been watching a CSI marathon.

  “Well, what do I do, call 1-800-bodyguards?” I tried to keep my tone light, no need for both of us to panic.

  “No, don’t you know anyone in Paris, someone you can call who can help you?”

  “Well, the only one I really know in Paris, other than Luc, is Serge, my salesperson at Hermès, and I can’t very well call him and tell him about this—can you fucking imagine if I told him this?”

  Sarah howled with laughter as she pictured Serge’s face upon realizing I was a reseller. This whole thing was funny, but it would be a lot funnier if it were happening to someone else, which from Sarah’s angle, it was.

  “What about if you call Pierre—you know, that guy that you met—one of my buyers? You said you guys got along.” Sarah was trying to help me, I could tell.

  “Yeah, we did. But he’s a casual acquaintance, Sarah. I can’t call and ask him if he knows any bodyguards I can hire!” I didn’t mean to be snarky, but I didn’t see how this guy was really relevant just because he lived in Paris and didn’t seem like an axe murderer.

  “I don’t see where you have many options. It’s Saturday now, and you have to meet this shithead on Monday,” Sarah said. “And you can’t go alone, you know that would be stupid.” She had a point.

  “Okay, let me get off the phone and arrange a flight and book my hotel—I think I better get to Paris tomorrow no matter what. I’ll try calling Pierre.” I promised Sarah I’d keep her posted.

  I phoned Pierre and awkwardly explained who I was. He laughed and reassured me that he remembered me. Okay, step one accomplished. I spilled out the whole story and subtly incriminated Sarah for involving him in my mess.

  Pierre, as a fellow reseller, was deeply unsettled by my story. When I told him about my rendezvous with Luc at Ladurée, he reacted strongly.

  “Don’t be crazy, you cannot do that,” he insisted. “What if he’s not alone?” Now I had two people telling me what a bad plan it was for me to go there by myself.

  “Sarah thinks I should have some bodyguards go with me, like a couple of really big muscle guys.” I figured I might as well get to the point. And I noticed that even though no one wanted me to go alone, no one was exactly lining up to go with me. Pierre laughed (everyone found my predicament so goddamned amusing) and said, “You know, maybe I do have someone for you. He’s just a friend of a friend, but I think he used to be in security at a major fashion house. Now he’s doing strong-arm work for banks. He might be able to help you. I’ll try to track him down and call you back.”

  It was getting close to midnight by the time Pierre and I spoke again. Pierre said that he was still trying to reach the guy. I told Pierre I was going to call it a day, but I was flying up to Paris tomorrow morning regardless, and staying at the Mansart (of course).

  I lay awake for a while, thinking about this bizarre predicament. I couldn’t believe that Luc would steal $22,000 from me. But I knew my determination to prevail in this standoff wasn’t all about the money. Yes, that was a lot of money, and I did want it back, but it was chiefly a matter of pride. Luc, with his spoiled attitude and ungrateful heart, was not going to get the better of me. I would get this bag back if I had to travel to the ends of the earth, magnifying glass in my hand and a pipe clenched in my teeth. But I sure wished I had a Watson—or at least one of those cool hats with the earflaps. I always wanted one of those.

  33

  Fellini Film Noir

  PACKING LIST

  Clothes

  Toiletries

  Groucho Marx nose/glasses

  Baseball hat/bat

  Night-vision goggles

  Gumshoes

  Cell phone

  Bullets

  BlackBerry

  AK-47

  I was definitely more than a little nervous packing for my trip to Paris for this impromptu intervention. I knew my plane was leaving in a few hours, and I wasn’t really sure if I wanted to be on it. Maybe this whole idea of trying to shake down Luc for my Birkin was a stupid one. Really, between hiring thugs and being blackmailed, it was all starting to be way too Godfather for me. (More the first film than the second; definitely not the third—that movie blew.) I kept reminding myself that my plane ticket was bought, the hotel was booked, and I was going. And I had read somewhere that dying people always said they regretted more the things they didn’t do than the things they did. I was hoping that using thugs to strong-arm a pompous French asshole to get a handbag back was covered under that little homily.

  I didn’t tell Juan a thing about what was going down. He was a worrywart as it was, especially since the anemia incident. (He always kept trying to feed me lemons—he and his parents had this almost supernatural faith in the healing power of lemons. Another Catalan thing, I guess. My mouth puckered every morning when I watched him eat his “daily dose.” Thanks, but no thanks.) I knew he would absolutely tweak if he thought I was going to some bagfight at the Ladurée Corral. No way I needed that stress, and certainly he didn’t. And it wasn’t unusual for me to unexpectedly run off to Paris for some hot Birkin prospect, so I knew that wasn’t going to raise any kind of red flag. He was happily immersed in Spanish cooking shows that Saturday morning, Dali cuddled at his side, when I kissed them both and left. To assuage my conscience, I decided I would tell him the whole story—as soon as I had the bag back. And I’d tell Dali too. He was getting big, and you can’t shield them forever.

  When I checked in at the Mansart, I already had messages waiting for me: Pierre, naturally. When I called him back, I got the whole scoop. Pierre and his friend Sandrine had found the thug last night (at two A.M.) while they were out barhopping. I guess I should thank God everyone I know is a boozehound. Pierre also informed me, “This is going to cost you a small fortune, since the guy works on commission.” My greatest fear was coming true: the Italian way had seeped into France. Actually, on second thought, that wasn’t a fair comparison—the thug was performing a service for me, which I desperately needed, not taking bribes on selling handbags. I supposed it made sense for the value of the item to factor in. Just so long as I got my baby bleu roi back, I didn’t really care. It wasn’t like hiring the thug was going to cost more than the handbag. (And what a sad state of affairs that revealed, eh?) I also realized that I had better stop calling the thug “the thug,” or else I might slip up when I met him, and that would be bad.

  Pierre showed up in a silver BMW, which was nice. If you’re about to hire a strong-arm, it’s best to arrive in style. I actually was already feeling a lot more positive because I’d hired someone—or was about to hire someone. I come from a school of thought where if something is broken, you hire a professional to fix it. Broken toilet, call a plumber. So I guess if your Birkin is being held hostage, you call someone who used to guard haute couture handbags. I was eager to meet the guy.

  From: BirkinBoy1@yahoo.com

  To: DeluxeDivaMe@yahoo.com

  ok, so here is your update, but you will never believe the day i had! and don’t worry, i’m totally fine. first off, the thug that pierre helped me find, or as i like to refer to him now, “the associate,” was the size of a superbowl linebacker (and he had on these fantastic bikkembergs sneakers i just adored, too) but then he totally starts firing questions at me first off, he wants to know if Luc knows i stay at the mansart and when i tell him yeah, he says i have to change hotels that night! so i’m in the birkin witness protection program now. then he gives me like the third goddamn degree about if i bought the bag, how much was the bag, where Luc lived, if he did drugs, how i knew him, where he worked, all this shit. i mean, he was asking mostly about Luc,
but he is like DRILLING me with the questions. i wanted to order a bottle of Cognac and call it a day, it totally sucked. but then it hit me, he had been making sure i was on the up and up and whatever, and not just hiring him to steal somebody’s shit for me. i guess he believed me finally, bc we left and he and Pierre were blah blah blah and we set the whole thing up for tomorrow. the associate made all these notes in this notebook. can you believe this shit??? sarah, this is way the hell out of control. so now i am packing and getting ready for them to pick me up and swap hotels, they are really worried Luc will see me and realize something is up. i can’t believe i can’t stay at the mansart, i love this place, it’s so weird to stay anywhere else while im in paris…whatever, tho, long as i get the bag, right. tomorrow is the big day, think good thoughts. I’ll keep you posted.

  mt

  I was a little concerned about checking out of the Mansart a day early, since practically everyone there knew me by name and knew I never stayed in the city for just one night. It wasn’t a huge deal or anything, but I didn’t want to make up some big story, or have them think that I wasn’t happy with the hotel. Luckily, while I was checking out, right when the desk clerk would have logically asked me why I was cutting short my stay, the concierge walked over and interrupted.

  “Mr. Hermès,” he said with a smile. This is what some of the staff called me now, due to the prodigious number of orange bags I carried in and out of the lobby. “I have a question for you…Do you know an Oprah Winefree? She is big in the States, no?”

  “I think you mean Oprah Winfrey, and yeah, she’s very famous in America. She’s one of the wealthiest women in the world, and she hosts this hugely successful talk show. She’s, like, a big deal. Why do you ask?”

  “Your friends at Hermès didn’t know her, I guess…They didn’t let her in the store yesterday around closing time. Her, and another woman, Gayle? Her friend. Well, they didn’t recognize her, it’s all over the television. They didn’t let them in, and a lot of people think it’s because, well, because…” Here he paused, hesitant to continue.