I had thought surely I was in major difficulties with Bill...until he opened his mouth to speak. His voice was rough with overuse and laced with the pain of his hangover.

Bill:  Cai Bian...

I knew, just from the things I had stumbled across in moving him, that
this was the name of his little Vietnamese girl.  More than once he had 
awakened me with dreams of her, and on a couple of occasions I had actually
found myself holding him until he settled.  I'd never said a word to him
about it, especially in light of my old behavior, and I wasn't about to
now.  Instead I did what I always did...I stroked his cheek and spoke to
him in a soothing voice.  I knew now that the sharp expression meant nothing.
He didn't even see me.

Deb:  No, baby, no...'s just me.

His other eye opened and his eyes cleared.  He rolled over onto me and
pinned me to the mattress.

Bill:  What the hell were you doin' lookin' for me yesterday?

Huh?

But it probably looked to him like I'd been doing just that.

Deb:  I wasn't.  I went to the river just to look...and to tell you the
truth I didn't see anything in Paris I liked half so well as this crazy man
ready to bail out of a tourist boat and come nail me to the nearest wall.

Bill:  I heard y'had a bone t'pick with me.

Deb:  Oh...Bastard Maurice...he ever go home?

Bill:  Bastard...?  Never mind.  This is where he lives.  Whatcher problem,
woman?

Deb:  Half the world called here yesterday to leave messages for you and I
couldn't figure out how they even knew you were here, let alone where to
call, so I got a little testy.  I went out to stretch my legs and get some
air, and I happened to see you...that was all.

Bill:  No snoopin'?

Deb:  Not at all, I don't want to know what you do, best if I don't.  I was
hoping we might be able to go out for a little bit today...if you have time.

He traced my browbone with his thumb and grinned.

Bill:  Might manage...you stick your nose inta anything while we're here,
I'm gonna slap it.

Deb:  Not a chance, big guy.

I stroked his back lightly, hoping to ease his memories of Cai Bian
a bit.  There were some things he was never going to tell me, many things I
didn't want to know.  But now that I had decided to open myself to what he
offered and quit looking for things that wouldn't come...I could consider
my predecessors calmly, and even fondly.  They had something in common with
me.  They had, in their time, loved Bill.

Bill had a specific hangover cure that he liked, so it was an hour or so
before we were ready to hit the streets.  We walked out past Bastard 
Maurice, whom Bill had told me matched him drink for drink, and who sat in
his cubbyhole looking none the worse for wear.  He tipped me a wink as I
walked past him.

Bill and I spent several hours on the streets, and though hand in hand was
not Bill's trick he didn't seem to have any objection to my grabbing onto
his elbow in order to keep up with him.

Getting past the hideous glass I.M. Pei pyramid entrance and the shit 
shopping mall under the square was a chore, but I knew the Louvre was a
place I would return to on my own.  Probably once Bill ditched me, as it
appeared even to my ignorant eyes he was getting ready to do.  But, bless
His Restlessness, he stayed with me for my first quick run through.  We 
stopped for a long time in front of the portrait of Napoleon as First
Consul.  Bill gave M. Bonaparte the once over, concentrating deeply.  I 
gave him the kind of look that always got me in trouble.

Bill:  What're you starin' at?

Deb:  Another brilliant military strategist who got the shit kicked out
of him...

Bill grabbed me and yanked me away.

Bill:  Get the hell away from that shit!  I didn't get...

Deb:  Ryback?

There was no room to conduct a chase and a paddling in this most public
and historic of buildings. I smirked at him while he grinned and his fingers
flexed.

Bill:  Later for you, baby.

Deb:  Watch me shake.  Why dontcha go make Bastard Maurice glow in the
dark?

Bill:  Why dontcha get on over here an' take your medicine.

Deb:  Why dontcha take a flyin' leap?

Our next stop was the actual tomb of Napoleon.  I did the funky touristy
thing and bought a guidebook and a copy of the seminal novel of Napoleon,
called Desiree.  It was to replace the copy I'd had for twenty years and
ripped both covers off.  The book I bought was in French, useless to me.  I
had to ask them to replace it.  Bill had to make them replace it.
I wandered over and bent over the railing to stare at the crypt without a
qualm.  Bill leaned beside me, back against the metal railing and an
impassive look on his face.

Deb:  Check this out!

Bill:  Nothin' doin'.

Deb:  Oh, for pete's sake, I hope you're not mad about what I said over at
the Louvre...

Bill:  Get real.  You know why that little jackoff's down there in that 
pit?

Deb:  Yeah.  So people would have to bow to him for all eternity, so?

Bill:  Ain't seen it yet.  Ain't about to.  You done?

No point in hanging around.  Bill took off like a shot and I ran to catch
him and latch onto his elbow.

Deb:  Hey...you talked to the pipsqueak lately?

Bill made an evil face.

Deb:  Whatsa matter?

Bill:  Whadda ya think?  She got so damn sick after the Dawg got back from
Fort Worth...I call over there he says she's sleepin' or she's pukin' or
she's ridin' the porcelain...

Deb:  I get it, I get it.  Why dontcha give her a holler after we get back?
I talked to her a little bit, she's feelin' a lot better and I'm sure she's
just lost without you to stoopervise.

Bill gave me a look that was equal parts gratitude and bemusement.  I
squeezed his arm briefly, the greatest public show of affection he was
comfortable with.  We continued on our way to Notre Dame.

The ancient gothic cathedral was enthralling.  I wandered from the High
Altar rail to the side altars to the Rose Window...

Bill:  The name Martin Luther mean anything to you?

Deb:  What about him?  You saying beautiful church architecture can't be
appreciated by anyone?  'Sides...I'm trying to figure out the way to the
bell tower...

Bill:  The bell tower?  What the hell for?

Deb:  So if Ryback turns up unexpectedly you can swing around on the ropes
yelling 'asylum, asylum'...

I turned to him...to find him rocked back on one hip, arms folded across
his chest and giving me that face again.

Deb:  Funny...you don't look the least bit like Lon Chaney.  You don't
even look like Jimmy Cagney trying to be Lon Chaney...you don't look the
least bit like Charles Laughton...nothing like Sir Anthony Hopkins...

He grinned at me, and though I knew it meant paybacks were going to be a
bitch, I didn't care.  That grin alone was worth needing to find a
laundromat to wash my jeans.

I was wandering the stations of the cross when I felt an arm around my waist
in a hard hug and a hand in my pocket.

Bill:  Gotta go, baby.

By the time I turned to him he was most of the way up the side aisle,
boots clocking against the flagstones.
Deb:  Billy!

Bill stopped and turned.  His expression was eloquent:  Christ, here
she goes again...

Deb:  See ya later.

I made a shooing motion at him and smiled.  He could go about his
business...there was a taxi out there that, if it didn't kill me would take
me back to the Louvre.  Another taxi would, when I was done, return me to
the Palace where I could shoot the shit with Bastard Maurice.  Bill was
supplying me with funds...I was in pretty good shape.  This trip was
turning out to be fairly decent.  I watched him hurry out.  He was finally
realizing that I was okay with things just as they were.

I went back to the Louvre, threaded my way through the tourist trap below
the monstrosity of a pyramid, and emerged happily into the galleries.  I
had always wanted to see the art contained in this wonderful museum, and it
was going to be much easier to do it without the fidgety presence of Bill
behind me, physically hauling me along once he'd decided I'd spent enough
time staring at a piece.  I found my way back to the portrait of Napoleon.
Sonething about the boundless confidence of the man as a young general
reminded me strongly of Bill.

As I stood, studying the imperious stance and the glittering eyes, I felt
a hand on my ass.  For a moment I was astounded - had Bill actually got
lonesome for me?...and then I felt the hand pinch and I knew for a fact
that it wasn't Bill.  Bill never bothered to pinch.  So I whipped around to
face the owner of the hand.  Instinctively I unloaded one straight into the
shithead's groin, and when he was bent over and yelling like a girl I
followed up with the thing on the back of the neck and put him the rest of
the way on the floor.  Once I had him laid out I was going to finish up
with a virtuoso bongo solo on his head, but the squealing had attracted a
crowd and the crowd had attracted security, who in turn summoned 'le flics'
and instead of riding in a taxi I got a trip in a somewhat different sort
of public transport.

I had to scream until they gave me my phone call.  My cellphone wouldn't
work overseas and Bill's hadn't made the trip, with good reason.  I might
have bugged hell out of him if I'd known how to get hold of him.  I did the
only thing I could think of, called Bastard Maurice, Strannix' Social
Secretary.

Maurice:  Comment a-t-il su?!

The bastard was laughing.

Deb:  You think this is funny?

Maurice:  How do you say it...the joke is on me, mademoiselle.

Deb:  And why would that be?

I had a policeman timing me as I stood there, so this ancient, malodorous 
freak laughing in my ear was not endearing him to me.

Maurice:  Gillaume wagered me fifty francs that you would find a way to get
into troubele while you were here.  I see I owe him the money.

Deb:  The thing wiith Bill is that his mouth never writes checks his ass
can't cash.  Can you find him for me now and worry about paying him
off later?  This place has bugs, I think. 

Great way to endear myself to the constabulary...

Maurice:  I will find him, never fear...

TO BE CONTINUED...

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