The scene at BSir’s in Hamburg collapsed in December 1982. SS Tommy, a vicious St. Pauli pimp, presented a bill for physical services of my girlfriend. 9500 Deustchmarks. Itemized by acts. At least he hadn’t charged me for her pretend caresses. Astrid had never mentioned she was working for him, but the blonde musclebuider said, “Everyone in Hamburg works for someone. Even me.”

That evening I handed over the keys to my totaled BMW, which was still waiting to be towed from the Oberalsterniederung Woods. After midnight I caught a train to Paris. The NYPD’s Internal Affairs wanting me for questioning about a murder of a Russian gangster and police corruption at the Continental Club on West 25th Street prevented a return to America. I had held my sand during their last interrogations, but they FBI were interested in the Russians, so I opted to stay in Paris.

I checked into my usual hotel in the Marias. Madame Levy gave me my old room on the top floor. That evening at le Privilege its manager Claude Aurenson mentioned that Farida was leaving her position as doorperson at Les Bains-Douches. The Algerian beauty was destined to be the muse for several fashion designers and a famed Parisian photographer. Claude offered to call the owner of Les Bains. Fabrice was delighted that I was available. I had a good reputation in Paris as a doorman. Twenty minutes later a taxi stopped on a small street close to the Musee Centre Pompidou.

BAINS-DOUCHES was carved into stone above the entrance of 7 Rue du Bourg l?Abbe. I tipped the driver 30 francs for good luck. He grunted out a ‘merci’ like a snake fart and drove around the corner. I climbed the stairs and pushed open the heavy glass and wood door.

The cleaning crew was preparing for the night. Tables set with forks, knives, spoons, and glasses atop paper sheets. In the kitchen a mustached cook chopped vegetables. The thin Italian’s name was Tony. He lifted his head in greeting, as if he had been expecting me, then returned to his task.

The boyishly young owner counted money in the tiny office. Records were stacked on the floor and posters proclaimed upcoming concerts of punk, soul, funk, African, French, New Wave, and electronic bands. Fabrice noticed my admiration and smiled like he had found a long-lost toy boat.

“Ah, l’American.” He hadn?t used the pejorative ‘Amerlot’.

“C’est moi.” The previous winter a counter-culture magazine had hired me to be the physionomiste of its eclectic boite de nuit on the Grand Boulevard. The publisher had introduced Fabrice and his rounder partner as VIP. I treated them like movie stars. I had been surprised and relieved by his telephone call. No one in Paris knew anything about the Continental.

“So we are in need of a physionomiste. Do you speak French?”

“Un peu.” My French dated back to grammar school outside of Boston and my Boston accent since birth. My accent wasn’t going anywhere. “I more learned from my girlfriend.”

“Le dictionaire couchant. No place better to learn a language than in bed, but we will speak English,” Fabrice swiftly explained the job. My schedule was Tuesday through Saturday. My shift started at 9. The doors closed at 4, but the bar shut when no one was buying a drink. The pay was 600 francs a night. A little better than $100. He mentioned nothing about my difficulty with the NYPD.

“Sounds good.”

“You get a meal a night, plus your drinks for free.”

“Even better.” As happy as I was with new employ, I was honor bound to tell Fabrice my shortcomings. “I am a total stranger to French culture.”

“Who are the best singers in France?” He asked without hesitation.

“Serge Gainsbourg and Francoise Hardy.” I loved the former’s concept LP BALLADE OF MELODIE NELSON and any man not in love with the original Yeh-Yeh Girl failed my cool test.

“Bien, very 60s. What about movies?”

“Gerard Depardieu.” The stocky actor had been riveting in Bertrand Blier’s GOING PLACES along with Patrick Dewaere and Miou-Miou, but stole the show in Barbet Schroder’s exploration of sadism MAITRESSE and that movie inspired my choice for an actress. “Catherine Denevue in BELLE DU JOUR.”

“Bunuel’s ode to humiliation. Cruelty is a good trait for a physionomiste,” he tempered the term for someone who judges by appearance with mixture of wonder and derision. Friends considered us psychic. Our enemies i.e. those people refused entry used harsher expletives to describe our position. “It is not a problem that you don’t know anyone.”

“Is there a list?” Most clubs had regulars.

“Ouais.” Fabrice held up a sheet of paper with names scribbled in ink. He tore the list into shreds. “Now non. My friends, le clientele, have been treated like les petites princes et princesses. Time for to go to le re-education camp. Le Bains-Douches is the best club in Paris. I don’t count Le Palace. That is a disco. The people who come here want to come here. It is their home.”

“So I should ask the bouncers for help?”

“Pas de tout.” He shook his head, as he had a sudden fever. Owners had a low opinion of the muscle, until they were the only solution to a problem. ?Les videurs let in their friends. Bums and clochards. Les voyos. This is a purge. You worked Studio 54, n’est pas?”

“Yes.”

I had managed the faded glory of the velvet ropes for one month after it had been sold by the prison-bound founders. The reincarnation was dead from night one. The new owner had bought the legendary club, because he had been refused entry. Money was no guarantee of success in discos. I had nothing to gain by elaborating on the truth.

“How shall I treat everyone?”

“Like the shit they are.” Fabrice gave a good laugh like he was watching Jerry Lewis movie, however no Americans understood the froggies’ appreciation of Dean Martin’s ex-partner. My old girlfriend from Aix-En-Provence said it was because the subtitles in French were funnier than the American dialogue. I had tested her theory. THE NUTTY PROFESSOR was kooky, but unfunny in either language.

“Comme le merde?” I wasn’t sure if I heard him right.

“Exactement.”

“Are you sure?”

“The French appreciate the rapport de force. You treat them like shit and they will love you.”

“Love or hate.”

“Do you care?”

“Non.” I was happy to be out of New York.

“Where are you staying?”

“There’s a hotel in the Marais.” The Hotel Des Ecouffes in the Jewish Quarter was a ten minute walk from the Bains-Douches. The top floor had a room with a view of Notre-Dame, which cost 500 francs a week with a petite dejeuner.

“Bien. Tout est regulee. Ce soir viens pour manger avec moi et mes amis.”

“D’accord.”

Later I dined with Fabrice, Claudine, his impossibly beautiful girlfriend, models, musicians, and artists at the best table at the club. Keith Richard sat two away from me. Midway through dinner Jack Nicholson dragged the Rolling Stone to the downstairs dance floor.

After dessert I excused myself from the table and went to the entrance to introduce myself to the two videurs. Neither bouncer was a giant, but the warped knuckles and broken noses testified to their toughness. They refused no one entrance, but I stopped three men in brad-new Addidas sneakers.

“Pas ce soir.”

?Pour quoi?”

“Les tennis.” I pointed to their trainers. “Les Bains-Douches is not a gym.”

“We’re friends of Fabrice.”

“Pas de exception.”

“Petit con,” they snarled and the bouncers smiled with amusement. It hadn’t taken me long to make enemies.

Fabrice stood at the top of the restaurant steps, nodding with an approval.

I spent the rest of the night saying ‘quais’ or ‘non’.

Scores of these Paris clubgoers were befuddled by an American at the door of Les Bains-Douches and they asked for my predecessor.

“Elle est en retrait.” The exotic Farida was already the top model for Azzedine Alaia.

“Pay at the cashier.”

“Va te faire foutre.”

“Vieux cochon!?

“Ras de Ped.” which was Verlain for pederast.

The French swears rolled off my skin. I had heard worse in New York and Boston.

I treated some people with deference. Beautiful women were granted immediate entry. Interesting faces were given carte blanche. Musicians were given a drink. A little past 2am I call it a night and Fabrice slipped me 600 francs in red 100-franc notes.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But one question.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you hire me?”

“You came recommended by the owner of that magazine. He said you had a good eye.”

“I never thought that.” I was as blind as a stump.

“Now you know, have a good night’s sleep.”

I walked back to the Marais through narrow streets. Clochards slept on heating vents. I stuck a hundred-franc note into the gnarled mitt of a wine-drunk bum. Hand-outs were good luck.

I reached my hotel and climbed the stairs to the top floor. The apartments across the street seemed within arm’s reach.

Beyond the open windows Paris spread west to a vague horizon speared by the Eiffel Tower. I laid on the bed with the covers pulled up to my neck and fell into a dreamless sleep, as the dawn extinguished the night for the City of Light.

That first night had been a one-off. The bouncers turned against me after I refused their loutish friends entry. Later in the month I tossed a famous fashion designer out of the restaurant for insulting a waitress. His expulsion made the morning papers. The crowd of the refused grew before the door like they were Vietnamese waiting a helicopter lift from the US embassy in Saigon in 1975.

The security spent most of the night playing billiards and said nothing to me throughout the night. I was on my own every minute of the night, except for whenever a young black or Arab man tried to enter the club. The two of them formed a wall. Their friends from the billiard hall provided back up.

“Pas ce soir.”

Les Bains-Douches had a color line as pronounced as the back of the bus in pre-1965 Mississippi. I came from Boston. Racism was that city’s second nature. Paris was not white. People of color were everywhere, but the videurs at the Bains-Douches enforced the line with insults.

“Kaffir.”

“Noir.”

“Negre.”

The last word was used on a tall handsome young black man. I had noticed him and his friends hanging out. The bouncers said they were ghetto boys, preying on the foot traffic in Les Halles. They said that about all blacks and Arabs.

He stepped away from the door and the security laughed with racial pride.

I coughed out loud.

The bouncers turned their heads with a dismissive smirk on their faces and I said, “Fuck you, you frog peckerwoods.”

They were too French to understand the insult and I walked out through the crowd in front of Les Bains-Douches. The young man was gone.

Several nights later I had a confrontation with a local Mafia gangster. We fought on the stairs, while the security watched in amusement. I tossed my attacker down the stairs. He leapt to his feet and whipped out a revolver.

I shut the heavy glass entrance door. The glass was supposedly bullet-proof. The gangster aimed his weapon and pulled the trigger twice. The first bullet impacted on the glass at my head level, the next was aimed at my heart. The crowd scattered away from les Bains.

This thug smiled at my paralysis. He was a killer and aimed carefully, but before he could pull off another shot, the young black man from before blindsided the shooter with a left and his friend, Philippe, dropped on the gangster to the street like a Sumo wrestler. My assailant’s body sprawled flat against the pavement and the revolver clattered from his hand. Philippe snatched the gun and handed to me.

“Faire comme tu vu.”

I held the weapon. It had a weight. I walked to the curb and dropped the pistol into the gutter.

When I turned around, the gunman was gone.

Jacques and Philippe leaned against the wall with several leather-jacketed friends. The bouncers hadn’t moved from the billiard table. Fabrice had seen the whole incident and I entered the club. Two bullets were stuck in the thick glass. I pushed my way through the crowd at the cashier to Fabrice, who regarded the glass. It had saved my life along with the young black man.

“Ca va?”

“Yes.”

“Tu a le chance.”

“Yes, I’ve always been lucky, but our present security staff did nothing just now and they do nothing all the time, but play billiards.

“Eh alors?” The phrase had many uses.

“Les videurs won’t let in any blacks and a dead useless. I want to hire one to work with me.”

“Eh, alors.”

“I want some real security.” I pointed to the young man, who had stopped the gangster from killing me. He noticed my indicating him. “Him.”

“Pourquoi pas.”

“Merci.” The young man was as tall as an NFL linebacker and as handsome as Sidney Poiter.

I went outside and called to the young man.

“Toi.”

“T-t-t-tu v-v-v-veux moi.” His stutter was worse than mine.

“W-w-what?s your name?”

“J-a-a-a-Jacques.” Thick calluses scarred his knuckles.

“Mine’s Johnson?” I never gave my real name to strangers.

“You want a job?”

“J-j-job?” he spoke better English than most French.

“Le boulot.” I doubted that he had ever been offered a job. “So?”

“Ouais.” His smile was as broad as the Nile.

“Come with me.”

From the steps I introduced Jacques to the owner.

“He’s big and good-looking. The girls will love him and you want the place to change. He knows the street.”

“How can you tell he isn’t a problem? He comes from Bidonville.” Fabrice?s accusation of slum origins was on the money. Every large city had their Brownsville

“I will train him and his friend Philippe.”

“I can understand Jacques, but Philippe?” Fabrice was surprised by my suggesting, “Jacques’ pote, Fats.”

“What can he do other than eat like a horse.”

“Jacques, stand behind Fats.”

His sidekick’s real name was Philippe. He was smarter than most everyone at the Bains-Douches and like Jacques he was as gentle as a sleeping bear.

Jacques crouched behind Fats, who munched on frites from the nearby merguez stand.

“Can you see Jacques?”

“No.”

“So when anyone attacks us with a gun, we hide behind Fats. He’ll block any bullets.”

“Better we don?t open the door, but they are your responsibility. Give him a job.? Fabrice stared me in the eyes, but we were of the same mind. “I’ll pay them 400 francs a night plus a meal. Not a sou more.”

Fabrice entered the club. His rock and roll girlfriend waited upstairs at their table. Claudine never looked my way. It was better that way. I called over Fats and Jacques.

“You’re hired.”

“Hired?” Fats had never heard the word before and I explained, “Both of you have a job. I was just kidding about blocking the bullets.”

“Really?”

“Fats, you’re smart and funny.”

“Same as you, Pete Johnson.” Jacques slapped Fats’s arm. “Mon, we have jobs.”

“Un miracle.” He didn’t stop eating the frite, but smiled at the thought of having a real job.

It was his first.

Same as Jacques.

“Vraiment?”

Doubt mixed with apprehension, as he looked over my shoulder at my other bouncers.

“Ne quittez pas.” I wasn’t worried about the them. Another body meant more time to play billiards. “You go to school?”

“A little, but I can read.”

“D’accord, but you’ve got a job. Some of your friends other than Fats might get jobs too. You want to work?? I was acting like the Great White Hope, but I was no Gerry Cooney.

“I want to get ahead and a job is the only way.” He gave me a short life history. His family was been brought to Martinique, otherwise they were pure Africa.

“What happened to the stutter?”

“I only ‘begaye’ with white people.”

“And I’m not white.” I was more Neanderthal.

“No, you are very white, Mr. Johnson.”

“Mr. Johnson?” Johnson was slang for penis, but I didn’t explain the meaning to Jacques. “Thanks, I like the name. One more thing, keep your friends in line.”

“Les Bafalos.” He waved for his gang members to join him. We exchanged the French version of the black pride handshake.

It was obvious that the gang took each others’ backs. I liked that kind of loyalty.

“W-w-w-why are you doing this?” Jacques knew no white people other than the police. Les Flics were the enemy for any young mec from the projects beyond the Champs-Elysees.

“B-b-ecause I can tell you will good at the job.”

“And Philippe?”

“He’ll be an experiment.”

“I don’t k-k-know white people.” His voice snitched out his fear of my race.

“Don’t worry about that. They’re no different from me or you. We all have to piss in the morning.”

It took him a long time to believe that lie, mostly because it wasn?t the truth.

“And what about mes potes?”

“They’re okay to come in, until they’re not okay.”

“Fats and I will keep them cool.”

We were a good team.

Poivre et Sel and Salsa.

Black and White and Hot Sauce.

The models loved Jacques, but he liked big girls. The models never understood this and I never explained his preference for a woman with a big butt, because les amis ne jamais cafter i.e. friends never snitch

Not now. Not then. Not never.

Just the way it is entrez-nous.

Jacques and Philippe and the Bafalos went onto creating one of the best security companies in the EEU.

We are still all friends, because that is another thing that is ‘Between Us.’

Bafalos are all brothers to the end.