French Twist
by Joe Giordano
About the author:
Joe Giordano’s stories have appeared in more than one hundred magazines including The Saturday Evening Post and Shenandoah. His novels include Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story, Appointment with ISIL (Harvard Square Editions), Drone Strike and his short story collection, Stories and Places I Remember (Rogue Phoenix Press). http://joe-giordano.com
Joe Giordano’s stories have appeared in more than one hundred magazines including The Saturday Evening Post and Shenandoah. His novels include Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story, Appointment with ISIL (Harvard Square Editions), Drone Strike and his short story collection, Stories and Places I Remember (Rogue Phoenix Press). http://joe-giordano.com
I couldn’t help being impressed by the influence of American culture. Sitting in the lobby of a three-star Paris hotel not far from Bois de Boulogne, I observed a gathering of young people decked out in the latest bohemian-modern styling: tattoos aplenty, including full back displays by women, piercings – imagining some I couldn’t see, multi-colored hair, with ear buds at the ready for retreat into their skulls. Except for the French swirling around me, I could’ve been in Manhattan’s East Village. Despite the similar dress, I reminded myself that the French aren’t Americans with accents. They think differently and respond differently in the same situations. One thing was common, though, despite our being in a small space, they ignored me. I was used to being treated like background noise in most social situations. When these young people left the lobby, none would be able to recall my face.
My musing was disturbed by a sweep of action. A brace of police in blue directed that the front door be locked, not allowing anyone to leave. A plainclothes detective raised his voice, and his words caused a buzz among the French kids. Not understanding the language, when he’d finished, I approached and asked what was going on.
“Why do you presume I speak English?” he asked curtly.
“ESP,” I responded matter-of-factly.
He eyed me for a moment before saying, “There’s been an incident inside the hotel, and we will question the guests. Take a seat until it’s your turn.”
Fortunately, I had no appointments, only planning to walk to the Musée d’Orsay. As a crime had apparently taken place, I felt a surge of excitement. My trip had been a bit boring. Now, I’d have a story to tell when I returned home, although, frankly, I didn’t know who’d be interested enough to listen.
I had a coffee, and about an hour later, a cop ushered me into a first-floor room and the detective I’d spoken to in the lobby gestured for me to take a simple wooden chair across from him.
“I’m Captain Badeaux. What is your name?”
“Max Caspian.”
He had a list of guests that he checked me against.
“What do you do, Mr. Caspian?”
“I’m a consultant in New York.”
His eyebrows rose. “And what do you consult?”
This question always made me uncomfortable. Not that I was ashamed or embarrassed by my profession, but the reaction of people when I told them often varied from disbelief to derision.
“I’m a psychic.”
Badeaux sat back, but his face remained impassive.
My musing was disturbed by a sweep of action. A brace of police in blue directed that the front door be locked, not allowing anyone to leave. A plainclothes detective raised his voice, and his words caused a buzz among the French kids. Not understanding the language, when he’d finished, I approached and asked what was going on.
“Why do you presume I speak English?” he asked curtly.
“ESP,” I responded matter-of-factly.
He eyed me for a moment before saying, “There’s been an incident inside the hotel, and we will question the guests. Take a seat until it’s your turn.”
Fortunately, I had no appointments, only planning to walk to the Musée d’Orsay. As a crime had apparently taken place, I felt a surge of excitement. My trip had been a bit boring. Now, I’d have a story to tell when I returned home, although, frankly, I didn’t know who’d be interested enough to listen.
I had a coffee, and about an hour later, a cop ushered me into a first-floor room and the detective I’d spoken to in the lobby gestured for me to take a simple wooden chair across from him.
“I’m Captain Badeaux. What is your name?”
“Max Caspian.”
He had a list of guests that he checked me against.
“What do you do, Mr. Caspian?”
“I’m a consultant in New York.”
His eyebrows rose. “And what do you consult?”
This question always made me uncomfortable. Not that I was ashamed or embarrassed by my profession, but the reaction of people when I told them often varied from disbelief to derision.
“I’m a psychic.”
Badeaux sat back, but his face remained impassive.
Like the sample? Read the whole story in the Summer 2021 issue of Guilty Crime Story Magazine!
