The Predators (31 page)

After dinner, Giselle drove us to her sister’s apartment. She gave me my small valise that she had packed for me with my toiletries and pajamas. She laughed and kissed my cheek. “Now be a nice boy with my sister.”

“Of course,” I said. I looked at Therese, who was smiling at her sister; then they kissed cheeks and Giselle put the car into gear. “I’ll pick you up at nine,” she said, and drove off. I followed Therese into her apartment.

She showed me to the bathroom and then the bedroom. There was only one double bed there. I looked at her. “Don’t you have another bedroom?” I asked.

She shook her head smiling. “No.”

“Then am I supposed to sleep on the sofa?”

She laughed again. “No.”

I looked at her.

She was still smiling. “It is a big bed. I am sure there is room enough in it for both of us to be comfortable.”

I gestured to her. “Together?”

“Of course,” she said. “I am not a virgin, and after all Giselle and I are sisters—we all share together.”

This was a custom of the French I had never known about. When I came back from the bathroom Therese was already naked in the bed. It took her only twenty seconds to tear off my pajamas. Then she pressed me down in the bed on my back and sat on my face. Her pussy was already wet and pouring as her left hand reached behind her and grabbed my prick. Quickly, she rhythmically pulled on it as she continued bucking her hips into my face. She laughed aloud as I came all over her back and ass.
“Je suis montais au cheval!”
she screamed as she came all over my face, mouth, and eyes until I thought I had gone blind.

25

At nine o’clock in the morning I was standing on the sidewalk in front of Therese’s apartment house as Giselle turned the corner and pulled the jeep up in front of me. Silently, I picked up my small valise and threw it in the backseat of the car.

She moved over from the driver’s seat to the passenger side. I got in behind the wheel and looked at her. She was smiling.

“Bitch!” I said.

“Didn’t you like my little sister?” She spoke innocently, but smiled mischievously.

“You set me up. I’m lucky she didn’t fuck me to death!” I snapped.

“Therese has been alone too long,” she said. “My sister needed a man.”

I looked across the car at her. “When you told me that you and your sister shared everything, I didn’t know that included lovers.”

She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Only good lovers.” She laughed.

“I’m lucky you don’t have any more sisters.” I smiled. “Otherwise, I’d be dead for sure.”

She kissed me again. “I love you, Jerree.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand it. Is this a usual French custom?”

“I think we better get going,” she said. “The best route for us is to go down to Marseilles and then go to RN Seven, to Cannes, and then to Nice.”

“How long should that take us?” I asked.

“About the same time that it took us to get here from Paris,” she answered. “But we will have to find a hotel to stay in. I have no family to stay with in Nice.” She added with a mischievous smile, “Not even another sister.”

It was after seven at night by the time we checked into a small hotel in Nice. We had a good dinner at a restaurant that Giselle knew about. This was the Mediterranean and the special all along the coast was fresh fish. I usually don’t like fish, but this was good. A whole bottle of Provençal didn’t hurt.

It was a French double bed in the hotel. Just wide enough for the two of us, but a little short for my legs. But that didn’t bother Giselle. She was ready that night to show me who was boss. And she did. I was lucky I didn’t wind up unconscious on the floor that night.

*   *   *

It was a nice hotel, but unfortunately, there was no restaurant. The room was already beginning to get warm from the heat of the summer sun. I opened the heavy shutters that covered the windows, like every apartment I’d had ever seen in France. I opened the windows, but the windows were on the same wall and there was no cross-ventilation.

I watched Giselle as she came out of the tub. She looked beautiful and cool with the water dripping from her smooth skin onto her towel. “Is it always like this?” I asked.

“This is the south of France,” she said. “It is because of this weather that all of Europe comes to the Côte d’Azur.”

“Even in winter?” I asked.

“It is comfortable then, but not like now.” She turned her back to me and gave me the towel. “Dry my back.”

I patted her dry. “What next?” I asked.

She slipped into her brassiere and she put her stockings on very carefully so they didn’t run. Silk stockings were very hard to get even with the war being over. Finally, she slipped a light white cotton dress that you could almost see through over her head. “It is too early for me to see the manager of the club here,” she said. “So I thought we would drive to Cannes and see Jean Pierre Martin. He’s the man Paul wanted you to meet.”

“Okay,” I said. “But what about breakfast?”

“Of course, breakfast,” she said. “But then after that we have to get you some light cotton pants and a shirt, or by noon you will be cooked.”

I hadn’t realized it, but Nice was one of the biggest cities in France. She took me to a large department store, very much like those in the States, and we went directly to the men’s department. Giselle went clothes-happy for me. Pants: two white, one pink, one pastel blue. Then light see-through cotton shirts that I had to wear without my army T-shirt, and a navy blue blazer to top it off.

She nodded and looked at me in the mirror with approval. “How do you feel now?” She smiled.

“I feel like a pimp,” I said. “I never wore clothes like this.”

“You look like a gentleman now,” she said. “Remember, Jean Pierre is a rich man. He even had his uniforms especially made by one of the best tailors in France. The same tailor made uniforms for de Gaulle and when Jean Pierre fell in love with his American officer he had the tailor make his uniforms, too.”

“I still don’t know why you think a man like him will bother with me,” I said.

She spoke as if I were stupid. “First, J. P. owes Paul for many favors he has done for him. The Corsicans kept labor working in J. P.’s enterprise, war or no war. Second, Paul protected J. P. when the police and the army were going to expose him with his American lover in their hideout, both in London and Paris, and Cannes.”

“That doesn’t mean that he would give me a job,” I said.

“Paul didn’t say that he would,” she said. “He only said that you should meet him and that he might have something that you could do.”

“And what about your relationship with him?” I asked. “Did you fuck him?”

She laughed and shook her head. “J. P.’s homosexual. He comes from a family of homosexuals. He knows no other way to live. He hasn’t even got a bisexual bone in his body.”

“That’s about him,” I said. “You didn’t answer my question. Did you fuck him?”

“No,” she said flatly, then looked at me. “Are you jealous?”

“Yes, I am,” I said. “I’m not French, I don’t understand all of the customs.”

She put her arm under mine. “I’m glad,” she said. “I’m going to call J. P. and see if he could see us this afternoon.”

“Do you think he will?” I asked.

“I’m sure that he will,” she said confidently. “I know that by now Paul has spoken to him.”

And as usual she was right. He invited us to lunch at his villa in Cannes.

26

She knew the way. It was up a big hill before you drove into Cannes. As we drove up, I saw homes being built along the road. She told me they would all be villas; this was an expensive area, no little houses. Finally, we made it to the top of the hill. There was a large roundabout so that you could turn around to go back down the hill. But on the far side of the road there was a large iron gate with a fence going down each side of the property for protection. On the center of the gates was
DOMAINE DE MARTIN
written in gold. Behind the gate and off to the side was a small guardhouse.

A Frenchman wearing blue farmer’s clothing spoke to us through the gates.
“Vos nommes, s’il vous plaît.”

Giselle gave him our names. He went into the guardhouse, and through its window we saw him pick up a telephone. A moment later, he came out and opened the gate and gestured for us to go further up the roadway to the villa.

We pulled up in front of the place. It wasn’t a villa, it was a palace. I looked at Giselle. She looked as impressed as I. A large entrance door opened and the butler stepped out.

He looked at my car and almost seemed to sniff. He faggily gestured his hand that I should move away from the two Rolls-Royces and the Cadillac.

Giselle started to move the car. I stopped her. I took the keys from the ignition. “You want the car moved, you do it,” I said to him through the window.

The butler stared at me, horrified. A man who was standing in the doorway began to laugh. He said something in French to the butler and the butler almost bent to the ground, slinking almost like a cat through the doorway behind him.

The Frenchman was tall, with almost blond hair, a mustache, and brilliant blue eyes. He was wearing shorts and had a fantastic tan. He hugged Giselle and kissed her on both cheeks, then turned to me and held out his hand. “Jean Pierre Martin,” he said.

I shook his hand. It was firm and good. “Jerry Cooper,” I said. On the sign on the gate it spelled Martin, but the French pronounce it “Martan.”

“
Bienvenue
,” he said. “Come in.”

We followed him into the villa. I, again, had never seen a home furnished like this except in the movies. We went into a living room that was almost fifty feet long, with giant windows on the far end that gave you a view of all the city below and the sea and marina filled with boats and yachts next to it.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked. “We have scotch whiskey. I know Americans like it.”

I smiled. “Thank you, but I’m a beer drinker myself.”

“And you, my dear?” he asked Giselle.

“A small white wine, Jean Pierre,” she answered. “But I don’t usually drink anything but water at lunch.” Then she smiled. “Preferably Plescassier, if it’s available.”

He laughed. “That we have.” He gestured and we followed past the large windows into his garden. The luncheon table was set beside the pool. A good-looking young man was already seated at the table. Jean Pierre introduced us. The young man already knew Giselle. He hugged her and kissed her cheeks.

“Jack Cochran.” He smiled, holding his hand out to me.

I shook it and smiled. “Jerry Cooper,” I answered.

“Enough of this bullshit,” Jack said. “We’re all friends here.”

Giselle looked at him. “No tricks, Jack. He’s mine.”

Jean Pierre laughed. “Jack thinks every guy is a trick. Sooner or later, he’ll learn.”

Jack shrugged off the kidding. “You should know, honey.” He winked. “I was in Eisenhower’s headquarters; then, when we transferred to Paris, I met J. P.”

“I was running an auto repair garage in Clichy,” I said. “I was nowhere near those headquarters.”

I hadn’t noticed, but. J. P. must have ordered the drinks. My beer was already on the table. I saw that the two of them were drinking pastis; Giselle had a glass of wine and a bottle of water sitting in front of her. We all held up our glasses. “Cheers,” I said.

The butler and a maid placed a platter of cold cuts and cheese and a second platter of biscuits and bread. I followed Giselle as she ate and copied her. The food was good. For dessert we were served coffee and petits fours.

I looked at Jean Pierre. “Thank you. It was a great luncheon.”

He smiled at me. “It’s not like an American delicatessen.”

“I didn’t expect that.” I smiled. “This is France.”

Jean Pierre turned to Giselle. “Paul said you will be working in a club of his in Nice.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m sure it will be a good club since Paul is sending me there. But I haven’t seen it yet. They will not be open until this evening.”

“I have some good friends who are club owners here in Cannes. I’m sure that you would be happier in Cannes than in Nice. Nice is a difficult town.”

“But the money,” Giselle said. “Nice is a less expensive place than Cannes. The apartments are almost half as much. And for shopping, everything is cheaper.”

“But I can get you a job in a good club, and the apartment would only be a nominal amount for you. I own the apartment building. The only thing you would have to put up with is that most of the apartments are either owned or rented by gays. Sometimes they make a lot of noise.”

Giselle looked at me. “What do you think, Jerree?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know anything about Cannes. The homosexuals don’t bother me. But I am worried about getting a job here. I know it is hard for a foreigner to get working papers in France.”

“Paul told me that you were very clever and thought I could find a place for you,” Jean Pierre said. “But I don’t know anything about what you would like to do. All he told me was the same thing you told me, that you were running an auto repair shop for jeeps while you were in the army.”

Jack Cochran smiled. “Maybe if you told J. P. a little about yourself before you were in the army, it might help.”

“When I was in the States I owned a seltzer company. I bought it with the money that my father left for me. I sold special soda water in spritz bottles. We called it Coney Island Seltzer and we sold from door to door. Most of our customers were regular users. It was like delivering milk.”

Jack interrupted me to fill J. P. in on the seltzer business in New York. “Seltzer bottles were usually sold to the old-fashioned Jews who didn’t trust New York water,” he said.

“I also worked in a soda fountain that sold drinks over the counter. We served two cents plain, egg creams, and Coca-Colas,” I said.

“What is ‘two cents plain’?” Jean Pierre asked.

“A plain glass of soda water,” I said.

“Was that bottled soda water that you dispensed?” J. P. asked.

“No,” I answered. “We had tanks of gas that we tied into the water lines to make the soda.”