Deb:  I wanna talk to my State Department.

Boy, I was on a roll.  Had Frenchmen laughing like hell everytime I
opened my mouth.

Deb:  Paying attention, there, Pepe LePew...I'd like to call the Consulate.

Dammit, I thought it was a pretty good bluff.

Head Flic:  And will you present false papers when you appeal to them 
for help...Mademoiselle...Warbucks?

Deliciouly funny, that was.  He flipped the passport across his desk at
me, turned the telephone to face me and pushed it closer.

Head Flic:  Be my guest...your government would be happy to prosecute you
for having an illegal passport, Deb.

Busted!

But how in hell had he known my name?

Deb:  Shit...how do you...who were you talking to...

Head Flic:  A companion of Gillaume's.  Your man will be detained for a
short time, but he will be down to take you off our hands.

The dapper officer rose from behind the desk and indicated that I should
get to my feet.  With no idea why, I did as expected and followed him out
of the office.

Deb:  Is there anybody in this bloody country who doesn't know Bill?

The cop grinned at me and I gave up.  I had ample reason to believe that
he thought I was the funniest thing since banana peels...still, yelling
made me feel so much better.

Head Flic:  Now...if you'll follow me, mademoiselle...

Deb:  What?  Why?

Head Flic:  Since we have no idea when Gillaume will be able to come and
claim you, and we have yet to hear from the young man, we will have to
ask you to wait in one of our comfortable...

Deb:  Cells...I don't need to go into any holding cell, you can just lock
me in an office with a newspaper with a lot of pictures and I'll be quiet,
I don't need to go to the drunk tank...

Where had that come from?

Head Flic:  I can assure you, you'll be spending your time with other 
ladies.

The way the smarmy bugger dropped the word 'ladies' was a dead giveaway.
I was going in with the hookers I had seen being herded out of a paddy
wagon as I was led inside.  My heart sank as I saw what inhabited the cell.
Hookers seemed to have what amounted to a universal fashion sense.  Bad.

Deb:  You hafta stick me in there?

His response was to have the matron unlock the door.  He gave me a fairly
gentle prod into the cell with the rest of the...curiously...dressed street
life.

Head Flic:  And we'll be sure to come for you the moment Gillaume arrives.

Oh, thanks loads, you're a real comedian, you French jerk.  The hostility
in the cell went up proportionately.

For a good hour I sat on the floor of the cell.  Nobody would surrender the
end of a bench to allow me to sit and besides, I discovered the air was
better down there.  The women smoked incessantly.  They muttered at me,
shot me bad looks...I held up my side by keeping my chin up and my face
full of utter disdain.  We were a happy group, needless to say.

There was one of the company who seemed to have a particular problem with
the officer's announcement, and at the end of the second hour she must have
decided she was going to deal with her feelings.  She stood up...and up, and
up...either the woman topped out at over six feet or it was the goddamn
four inch spikes on her Barbarella boots, in any event, she was up in the
rare air when she finally stopped rising, and she approached me menacingly.
I stayed seated, stretching a leg casually.  I was damned if the woman 
would know she made me nervous.

'Woman':  What are you to Guillaume?

Deb:  What's it to you what I am?

My old trick, a variation of what Bill called my 'Who's On First'
routine, answer a question with another question.

'Woman':  He is an old...friend.

Deb:  If I believed everything I was told, I'd have to swear he knew half
the world.  Say...you got a name or can I just call you bitch?

The woman reared back on her incredible heels and glared murderously
down at me.  I scratched the back of my neck, pretending to a calm I didn't
feel.

'Womam':  Mon nom est Marielle.

Deb:  Sure it is.  Anyhow, Marielle, what I am to Bill or what Bill is to
me is none of your goddamn business.

Marielle:  I will ask again, how do you know Gillaume?

This was apparently of some concern to the Michelin Woman.

Deb:  Guess I don't need to ask how you know him.  Put it this way, honey;
he doesn't need to pay me.

There was a mistake.  I figured if I was going to get my ass kicked, I
didn't have to make it easy for her.  I stood up.  This was going to get
seriously ugly in a serious hurry.

Marielle:  You are not in America.

Deb:  Goddamn shame, too.  I wouldn't be stuck in this kennel with Billy's
sloppy seconds, I'd be home with him...

That's right, dummy, rub it in.  'Specially when the odds are twenty to
one...

Just as I was trying to decide did I want to be the poundee or the pounder,
the door at the end of the hall slammed open and we all heard a familiar
voice.

Bill:  Woman!

The Hooker Brigade stood down instantly, and as the bootheels clocked
down the concrete corridor there was a great deal of hair smoothing and
skirt straightening.  I just stood.  Finally he appeared, stopped in front
the cell door, arms folded, staring in.

Bill:  Shit, girl, take my eyes off ya for five goddamn seconds...whatdja
do this time?

I didn't have time to explain.  The cell was unlocked and opened, Bill
reached inside and snatched me out.  I stumbled into his chest, felt him
catch me and straighten me up.  He got a tight grip on my wrist and started
up the hall, leaving me to scramble along as best I could.  I turned and
thumbed my nose at Marielle, cheerful as anything.  I felt completely
loved.

Just as we were coming into the main booking room, the little twerp I had
blasted came through the door.

Deb:  I was at the Louvre looking at the portrait of Napoleon again when
some little f...there he is!  He's the guy pinched my ass!

Bill fell out laughing.

Deb:  What the hell you laughing at...hyena...

Bill:  You clocked Francois?

Deb:  It appears I did...why?  You know this weasel?  Why not, you know
everybody else...

Bill:  What, ya pull your punch, baby?  Y'shoulda killed him!

Francois:  Weelyam...that...she...is your...

Bill was immediately serious, towering over the little Frenchman.

Bill:  She is mine.  You remember it, boy.

Bill gave the little twit a nudge that rattled his cage, then he took
my arm and hauled me back to the office of the little cop that had locked
me in with the hookers in the first place.

Bill:  How much t'get the girl out, Theo?

Theo:  Shall we say...five hundred?

Grumbing, Bill peeled five hundred francs off a roll of bills that was,
if anything, noticeably bigger than it had been when we arrived.  I had the
distinct feeling that there would be no receipt, and that this 500F sum
would not be finding its way into the police coffers.

Theo:  Also, Weelyam...

Bill:  I know.  Time t'go home.

Theo:  Six hours, Weelyam.

Bill:  Six hours?  I can't get a goddamn cab in six hours, let alone a 
flight outa here, Theo!  Damn, girl, I oughta blister you!

Theo:  Weelyam...it was not the lady...when Dad E. Warbucks crosses into
France, don't you think we know enough to look for our good friend,
Weelyam?  No, she did not help, rupturing the balls of Francois, but the
word was already on its way to Charles to tell you to...how do you say...
vamoose.

Deb:  Charles?

Bill:  Bastard Maurice.

Deb:  I like mine better.  Looky here, dude, am I off the hook?

Theo:  You are, indeed, mademoiselle.  Take your man home, eh?

Deb:  You don't take a bull noplace, but I'll try.

Bill instantly made a liar out of himself by stepping in front of a taxi.
He tossed me into the vehicle and directed the driver, in a stream of bad
French, to take us to the Palace.

Deb:  We're gonna have to skip the Bahamas, Bill.

Bill:  What in hell for?

Deb:  I got a call from Elmore, he's sicker than a dog and needs someone to
cover for him down at the Corner.

Bill sighed.  I felt a big hand on the back of my neck, rubbing gently.

Bill:  When you gonna quit thinkin' you need t'take care of that boy?

Deb:  But I don't need to, Billy, he does a hell of a job on his own.  	It's
just that it pleases me to fuss over him and I think it amuses him to let 
me.

Bill:  Boy needs t'find himself a woman.

Deb:  He has...but she's otherwise involved.  She's always otherwise
involved.

The taxi pulled to a halt in front of the Palace and a shove put me out
onto the sidewalk.  When we walked inside, Bastard Maurice simply extended
his arm from inside the Judas hole.  There was a fifty franc note on the
end of this rather scrofulous limb.  Bill snatched it and stuffed it into
my pocket.

Bill:  Give it t' the Punk here, she earned it.  Gettin' ready t'beat hell
outa Marielle when I got there.

If I had ever wondered where Bill's heart was, that little statement
told me beyond a shadow of a doubt.  If Bill was willing to lie me up, he
had to care more than he was willing to let on.

Maurice:  Shit saint!  Marielle is...is...

Bill:  Built like a brick shithouse.

I shrugged, grinned, quietly removed all the loose bills from my
pockets and transferred them to Bill's, including the fifty francs he had
just given me.

Bill:  Marielle's bigger, but my money's on this one after she walked into
George Cole and lived to tell about it.

His arm tightened painfully around my ribcage and I rode there, content.

Maurice:  Getting ready to make a currency exchange, Gillaume?

Bill:  Yup.

Bill dug his amazing wad of francs out, added my leavings to it, and 
handed it across.  He did the exchange right there.

First Bastard Maurice set aside some of Bill's francs for payment of 
the hotel bill, then he slipped a rubber finger on and counted the 
remaining francs, lips moving slightly.  He set this aside and removed 
from a drawer the absolute biggest stack of unbanded American currency 
I had seen in my entire life.  He consulted a slip of paper covered 
with spidery writing and appeared to do some figuring in his head.  He 
counted out some of the American bills and made a pile of these beside 
the francs.  More figuring...and he retained some of the American 
money.

Bill had quite obviously been doing his own figuring.

Bill:  Fifteen percent!  You thieving old bastard!

Maurice:  Pleasure doing business with you, Gillaume.

Deb:  Come on, Bill...we've only got six hours before they sic John Law
on us...

Bill:  He ain't tellin' nobody nothin', settle, woman.  Damn you, Charles,
it ain't ever been fifteen percent before!

Maurice:  You need to make the exchange?

Bill:  Dammit!

Maurice:  Then take it to the bank and try to explain to them how you came
by it all...

Bill:  Do I look like an idiot?

Maurice:  You look like a man who will pay fifteen percent for his currency
exchange.

Bill's face was darkening, the brows lowering.  I dragged at his arm,
though at first it was like tugging at a rock.  When I felt him rock toward
me slightly I knew I would win, but it was a long time before I felt that
slight give.

Maurice:  Come again, Gillaume.  And bring your lady.  And your money.

Bill:  Why you...

Deb:  Bill...come on...we have to get going.  You can't kick his ass, he's
too old.

Bill:  He'd get his goddamn sons on me...shit!  Goddamn thief.

I kept tugging on him and finally got him moving.  I didn't stop
moving myself until we were on the Concorde.  Then I fell asleep against a
leather jacketed shoulder.  I didn't really wake up until we had deplaned
in Lubbock, though I had vague memories of being walked at double time
through JFK International.  By the time Bill turned down the drive, I was
ready to go...and when I saw how sick Elmore was, it was just as well.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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