Fall Rotten

By Eric Serrell

A vault full of French fascist gold just waits to be taken.

It’s the early days of 1940 and Paris has settled into the new normal — a war where no one’s bothered to show up. As uncertainty permeates the darkened City of Light, a secretive organization works to concentrate the wealth and power of France wi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Winding Road Press
• Release date: May 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733312479

Eric Serrell

Eric Serrell is the bestselling, award-winning writer no one knows. After years of ghostwriting the novels for some great storytellers, Eric found the time to produce a work of his own. His debut novel, Fall Rotten, is an homage to his favorites-the fast-talking, sharp-witted screwball comedies of the 1930s. A native-born Foreign Service brat, former immunobiologist and software engineer, Eric now spends his days putting visions into words, traveling with his autistic son on The World Disney Tour (as opposed to the Disney World tour, which is much more limited), obsessively jumping rope, and trying to perfect the Brazilian pãozinho, the little French breads of his childhood.

Book preview

Part One

Paris in November

1939

One Particularly Cold & Shitty Day

La Santé

Luc snatched the fedora from Expat’s hand.

Could’ve used the hat.

I’da gotten wet, Expat said with a grin.

"That car almost hit me!"

Oh, I don’t believe you’da hurt the car none. Actually, I think that was a Traction 7CV, but it was hard to see.

"We’re not buying a car."

Expat motioned past his friend. Besides, if you’da just holed up for a couple a more minutes….

Luc turned to see that the storm which had swept down Rue de La Santé with such fury moments before had now subsided, as though someone in heaven had simply turned off the tap. On the other side, the high walls of La Santé prison were dark and wet—washed clean—and the sun broke through the scattering clouds to focus its beam upon its towering gates beatifically.

Someone, it seemed, fancied Themselves hilarious.

They pushed me out, Luc told him.

Thought I heard someone laughing, Expat said, clapping his friend amiably on the shoulder, producing a squishy sound. C’mon. I’va bottle of empressement inside.

Luc took a moment to wring out the bottom of his suit coat, then was struck by the odd word. What?

You know, you look like a drownt polecat standing on its hindquarter shanks, Expat told him as he ushered him into the café.

If he had been anyone else, Luc would’ve socked him on the nose out of principle alone.

À La Bonne Santé café, in the 13th arrondissement, sat across from the gates of La Santé prison, which was in the 14th because Rue de La Santé served as the boundary between the two, and it was where family—women and children mostly—gazed across the gulf, waiting for their chance to visit their loved ones. They occupied the row of tables that lined the windows along the front of the café, but the eyes of the womenfolk turned to follow Expat as he strode across the floor like a rooster in a henhouse. He was an oddity, with his wide-brimmed slouch hat and oilskin duster—the quintessential American cowboy, stepped down from a motion picture matinee screen.

(Though he had quickly discovered that cowboy boots, even a fine quality footwear like the pair he had special-made at A.E. Hennessy’s of Fort Smith, Arkansas, had no place on the slick and uneven cobblestone streets of Paris. He traded them in for a scuffed pair of army surplus 1915s within a month of his repatriation to the city.)

He was a man of average height, which suited him fine among the French, with sandy brown hair and always something of a mischievous twinkle to his eyes. More than a few demoiselle described these eyes as a mesmerizing shade of rêve d’azur. He offered the ladies his heartfelt appreciation of their attentions, lifting his hat to his audience, causing them to all sigh and melt on cue.

Don’t seem your type, Pat, Luc told him in English.

How ya mean?

They’re not in possession of more assets than self-esteem.

The only regard Luc received from Pat’s admirers was one of mild disinterest, despite his towering athletic physique and warm sorrel eyes. He was often described as the better-looking French brother of that Cary Grant fellow.

That is, when he wasn’t—as Expat so poignantly put it—looking like a drownt polecat.

It’s good having you back, partner. Expat dropped his hat and coat onto an empty chair. Sitting on the table was a bottle of pre-Prohibition Cascade whisky and a pair of café glasses. He sat and unstoppered the bottle, quickly filling each to two fingers. Hey, you never said if you got those flowers I sent while you were in the infirmary.

Luc took a moment to wring out the sleeve of his coat before taking a seat. "I did. And I sent them on to Madame Sauageon. Next time, remove the card."

It’s the thought that counts.

"Tell me, what were you thinking when you had them write It’s a boy!?"

It was a tough call. That butcher was talking about removing things.

Luc looked about the room, not touching his glass. Does she even know I’m out?

She does. Sent me a very nice missive, makin’ inquiries ’bout you. It was the only time I heard from her other than the first time.

What did she say the first time?

Said that she’d never speak to me again. So, as you can see, she’s comin’ ’round, slowly, albeit with surety. Right now she’s in Passy, playing that one hand.

"Which hand? The constipated countess?"

No. The literary loon.

"But she hates The Beautiful and Damned."

There’s a rumor she’s going to publish again.

Luc lifted the wet coat off of his wet shirt, peeled the wet shirt from the wet skin of his chest.

Expat drew his attention with a light tap of the tabletop and a gesture in the direction of a table towards the back corner of the room. Someone stopped by to say hello.

They both looked over at the man, hidden behind a copy of the Paris-Soir held so that its front page displayed troubling articles about the strange state of affairs with their neighbor to the east. During Luc’s time in La Santé, it seemed that France had decided to go to war with Germany again.

The reader was seated casually, one leg over the other, as though this was an outdoor café and it was a warm spring afternoon in the Latin Quarter instead of a cold late-autumn morning in a dump across from a prison. He was impeccably dressed in a well-tailored grey wool suit and a fine pair of two-toned brogues, and was as out of place in these surroundings as Expat.

Luc glanced back at his friend. Been here long?

All morning. Even ’fore I got here.

Luc scoffed. Well, you’re lazy and unpunctual.

I’m easygoing and fashionable.

"Have you seen the way you dress?"

Expat was unfazed. Should we invite him over?

Would seem rude not to.

Luc turned to call to the man, but was beaten to the punch when Expat tipped back in his chair and let rip with a piercing blast using forefinger and thumb. All eyes shot in their direction, the proprietor rushing into the doorway leading from the back, surveying the room. Only the person behind the paper did not respond, taking his time to finish what he was reading before creasing the top down so that he could peer over its edge. The eyes lit up with an affected friendship and the paper dropped to expose a toothy gator grin. André d’Évreux folded the paper carefully, setting it aside before coming over to offer Luc his hand.

Lucien. You look well, my friend, he said in French. I’m surprised to find you out so early.

Taking the hand, Luc told him, Benefits of good behavior, a problematic case, and a disagreement with the neighbors.

André pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dry his damp palm as he looked across to Expat with an expression that would suit a long-suffering headmaster dealing with his most unruly pupil. The American was using his foot on the edge of the table to bobble in his tipped-back chair.

Patrick.

"Sa-lute, Andy. Ka-va?"

Expat’s booming variation of French fell thick with an Oklahoma twang. He was grinning because he knew how much this aggravated André.

André picked up the bottle from the table and looked upon it with disdain.

I know you cowboys love your bourbon, Patrick, but this is a civilized society. He placed the bottle on the opposite side of the table as though it was filled with rat urine. We’re in Paris, after all. We’re Frenchmen.

André signaled the proprietor. The man hurried over to wipe down the table, and André asked him for the best bottle of Champagne that could be mustered from out back, along with an appropriate set of glassware. André gestured to an open seat and Expat returned the gesture with a flourish that stated Please, do.

André sat and turned immediately to Luc. You were treated well, then?

"I’d say they’re the very best accommodations for the price. Though there’s a few misrepresentations in Baedeker’s that I plan to write in about. The events handling was rather uneven. Luc shot a glance across the table to his friend. You weren’t at the ceremony."

Never received a solicitation, Expat told him in French—to do otherwise would be discourteous, as André did not understand English.

Gustave assured me that they were sent out on time.

My penguin suit was out being cleaned anyway. Still reeked of anchovies from that time down in Collioure.

It was an open bar.

André took this all in stride, smiling divertingly as he waited. The proprietor soon returned, balancing a tray that carried a demi and three coupes. He tried to set a glass before each man but Expat snatched up his own bottle and glass as though he believed they might be stolen away.

Thank you, but I’m not one of the Frenchmen, Patrick told him, his région parisienne flawless.

The proprietor became confused and looked to André for guidance. André waved him off with an apologetic smile and the man wandered away with the jilted bit of stemware in his hand.

Always the cowboy. André said, picking up the bottle of wine and taking a moment to read the label.

Don’t expect you to be anything less than French, Andy, Expat told him as he refilled his own glass. "And there’s nothing more than French."

André smiled at the comment as he skillfully opened the bottle and filled the glasses before Luc and himself. "Sorry, but you’re mistaken, Patrick. There’s always Parisian."

Expat scoffed. "Parisian’s just the word that the rest of the Frenchies use when they really mean pretentious. It’s Latin, I believe."

André sat back and raised his glass towards Luc. Luc returned the gesture and André sipped, pausing to relish the taste for a moment before coming back to Expat. "Correct me if I’m wrong, Patrick, but aren’t you reaching the point where you’ve lived in France—in Paris—longer than you’ve lived anywhere else?"

"Well, not if the boche have anything to say about it."

There was a momentary slip in André’s smile but it quickly returned, though it was not as genial as it was before.

Expat continued. "I don’t plan to hang around while they’re goose-stepping up and down Champs-Élysées and ordering ein bier bitte here in Montparny."

Luc made a noise in an attempt to warn his friend off. This is good, he said to André, raising his glass. What region’s it from?

André’s gaze lingered upon Expat for a few moments longer as he picked up the bottle. He read the label again. Montagne de Reims. Your father used to work there during the harvest, didn’t he?

Could’ve. I really have no idea where my father worked outside our farm.

I guess you were rather young before the war.

"Well, we’ll all be more than old enough to remember this one," Expat quipped.

Will you be with us all day? Luc asked quickly. He really wished his friend would just stop it.

André took one more deliberate swallow to finish his glass, his eyes locked on Expat, before answering. Sorry. No. He checked his watch. In fact, I need to run along. Business to take care of this morning.

André got up, bowing cordially in Luc’s direction as he slid his chair back into place. Welcome back among the living, Lucien.

Thank you, André. I appreciate that.

He offered Expat a slight tip of the head. Patrick.

"Apples, Andy."

Maybe we’ll have a chance to meet again sometime soon. André’s voice had the silkiness of a patient predator.

Yeah, who knows what tomorrow might bring. Expat’s had the heedlessness of insouciant prey.

A hangover, Luc said, finishing his glass and immediately refilling it. "And cheese."

"Most certainly, amigo. Must have fromage. Expat looked back up at André with an untroubled grin. Well, I guess we know what tomorrow might bring after all."

André smiled and went over to retrieve his coat and hat from the rack. The proprietor rushed out and the two spoke quietly for a few moments before André looked back at the table and lifted his homburg in a friendly farewell. Everyone in the café watched as he stepped outside and considered his destination before walking the length of the windows. The eyes up front moved with him as he paraded by.

Expat went back to English. "He’s gonna be a burr under the saddle. We’re going to be seeing more of him."

He does seem to be up to something.

Still dresses well, though. I really like those cobblestompers of his. Wonder how much they set him back.

Luc looked about the room again, searching for someone he knew was not there. I wish she came. We’re going to need her.

You have something then.

"I heard something. Possibly big, but it’s not anything we’ve tried before."

Expat scoffed as he tipped back in the chair again. Hell, I’ve spent the past nine months skimping rich old broads and their munificent young nieces.

Their what?

I’m so bored, I’ll try anything we haven’t tried before just for the sake of trying.

Luc took a moment to lift his foot, holding his leg out straight and tipping it upward until a stream of water poured out of the shoe onto the floor. He then leaned across the table.

Well, don’t say that until you hear what I have to tell you, Luc told him, "’cause it’sa dang-blamed humdinger uva yarn."

"That’s not how I talk."

L’Intermédiaire

(fra: The Bagman)

It was well into the afternoon by the time André reached La Brasserie Somptueuse Veau, north of the river. After leaving the café that morning, he caught the Métro at Glacière station, rode into Montparnasse, and walked across the Left Bank from Luxembourg Garden, stopping to visit several establishments along his route. By the time he crossed the Seine at Pont Neuf, his coat was hanging heavy from his shoulders.

He handed his hat over to Abelle, the girl staffing the cloakroom. How’s your father doing, my dear?

Grumpy as usual. Your coat?

Think I’ll keep it with me today. I have a chill I’ve not been able to shake off.

Then why not keep your hat?

"I need some excuse to stop and talk with you."

"You’ve never needed an excuse."

Well, then a reason to slip you this. André handed the girl a ten-franc coin.

I’ll be extra attentive with your hat.

She dropped the oversized homburg on top of her head and pulled it down over one eye, trying her best to look sexy and grown up.

If I’d known you’d do that, I’d given you a twenty.

When’re you going to ask me out, old man? I see you bring all these other women here and you still never ask me.

What would Léon say, seeing the hatcheck girl seated at one of his tables?

"You can take me to a bal."

Can’t dance, little duck. War injury.

Oh, no. I only want to show you off to the boys, so they’ll stop pestering me, she told him. "Or we can skip the bal, say we went, and go on from there."

He laughed at the audaciousness of the modern generation. They still didn’t hold a candle to those who came up in the twenties, les années folles, but, mon Dieu, they certainly tried.

In a few years, for sure, he reassured her.

Better jump at the chance while there still is one. You think there’ll be a war?

There’s already a war, my dear. Hasn’t anyone bothered to tell you?

"I mean a real war," Abelle said. She spotted Léon heading in their direction and snatched the hat from her head.

André shrugged. The last war I saw was unreal. He turned to face the charging man head-on.

Léon was the haughty guardian of Le Veau, and Le Veau was all about exclusivity. The man felt it his God-given duty to keep Le Veau restrictive, and even if the Germans were to march all the way to the streets of Paris, it was damned unlikely they would find a table reservation that Léon would let slip past.

It’s about time, Léon. Thought you forgot who I am.

The statement put the man off his stride and he could only afford to throw Abelle a brief glare before giving André his perfected countenance of deference.

"Never, sir. The girl ducked away with the hat. Are you looking for company this afternoon, sir?"

No, thank you, Léon. Just stopped for a quick bite. I really need to get to the office sometime today. They keep expecting me to show up simply because I cash their paycheques.

André followed the man as he led the way to his usual table. The grand dining room was for the most part empty—too late in the afternoon for lunch and still too early for even the earliest of dinner guests. In the silence, there was something of the grandeur of another time, and the only other patrons were there for the privacy and ambience rather than for an extravagant meal.

André touched Léon on the arm as he spotted a couple seated at a booth tucked into an alcove. He couldn’t help but smile to himself. "A drink. And the spätzle, if you can manage something so boche. At my table, please."

Léon bowed his acquiescence and took off as André wandered quietly among the empty tables until he was standing over a man with grey hair, a heavy mustache, and the uniform of a captain of the Paris Police Municipale—the archers. He was speaking quietly with a woman a few decades his junior and she was blushing at whatever it was he was saying. He held one of her hands in both of his, gently caressing the back of it.

André stood there for some time before the girl finally took notice of him.

The captain’s gaze followed hers and his smile quickly dropped. Inspector. If I had known I would be under such intense scrutiny, I would’ve trimmed the hair in my ears more closely this morning.

Afternoon, sir. I was planning to stop by the Préfecture to speak with you but this seems so much more convenient.

That’s a debatable matter of opinion, actually.

André looked at the girl deliberately and smiled, and she became caught up in that smile until she noticed the captain watching her. She slipped herself from behind the table.

I need to powder between my toes anyway.

André offered her a hand up, which she accepted and gave a little squeeze in return. He watched her as she crossed the expansive dining room.

Your granddaughter’s grown into a fine-looking young lady.

What do you want now, André?

He pulled a chair over from a nearby table and sat. "What do you think, René? I was reading a copy of Marie-Claire this morning. Did you know that the evening dress is making a comeback?"

Please, don’t tell me this is about d’Aramitz.

I get complaints every time now. He’s becoming something of a pain in the ass.

"A pain in my ass."

You need to get him to understand. He’s really getting ahead of himself.

His father’s very proud, his son making brigadier already.

Yes, but I don’t think even the Commissioner would’ve let him get away with this sort of behavior when he was around.

I’ve tried to get him moved over to Special Brigade but you boys keep sending him back, postage due.

Nothing you can do but deal with it yourself, René. Think of what kind of mentor you could be for the boy.

I should have him taken out back and shot. The boys these days. Maybe the war will come along and take him off our hands.

"Shuffle him off to some poor poilu commander? André scoffed. Are you really that much of a bastard?"

"No, I’m saying that maybe we can trade him to the boche, in exchange for, say, a ten-meter head start at the front lines."

I really don’t think even the Germans are stupid enough to give up a single meter for that knucklehead.

"Oh, no, I mean we give them the ten meters, in exchange for taking him from us."

André laughed as he got up and swung the chair back into its appropriate place. Sorry to barge in on your engagement, René. He pulled a small stack of francs from one of the many pockets of his coat, counting out a number and dropping them onto the table. The captain placed his napkin on top and slipped it back into his lap.

No problem at all. I’ll have a word with the boy, again, though I doubt it’ll do much good. He’s not the most savvy of the Commissioner’s progeny.

Maybe your friend will still let you sample the dessert special.

If you get any better at doing your job, Inspector, you’ll need to find a coat with more generous pockets. Have you reconsidered my offer?

I’d like to, but the collars of your uniforms chafe too much.

Something caught the captain’s attention and André followed his gaze to find the lovely lady heading back in their direction.

Do me a favor, the captain said as his eyes remained fixed upon the girl. Tell Rousseau that I said he was an ass of the highest order, won’t you?

André couldn’t help but watch as well. That’s funny. I was about to say the same thing about your friend.

André and the girl passed one another as the inspector headed over to his table. He offered a courteous nod and she a beguiling smile, but clearly she was not about to trade a perfectly appreciative captain for some lowly inspector.

It was late in the afternoon before André crossed back over to Île de la Cité—everyone coming out along Quai des Orfèvres was leaving for the day. He took the stairs two at a time until the weight of his coat, combined with his settling lunch, convinced him that he had nothing to prove. He stomped up each of the remaining steps, announcing his arrival.

Well, look what’s washed up the Seine. Julienne was a tall, sensible young woman with the most expressive eyes. They met and merged their paths towards the office. Her heels, which clacked on the tile floor, made her a shade taller than André. She carried an armful of files that she held close to her chest. "The mascaret must be wicked today."

Good afternoon, Julienne. How’s marriage treating you?

Oh, wonderful. I’ve discovered that he thinks he’s traded in his mother for a newer model. I’m seriously considering maternal filicide.

"Vows, Julienne. Remember your vows."

"I do, she said, mimicking her moment at the altar. Particularly the clause about his dying getting me out of this."

The boss in?

Been looking for you all day.

"Wonderful. Glad to know I’m most appreciated when I’m not around. Don’t know why I even bother to show up."

André made his farewell and they went their separate ways. He moved swiftly through the warren of desks and rooms and the hundreds of little cubbies of Special Brigade №1 in a determined path for the glass-walled office of the Commandant.

The door was open and Commandant Rousseau was behind his desk, scribbling on a stack of papers. He was a few years older than André. They had both served in the war, but while the Commandant had used his citations and his experience to negotiate his way through the shark-infested waters of the Police Judiciaire, André used his considerably greater fame to maintain a career where he was pretty much left to his own devices, never reaching a level of power that would make him accountable to anyone but himself. He had far more ambitious plans for his life than to spend it stuck behind a desk, growing fat and lazy.

He rapped on the door and the Commandant’s eyes shot up. He didn’t look pleased. Where’ve you been all day? he growled. But André really didn’t have to care.

He stopped before the Commandant’s desk and pulled handfuls of cash from the pockets of his coat which he dropped on top of Rousseau’s paperwork. The Commandant was clearly irritated by his inspector’s impertinent action, but it didn’t stop him from opening the largest of his desk drawers and scooping the money inside.

"Looks like you had a productive morning. And afternoon."

Had an issue to deal with. André readjusted his coat, which now hung more comfortably. By the way, René sends his regards.

Did you call him a jackass for me?

Sorry, but I was distracted. Distracted by her figure, her eyes, and her perky little nose.

How does that decrepit old fart get away with it?

Well, even I find him rather attractive in that charming little uniform of his. You should’ve gotten yourself stationed over there. The archers are all about the show and flourishes.

What about you? Who’d you have for lunch?

Me? I never distract myself during business hours. Too much of an effort keeping up on the caseload. Besides, what would I do with my time off?

You are such a waste of glory, Rousseau told him. André knew the man envied the inspector’s Croix de Guerre with its silver gilt star and two bronze palms. "If I was called a hero…."

Maybe this next war. You never know. You might get lucky.

Not worth getting myself killed over.

"That’s the trick, you see. You have to convince the boche that it’s in their best interest to die for your medal."

"You are such a brat sometimes, Inspector."

Thank you. I take it you mean that in a complimentary way.

Take it any way you want.

André glanced at his watch. If you don’t mind, I have some paperwork I need to push about my desk before I knock off for the day.

Zelda Sayre-Something

She pushed the swinging door of the service room open to find what appeared to be the entire household staff busy trying to undo all the damage that had been done the night before. Charlier, the Walloon head of household, noticed her presence and swiftly came over to be of service.

Strange morning to you, Charlier. Her chipper French was heavily influenced by an American Southern drawl.

Madame.

That was some wicked squall just passed through. Raised me right from the dead. Did any of the guests get washed away?

None that I know of.

"Well, have you seen M’sieu Abbadella knocking about? I’ve been scouring the lily fields for him."

Charlier’s face twisted into the pained expression of a passing kidney stone. He’s in the study, Madame.

"Really? With whom?"

I cannot say.

"Oh, goody. Thought he’d like her. Could you scramble me up some eggs, Charlier? I really feel like eggs this morning."

Certainly, Madame. Would you care to be served in your bedroom?

What’s wrong with the dining table?

Well, there’s a young man asleep on the dining table, Madame.

You don’t say. Is he good-looking?

I would say a cross between Maurice Chevalier…and Toulouse-Lautrec.

"Good Golly! In the bedroom, Charlier, if you please."

Certainly, Madame.

She started back to the door and Charlier back to the business at hand.

Oh, Charlier….

One long stride placed him at her side again. Madame?

There’s a young man, divested of all his worldly modesty, at his leisure on the floor of the great room. I planted a small garden but be a darling and see if you can find his trousers, would you? Before the rest of the guests wake. No one really wants to see a snake in the grass before breakfast.

We did find many articles of clothing scattered about, Madame. I have the staff working on touching them up a bit before they’re needed.

Good man.

And the lady with him? We haven’t been able to find her dress as of yet.

Don’t skittle your brain over her. She’s a real dumpling. I don’t mind a little female naturalism. It’s the male genitalia all dangling about that makes me nauseous. No offense.

None taken, Madame. It makes me rather woozy as well.

Oh, and Charlier, I seem to have mislaid my watch last evening. She ran her hand around her barren wrist. "Please try to find it. It was a gift from M’sieu Abbadella and I wouldn’t like him to think me featherbrained."

Certainly, Madame. The gold wristwatch?

No, a platinum one with a whole mine full of diamonds. He gave it to me yesterday afternoon and I’ve already gone and misplaced it.

I’ll get right on it.

"I seem to be losing everything these days, not just my mind. I tell you, I’d lose that for good too if it wasn’t rolling around loose inside my own head. Search the unconscious from top to bottom, backwards and forwards, and inside out if necessary."

Certainly.

"And have M’sieu Abbadella come see me once he untangles himself."

Certainly.

She finally left the service room, humming a bright and cheery tune.

I’m so glad we were able to find those trousers of yours.

The young man, still wobbly on his feet, gazed down at the pair of plaid pants with cuffs a full hand’s width above his ankles. I guess I must’ve grown taller during the night.

It happens when men reach your age. Some things grow, other things…not.

He was about to ask her what she meant but was quickly shuffled off to Charlier, who stood by the heavy entry door and guided the young man through with a firm push to the back. The hand of the next guest was taken as the rest milled about in the grand marble foyer like a herd of woozy cattle. This one was a young thing, deemed quite beautiful the evening before but now showing signs of a considerable amount of wear and tear.

Thank you for stopping by. I’m sure Ermanno really appreciates the things you did for him.

I’m really sorry about…about the chesterfield.

Oh, think nothing of it, darling. To tell you the truth, I always hated that dreadful piece, so I’m glad you were able to put it to some good use. I would’ve been surprised if you had done anything less. I’ve heard the gossip, you know.

The girl hastily considered Ermanno, normally a tall and athletic man, now slumped on a settee along the wall, on the verge of becoming violently ill. She started to say something, but he did not even acknowledge her presence and she was pushed along.

Please give our regards to dear Mama and Papa. Tell ’em we’ll send your virtue along once we find it.

The next woman came in for an overly enthusiastic embrace. Oh, Zee-zee, I’m so so happy you’re doing so well. You seem like a completely different person.

Living well, good doctors, a few jolts to the ol’ noggin. You should give it a try sometime, darling. Does wonders for the creativity. Really clears out the cobwebs.

"You seem so much more alive. And…taller. You’re standing so much taller."

"Like you said, dear. Ol’ Scottie was really keeping me oppressed, giving me the business for so long. I was only half the woman I am now."

Yes. I’m so glad you can finally see that.

I never would’ve if it wasn’t for you.

"And I love what you’ve done with your hair. It makes your face so much brighter. And not so round."

Oh, thank you, darling. I don’t know what that means, coming from you. She shuffled the woman off and took her companion’s hand.

I’m happy we’ve finally had the chance to meet, he said, looking at her with an expression of mortification over his wife’s behavior.

Always knew you two would hit it off someday, darling. She spoke of you so.

Oh, thank you. He frowned. But we didn’t meet until….

She gave him no more time to ponder upon it, pushing him along and giving a loud sigh when Charlier closed the front door for the final time.

"Charlier, leave the rest until evening. I’d like some quiet time with M’sieu Abbadella."

Certainly, Madame. I’ll have the staff repair to the downstairs.

Thank you, Charlie. And have them repair that sink in the powder room while you’re at it.

She waited for Charlier to leave before grabbing Ermanno—an Italian industrialist and swarthy Clark Gable-wannabe—by the wrist and leading him up the long, curving stairs to the great room. She let him fall onto the couch and glanced at the gold watch on her wrist before moving away across the floor. She was quiet and thoughtful, which Ermanno, even in his current state, did not take to be a good thing.

"What am I to do with you, tesoro?" she finally asked.

"I am sorry, ciccia."

You sound more ill than contrite.

She meant nothing.

No, I guess she wouldn’t. No girl means anything to any man.

"You mean the world to me, ciccia."

"Oh, really? The whole world you say? Is that all? She continued on her stroll, gazing out as she passed by the tall windows that overlooked the Passy neighborhood in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. I would think I’d mean the world, the moon, the sun, and all those silly little planets—the one with the rings—but only the world? I guess you really don’t care much for me after all."

I mean….

Yes, darling, I know what you mean. I always know what you mean. Now that’s the problem, isn’t it. I sometimes don’t know if you’re the kind of man who can offer me the appropriate sort of stimulation.

How can you say this? I thought you enjoyed my stimulation.

That’s not what I mean, my darling child.

He

Reviews for Fall Rotten

[bemislibrary · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Set in Paris pre-Nazi invasion, this historical fiction looks at how a group of interesting individuals banded together to take advantage of the confusion and fear to rob a vault. Crafty names and situations were entertaining. Slang usage was not appropriate to the period and a distraction.

[ewhatley_3 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I received a free copy of this book through librarything.com. I tried to get into it, read about 50 pages and realized that although it's well written, it's just not my taste in comedy. I passed it on to my best friend's husband who said he enjoyed it.