See "An Introduction to Detective Monica" for Full Disclaimers.

Part Three

It did turn out to be beer, but a lot stronger one than we had back home.  Whatever it was, it was great.  I chugged that sucker like I'd been dry for a year, and only reluctantly came up for breath when I was sure the last drop was gone.  Then I heaved another big sigh, looked wistfully at it, and handed it back to the big guy with a "Merci beaucoup." He sort of stared at me, then reached out his hand behind him and someone slapped another bottle into it.  I brightened, and sure enough, he handed me the second bottle, bless his heart!  So I chugged it, too.  Hey, I  said I was thirsty!  And that beer was  good!

There was a dead silence in the place, except for the music, when I came up for air again, but I didn't pay any attention; I was regretfully sure that after this one I'd have to start paying, despite their obvious politeness towards visitors to their country.  However, luckily, someone slapped  another bottle into the big guy's hand, and would you believe -- that sweetheart handed it right over to me!  He had a kind of funny expression, but I didn't pay any attention; I just grabbed the bottle before he could change his mind and disposed of it as fast as I could.  It was still silent when I lowered the third bottle, and I was kinda hopefully looking for another to appear -- that beer was better than food -- when the natural result of chugging three beers on an empty stomach occurred.  Fortunately, Europeans are a lot more realistic about some things than Americans -- so I wasn't  too embarrassed when a sudden long rumble of a . . . no, it wasn't a burp, it was an actual . . . ok, so I belched.  Loudly.  With satisfaction, yet.

Well, you woulda thought I'd just announced I'd buy several rounds for the house!  There was this uproar of laughing and yells, and the next thing I knew I was sitting on the bar, courtesy of the hulking guy, and everyone was waving their bottles and applauding.  The hulking guy even kissed my hand, for heaven's sake!!  Then he roars something and the bartender -- no small guy himself, he'd be called 'Tiny' back home -- pops out of the back and yells back and forth a couple of times with the hulk.  After a bit of this, he slams back through the doors into the kitchen, then comes back out almost immediately with this plate of -- well, I'm not sure what the heck it was, but it smelled wonderful and tasted better, and had lots of good, crusty, buttered French bread to go with it.  And several more bottles of that wonderful beer.

After a few hours, I was stuffed, rested, awful damned happy, and feeling no pain.  Plus I'd gained a lot of new friends, all of whom offered to escort me home safely.  However, the hulk -- whose real name turned out to be Jean-Pierre -- shouted most of them down and declared that he and two others would take me home; sort of a royal escort, like, with outriders in case of trouble.  Such a sweetie!  He said such a beautiful American woman shouldn't be allowed out on the dangerous streets of Paris alone, and they'd deliver me safely to the arms of my man.  Isn't that romantic? Well, that's the French for you.

I was laughing with the rest and applauding that little speech when the door opened again; and you'll  never guess who I saw when I glanced over!  I was so surprised all I could do was gape, because boy, did he look out of place!  Standing there by the door, elegant clothes and all, not a hair ruffled by visiting the kind of establishment I sort of doubted he'd been in much -- anyway, it was Mr. Amber Eyes, Mahoud!

Naturally, of course, he recognized me.  (Well, hey, he'd seen me twice.) Those gorgeous but cold eyes pinned me, and he started sauntering over to where I was sitting -- which happened to be back on the bar again, Jean-Pierre said I'd get squashed like a beetle around all those big guys if we weren't careful.  (I say again, bikers are lovely people.) I began to get a nasty feeling when he started over, but as it turned out, I needn't have worried.  First of all, bikers are -- well, they're not really glad to have people intruding on their turf.  Someone like me, fine.  Arrogant guys like Mahoud, acting as if he was surrounded by a bunch of flies instead of people, no.  It had gone quiet as soon as he came in, and the silence just got louder the closer he got to me, although he was acting like he didn't notice.  A very cool customer.

The second reason I needn't have worried?  Well . . .  here's what happened; as I remember it, anyway.  (Remember, I'd had about 7 or 8 of those extra strong beers by then.) Mahoud slinks up to me, looks me up and down, and says, "You're disgustingly drunk, and shouldn't be here.  Come."  (Yes, he knew English after all, I didn't suddenly miraculously acquire a working knowledge of French.)  Then he grabs my arm, pulls me off the bar, and starts trying to drag me outta the place, like I belonged to him or something!!!  Of course, you know me.  If even a  regular boyfriend tried that with me I'd sock him one, or worse.  The first thing I did was hit a pressure point on his hand with a thumb, gouging in as hard as I could.  The second thing I did was screech at the top of my lungs, "Who the hell are  you, I don't know you, and what are you trying to do to me?!!"

It was a good thing I did both; all he did at the thumb was wince a bit and tighten his grip.  But while bikers won't interfere with what's going on between a guy and his old lady -- well, interfering with  another guy's old lady is a no-no!  It's like poaching, y'know? A very dangerous thing to do with a bro's woman.

So as soon as I yelled that, Jean-Pierre began frowning, and so did all the rest of the guys in the bar.  Then Jean-Pierre said, "You mean this is not your man?"

As fast as I could I said, "No, this is  not Duncan MacLeod, I don't know him and I think he's trying to kidnap me!" Just in case, y'know -- if all else failed, he'd have to come up with a pretty fast explanation of why none of his ID was in the name of MacLeod.  Then I told Mahoud to let go of me, only in a little less polite way than that -- and at even louder volume than my first protest.

Mahoud turned and snarled at me, and all the guys in the bar stood up.  He gabbled out some quick French, and everyone sort of hesitated while Jean-Pierre rumbled another question in French, which made me  very nervous . . .  so while Mahoud was distracted, I swiped one of those ubiquitous beer bottles, stood up on tiptoe, and whacked him in the head with it.  Unfortunately, even on tiptoes I couldn't reach his head too well.  The blow just made him whirl around and smack me one in the face with his free hand, which of course knocked me down flat on the floor.  And  that was when all hell broke loose.

I mean, geeze, all the guys in the bar were my  friends by now.  They'd rescued me, fed me, bought me beer, and were gonna get me safe back to my man -- it was like a mission now, or something, y'know? I was under their protection.  Then this stranger turns up, lords it over them with sheer attitude, grabs me, then  hits me?? When he's not my man? Nuh-uh.  Nope.  Although I've gotta admit, Mahoud was a pretty good fighter; I've got to give him credit for trying, although he's obviously an idiot.  He had some real pretty moves, and he was fast and awfully strong -- but let's face it, one guy against an entire bar full of bikers with fists and chains and pool cues and brass knucks and boots and the occasional cosh? When they've been drinking? Forget it.

Naturally I had the sense to hop over and slide down  behind the bar and keep a wary eye on the action while crouching down a bit -- I may have mentioned, it's not the first time I've been caught in a bar brawl -- and boy, was there some action!  Jean-Pierre  especially had a real cute little move where he smashed a bottle against his head, then- Oh well, you had to be there.  'Sides, I'm sure you've seen enough fights yourself -- or on TV -- to sort of see it in your mind.  The upshot was that Mahoud went scrambling outta there just as the gendarmes arrived, with half the bikers boiling out of the place after him.  Although I have  no idea who called the cops -- it sure wasn't the bikers!  Or Tiny, for that matter.

Then oh, my -- the funny Euro-sirens and screaming and yelling and flying chairs and breaking glass and revving hogs and cracking tables and whistles and flying bodies, and more whistles and thumps and thuds and crashes!!!!  It was a  glorious fight!  Tiny and I turned out to be a great team; I'd pop up from behind the bar, whap someone on the head with a cosh he thoughtfully loaned me . . .  and when that got the guy's attention (the one I'd hit, I mean), he'd turn around, I'd smile brilliantly, and while he was distracted and staring, Tiny would deck him with a fist the size of a small ham.  I think we calmed down around 30% of the clientele, but I'm not positive -- all that beer, you know.  I  know we accidentally got a couple of the gendarmes.

Which is why I'm in jail at the moment.  Not the  worst jail I've ever been in . . .  compared to the ones in Tijuana, for instance, this one is quite nice.  Of course, not as nice as a U.S.  jail -- they're a lot more cushy.  But I must say the cockroach problem isn't  nearly as bad as it was in that one in Mexico where- nawww, you don't need to hear that whole horrible story.  I'm sure I've told you before, anyway; don't want to bore you with old war stories.

Anyway, they found a translator for me and managed to process me pretty quick and got me to the holding cell.  Meanwhile, as I started out to explain way back when, they listened to me quite politely while I explained the entire sequence of events, and the fact that coshing any gendarmes was purely an accident, not intentional.  It helped that I have a beautiful bruise just coming up on my cheek, and that it kept getting darker and darker as they were interviewing me.  (You know how my skin marks so easily, you  breathe on it and I bruise!  Which is great for showing off hickeys in high school, but as you get older, it gets really tiring to be out with your boyfriend and having people giving you sympathetic looks 'cause they think you're a battered woman!  And sometimes they try an intervention, and of  course don't believe you when -- aww, fergit it.) But this time it was handy.  I mean, it  obviously was brand-new -- they couldn't get all snuffy and try to blame it on an argument with my boyfriend!  Not only that, but all the guys from the bar were swearing at the top of their lungs that Mahoud was the one that hit me, not M.  MacLeod, and that he (Mahoud) just marched in and tried to grab me.  (They were still going through booking -- a lot more guys than women at the bar, as I said.)

This was good, as Mahoud, the slippery devil, had somehow managed to elude capture.  I dunno how he did it, but the guy must have one helluva kick when he runs!

Of course, I corroborated the bit about Mahoud grabbing then hitting me, and said MacLeod would never dream of hitting me.  This one blonde detective or something -- a woman in civvies, anyway, one tough-looking babe -- got a real funny look at the name 'MacLeod', and sort of closed her eyes a bit and swallowed.  Then she asked me if that was Duncan MacLeod who resided in a barge down at a moorage by Notre Dame?  I looked at her, all surprised, you know, and said yeah, that's my boyfriend.  She got this resigned look then, and called Duncan  herself!  Well, I dunno if the French judicial system allows you to make a phone call.  I mean, they judge you guilty until proven innocent, and have the Napoleonic Code, and a lot of other differences than our courts, of course.  Not that I know the exact differences,  I'm no expert!!

Anyway, she called him as they took me away to the holding cell -- I was gonna pipe up about talking to Duncan myself, then decided not to -- they weren't using matrons but big, burly guys to escort me back to the holding cells.  'Sides, after the second body search in less than a week, I was a little leery about the French police, Learning Experience or no.  Well, I saw why they were using the big guys when I got there; you never  saw such a bunch of delinquents in your life!!  Mostly teenage girls; pretty nice, actually, after I demonstrated my knowledge of pressure points for a couple of them who got a little pushy about things.  You just have to establish who has the upper hand, y'know; these are the sort of girls who didn't get raised according to Miss Manners.  But once you show 'em you're not gonna take any guff, why, they turn sweet and nice as pie.

As for the street girls, well, no problems there.  They're too smart to wanna damage the merchandise.  'Sides, you could tell they figured I was pretty high class.  LOL!  Anyway, you could see 'em look, think "Uh-oh, well taken care of, her pimp will be royally pissed if she gets bunged up any more, not to mention  my pimp if  I get bunged up" -- then they looked away sort of bored-like, kind of like cats, you know.  That "if I wanted to fight I could whip your tail, but I'm not really interested in it right now, and besides, it's beneath me, so I'll just sort of ignore you" look.

Besides, there was another reason not to futz around with me -- all the other women at the bar were slung in the same cell as me, eventually -- prior records, you know, the cops had to look 'em up so they took a bit longer -- and of  course everyone else recognized 'em for what they were.  And when it appeared I was  friends with 'em . . .  well, let's say no problems reared their ugly heads.  You don't mess with bikers  or their old ladies!

Which is why I'm able to get started writing on this, although I'll still email it, of course -- but this way I can get a head start.  Leonie, one of the biker chicks (she's got this really pretty silver-gilt hair with lovely purple zigzags, talk about high-fashion!  And 5 nose rings in one nostril -- I wonder what she does when she has a cold, blows just through the one without the rings??) -- anyway, she had this old placemat they didn't bother to put in with her stuff in those little envelopes -- she gave it to me to write on, bless her, plus a pencil they missed somehow, although how they could miss a sharp object I'll never know.  But point for future reference -- apparently French police don't search long hair during a body search.  Good thing to keep in mind; you never know  what little tidbit of info may come in handy some day.

So, anyway, that's how I got in here, propped up in a comfy corner and scribbling away, surrounded protectively by my new friends, all of 'em glaring aggressively at the other occupants of our cell.  Now how can people talk about bikers being anti-social and all that?  I'll never understand . . .

****

Whew, back on the computer again, hallelujah!!

And, I might say, being spoiled royally . . . enough to make up for Bilge Day.  I've decided to forgive Duncan for that.  But boy, you should have seen his expression when-

Well, let me take it in order.  I probably wasn't in the holding cell for more than an hour when the hall door creaks open and those two big goons came walking down and one of 'em mangles my name atrociously.  Fortunately I recognized it (you should have  heard what it came out like!).  So I real quick hugged all the biker chicks -- especially Leonie -- good-bye and hoped I'd see 'em again, only back at the bar, not in jail -- then I skedaddled outta there.  I was so glad to be out I nearly kissed the goons!  Jails give me the willies; all the fault of that Mexican one when I-- oh, yeah, you know about that.

So the goons grab me as if I'm some sort of desperate criminal and march me out to that blonde detective's desk.  The place was still in chaos; well, they had close to 80 bikers to get processed, and it only looked like they were down by about 30 or so.  The detective -- I never did catch her name -- was looking real harassed, although I smiled when I saw who she was busy with; it was Jean-Pierre!  Then she saw me being frogmarched up to her, and got this really sour look, like she'd just bitten down on a lemon.  By this time the goons had thumped me down in a chair, and were leaving, so I just gave her a sunny grin and waited to hear what she had to say.

Well, she hardly opens her mouth when I hear a familiar voice say my name in a shocked sort of way -- and I look to the side and there's Duncan!  With this horrified look on his face; that was because of the bruise.  It was quite dramatic-looking by then, although I didn't realize it until we got back home and I took a look.  Then I nearly fainted, it looked like I'd been kissed by a Peterbilt wearing blue-black lipstick!  It's practically the whole side of my face, I'm going to look  awful for  weeks!!!  But I didn't even think of that then, I was so glad to see him.  I just jumped up and practically leaped into his arms and kissed him, although that was about the time I found out that it was gonna hurt to kiss anyone for a while.  I even almost cried!  Fortunately I managed not to.

But boy, you should have heard Duncan tear into that detective!  He hung on protectively to me and was yelling about them not having a doctor see me, not giving me so much as an ice pack, not telling him I was injured, not doing this, that and the other thing . . . I had a ball just listening, although half of it was in French.  Jean-Pierre was looking on admiringly too, though, so I figured the French bits were just as good as the English ones.  Anyhoo, after much yelling back and forth -- I swear, Duncan gets almost as excitable as the French do ever since we've got here, what happened to that British stiff upper lip?  Maybe that doesn't go for a Scot??  He calmed down a bit, though, when the detective said they were letting me off with a small fine, and would be pursuing any leads on Mahoud.  Duncan got all poker-backed at the mention of him, but didn't say much after that.  He was almost ready to drag me out of there when I got his attention and introduced him to Jean-Pierre, who was grinning through his beard at me.

Of course, the first thing Jean-Pierre said was, "Oho,  this is your man, no?  He is more like what I would have thought you would pick,  petite!  A strong one, with a temper, who knows how to take care of his woman; especially an extraordinary one like you!" Which was all very flattering, to both of us; so I grinned like crazy while Duncan transferred me to his other arm and reached out to shake Jean-Pierre's hand.  He looked kinda puzzled, though, so I explained how Jean-Pierre and the guys had helped me.  Then Duncan practically shook his hand  off and spouted off a bunch of French that must've really impressed Jean-Pierre, 'cause he beamed all over and poured out a torrent of French himself.  I, of course, waited patiently through all this; the detective wasn't quite so patient, but she kept her mouth shut.  Then when Duncan was done, I put my hand out to Jean-Pierre to thank him . . . and that sweetie, he bounced up out of his chair,  bowed over my hand and kissed it, then swept me into a bearhug and kissed me on both cheeks.  Very gently on the bruised side.

Well, hey, I couldn't let the American side down -- so I returned the favor and said if he ever got to America, be sure to drop in for a visit if he made it to Seacouver, I'd introduce him to the local clubs.  Jean-Pierre grinned and said he surely would -- boy, I'll have to make sure I know where the new Angels clubhouse is!  (The Jokers haven't been raided for a while, I think they're still in their old place, so  that's no problem.)  Then I thanked him for the beer and the lunch, too -- he says it's nothing, and I obviously have a wonderfully capable man, who certainly does have a way with words -- this with an approving and somewhat admiring look at Duncan, who's been looking at the detective rather grimly during this, while she looks harassed; at which Jean-Pierre grins even wider.  (Well, hey, Duncan in Pissed-Off Mode does definitely look dangerous.  Sorta like a black panther who's missed his last three kills and doesn't give a damn who he jumps next, he just wants to kill something.  And at this point he  was pissed.  Although I would like to know exactly what he said to that detective during the French bits.)

Then Jean-Pierre hugged me again, and finally we started to begin to commence to get ready to leave, as my grandmother used to say.  Much to the relief of that woman detective.  Of course, all the rest of the guys from the bar still going through booking waved and whistled and cheered while we were going out, which made Duncan get this kinda funny look on his face . . . but as I told him, you know how men are with someone they've rescued, they get this kinda proprietary feeling, like you're a mascot or something.  Duncan just nodded and said something rather faintly about explaining when we got home, he was just glad I was okay.

First, of course, he insisted we go to the emergency room and get me checked out.  Well, actually, that wasn't  quite the first thing we did.  The  first thing he did outside the police station was to pick me up and give me one of the longest, sweetest kisses I've ever had.  It sure made me forget that my cheek hurt like crazy!  Then he set me down and hugged me really tight and started apologizing, for practically everything . . . for going out and leaving me alone that morning, for getting me involved in his problem with Mahoud, for not being around when Mahoud ran into me (well, honestly, get real, man!) . . . then for not getting to the police station fast enough, and for not thinking of asking if I was hurt so he could've yelled over the phone about getting a doctor . . .  Well, geeze, I thought he was going to apologize for killing Kennedy or something at this rate!!  So I managed to pry one arm loose from the grip he had me in and put it over his mouth.

This, naturally, made him lift his head and look at me.  Then I could smile -- well, with half my mouth, anyway -- and tell him to stop apologizing for everything in the world, none of this was  his fault!  And how about we get in the car so he could give me a another kiss and hug in a little more privacy?  Then he gets this soft, goofy look in his eyes, hugs me tight again, and agrees.  And  boy did he give me a kiss when we got to the car!  No, not the kind that makes you wonder if you suddenly lost all your clothes suddenly, or something like that.  It was another one like he'd just given me.  The kind that's so sweet and loving it makes you wanna cry.  Which, if course, I successfully fought back again, although now I was starting to feel a little bit shaky -- reaction, you know.  So when he insisted we go to the hospital, I didn't protest too much, even though I hate those places.

And, as usual, this one was as bad as they were back home.  An officious looking twit pokes and prods and acts surprised when you yell loudly after he does something -- then he or she says with an air of wonder and amaze, "Does that hurt?"  As if the thought never occurred to them and it's the first time it's ever happened.  I must say one thing, this doctor's English was very good; he understood every word I screamed at him when he asked that same dumb question!  Of course, this wasn't the end of it, oh no.  Next it was hang around and wait for X-rays, hang around and wait for 'em to be developed, hang around and wait for the doctor to get them, then hang around while he hems and haws so he makes it look like he's worth the outrageous bill they're gonna send ya -- on and on and on.  Until  finally he condescends to tell us that I have a severe haemetoma of the tissue of my cheek and a slight concussion of the cheekbone.  To which I says, "Bad bruises on top of a bone bruise, huh?  I coulda told you that 3 hours ago!!  So when the blankety-blank-blank are you gonna give me some pain pills for it, huh?!"

Gee, I wonder if they give doctors acting lessons . . . like Facial Expression No. 214, for use when taking patients down a peg?  Cause he got that same pained expression my doctor back home did when I told her  why all the bruises from a fight with my boyfriend were on one side . . . it was because I had my teeth buried as deep as I could get in one of his wrists, but that's neither here nor there.  That guy was a creep, and the first time he hit me was the last time I saw him.  I don't put up with that sort of thing.

So the doctor looked disapproving, and went on and one about addictions and so forth, then painstakingly wrote out a prescription -- and y'know, French doctors write just as horribly as American doctors!  -- and handed it over to Duncan as if I couldn't be trusted to do anything as responsible as hang onto a piece of paper for a bit.  Well, Duncan kinda hustled me outta there pretty quick.  The pain musta been getting to me, 'cause I was pretty clear on what I thought of the French medical system.  Although I did at least keep my voice down.  Duncan just kept nodding and agreeing with me, and as soon as we got the pills, he insisted I take two right away, no matter what the prescription said.  So I did.

Continued

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