When I got in the bathroom, I locked the door and opened the window. Below, I could see the flat roof of the ballroom and the green stripes of the awning. The garden looked deserted now. I eased myself out the window, put one foot on the ledge below and then the other, steadying myself with one hand on the window frame. I was about to jump when someone emerged from the shadows of the garden below and shined a light on me. He shouted something in French and another man came running. I climbed back into the bathroom, closed the window and sat down on the toilet seat. I was shaking.

After a while, Jacqueline called out to me. I went back into the bedroom, bitterly disappointed to have missed my chance. She had taken off the rest of her clothes. We petted for a while. She was really quite pretty, but my heart wasn’t in it. I asked her to give me a back rub, and then I gave her some money. When I refused her offer of a blow job, she got upset. I had hurt her feelings.

I lay in bed with my clothes on, glancing up occasionally at the Expos game on television. But mostly I just lay there with my eyes closed. In my whole life I had gotten into a fistfight only once, when I was in high school in Davis and a classmate called me a “nigger-lover” because I invited a black girl to the junior prom. Other than covering wars and mayhem, that was the sum total of my combat experience. I had seen lots of weapons at close range, but never used one myself. This time I would have to fight. My only hope was to get away from the hotel, however I could. I didn’t want to kill anyone, I just wanted to run away.

I took the Mont Blanc pen from my pocket. It was a beautiful object, the gleaming black barrel wrapped with four gold bands. I twisted the safety as Frank had demonstrated, and put my finger on the gold clip that acted as trigger. It felt so solid in my hand, I thought I could do it. The exploding Bic lighters worried me; I still wasn’t sure how quickly you were supposed to throw them, after turning the flint wheel. But I would figure that out later.

Around two in the morning I rose from my bed. I took one of the hotel’s fancy terrycloth bathrobes from the bathroom and put it on over my clothes, hoping it would offer some sort of a disguise. I looked at myself in the mirror; my condition had deteriorated noticeably from a few hours ago. My face was tired, drawn, marked by stress. I stood by the door for almost a minute, summoning my courage.