"When you dropped me, and you staked your claim
on a VIP who could make your name,
you latched onto him and I became
a minor inconvenience.
Your protégé don't care about art.
I'm the one who always told you you were smart.
You broke my heart into smithereens,
and that took genius."
-Warren Zevon, "
Genius
"
The cab pulled up to the hotel on Boulevard Saint-Germain. The redhead in the back seat looked the driver in the eye and told him that she'd already paid. He nodded, now believing that she'd given him money, and bid her farewell as he drove on to find a fare that DIDN'T use the power of mind control to make him only THINK that they were paying for the ride.
Her heels clicked on the sidewalk as she entered the hotel. People turned to stare at the woman wearing a mini-dress that zipped from the front, sheer stockings completing the ensemble. She strode in as if she owned the place. She didn't own it, but that didn't stop her. She went straight to the elevator and lit a cigarette while she waited.
The elevator operator cleared his throat as she stepped in, as if he was about to tell her that smoking was only allowed in the lobby, restaurant, and rooms, when she shot him a look that told him not to bother. He delivered her to her floor in silence and smoke.
She approached the door to room 415 and knocked. A man's voice on the other side said "Entre vous," and she opened it and stepped in.
"Good evening, Monsieur Dubois." She said in breathy French as she stepped in and closed the door, looking at the man lying on the bed in the darkness. She gave a delighted smile to the shadowy figure. "Your Papillion has arrived."
"Lucky I didn't bring along a killing jar, then." A familiar voice said in Greek, before sitting up and clicking on the lamp, confirming the identity of the familiar man to whom it belonged. Troy Equals looked Contessa Helena de San Finzione in the eye. "There's Postpartum Depression, Helen, and then there's this."
Helen stepped over to the table with two chairs that was by the window of the room and took one, sitting to face Troy. A lifetime criminal, she knew when she was caught. She put out her cigarette and immediately lit another before replying in Greek.
"I'm not going to bother asking how you found me, Troy. I can think of five or six ways you could have done it, and that's just been in the past ten seconds. You've had a month to think about it."
Troy looked her over before answering in English. She hadn't gone to a lot of trouble to change her appearance, but since no one else had been looking for her, she didn't need to.
"Well, my first move was to immediately rule out any place owned by Società Finzione. My second was to ask Susan if Suzy-Q knew anything. Susan said that she knew where you were, and you were alive, but that you didn't want to be found; and using this thing you two have like that would feel like violating your trust, so I respected that. She's in San Finzione with everyone else right now. Except Julie, naturally. She's here; I mean, how well do you think 'Bye, Mistress, I'm off to comb the Red-Light District of Paris for Helen without my badass wife or anyone else who knows French' would have gone over?"
Helen nodded, happy that Susan hadn't exploited the strange connection between them that allowed Suzy-Q, an aspect of Susan's subconscious, to enter Helen's mind and speak with her, then relay everything they discussed back to Susan, to track her down.
"I thank her for that. And you would have found me sooner. So, all right, I'm caught. And I know you want to tell the story. How, then?"
"If you recall, the Generalissimo introduced me to his friend, Detective Inspector Allaine, during all that stuff with Whyte. On a hunch, given that it's you, I asked him to see if Interpol could find reports of an inordinate number of pimps, abusers. that kind of people; having bizarre, self-inflicted accidents. He said there'd been a noticeable spike in Paris of men reporting to emergency rooms to get weapons and other objects removed from their rectums, insisting that they'd shoved them up there themselves, rather than telling the usual 'fell off a ladder' lie they hear whenever someone comes into the ER with that problem.
"That sounded like the right track, so we came here. Julie translated the French for me; she's standing outside the door in case you try to run."
"Why you picked a room in the middle of the hall." Helen interrupted. "To give me a longer sprint to the exits."
Troy nodded and finished.
"A couple days of asking the right people gave us word that there was an impossibly beautiful, high-priced call girl who'd come to the city a couple weeks ago and was operating independently; without an escort service or 'protection,' calling herself Papillion Madinaux. A call girl with a preference for women and older gentlemen. One who charges Robin Hood rates and whose skills in bed are 'beyond words' and who already has a month's waiting list. From there, it was just a matter of finding someone on the list and having Julie command him to send you here and forget the appointment."
"Well, how can I get mad about being tracked down by what a good fuck I am?" Helen asked, bringing the ash tray closer to her. "Jeanne emails me updates about how the boys are doing with the nannies. It sounds like everything's going just fine without me: Maria knows what she's doing now and she's not alone. Vincenzo's legacy is secure, the monarchy is safe, and she'll use his ideals to guide her. Our new industries are insuring a bright future for the country. Uongo is starting free elections, and none of the candidates seem like a bad enough person to get involved. You, Julie, and Susan have each other." She choked a little before continuing. "I've taken care of everything, Troilus. I'm not needed anymore."
Troy looked over at the door, which didn't move. He then turned back to Helen.
