Monkey Games
By Vince Coyner
Prologue
René “Le Pistol” Pistolero was the pride of Spain. At only 21 he dominated the European Formula One circuit like no one his age had ever done. From Dusseldorf to Madrid and seemingly every city in between, in his very short life he had gone up against the best drivers on the continent and come away the winner. He woke on the morning of April 15th to the caress of a young woman whose name he was not sure he remembered, but he thought it was Christina.
They had met the night before at the club Les Bains, where the rich and famous went to drink, dance and indulge while in Paris. Against his better judgment he asked her to come with him back to his suite at the Hotel Scribe. He knew he had to get up early in the morning but he was sure this girl was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes on and he couldn’t let her get away. Her strawberry blonde curls and perfect English belied the fact that she was as Spanish as he was, having been raised in the United States by a father who moved from Barcelona to Detroit when she was 3 years old. The pair left Les Bains together. When she climbed out of his Testarossa and turned to him and smiled, he knew he was in trouble. He had to get up in only a few hours, but he also knew that he would not be getting to sleep any time soon. As the doors to the penthouse elevator came together, so too did they. They stumbled out as the elevator doors opened to his 6,000 square foot suite. It was an hour before they even made it into the bedroom, having shed both their clothes and their inhibitions on the black and pink checked carpet in the foyer before heading to the giant whirlpool on the terrace.
The sweat of their bodies mingled as they lay intertwined on top of the king-sized bed. They were exhausted, and although René knew he wanted nothing more than to find out everything he could about this goddess who had just walked into his life, the 3 AM on his watch told him that tonight was not the night. Tired and exhausted he knew he had to get some sleep. The angel in his arms was already there. He looked at her as the moonlight danced across her face. He knew today was his lucky day.
A few hours later, after climbing out of the shower and getting dressed, René leaned over to Christina. They kissed passionately for what seemed like an hour. He ran his right hand over her beautifully tanned leg and up to her right breast. As he reluctantly began to stand, she pulled him closer and held his hand on her breast. The bell summoning parishioners to Sunday’s first mass let him know that he too had some place to be. As he slowly pulled away from her they both smiled and he promised that tomorrow morning they could stay in bed as long as they wanted.
For René tomorrow morning would never come...On the fourth turn of the 120th lap of the Tour de Paris, René was attempting to take the lead with only ten laps to go. He hit the corner going too fast and could not hold the turn. His car flipped and tumbled end over end, breaking apart as it went. Rene’s cockpit slammed into the wall with such force that he never had a chance. As his car careened against the wall, the left rear axle broke off and went flying into the stands.
Much in the way that the death of Archduke Ferdinand began a tumbling of dominos that stretched far beyond the length of that bridge in Sarajevo, Renés’ death set in motion a sequence of events that would reach back to the Third Reich, crisscross the globe and resurrect the memories of Machiavelli, Darwin and Ponce de Leon.
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