Free Rake by Scott Phillips Page B

sort of weird eclecticism to it, somehow the pieces all worked together to suggest a singular sensibility. I thought back to what she’d said about megalomaniac art collectors and got a little nervous about la Sûreté bursting in with guns drawn to retrieve them for their rightful owners while I slept.
    Denis brought my bags inside, and Esmée, having forbidden me to hand him a gratuity on the grounds that I was her guest, told him to wait in the car. I’d slip him twenty at some later date, I told myself, when she wasn’t around.
    “Now, my darling, would you like me to send him on his way?”
    I raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean.”
    “Cut the shit. Do you want me to stay?”
    “I’d love for you to. But I think with your husband as a potential backer for the movie we should be careful . . .”
    “The hell with my husband. He’s in New York for five days.”
    “Aren’t you afraid Denis will turn you in?”
    “Denis works for me.”
    It was all sounding really good. But I didn’t know enough about her husband, or about Denis, to blithely assume that they weren’t in league behind Esmée’s back.
    And yet there she was before me, pouting slightly, moist red lips separating to reveal her tongue gliding between her barely separated upper and lower teeth, chest thrust forward to accentuate that lovely rack, eyes half shut in lustful anticipation. . . .
    What the fuck. You only die once. “Yeah, send him on his way.”
    •       •       •
    Having slept with a lot of actresses—probably more of them, in fact, than women who weren’t—I can state unequivocally that there is no correlation between beauty and skill in the sack. Some of the homeliest women are mind-bendingly great in bed, and some of the most stunning beauties just lie there and act like they’re thinking about what’s on TV later that night. In fact I’d got to the point where I half-expected a bad lay from the real knockouts.
    The joke was on me. Esmée knew tricks I’d never heard of, let alone tried. She explained to me exercises she did daily, similar to the ones pregnant women use to prepare for childbirth, tricks she’d learned from her yoga instructors, tips she’d paid to learn from thousand-euro-a-night call girls. Her cunt, her mouth, her asshole—the first entry into each was like the first time Adam fucked Eve (or, if you’re of a more secular bent, the first time some amphibian said, hey, instead of me ejaculating into the water after you lay the eggs, how about if I stick this thing into that pretty little cloaca of yours?).
    Jesus H. Christ. Now that I knew what I knew, I wouldn’t blame her husband for killing me. Shit, if I were him, I’d kill me.

LUNDI, NEUF MAI
    O NCE AGAIN, THE CROSSWORD EDITOR WAS fucking with me. It was only Monday, theoretically the week’s easiest puzzle, but this one was driving me nuts. The crux of the problem was 17 Across, “ Christ at Emmaus forger.” Eleven letters and the last one was an n . I could have Googled “ Christ at Emmaus ” and “forgery” on the iPhone, but that was a move I reserved for desperation. Meanwhile the bottom half of the puzzle was mostly filled in, the morning was pleasant, and the crowd on the sidewalk perfect: Passersby waved, smiled, jostled one another at the sight of me, and several of them took pictures, but they all respected the fact that I was sitting there, drinking my coffee and working the crossword puzzle.
    I wasn’t quite finished when Fred joined me—17 Across was still unanswered, though I had a v at the beginning and a g in the middle. Fred ordered coffee and a pain au chocolat and inquired as to my well-being.
    “Superb, my friend, just superb.” I took a sip of my coffee, noted that it was almost too cool to drink, and swigged it down. I felt so good I was compelled to share the secret. “I fucked our leading lady yesterday.”
    “Is that wise?” he asked.
    “No, probably not. But I’m