“Because it’s true. The only opinion, the only reflection I care about, is looking right back at me. And as long as she’s staring at me the way she is, I consider myself both validated and recognized.”
“I see you. Even what you hide.”
He pauses before kissing me briefly, eyeing Abe behind me. “As sexy as it may seem to christen the White House, and for a moment, Trésor, I briefly entertained it, there are far too many dead men with watchful eyes here.”
I laugh and hug him to me as he whispers sweetly into my ear. “Let’s go home.”
“Lead the way, my King.”
Parking just outside the motel, I glance around to see a few cars passing by before approaching the door. Before I can lift my hand, it opens. Oz greets me with a nod as I zero in on the asshole sitting at the table. There’s an array of untouched vending machine snacks sitting in front of him. He lifts his eyes to mine, and in them I can’t see a flicker of fear, but it’s clear in his posture he’s unsure of his fate by the way his arms are braced on the table. Taking the upholstered stained chair across from him, I put my Glock on the table and nod toward Oz and Dave before they leave the room.
“Quels sont ses projets?” What are his plans?
He shrugs. His posture is still rigid, but there is clear contempt in his eyes for the fact he’s been holed up here for weeks, and he would probably rather die than be a prisoner in a run-down hotel.
“All right, Julien, let’s cut the bullshit. You know that I know who you are. A born Frenchman who grew up in an affluent family in C?te d’Azur and graduated top of your class before doing a brief stint in the military. Shortly after, you were recruited into Antoine’s ranks which, to be perfectly honest, might be my fault because I told him what to look for. You’re also fluent in English, Italian, and Spanish. You had a shot at a decent future, until you joined him, up until this very moment. But I am curious as to why you played ignorant with me.”
Another shrug.
“So, you hate America?” I say, placing my palms on the table.
He nods.
“What exactly is it that you hate? And please don’t say our arrogance, because that’s also a French trait. I should know. I’m both.”
Silence.
“I’ll tell you what I don’t like about America—greed. This country was stolen and established by materialistic men. It’s an illness that’s plagued us for hundreds of years, giving the illusion of opportunity and freedom. And it is, but only for those who have the balls to take what doesn’t fucking belong to them. For those men, it’s a free for all. Have you ever heard of Al Capone?”
He dips his chin.
“One of the most notorious gangsters to ever live. The mere mention of his name could strike terror into the hearts of countless people while he reigned. Most know how he lived, but do you know how he died?”
A quick shake of his head.
“In a shit-filled diaper due to neurosyphilis. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s an undignified end.”
His eyes widen slightly.
“It surprised me as well. I could give a hundred more examples of assholes just like him, but none of them have good endings. Very few like him die comfortably in their sleep with peace in their hearts.” I sneer down at him.
“Can you imagine what being lost in the mind of that sort of evil would be like? I don’t want to. I’m not him. I just learned from his mistakes and dozens of others like him because in the end, no one wants to be that motherfucker, do they?” I pull the return plane ticket from my pocket. He doesn’t so much as glance at it.
“But America isn’t the only place that greed exists. Our planet is infested with it. France is no exception. I believe there was a hundred-year war forcing young gents into disfigurement because they practiced with bow and arrows day and night to prepare themselves for a war that they were too young to fight—a hundred and sixteen years of fighting. A couple of hundred years later, another war was declared by an overly ambitious French bastard. Can you tell me his name?”