William F. Buckley Jr. (9 page)

“Danny.” The way she said it, it sounded horribly decisive. It was.

“Don’t … try … to … get … my … sympathy. I told you a year ago you were not to gamble. Now
you
find a way to get yourself out of the mess you’re in. I have to go out now. Good night, darling.”

His mother hung up the telephone.

He looked in his address book and got out the home telephone number of Bill Fenniman in Hartford, rushed down to the operator and pleaded with her to pry through one more call.

Fenniman was on the line. Danny asked could he borrow five hundred dollars from his allowance?

“Danny, you know I am strictly forbidden by the trust to make any advances to you.”

“Well, Bill, could I
borrow
five hundred dollars from the trust?”

“The indenture doesn’t permit borrowing against the capital.”

Danny’s temper was frayed. “Listen, Bill, what the fuck do you expect me to do? I can’t get out of Nice without three hundred
and fifty dollars. The casino has my note and my passport. Can’t you figure
something
out?”

Fenniman reminded Danny that it was after hours. He would need to wait until the following morning, call one of the trustees, maybe talk to the general manager. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll wire you by noon. But don’t bank on it.”

“Noon your time means one whole day away, my time.”

Bill Fenniman told him that’s how it was, wished him good luck, and said good night.

Danny had less than fifty dollars left, seventeen thousand francs. The roulette table was less crowded, he placed ten thousand francs on the black, lost; put up most of his remaining francs, lost. He told the croupier he would be back, he was going to the bar to have a drink. The croupier nodded. A little less deferentially than before, Danny noticed.

The bar, with its gilt trappings, smoky mirror and tiny lit oil paintings of turn-of-the-century French Riviera, was not crowded, but the half-dozen men and one woman who sat on the fancy stools or stood alongside, drinking champagne, were animated; all of them, it seemed, talking at one time. Danny went to the corner and ordered a whiskey, pulling out one of his two remaining bills to pay for it.
What in the hell do I do now?
Henry would be here the day after tomorrow. But there was no way Henry would arrive carrying three hundred and fifty dollars. Fenniman was the only hope. Would he succeed in scratching up the money?

He noticed the man with the goatee and the cigarette. He was of course dressed formally, wearing black tie like everyone else, but there was a red sliver on the vest pocket that suggested a decoration of some sort. And he acted the grandee in his gesture to the man at the bar. Danny thought his face unappetizing, even rancid. Still, he was happy for any distraction and clearly the man was summoning Danny’s attention.

The count, or whatever he was, approached him and said fraternally, in an English heavily handicapped by the French accent, that he had been observing Danny’s table and had remarked an extraordinary coincidence—but would Monsieur not join him in
a whiskey? My treat? Danny nodded and the count signaled to the bartender.

What was the coincidence? Danny asked.

“That you haff been loossing consistently, even while Madame Déboulard hass been winning consistently.”

“She the lady over there, on my right?”

He nodded, extending his long fingers in the direction of the gaming room. “I am Paul. Paul Hébert, at your service. I try to do what I can to make Madame Déboulard comfortable.”

Danny put his glass down on the bar and extended his hand. “You undertake to make the lady comfortable. Does that include making the right numbers turn up on the wheel?” He smiled and downed his drink.

Paul Hébert shrugged his shoulders and lit another cigarette. Danny tried to blow the count’s smoke away. The tobacco smoke around the bar seemed static. There was no current of air, though the temperature was comfortable.

“I am begging your pardon about that.” Paul Hébert waved his right hand about fussily, to help fan away the smoke. “But on ze, er, mattair of making Madame Déboulard happy, it iss just possible you have something that can be of service.”

Danny looked at him concentratedly. He paused for a moment. Then, “Like?”

His eyebrows told Paul Hébert, who perhaps wasn’t a count after all, that Danny had a good idea what he had that might be of service to a slightly older woman.

“
Exactement.
” Paul Hébert confirmed Danny’s suspicion, sipping from his glass of champagne, his eyes on Danny.

Well
, Danny thought. He had read about such situations. For a moment it crossed his mind that maybe the roulette wheel
was
, somehow, fixed.

Impossible.

But it was one hell of a coincidence. He had lost practically every time, while the beautiful blonde had won practically every time, he could not help notice. He felt beads of sweat on his brow. He leaned over the bar and finished his drink.

What exactly were the alternatives? Jail? Workhouse? The guillotine?

“I don’t give my, er, talents cheaply.” His voice was a little hoarse. He paused, and cleared it. “As a matter of fact, I have never done it … commercially before.”

“Maybe that is why you haff attrack Madame so much. On zee other mattair, Madame Déboulard iss very generous.”

“Like how generous?”

“For the evening, seventy-five thousand francs.”

“I require exactly twice that,” Danny said, breathing deeply; $425—he did the quick arithmetic—would take care of him. But surely any such demand was out of the question? How much did Nana charge? Fanny Hill? Lady Chatterley? He couldn’t think offhand of the name of a famous male—gigolo.

Hébert drew deep on his cigarette and exhaled slowly. But this time he made no effort to blow the smoke away from Danny, who pirouetted slowly, to get out of the way.

Hébert was taking his time. “That’s very much money,” he said contemplatively.

Danny amused himself at the thought of a ribald response, but decided against it. He could not afford to estrange this—procurer. His return on schedule to America the day after tomorrow could well depend on his success. So he just said, “But that is what I need, and I hope Madame will not be disappointed.”

Hébert took a final puff on his cigarette, ground it out, and said, “All right.” He was all business now. “If she wants you to spend ze night and … perrform again in ze morning, you will do that.”

Danny nodded.

“And ze price includes—gratuity.”

He nodded again. And managed a smile.

He was told to be at the Hotel Ruhl in Cannes at two. He spent his last two thousand francs on roses from the street peddler outside the hotel. He walked by the night concierge unquestioned, gave the operator a floor number one flight above his
destination, walked back down to the seventh floor, bit his lip and tapped gently on the door of Suite 7G.

She opened it wearing a yellow silk kimono, only one button attached, at her waist. Her blond hair fell about her now. She was older by perhaps ten years, but Danny could not imagine her any more appetizing when she was eighteen. With her cigarette holder she waved him toward the downy azure couch, pointed to the champagne bottle, smiled at the flowers which she took and deposited in the bar sink. The lights were dim, except over the couch. He sat down and, on instructions conveyed by the movement of her hands, took off his jacket.

Pauline Déboulard—“Pauline”—did not speak English. At least, she said, she preferred not to speak English. Did … Daniel mind?

He wondered that she knew his name. But then he was not a stranger to the casino, certainly not to the cashier, and there had been the social item in the paper about the “beau” young grandson of FDR frequenting the Casino Royale.

He said he didn’t mind, but warned that his French was not so hot. She said she was not there to give or to take language lessons. She started to disrobe him, he volunteered to do it himself, she said no, she would prefer to do it, but he would need to stand up, which he did. She said rather routine things about rather routine subjects—it was pleasant to have the good luck she had at the roulette wheel early on in the evening—on the whole she thought the casino was well kept up but they would need to consider modernizing after what was going on in Monaco—it was nice to see fewer Frenchmen in the casino than during August—as unhurriedly she unbuttoned her way down his shirt, removed it, unfastened his cummerbund, peeled off his undershirt, unbuttoned and let down his pants and, finally, his shorts. And forsooth! (Danny couldn’t help laughing. Just the right word, forsooth, commonly used only by Professor McGiffert in his course on Rabelais.) Forsooth Danny was naked in her hands.

But by now he was seriously distracted. Her perfume nicely overcame the smell of tobacco. He brought up his hands on her kimono and spread it open, exposing breasts wonderfully poised.
She moved his hand down toward a nipple, then the other; then she unbuttoned the kimono and eased herself down on the couch, bending her knees, separating them. She pointed down between her legs, hungrily licking her lips.

Daniel did what was expected, and sifter a second bout wondered apprehensively whether Pauline would expect yet more. Perhaps if he drew attention to the champagne? He did this, and now she became very talkative and Danny feigned intense interest in everything she said, asking for elaborations and hoping she would tire. Though as he sipped the champagne lie found himself face to face with the candor that was becoming his trademark. Actually, he acknowledged to himself as he nodded his head at her story of the fatal accident the week before to her racehorse in Paris, he had in fact thoroughly enjoyed her; indeed, except that he was without the physical reserves for it, he would not mind doing it all over again.

As she talked, he waited for her signal on the matter of spending the night. But very suddenly she had dozed off.

What to do? If he left to go back to his hotel, she might hold him in default, in which event the second payment contracted by Paul would not be made the following morning. On the other hand, if he stayed the night, perhaps moving into the bedroom—she occupied the whole of the couch—might she wake up, offended at the uninvited prolongation of his presence?

He walked quietly about the apartment. He came into an anteroom of sorts. If he lay there, she would be free to wake and remove herself to the bedroom without walking into him. And then if she wished him in the morning, he would be there. No default.

He looked about for his shorts and undershirt and quietly put them on. He wondered where the switch was for the bright overhead light. He tried several, but the light stayed on.

The hell with it. The anteroom was dark.

He lay down and closed his eyes. A hell of a day. He would not gamble again at a casino. Never! Dear Mom, you are something
of a bitch, but you’re a wise old bitch. Old? Why, she wasn’t all that much older than Pauline, and who would think of
her
as old?

Danny smiled as he thought back on the initial rite of the evening with Pauline. He had never done that before. Quickly he was asleep.

H
ENRY KNOCKED on Danny’s door at the Negresco Hotel intending merely to draw attention to his arrival in Nice. He hardly needed to be invited by his college roommate to come on in. Danny rose to greet him but didn’t affect lightheartedness. Something was wrong and Henry spotted it instantly.

He put down his bag, pulled up a chair and sat down. “You want to tell me about it, Danny?”

Danny did. He told it all. His rendering was clipped, his anger convulsive—an anger Henry had never seen before in Danny. But it was an emotion in total control.

Henry spoke. “What are you going to do? I mean,” he paused, “what are
we
going to do.”

Danny acknowledged, with a nod and a half smile, the fraternal
pronoun. “I’m going to where that high-rise is in Cannes where the cocksucker is, going to get the prints, get the negatives, and if he doesn’t turn them over I’ll toss him out of the window. Maybe I’ll do that even after we get the prints.”

Henry looked at his watch. “We better go now, skip the lunch business. We got time, but not loads of time. We have to board the boat by seven.”

“Yeah, let’s go. I have a car outside. I also have this”—he opened the drawer and brought out a pair of handcuffs. “Got them in a toy store this morning, but they’ll do if we have to tie him up while we look around. And,” he returned to the drawer and brought out a large roll of heavy plastic tape, “we may need to keep him quiet.”

Henry said he would go to his own room and come back more suitably dressed.

While Henry was gone, Danny reached into his suitcase and brought out his .22 Colt pistol. He put it into the side pocket of the foul-weather jacket he pulled out of the closet. It was not noticeable in the stiff yellow oilskin. He put on a French cap and sunglasses, walked down the hall to Henry’s room and bumped into him on his way out. Henry was dressed in khaki pants, a light sweater and a seersucker jacket.

“You know how to get there?”

Danny nodded. “Just inside the city limit of Cannes.”

The night before, Danny, affecting great nonchalance, paid off the casino debt and, for the hell of it, decided he would play Platonic Roulette. A beer in hand, he leaned his back against the red felt wall under the little crystal chandelier and said to himself: Okay, I’ll play 10,000 francs—exactly what I pay for my hotel suite for one night. Twenty-eight bucks.
Ten straight rolls on the Black
—and see how I make out. See how I’d have made out using the real stuff.

It was infuriating. Eight blacks in ten rolls! So his 10,000 francs had brought in 160,000 francs. If only he had used real chips instead of fancied chips.

Well, he thought, let’s piss it away! So he resolved to bet 10,000
francs on the lower third, 1–11. If the ball dropped in any of the eleven lower-numbered slots, he would earn triple.

Incredible! Six of the ten rolls landed on Number 11 or less. He’d have added 140,000 francs to his stake!