Midtown Mayhem

What’s in a Name?

It was my high-school baseball coach who first hung the nickname on me. Of the nine pitchers on his staff, eight were right-handed. When asked who the starting pitcher against Syracuse would be, he replied, Let’s send out the lefty. The name stuck throughout college, the minors, and my first six years in the majors. It became problematic for me when I was traded to Philadelphia – for you see, they already had a Lefty.

He was born Steven Norman Carlton. He made his debut with the Cardinals in 1965. A tall, imposing man, blessed with a hard fastball and nasty slider, he was soon known as an intimidating and dominating pitcher. Following a protracted salary dispute, St. Louis Cardinals owner Gussie Busch ordered Carlton traded. Eventually, he was dealt to the Philadelphia Phillies before the ‘72 season for a pitcher named Rick Wise. In time, it would be recognized as one of the most lopsided deals in baseball history.

Carlton hit his stride with the Phillies. How good was he? In 1972, the down-trodden Phils won a total of 59 games – 27 of them by Carlton. That won him his first of four Cy Young Awards. He finished with 322 wins and was a consensus first ballot Hall of Famer. The day before a start, the scoreboard in Veterans Stadium would list tomorrow’s starting pitcher – Lefty. Need more? There’s a statue of him in front of Citizens Bank Park. How was I supposed to compete with all that? I could not.

Since Carlton is six-foot four and your humble servant is a paltry six-foot one, the players started to refer to me as Little Lefty. The day my career ended, I went back to being plain old Lefty.

Chapter 1 – 05/18/16, Delta 412

It all happened in a hundred days. She finished her junior year the tallest, thinnest, most awkward girl in her class. Ignored by the boys and shunned by the girls, the young lady who walked off the campus of Los Colinas High on the first of June would never be seen again. What happened? Mother Nature arrived – and she came armed to the teeth. The hair went from flaming red to luxurious Titian. What had been straight lines were now dangerous curves. The freckles gave way to alabaster skin, and as for her legs, …well, …this is only a three hundred-page book. By September 10, it was complete. No longer a girl, she was now every inch a woman – 72 inches. The six-foot caterpillar was a breath-taking butterfly. Couple that with the fact that she was far and away the brightest kid in her class, the planet had been introduced to Marcia Colleen Glenn. The world, in general, and mine in particular, would never be the same again. Who am I? Let’s just say I’m the beneficiary of that summer in North Texas.

We’ve been thinking about this for a year. It was three hundred and fifty days ago at 7am on a Sunday morning that I treated my girlfriend to breakfast in bed. We then snuggled up to watch something spectacular. If you love Formula 1 like we do, there is one special day on the calendar. In the United States, it’s Memorial Day and the Indianapolis 500. In the rest of the world, this is the day they run the grandest Grand Prix of them all – Monaco.

I’m very close to the chief ganze macher of Out & About with Marcia Glenn. How close? Well, somewhere under all that Titian hair, you can find her locked in my embrace. Yes, I am living out every starlet’s dream – I’m sleeping with the producer. I believe it is around the 40th lap when it hits me – perhaps one of my all-time greatest plans. I take advantage of the fact that her ear is about six inches away to lean in and whisper…

OK, Irish, how does this sound? Out & About with Marcia Glenn – in Monaco."

This is how you got to be my boyfriend – genius, …

How often does she call me genius? Not that often.

… We can cover the race, see the Palace, work the Casino, and interview the Prince and the Princesses.

Meet Stéphanie and Caroline? That works for me.

And, Irish, the week before is the Cannes Film Festival.

Baby, this is getting better by the minute.

It’s right down the road.

Stop it, Lefty, you’re killing me.

So that’s the plan. Ten magical days on what we Americans call the French Riviera, and the world knows as – the Côte d'Azur. The run-up to all this is akin to the Allies dropping in on D-Day. The next morning, the redhead is on the phone calling ABC in New York, specifically her producer, Betsy Burnett. Cannes and Monaco are still twelve months away, but there is no time to lose since hotels and rental cars are booked a year in advance.

Accommodations are my department, and immediately, there is a problem. There are ten Ritz-Carlton hotels in Europe. You can find one in Moscow, or even Kazakhstan, but César Ritz managed to miss the South of France. No problem in Cannes, we’ll just do what all the celebs do – stay at one of the Area’s five superb hotels. We can choose from the Hôtel Majestic Barriere, Hôtel Martinez, the InterContinental Carlton – no relation to the Ritz, the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc or the Five Seas Hotel Cannes. What does the producer have in mind?

"The Eden-Roc. If it’s good enough for George Clooney, it’s good enough for me."

That’s all I need, bunking down the hall from Clooney. After almost three years with the Tower-of-Babe, you’d think the jealousy thing would have passed – and you’d be wrong.

"The Eden-Roc it is."

Yeah, right. Until one devilish grin from Rosemary’s nephew, and Voilà! We’re at the InterContinental.

Lodging in Monaco is the quintessential no-brainer. There are some excellent hotels, but the winner and still champion is the Hôtel de Paris. Located in the heart of Monte Carlo, it shares Place Casino with the Casino itself. The hotel includes seventy-five suites, and we want one of them. So, that’s the mission – get some major digs at the de Paris for the week of the Grand Prix. A tough get? You bet. Let’s work the phone. 33 377 98 06 30 00 is the number. A gentlemen’s voice is on the other end.

"Bonjour."

Hello, I would like to reserve a suite of rooms…

In perfect English.

Yes, sir.

…for the week of May 20.

Silence

... I said for the week of May 20.

"You realize that is the week of the Grand Prix, and every hotel room from here to the Italian border is booked."

I know, and I don’t care. This is for an American television network – ABC.

I’m sorry.

For one of its biggest stars.

I’m sorry.

One last try – do they even get ABC in Monaco?

For Marcia Glenn.

"La Grande Rousse!"

They do.

Why didn’t you say so!

Yeah, why didn’t I?

Well, we seem to have a cancellation.

The Sultan of You-Bet-You-Can decided to stay home?

A two-bedroom suite on the fourth floor, facing the square.

If that’s the best you’ve got, we’ll take it.

Believe it or not, there are limits to the power of the redhead. He didn’t offer us the penthouse aka The Winston Churchill Suite. Still…

I’ll tell Ms. Glenn. She’ll be very grateful.

Through the phone, I can hear his heart palpitating.

The good people at Delta offer something that not even Air France can match – a New York to Nice non-stop, thereby saving us the horrors of Aéroport de Paris-Charles-de-Gaulle. The redhead asked the Network – well, demanded that her crew travel First Class. They reached an out-of-court settlement – Business Class. It doesn’t matter. How many batted eyelashes and coy smiles will it take to get them into First? Not many.

So, what have we got? A great vacation on the French Riviera? Hardly, this is a work trip. There is a special to do. The program requires race credentials, work permits, passports, and visas. First and foremost, we need permission to interview three people, Princess Stéphanie, Princess Caroline, and Prince Albert. It might have been the strangest conference call of all time. On the line, in no particular order, are the people at 3400 International Drive, in Washington D.C. – the Embassy of Monaco. Joining them are the folks at 934 Fifth Avenue, in New York – the Consulate General of France. Around the corner on West 47th Street are ABC and their lawyers. Now, add the gang at Foggy Bottom aka the State Department, and last, but certainly not least, carefully mix in a tall redhead on the line from Florida.

The issue, simply put, is the Monégasque Government’s reticence to expose the Royal Family to the press. Why? Back in the day, the princesses cut a wide swath through European society. They were at one time or another linked to virtually every playboy on the continent. The redhead assures them that this will not be that kind of interview – there will be no gotcha questions. Still, they are reluctant. That’s when she plays her trump card. Betsy had sent the Family a copy of The Marce’s special on the Boston Marathon. They had seen how she handled an interview, how sympatric she was, how she cared about the interviewee. That did it. A half-hour to work out the details, and then – game on! And speaking of trumps, there is one item on the agenda that trumps them all. Do you really believe my tall, elegant Texas fashionista would be seen in last year’s frock? In Cannes or Monaco? Kidding? She’d sooner move to Oklahoma. Someone, call Vera Wang. Tell her she must put on a second shift!

In the days leading up to our trip, the UPS truck is a fixture on Siesta Key. Box after box from Manhattan to Sarasota, and often back again. Last year, ABC made a profit of two hundred million – that was after taxes, but before the redhead.

So now, Marcia’s Flying Circus is finally ready. With a van for the redhead’s luggage, we are off – SRQ to Atlanta, onto JFK to hook up with the Killer Bees, and then non-stop to Nice. Mercifully, all her bags are checked through to France. The Marce has worked her magic on the poor bastard in the Crown Room – so we are all in First Class. In 1A, as usual, is the stunner. I’m next to her in 1B, and across the aisle is Betsy in 1D. Our cameraman, Dave Bushner aka Bush-dog, along with the redhead’s everything-else, Kenny Becker, are right behind us.

None of the redhead’s crew are married – this by design. The Marce wants Dave, Kenny, and Betsy concentrating on the job and not worried about who is left behind. It’s eight-and-half hours to Nice, and, as always on a flight, it’s game time. So, we have five very-single people, each of whom has passed some time on a barstool. The next voice you hear will be that of our Gruppenführer.

The game is pick-up lines – lines you’ve used and lines that have been used on you. The best you heard – and the worst. Bush-dog, you start us off.

Hi, my name is Dave. Remember it, because you will be screaming it all night.

The redhead reaches over her head.

What are you doing, Irish?

Calling the flight attendant.

Why?

To get him thrown out of First Class – that’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.

No argument. We move on to the cute brunette.

All right, Bets, what have you got?

Mine are all time-sensitive. At eight o’clock, nothing works; by eleven o’clock, almost anything works.

Even the guy sitting next to her is laughing.

"Your turn, Kenny.

Try this one on. I’m no weatherman, but you can expect a few inches tonight.

I was wrong, Lefty. That’s the worst.

Bushner jumps in.

I can do better than that. Try this one. You’re on my list of things to do tonight.

The gloves are off. Becker.

I’ve got that one topped. As long as I have a chin, you’ll have a place to sit.

Now, from Betsy.

You can’t be my first, but you could be my next.

The redhead leans over to me.

I think I’ve created a monster.

Becker again.

I need some answers for my math homework. What's your number?

Can I get some ham with all this cheese?

OK, Boss, what’s the best line you ever heard?

Yeah, Irish. What got you off a barstool?

One night at the Bennigan’s in Los Colinas, a guy sat down next to me, ordered a beer, turned, and said, ‘So, think we’re going metric?’ I laughed all the way back to his apartment.

Maybe I can skate through this.

Well, that was fun.

Not so fast, Buster.

And maybe I can’t.

So, let’s hear some of your lines.

I only had one.

And?

I’m a Major League pitcher – how do you like your eggs?

Chapter 2 – 05/19/16, Côte d'Azur

We have been here before – two years ago after wrapping up the murder of my friend, David Murdoch. I conned the looker’s boss, WWSB News Director Diane Kallan, into giving her a long overdue and well-deserved vacation. It was just before sweeps and my reasoning was simple. A rested redhead looks fresher on the air – she bought it. It was much easier then. Two weeks with nothing to do but lie on the beach, eat and…well…do I really have to explain the rest? The best part was herself with just three bags – one full of bikinis, one full of mini dresses, and one full of slutty underwear. Now, we’re back with a truck full of luggage and a job to do. No contest – the first time was better.

Wheels up at Kennedy. We do our climb out over Long Island, Buzzards Bay, and Cape Cod. Down there somewhere is Falmouth and my father, who is either on a golf course or hanging out with his beagle, Bailey. That’s right, Beagle Bailey.

Eight hours later, it’s wheels down at Nice International. Now the fun begins – clearing French customs with our wagon train full of somebody’s luggage. It’s show-and-tell time as five Americans whip out passports, visas, and work permits. Here’s an hour of my life I’m not getting back. On this junket, we are leaving the driving to someone else. Waiting at the curb are two Mercedes 600 limousines – one for the traveling party and one for…well…do I really have to explain that, either? With orders from the gros fromage, we are off down the coast road – the scenic route – thirty minutes to Cannes. Keep in mind that the redhead and your humble servant live on the Gulf of Mexico, but out the window is quite possibly the bluest water I have ever seen – The Med. Côte d'Azur? Indeed.

What started out two thousand years ago as a fishing village has grown and prospered – mightily. Through the centuries, the land changed hands many times. By the end of the 19th century, it had become securely French. About this time, railways were completed, prompting the arrival of streetcars. In Cannes, projects such as the Boulevard Carnot and the Rue d'Antibes were carried out. A luxury establishment was built for the rich winter clientele, along with the Casino Municipal by the pier.

In the 20th century, new luxury hotels were built. The city was modernized with a sports center, a post office, and schools. There were fewer British and German tourists after the First World War, but more Americans. Winter tourism gave way to warm weather tourism, and the Summer Casino at the Palm Beach was constructed. Shortly before the end of the Second World War, the City Council had a brainstorm. Why not hold an international film festival in Cannes? The inaugural event opened on September 20, 1946. It was held in the Casino Municipal. The rest, as they say, is cinematic history.

The title of this special is Out & About in Monaco. Cannes is just a side show, a chance for the redhead to see, and more importantly, be seen. The climax to this orgy of celluloid is tomorrow night and the awarding of the Palme d'Or – the grand prize for best picture. This is a free afternoon for me but not for the redhead. She and the Killer Bees will be out shooting man-on-the street stuff while I run on the promenade. After that?

OK, Irish, what’s on the agenda tonight?

This is what’s known in literature as a rhetorical question.

Dinner, and you.

In that order?

I get the look.

Sorry, but I had to ask.

In 1914, visionary hotelier, Antoine Sella, created the prestigious Eden-Roc Pavilion and its seawater pool, which in time became the Hotel du Cap Eden Roc. The 2016 incarnation is nothing short of stunning. I could give you a detailed description, but I think I’ll let the welcome packet speak for itself.

The Hotel has always been renowned for the refined luxury of its rooms, suites, and villas, but especially for their glittering settings overlooking the azure sea and the private parkland, with its swaying pines and Riviera palms. Following an extensive restoration project, the Hotel's elegance and appeal have been further enhanced.

That sums it up. Now at the entrance are two Mercedes 600s and a confused bellman wondering why there is no one in the second car. I’ve got this one.

That is either the lady’s luggage, or Tumi just opened a store in the trunk of this Benz.

A fifty-euro tip answers the last of his questions. Now, we cross the lobby to check-in. The Eden-Roc is famous for constantly changing and improving its appearance. They can stop right now. The lobby is spacious and grand – and they’re ready for us.

Ah, yes, the Glenn Party. Single rooms for Mademoiselle Burnett, Monsieurs Bushner and Becker, and a suite for Mademoiselle Glenn and guest.

I’m a guest? Watch me make myself right at home.

All billed to an ABC Company Card.

You don’t see me whipping out my AMEX card, do you? As for our suite…Mon Dieu ! Two bedrooms and a parlor, all of which open through, what else, French Doors overlooking the Med – an explosion of white and gold with flowers in every room. After her shoot and my run, it’s time for dinner. We are eating in, tonight. Room Service? Seriously? There is a myriad of great restaurants in Cannes, and one of the very best is right here in the Eden-Roc. So, it’s a mini-dress and stilettos for the redhead and who cares for me. It’s down the elevator to a table by the windows, and a server standing by. Let’s eat.

And, what would the mademoiselle like?

Baby, I can’t make up my mind. You order first.

How often does that happen? Now, it’s time to try out my high school French.

"Je voudrais que la soupe à L’oignon."

OK, I’m halfway home – I just ordered the onion soup. But, I know even less French than I know Italian. So, it’s back to good old Anglais to get me the rest of the way.

"And the Osso Bucco Milanese with risotto."

And to drink?

This one I know in a hundred languages.

"Vous avez le gingembre ale ?"

The waiter replies in flawless English.

As a matter of fact, we do – Canada Dry.

"Et – with ice."

And for the mademoiselle?

That sounds good, I’ll have that as well…

What?

…and…

Here we go.

…the salad, a dozen oysters, and the pasta Arrabbiata – hot.

That’s more like it.

And to drink?

A glass of pinot grigio.

I’m sorry, mademoiselle, you are in France. We don’t serve Italian wines in this country.

Well, Italy is just fifty miles away. Can’t you send someone over the border to bring back a bottle?

Now, the withering look that she has used oh-so-many times on me is turned on her. She caves.

All right, bring me a glass of Chardonnay.

"Très bien, mademoiselle."

Yeah, right.

As I have done on numerous occasions, I watch course after course disappear. How is it that my tall, thin girlfriend can eat like a field hand? Yet another Vic Landell Mystery.

OK, Irish, what’s on the docket for tomorrow?

Scenics of Cannes. Care to tag along?

In a word…no. Been there, done that, still have the T-shirt. Besides, I have a date…

Old girlfriend? In France? I should have figured that.

…with my running shoes and the Promenade – up and back the whole length. But, I’ll be in my Zegna, ready to go at seven.

You better be. No way I’m showing up at this clambake without you – it will look like I couldn’t get a date.

And, when was the last time that happened? Dinner is over, and now it’s time for dessert.

"For dessert, we have crème brûlée ou soufflé au chocolat."

Baby, what’s it going to be?

The inventor of the look turns it back on me.

We’ll have one of each, and please don’t forget the coffee.

The marathon we call dinner is finally over.

Baby, care for a walk on the beach? I’ll kiss you beneath the swaying palms?

Lefty, we can do that at home. We have as many swaying palms as they have. Let’s do something else.

Baby, we can do that at home, too.

Not that. You’ve got a one-track mind…

That’s right, and the Super Chief will be here in ten minutes.

…now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Let’s hit the Casino. I want to warm up before Monaco.

No surprise – there is a Casino just off the lobby that could pass for the Bellagio.

What did you have in mind?

The crap table.

Let me guess – your daddy taught you how to shoot craps.

No, I taught myself. The boys in high school showed me.

No doubt on the off chance that she would lose her shirt. We reach the table, and a moment later, the dice are passed to her.

"Cent sur la ligne de passage."

Suddenly, someone is speaking fluent French and puts a Benjamin on the pass line. Louis Vuitton is upstairs. So, where did Mr. Franklin come from? Don’t ask. She rolls.

"‎Gagnant sept!"

"Laisser le suivre son cours."

The redhead is letting it ride. By now, I’d be back in my room…

"‎Gagnant sept!"

…with the covers over my head. At a table, you either bet with or against the shooter. Say howdy to The Marce’s newest fan club.

"Laisser le suivre son cours."

"‎Gagnant sept!"

There is a guy across the table betting against The Marce. Every time she rolls a seven, he glowers at her. You are trying a stare down against the redhead? Buddy, you are way over-matched.

"‎Gagnant sept!"

He’s had enough. He picks up his chips and walks away.

"‎Gagnant sept!"

In all, she makes seven passes before she picks up her winnings, and we walk to the cashier’s window to the applause of the other players. That’s a quick twelve thousand, eight hundred dollars.

I’ll take a cashier’s check made out to the Jimmy Fund.

Do you know why I love this girl? She could keep the money, and day after tomorrow, run roughshod over the Hermes in Monaco. Instead, she’s giving it to help kids fight cancer at Dana-Farber. That’s why I love this girl.

Donation in the name of Katherine Landell.

And, if you needed more, there’s another reason that gets her a big one on those pouty lips.

You are awesome.

And, you’re not a bad kisser yourself.

You know what I mean.

What, that? You should see me at the roulette wheel.

Let me know when you’re ready – I’ll pack a lunch.

What time is the Super Chief due in?

How did she know that?

It’s one elevator ride away. Are you packed?

I’ve got a toothbrush.

You’re packed.

Chapter 3