Les Bains

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

She didn’t even need to get laid. That was the thing. It didn’t help much anyways. It wasn’t always a guaranteed sleep aid. It wasn’t always an ego boost. Madeleine couldn’t really remember why she’d come to the bar tonight. She remembered—vaguely now—that she’d really, really wanted to be here earlier. Now, all she wanted was to slither out the door. Maybe take a drunken swim in the Seine. She did that once with Ashton. Back when she and Myron broke up ages ago. Muddy water baptism. By the power of the holy spirit, you are now single again.

But seriously. She was doing this. She was hooking up with a stranger that Myron picked for her because, honestly, he needed to understand that he’d let a good thing—the best thing he ever had—go while he went and played superhero for his brother. His brother who was dead anyways. Fat load of good saving him did. They could have been married now, Madeleine and Myron, living in a penthouse apartment and screwing each other between painting the kitchen and balancing the check book. Hah.

Nope. That did not sound appealing. Not very anyways, which was something.

“Mhmm. Now do we have standards as far as IQ or good humor or concerned?” Myron asked. He seemed to be watching someone across the room. A guy who was talking way too much. Madeleine wanted to gag. She was at his mercy, wasn’t she? F*ck. “Or are we just going for the looks thing and you can gag him to shut up if you need to?”

“That sounds delightfully kinky,” Madeleine said with false enthusiasm.

She shook her head. She’d wanted to gag that Easy Cat Tanner kid back when she and Myron broke up the first time about a zillion years ago. Kid talked so much that even knowing his way around a hotel room hadn’t put him back in her good graces. She wasn’t doing that again. No way. She also wasn’t telling Myron about it because as hil-ar-ious a story as it was, it would also entail telling Myron that when he left her—whenever he left her and for whatever reason—she was a hot mess. That she’d screwed some legal tender boychick once because he called her names and that she’d do it again over and over now that he didn’t love her anymore.

She needed a smoke.

“No,” she said. “We are not tying up some poor, defenseless d-bag in my bedroom. Besides, I’m out of rope.”

And even if she had a whole bunch, Madeleine de Chandon would be fastening a pretty little noose right about now. Jesus. She was really doing this? Having a conversation about S&M with her ex? She kept telling herself it could be worse. But, really, the only thing to make this more awkward would be if Ortiz and Aryeh were watching them right now. Surreptitiously, she checked to make sure they weren’t. It would be just her luck if Myron set up Candid Camera somewhere. Nope. No sign of anyone else she knew. Okay. Good. Maybe she wouldn’t have to hang herself after all.

“I don’t know,” she said scanning the bar. “I’ve never actually used a wingman before. I’m trusting your judgment, Myron. I just need someone who won’t… you know… turn out to be a crazy axe-murderer in the morning. And who can—of course—keep up. That’s a must.”

[Deleted]

Myron Bolitar



“That sounds delightfully kinky.”

Myron wanted to delightfully throw up. This couldn’t be healthy. This wasn’t progress in his life, this was a full few steps behind. Sure, it was humorous to the outside eye. This entire wingman ordeal, and the banter was still there. But who was he kidding? Myron Bolitar had started something that wasn’t going to do him good in the long run.

He took another sip of his drink.

“No. We are not tying up some poor, defenseless d-bag in my bedroom. Besides, I’m out of rope.”

And she had jokes… How great. Myron Bolitar took another sip. The alcohol was beginning to kick in. He could always tell because the first sign was when his teeth began tingling. Shockingly, it was not when he offered to be his ex’s wingman. Nope, that was sober Myron.

“I don’t know. I’ve never actually used a wingman before. I’m trusting your judgment, Myron. I just need someone who won’t… you know… turn out to be a crazy axe-murderer in the morning. And who can—of course—keep up. That’s a must.”

Finishing off his drink, Myron let out a scoff rolling his eyes and looking straight ahead. “Sure. Because people have ‘I’m not an axe-murderer’ written on their forehead.”

“This is crazy, Madeleine.” Myron murmured, looking at his empty glass and licking his teeth. He shook his head and shrugged. What the hell was he doing? What the hell were they doing? “I know I’m the one who said I’d do it but-“

Then the bartender gave him another drink. Myron Bolitar looked up at the bartender and he got an idea. Why not that guy? The guy was right in front of him and Myron wouldn’t have to look through a sea of people tonight. This would save him time and pride. He wouldn’t be chickening out. The bartender was middle aged, good looking for what a straight guy could judge, and he served a mean drink.

“The bartender!" Myron slapped the bar in accomplishment. “There, sold. Go at it like rabbits.” He swallowed, "I'll be...drinking."

He began drinking again.

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

Madeleine wanted a cigarette. She wanted five. She wanted three hundred thousand until her lungs filled up with rotting tar and she keeled over dead. Seriously. This was not going well. Bad S&M jokes. Myron rolling his eyes. Jesus. What was this? Madeleine’s own personal circle of hell? If she had things her way… She didn’t know what she’d have. She’d have Myron apologizing for abandoning her and for hating her now because he was too busy hurting. She’d have another drinks. She’d have a crazy-hot-threesome with…

Oh, wait. No, never mind. That was a different fantasy for a different time in her life.

She would not have Myron making snide remarks about tattooed foreheads that said “not an axe murderer”. She would not have been fighting with him.

But, hey. You don’t get everything you wish for.

“This is crazy, Madeleine,” said Myron. “I know I’m the one who said I’d do it but-“

Coward. Backing out.

“The bartender!" Myron slapped the bar in accomplishment. “There, sold. Go at it like rabbits.” He swallowed, "I'll be...drinking."

“Wow, really mature,” Madeleine said. “First rule of clubbing: don’t piss where you drink. Staff is off limits.”

And then Madeleine put her head in her hands. Her fingertips were freezing cold on her forehead. She shut her eyes. What kind of girl did Myron take her for, anyways? The kind who had no standards? Well, her last serious boyfriend had been him, so that really had more to say about Myron’s self-esteem, didn’t it?

Unconvinced by that notion, Madeleine tried to bat the thought away. There was no way Myron thought of himself as bottom barrel. She didn’t think of him that way, either. She tried to think about the choreography for Swan Lake. She tried to think about fashion week coming up. She tried to think about buying cigarettes after all this.


But, seriously. What kind of girl did Myron think she was? Some dumb floozy? Someone he could pretend to care about for years and years, disappear on, only to—what?—half-heartedly humiliate? Men sucked. Really, really sucked. How hard would it be for him to just admit that leaving right before the wedding—for whatever reason—was not okay? Every time they’d talked since then, nothing went right. It wasn’t all Madeleine’s fault. Yeah, she’d left. She’d left second. After Myron disappeared without so much as a by-your-leave. With his twenty-something year old niece, who he’d never introduced. Or mentioned. Or known about. After he picked people he scarcely knew over her. After everyone told her all signs pointed to a cold-footed groom. After months. She wanted her life together. Was that a crime? Was it wrong to go it alone? She didn’t need him wingmanning for her if he was going to be an *ss about it. She could find her own dates. Her eyes hurt behind her hands. God, she wanted those cigarettes. Loads of ‘em. Until she died of lung cancer. Then maybe Myron might have a real reason to drink himself into a stupor. Lost the brother. Lose the girl.

Madeleine pushed away from the bar and stood up. She wobbled in her heels just a bit. Tipsy, not drunk.

“I’m heading out,” she announced, unsure why she was telling Myron that. “Other stuff to see, other folks to talk to.”

Actually, she was going to the store. She wasn’t kidding about those cigarettes. She imagined lighting them off the stovetop in her apartment and filling the living room with a bluish haze until the alarms went off and the fire brigade was called and her super got pissed off. Again.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

Even from the car, as Georgette pulled up, she could hear the steady thumping of the bass and loud talking of the patrons. Georgette couldn’t help but to wonder “why here?” as she put the car into park. Her relationship with Santiago thrived on sarcastic badinage, and at the moment, not much else. They were in a constant power play, trying to top the other in wit and wordplay; a modern-day Petrucchio and Kate in that morgue, constantly intrigued and fanning at the fires of a playful bicker. Why would he pick here where they couldn’t hear each other?

Because no one will be able to hear you scream… And though this was thought in jest, she double-checked for the pepper-spray in her bag.

She got out of her car, locking it, double locking it behind her and made her way into the club, her boots clicking, growing increasingly softer as she approached the source of the loud music.

And there was Santiago; tall dark and handsome, all wrapped up in a delicious leather jacket and a shawl of cigarette smoke. She would have felt practically carnal looking at him outside of the professional atmosphere had he not been smoking. She had examined countless bodies of emphysema and lung cancer patients, their lungs black mush, and she couldn’t help but imagine what Santiago’s looked like. It was a sorry, ironic sight to see such a delectable looking man fill his lungs up with tar and filth, to look so good on the outside and so rotten on the inside.

But she shook it off. Used to cigarette smoke from her father, she didn’t bother holding her breath. “I know. I’m late. I hope you didn’t think I was standing you up or anything.”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Looks could be deceiving. Santiago had come to Les Bains once or twice, prowling for a pretty girl to dance with or else for drinks to be had. But it wasn’t until his third time at the club he noticed the rooftop restaurant.

Had there not been a Thai restaurant on the roof, Santiago would never have set foot in this poppy, glitterati-infested hellhole ever again.

But that last time he swore off Les Bains, a passing waiter’s tray caught his attention. It smelled spicy and different. A bit of research told Santiago the food had been Thai (some sort of curry) and that Les Bains was more than a superficial dance club. The stairs did not lead to a lounge or more of the same bad music and lusty dancing, but to a top-rated restaurant.

Looks deceived even trained eyes at first glance.

But second or third? Inexcusable. Santiago was a Private Investigator now.

Or as good as.

He was for tonight’s purposes. Private Investigator Santiago Luis Guadalupe Casteneda-Ortiz was on a date with Medical Examiner Georgette Duguay tonight. The Garduna, the fisherman’s son, the stage manager, all stayed home tonight, waiting anxiously for Santiago’s return.

Despite all this separation of self, Santiago was nervous. He sucked on his second cigarette of the night, leaning against the building. The smoke cloud outlined him, making him look and feel hazy. Which, he supposed, he needed.

Santiago didn’t usually get nervous.

He wasn’t nervous.

He just wondered if Les Bains would satisfy Georgette’s request. Dinner and drinks. If she turned out to be the sort who wanted “dancing” tacked on to that list, they were set. Santiago scanned the horizon. A line formed outside the club. They had reservations; no line-waiting tonight. Women were dressed in micro-mini dresses that flaunted their bodies. Georgette had them beat—she didn’t need higher hemlines to catch Santiago’s eye.

Santiago had to admit it. He was nervous now. She wasn’t anywhere in sight. He took another drag from his cigarette.

And then, through the crowd, Georgette came into view. Santiago smiled at her, drinking her in from head to toe. Each dark curl bounced when she walked, kissing her half-bared shoulders. The slouchy shirt hid much of her body, but Georgette’s skintight pants left no curve to the imagination.

And then Santiago got to her boots. He could imagine her, holding him tight, riding on his motorcycle through the streets of Paris. Pressed to him and warm. Safe, too, since she was dressed for the occasion.

Suddenly, Santiago didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be on his Harley with Georgette, zipping to some part of his world he wasn’t supposed to still love, showing her the run-down flower shop in La Zone Fonecee he got all the Garnier’s floral arrangements or the bar in Le Peripherie, where he could get the best sangria in all of Paris. Or the Garnier’s rooftops, to which he still had a key… Adventures denied them because Santiago was a private investigator and not a gangster and not a stage manager. The fantasy of Georgette perched on his bike was probably just that: a fantasy.

But, d*mn, was it fun to dream.

She reached him, this would-be-biker-goddess, and smiled.

“I know. I’m late,” she said. “I hope you didn’t think I was standing you up or anything.”

“No, I didn’t think that.” Santiago’s grin was decidedly lopsided. “You didn’t strike me as the type of girl who’d back down.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

The semi-permeable door opened to let another party in and Georgette could see the multi-chromatic lights twisting and bouncing around, doing their own dance above the clubbers. Greens and blues and fire reds all flashed about, causing Georgette to wonder just how many light-induced seizures there would be that night Looking at from outside, she didn’t want to go in, but the moment the door snapped shut and the doorman turned a couple away, Georgette wanted nothing more than to go in.

“No, I didn’t think that,” Santiago said loudly for Georgette to hear over the popular, edgy music. “You didn’t strike me as the type of girl who’d back down.”

“Oh?” She asked, “what kind of girl did you take me for?”