Free Love Is for Tomorrow by Michael Karner, Isaac Newton Acquah Page B

driving. It let Antoine savor the turquoise bay, the wind on his face and the taste of salt water and sand.
    Entering Monte Carlo from the West through a natural tunnel, Kovac hit the brakes. The car lurched to a stop in front of the famous Place du Casino. It reminded Antoine of a Disney World castle, only for grown-ups.
    Kovac wiped beads of sweat from his brow. “Damn it’s hot,” he complained. “Why did we sign up for this?”  
    Antoine indicated to his right.
    Supercars lined up along the street and in the parking lot as if they were toys, shining in all colors. They rolled by, lurid green, pink, yellow, red, white, silver and black. The hues matched the fashion of the super model-type women strolling nearby.
    “On a second thought, I could stay here for a while,” Kovac said, looking for a parking spot. They found one and rolled into it.
    “Definitely,” Antoine replied, not able to draw his gaze away.
    “You know who else would love it here,” Kovac said, getting out of the car and stretching his back for the first time in hours. He didn’t wait for an answer. “My girl.”
    Antoine nodded with a smile. It was true. His wife would love it here too. She adored Paris, New Orleans and all things French. He remembered their dates in Belgium at Maison Antoine. That was partly why Antoine had chosen this name, a French name for him. It was the joyful part of his name. The other was for Saint Antoine, the patron of lost souls. He could imagine Kerrie lying on the sand beach of Cannes, squeezed into a tiny bikini. They would go to movie festivals, eat oysters and taste the French cuisine, all while drinking French wine.
    “You are right, I should take her here,” he said with a smile. “And you and your girl too.”
    Kovac looked at him with an inscrutable expression.
    “Yes, we should someday,” he said. Then, nodding toward the ladies by the sport cars, he added, “Make those girls jealous. What do you say?”
    Antoine looked at one of the models. “Mine has better legs.”
    “Yeah, mine has a better shape,” Kovac answered, sizing up another. They walked past within earshot. Kovac caught her eye. “I mean she is good, but not Serbian.”  
     
    The two of them strolled in front of the Hotel de Paris where Khabib had arranged a meeting. The top priority was finding which entranceways and security camera angles they could use. It was opposite the Casino, with a view of a colorful rose garden and fountain.
    Kovac used his phone and selfie-stick to capture their surroundings.
    “There’s no place opposite the hotel where we can monitor the whole front side,” Antoine said, turning around three hundred sixty degrees.
    Antoine walked to the back of the Casino, overlooking the terrace. The drop off from the cliff towards the sea would give anyone vertigo. He braced himself on the railing and nodded to the port situated to his right.
    “That’s where Salim can moor his yacht,” he said. “Anyway, we should check into the hotel and find out which room Khabib is going to take.”  
     
    Antoine followed Kovac to the Hotel de Paris. An ordinary flight of stairs led into a lavish lobby with white marble floors, cream colored stucco and pillars so wide Antoine would have trouble hugging them.
    The receptionist looked up from the counter as they approached.
    “I’m looking for my friend Khabib. I need to give him back the keys to his car,” Kovac said. “Can I have his room number please?”
    “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m not allowed to give out that information,” the receptionist said.
    Kovac frowned. “It’s just a key.”
    “Do the gentlemen wish that I call your friend?”
    Kovac’s jaw twitched.
    “Yes please,” Antoine said. “We’ll wait for him here.”
    The receptionist turned to the phone and dialed Khabib’s room number.
    “You know what?” Antoine interrupted. “Forget it. We will meet him in the casino later.”
    He turned to Kovac and gave him a tap on the shoulder to