“Because she’s black?” It had to be what he was getting to.
He nodded, looking uncomfortable.
“Do you think they are like that there?” he asked after a second.
“Racist? Um, no…not that I know of. But she is superfamous, so it is kinda bad they didn’t let her in. I wonder what will happen…wow.” I thought it was funny that my kidnapping drama was unfolding right along with some other big Hermès/Oprah drama. Timing is a funny thing.
Speaking of which, Pierre honked outside from the loading zone, and I was able to make an escape without revealing why I was leaving so abruptly, or, more likely, lying about why. There really was no easy way to explain my situation, you see.
I still can’t believe Pierre didn’t let me check in under my own name at the new hotel. I felt like an abused woman on the run from her asshole husband. And once I had settled in, Pierre, nice guy that he was, asked if I’d be okay on my own for the night. Why wouldn’t I be okay? What was going to happen? Huh? And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he told me to stick close by the hotel. This whole thing seemed to be getting more and more bizarre, rather than less and less bizarre, as I had naively hoped. But I decided, stubborn soul that I am, that I wasn’t going to let Luc control my life. I was going out to dinner, and that was final. I got as far as the hotel lobby and decided to return to the room and grab my Red Sox cap and sunglasses to help conceal my identity. Better safe than sorry.
I ate that night at the Royal Madeleine Bistro. Very Old World, lots of wood and zinc. There was a tiny awkward moment when the hostess tried to seat me by the plate-glass window (sorry, ma’am, I need a table in the back, I’m trying to elude a male hustler who stole one of my Birkins). My panic-stricken face said it all, and she immediately took me to a table in the bowels of the restaurant. As an added bonus, from there I was able to do surveillance of the front door. (Alas, I had forgotten my night-vision goggles at the hotel.) I didn’t need them to spot the giant silver urn with the Taittinger bottles. Along with the coup de Champagne, the waiter also brought me the Herald Tribune. I wondered if he sensed my need for camouflage.
I was starving—being on the lam really tires one out. I went with foie gras, onion soup, Dover sole, and a bottle of Côte-Rôtie. How’s that for a Last Supper? I also figured, since who knew what tomorrow would bring, that I might as well get really bombed. So…tarte tatin and some Armagnac. Waiter, make it a double. Don’t mind if I do.
When I got back to the hotel, there was an e-mail from Sarah waiting for me. I blearily looked at it through my Champagne goggles.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Holy Fucking SHIT! This is so nuts, too funny. It’s like a goddamn heist movie, I am on the edge of my seat, lol! Luc is such a dick to make you go thru all this. It’s just a fucking bag, I hope this is worth it. yeah, i know, probably is, it’s a shitload of money. good luck, and i know you will get it back, no way Luc will stand up to that guy. say hey to Pierre for me, haven’t chatted with him lately. keep in touch and tell me everything, i want all the details. and also so that I know you are alive, hahaha
sarah
PS did you hear about Oprah? i didn’t even think she went to Hermès, never “seen” her with a birkin anyway
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
hey, wanted to say hi, yes i’m still alive…i’m back at the “new” hotel, CNN on the tube (all oprah all the time, haha, what a fucking PR minefield that whole thing is for Hermès, huh? can you believe it?)
pierre told me not to go out to dinner bc of Luc but i did anyway. didn’t see him, i was always good at hide and seek, LOL.
toooo much champagne at dinner, im kinda drunk, can you blame me, haha. nighty nite.
mt
Pierre woke me with his phone call at way too early o’clock. I was (oddly enough) nursing a slight hangover. He told me he was coming to get me at one thirty, which gave me about four hours to lie around and be useless. I did have an assignment, however. I had to write down everything I could remember about Luc, his house, car, and so on, so that the Associate would be as prepared as possible. Writing anything down right now was about as appealing to me as a game of cricket, but I saw the sense of it. I groped for a piece of hotel stationery, a pen, and my copy of Vanity Fair as writing desk.
Luc Menu
about 5’10”, dark brown eyes, defined build, dark brown hair
13 rue Manet, 2nd floor (on right), subway entrance outside of building
lives alone (has sugar daddy in USA)
VW Golf, dark gray, not new, 2-door, parks on street, often misplaces car
very well dressed, dark colors, perhaps dark suit
carrying large orange Hermès shopping bag??
very good-looking and very vain (wouldn’t want his face hurt)
Between catching a catnap, dosing myself with more aspirin, taking a hot shower, and drinking copious cups of tea, I was reasonably back to normal by the time Pierre picked me up. The Associate sat shotgun, and I handed him my list. I found out that “we” had decided not to go with the Ladurée plan. The Associate opined it was “too out in the open for any sort of scene or rough stuff to go down.” I was like, what rough stuff? I could imagine Luc on a bullhorn: “Everyone stay calm, and the handbag won’t get hurt.”
Now the plan was for the Associate and his two associates that he was meeting (this guy was pretty together—he had his own people) to get the bag back before Luc even got into his car. Actually, the master plan was that it would all go down right in Luc’s apartment building, so there was a minimal chance of anyone being around to interfere. I gave him the dirt on where Luc’s door was in the building, all that. Pierre and I would go to a café right near Luc’s house, easily reachable via the “hotline” cell phone that the Associate had given Pierre in case of any “complications.” I remembered what Sarah said in her e-mail, about this being a heist flick, and I decided that would only be an accurate comparison if Fellini were directing it. Come on—three purse-pursuing thugs? A gay guy trying to “fence” a crocodile handbag? A special “hotline” cell phone for if there are any “complications” recovering a Birkin? Had the world gone crazy?
After we dropped the Associate back near Luc’s, we settled in at the café. The afternoon ticked by. I looked at my watch constantly, and fiddled with my chaîne d’ancre (I had worn it because today counted as a Birkin-getting day, albeit an unconventional one).
2:29
Pierre coffee, me tea.
2:34
Pierre’s phone rings, startling me out of my stupor. I don’t know who he’s talking to, but he’s not happy.
2:38
Pierre smokes frantically and gives me the dish: some married woman he’s sleeping with. She wants to rendezvous in Marrakesh, he doesn’t. He’s angry. So’s she.
2:39
She calls again.
2:40
She calls again.
2:41
She calls again.
2:42
She calls again. Pierre goes ballistic. I barely know what he says but I know they’re never going to talk again. Pierre actually turns off his phone.
2:43
Pierre beer, me tea.
2:47
“Hotline” cell phone rings. The Associate wants to know if Luc’s building has parking, and whether he uses it. No, he always parks on the street.
2:54
“Hotline” again. Does Luc have a shaved head? Of course not, he’s way too vain. Hadn’t the Associate read my “menu”? I decide to keep that thought to myself.
2:55
The Associate calls again with an “interesting development.” Two young dudes have entered Luc’s building. He says that if those two are involved then the price is five hundred more. Great.
2:59
Pierre beer, me beer.
3:09
“Hotline” rings. My mission: go to pay phone ac
ross street, call Luc. I am told very sternly by Pierre to be sure to dial 067 first to block caller ID. I’m supposed to see if he answers, and if he does, hang up. Which he does. Which I do.
3:11
Pierre calls the Associate, gives him the GO sign. Associate calls again, in the building and confused. I give him the scoop again:
–Enter front door
–Mailboxes ahead, 15 feet
–Turn left
–Wide old wooden stairs, turn right, go up
–At second landing, double doors to your right
–(Consult Birkin-o-meter now…needle should be in red zone)
Associate no longer confused.
3:19
Take a leak, and worry the whole time in the bathroom I will miss something.
3:27
“Hotline.” Associate worries that Luc has given them the slip. Back to pay phone…
3:28
So weird: I talk to Luc. Not much is said…he “has to go.” Yeah, no shit, important purse-fencing appointment at four o’clock. God, what an asshole.
3:29
Luc’s presence in apartment is confirmed to Associate.
3:33–3:42
Repeated calls to Associate, no answer.
Pierre chain-smokes, I guzzle beer. I realize
I am about to be shit-faced again. I decide
I might be an alcoholic. I blame Luc.
3:43
A heavy hand falls on my shoulder, startling me. Thankfully, it’s none other than Mr. Associate, who has an orange shopping bag dangling in his other hand and an amused smile on his face. Two other behemoths stand behind him, both with huge grins on their otherwise imposing countenances. It is clear that they can’t believe all this fuss over a handbag. I want to explain, but when I open my mouth, I realize I really don’t understand either. I order everyone a beer instead.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Mission accomplished! i didn’t see the whole thing go down, but i got the whole story from “my guys.” when Luc came out of his apt to go meet “Alana,” the associate and his two dudes (yup, i ended up with 3 tough guys) followed them. (Luc had two friends with him BTW—it was all “supposed” to go down in the apt building, but they got sketched by those other dudes being there) anyway, after Luc got to his shitbox “my guys” stood there and trapped them in the car (i picture mice in a cage, haha). then they asked Luc if he had “something of michael’s” i wish i could have been there for that, imagine Luc’s face!! so then they made Luc hand it through the window, and that was that. candy from a baby, right? of course, pierre and I are sitting at the café this whole time, sweating it out, making phone calls, all this shit. but i have it. although my little bleu roi will need all sorts of therapy to handle its post traumatic stress disorder, hahaha.
be home to barcy tomorrow. this is a crazy ass job we have, isn’t it? and, did you still want the bag?
m~
The bleu roi, in case you are concerned, recovered nicely. Sarah passed on it, but Carole Bayer Sager gave it a lovely home and plenty of attention, and it has truly flourished. And I’m mostly recovered from the Luc incident too, although I still cringe anytime anyone signs their e-mail with a kiss.
34
Found Money, Hidden Grace
Juan had decided we were rich. Actually, I can’t even imagine how much money in savings I would need to have for his parsimonious little soul to feel completely at ease, but he did find out we made a lot more money than he thought we did. He had finally gotten to the boiling point with the store receipts and credit card statements and money-order carbons and bank notices and FedEx forms and other miscellaneous pieces of paper that were choking half of our kitchen table. When I came in the door after yet another handbag excursion, he was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room, surrounded by stacks of paper. Dali was “helping” him by acting as feline paperweight, somehow always managing to pick the pile Juan needed to get at. He had a calculator, a notebook, and an incredulous expression.
“Michael, do you know how much Hermès you bought last year?”
“Um, no, not really. How much?” I had a feeling it might be a big number. That was mostly due to the change in my merchandise focus—my specialization, if you will. Because in an average leather Birkin Hermès outing, I dropped $8,000, minimum; a croc, and it was up to $25,000. And I was a crocodile king now. (Is that a song? No wait, that’s “Crocodile Rock.” Right.) Plus I had gotten Juan, and even some of his fellow teachers, into the act. Juan himself had bought bags, many of them crocodile, in Madrid, Barcelona, Dublin, London, Paris, Berlin, Cologne, Prague, and Naples. (His teacher friends generally stuck to the Spanish stores.) So if you factored in all his bags, all the other shoppers’ bags, the bags bought by yours truly, the “formula” enactment items everyone had to buy to get the bags, the bags bought with charge ships, and the miscellaneous items I bought at auction…well…
“$1.6 million.” His eyes searched mine, to see if I was surprised.
I was. I hadn’t really expected that.
“Wow, that’s a…lot.” It was a lot. Of course, that was what I spent, not what I made, but still…That’s a boatload of Birkins. And chaînes d’ancre. And Ulysses. And cashmere shawls. And scarves. And scarves. And scarves.
“That’s what I thought.” Juan’s voice sounded like he needed some sort of explanation.
“Well, it’s an expensive job, Juan, I have a million frequent-flier miles now, but that wasn’t the case when I started, and then there are the hotels, and I have to eat.” I felt as if I needed to justify this somehow, God knows why. Probably because I had a suspicion that—
“Where is it, Mikey? Where is all the money? We have a lot, but I thought we would have, you know, more…if you bought all that.” He wasn’t mad, thank God, he sounded more frustrated and, more than anything, confused.
I wasn’t confused at all. The thing with Birkin money was that it spent real easy. On food, on flights, on hotels, on clothes, on a million and one different “business expenses.” My life on the road was my life, or at least half of my life. It was all well and good that Juan could eat Subway for dinner and be happy, and when I was home, so could I, but when I was alone in a foreign city, the fourth foreign city that week, going out for a nice meal at the end of the day was all that kept me from madness. Plus, on a more pragmatic level, at any given time I had $50,000 or $60,000 tied up in “assets,” e.g., items I was selling on eBay. That was money in the bank, as far as I was concerned. As far as Juan was concerned, though…
“And we have stacks and stacks of it in the guest room that we haven’t even sold yet, Mikey, and you buy more and more and more. I don’t understand.” Juan’s voice was getting a little louder.
“Juan, that isn’t fair. This is what I do. I spend a lot of money at Hermès, yes, but I make a lot of money too. And we went to Japan, and we are leaving for New York this weekend. You tell me you want to go to Thailand—that’s all going to cost money, and you don’t seem to mind spending that money, do you?” My voice wasn’t all that quiet right now either.
“Of course, we are going to travel together, spend money together, Michael. Don’t be so ridiculous. That’s not what this is about.”
I noticed I was no longer Mikey, which upset me, and that he was calling me ridiculous, which enraged me.
“I’m ridiculous? I am? I make all this money and take you all these places, and all you can do is bitch that it ‘costs’ a lot to make it?? That I spend too much of my money? I don’t know if you took any business courses, but you have to spend to earn.” I sounded pretty good to myself there.
“You are right, I see now, Michael, I was wrong to say anything. I didn’t realize it was your money. I thought it was our money.” With that, he walked out, stopping short of slamming the door (Dali freaked if we did that).
I didn’t sound so good to myself anymore. I moped around the living room, picking up the s
tacks of evidence, and then, restless and upset, I turned to Grace for advice.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
grace-
i am so bummed right now. i have this big trip planned with juan for next week to NYC and we just got in a big fight! over money of all things, he figured out what i spent last year at Hermès, it was lot, of course, and he thinks that i should have more/save more and that i spend too much on the road, and it got kinda bad. we will be ok but i hate fighting with him…and i don’t know what to say, it is what it is, yknow? anyway i just wanted to say hey and see if you had any advice.?
mt
Moments later I got a response.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Michael-
I am sorry to hear of your argument with Juan. I think the main thing that you have to remember is that what you do is very unusual. You are dealing with what could be seen (by many/most people) as remarkable quantities of money. I am sure it will blow over in time for your trip, you two are too smart to let something like money come in between you. I also have an offer to make you in regards to your vacation (one which Juan may be pleased by, also, in light of your recent disagreement). As you know, I loathe the hot summer months in NYC, and I will be taking my customary August sabbatical from Manhattan, and fleeing to the cooler air of Montauk. Did you wish the use of my apartment for your week here? It is quite a convenient location (as I am sure you realize from shipping me the odd scarf here and there.) I would be thrilled for you to use it, so please accept. Let me know soon so I can make the arrangements.
Bringing Home the Birkin Page 22
