“There are many procurers named Pierre,” he told me. “Which of them is it you wish?”
“I’m not sure,” I confessed. “But if he handles a girl named Françoise, that‘s the one.”
“Oh, of course. I know who you mean now. You mean Lucky Pierre.”
“Is there a Pierre in Paris who isn’t?”
“I beg pardon, M’sieur?”
“Skip it. Where can I find this Lucky Pierre?”
“About now he should be at the Midnight Bistro. It’s a gathering place for procurers just up the block. Anybody there will point him out to you.”
On to the Midnight Bistro. The joint was packed when I got there, I picked a man at random and asked him if he could point out Lucky Pierre to me.
“He went downstairs. To the pissoir,” he told me, gesturing toward a door across the crowded barroom.
I elbowed over to the door and went through it. There was a long, steep flight of stairs. I saw that much before I closed the door. Then it was pitch-black. I had to feel my way cautiously down the steps. There was another door at the bottom. It was locked. I knocked. “Pierre?” I called.
“Oui? Who is it?" The voice was deep and gruff.
“You don’t know me, but I’d like to talk to you.”
“Okay. Wait till I’m through.”
I waited.
“Damn! Merde!" This a few moments later. “There’s no paper here!”
“I beg your pardon?" I was a little slow on the uptake.
“Toilet paper! There is none.”
“Oh.”
“That’s not very helpful. I’m trapped here. Do something.”
“What would you suggest?” I asked, ready to be helpful.
A moment’s silence, and then he came up with a solution. “Do you have change for a thousand-franc note,” he asked.
“I think so.” I lit a match and managed to count out a thousand francs in small bills. “Yes, I do,” I told him.
“Good. Slide it under the door, will you?”
I did as he asked and he slid a thousand-franc note back out to me. While I waited for him to finish, I couldn’t help thinking the whole trivial incident was really as cogent a comment on the devaluation of the franc as I’d come across since DeGaulle3 took power.
The door behind me opened. “Lead the way,” the voice rasped in the darkness. I trudged back up the stairs with Lucky Pierre following behind.
“What did you want to see me about—” he asked gruffly as I reached the top and opened the door.
“I’m looking for a girl-—” I started to say. My voice failed me as I turned around and got a look at Lucky Pierre in the light.
From his voice I’d been expecting a husky, tough, longshoreman type. Anyway, I’d sure been expecting a man. But I’d been expecting wrong.
Lucky Pierre turned out to be four-feet ten inches of little boy! Even with the cigarette sticking out of his mouth he didn't look more than ten years old, although if he was small for his age, I supposed he might have been as old as twelve.
“What the hell are you staring at?” he asked now in that same gruff man’s voice.
“Nothing,” I said hastily. “Sorry. I don’t think you’re the Lucky Pierre I'm looking for.”
“Why not? You said you wanted a girl, didn't you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then you got the right Pierre. I handle some of the most magnificent goods in all Paris.”
“Thanks, but I don’t really think-—”
You’re new to the rue de la Boite, I can tell. So you don’t know me. But don’t let my age fool you. I got the nicest stuff on the street. Ask anybody.”
“I’m sure you do. But the Pierre I’m looking for is an older man. He has a girl named Françoise and—”
“ Françoise? I got a girl named Françoise. You want her, she’s yours. And very reasonable, too.”
“I don’t think it’s the same Françoise," I said doubtfully.
“But you’re not sure, right? I can tell you’re not. So why not give my Françoise a try? I guarantee you won't be sorry.”
“Do you really handle a girl named Françoise?”
“Sure I do. And a choice piece of merchandise she is, too. Come on and meet her. She’s just across the street.”
I was pretty sure it couldn’t be Françoise Laval, but what did I have to lose? “All right,” I agreed.
Pierre led the way to a room in a hotel across the street. I took one look at the girl waiting there and wondered if I mightn’t really have stumbled onto a fantastic piece of luck. She fit the description Gina had given me of Françoise Laval to a T. Peroxide-blonde hair, about five-one, magnificent bosom, smooth, slender legs, a mouth shaped permanently as if she'd just bitten into a persimmon, very little make-up—-it was all there. All there and wrapped in a gauzy red negligee that left very little to the imagination.
“What’s your last name, Françoise?” I asked her.
“Hold it!” Lucky Pierre spoke up loud and ugly. “No names! What are you, a gendarme or something? A girl hands out her name and next thing you know the police have a card on her. No, sir.”
“Sorry. Forget it,” I told him.
“You want her or not?” Lucky Pierre was still miffed, and now his tone said he didn’t care one way or the other.
“Yes. She’ll do fine. But you are going to leave us alone, aren’t you?”
“You’re the shy type, eh? Well, all right. Don’t worry. I’ll leave you alone with her. But first—” Lucky Pierre crossed over to Françoise and climbed up on the bed beside her. He knelt over her and then, suddenly, he belted her across the face with all his might. “Who’s your protector, Françoise?" he snarled.
“You are, Pierre.” She looked at him adoringly.
“Who takes care of you?” He slapped her again. “You, Pierre.” Her eyes admired him.
“And you’re going to come straight over to me with the cabbage as soon as you get paid, right?” Another slap.
“Yes, Pierre.” Her gaze was if anything even more loving. “It’s your money, isn’t it‘? After all, without you, I am nothing.”
“That’s right, baby.” He gave her a playful smack on the bottom. “Well, have fun.” He swaggered out of the room, for all the world like a miniature Marlon Brando.
“That’s some tough little kid,” I remarked to Françoise when he’d gone.
“Oh, Pierre’s not so bad. He treats his girls better than most. And I’m his favorite,” she added proudly.
“That’s understandable.” Eyeing her voluptuous figure, I made the remark sincere.
“Why don’t you come over here, honey?” She patted the side of the bed.
“Sure.” I went over and perched beside her.
“What would you like to do?” she asked in a husky voice.
“You’re the expert. You decide,” I told her.
“All right, sugar.” She took my hand and pressed it to her breast.
It was warm and as soft as butter. Also, it was so large that my widespread fingers couldn’t encompass it. I didn’t try. I concentrated on the upthrust tip of the breast.
The roseate was as large as a half-dollar, a smooth pink shading into scarlet where the nipple itself pushed out. The tip was merely a slightly raised button when I first touched it. But in no time at all it grew to a length matching the first joint of the finger caressing it.
“Yes, you do that, cherie,” Françoise murmured. “And now do this.” She pulled my head down to her other breast so that the bud tickled my lips. “Ahh, lovely,” she sighed as my tongue flicked at it.
She pulled my lips to hers then, and her tongue was a searing flame in my mouth. The negligee was down around her waist now, and I was gently pinching the tips of both breasts. She squirmed against me, thoroughly aroused. Where the fulcrums of our bodies were pressed together, she felt like an overheated oven. An oven ready to take the cake, there could be no doubt.