Chapter 191: Chapter 191 Mona

Franklin and A-Train stepped out of the airport.

The arrivals hall was a zoo, packed with people holding up signs. They scanned the crowd and immediately spotted a gaudy, gold-leaf sign so bright it was blinding.

On it: “Mr. Clinton.”

Heh. What a tacky piece of shit, every tourist who walked by thought. This “Mr. Clinton” must be some no-taste, new-money asshole.

Franklin walked up, sliding off his massive shades. “Hey, girl! Hard to miss.”

The “girl” holding the sign was a dime. Blonde, stacked, and dressed to kill—total top-tier, street-style hot. She looked up and saw two guys. Gold chains, gold watches, ball caps, hoodies, another pair of shades hanging off the collar… straight-up, ghetto-fabulous thugs.

She frowned, confused.

On Facebook, “Mr. Clinton” had sounded loaded. Like, suits and shiny shoes loaded. This motherfucker looked like he was straight off the corner.

“You don’t buy it?” Franklin whipped out his passport.

She took it, checked the name—Larry Clinton—and her doubts vanished. Holy shit. Guess real-deal billionaires don’t dress like I thought.

She handed it back, embarrassed. “Mr. Clinton, my apologies. This way, please.”

Franklin pocketed the passport, following her. “You’re Helen, right?”

Helen nodded, smiling. “Helen Daisy. I’m from LA, but I’m studying at the École Normale Supérieure.”

“Dope, dope. Good school,” Franklin said, pretending he had a clue what that was.

Their small talk was so awkward, A-Train was rolling his eyes. Franks’ game is weak as fuck. No wonder he’s always at the titty bar. Those bitches don’t need game, just cash.

They got to the garage, where a black Mercedes was waiting.

“Here’s the rental, Mr. Clinton. Are you driving, or am I?” Helen asked, holding up the keys.

Franklin was way past being impressed by a Mercedes. “You drive. Just get us to the hotel.”

“Yes, sir!”

They threw their bags in and slid into the back. The car pulled out, and the city rolled by—gleaming skyscrapers next to old Gothic buildings, a beautiful view.

They looked at each other and grinned.

Paris. The city of… whatever. They were here.

………

An hour later, they pulled up to the Four Seasons.

Franklin didn’t book this; Helen did. His only instruction was: “I don’t care about the price. Get the most expensive things you can find.”

This was it. Top-tier luxury, right on the Seine, with insane views. It was a quick nut-shot away from the shopping on the Champs-Élysées and just a couple of klicks from the Eiffel Tower.

This dump was steep. Shitty rooms started at two grand a night in the off-season. Suites were three grand and up.

A doorman in a penguin suit opened the door. They tossed him the keys and bags and walked into the lobby. Smelled like flowers and old money.

Helen went to handle the check-in while Franklin and A-Train crashed in the lounge. A waiter in a tux brought over fresh fruit and those little colorful cookie-things.

A-Train threw his feet up on the table, housing the food like a total ghetto-rich asshole, which got him plenty of stares from the hot women nearby.

You couldn’t really blame him. Six months ago, he was poor. Old habits die hard.

“Yo, Franks, check that shit,” A-Train laughed.

Franklin, having been with Jason the longest, had at least some class. He looked. The front desk was crawling with hot blondes hanging off rich-as-fuck grandpas, all white hair and fat wallets.

Franklin had seen it a million times. Who gives a shit.

A few minutes later, Helen hustled back, looking pissed. “Mr. Clinton… I’m so sorry. The presidential suite… they gave it away.”

Franklin’s brow furrowed. “Gave it… away? What does that mean?”

Helen looked flustered. “I had it reserved, but the front desk just told me some ’very important guest’ is checking in, so……”

“So they gave my room to some other asshole,” Franklin finished, his voice flat.

Seeing he was pissed, Helen added quickly, “Mr. Clinton, they’re… offering two complimentary breakfast vouchers. A $200 value.”

Franklin just stared at her.

His boss was the richest motherfucker on the planet. He himself was worth a billion. He gives a flying fuck about $200 worth of eggs?

“If you’re not satisfied,” Helen said, “We can go to another hotel. There are plenty of…”

Franklin just sighed and waved his hand. “Fuck it. Whatever. Just get us other suites.”

Helen looked relieved and ran back to the desk.

“Franks,” A-Train leaned in, pissed, “It’s not just the staff. These motherfuckers ain’t got a clue.”

Whether it was the hotel staff or the other guests, the way they looked at them… it was pure disdain. A-Train, always sensitive about the race card, had clocked it instantly.

“Yeah.” Franklin’s face darkened. “I’m seeing it too. Before we check out, we’re gonna leave ’em a nice ’tip.’”

“Fuckin’ A.”

In two sentences, the two of them just sentenced the Four Seasons to death.

They got their keys and were led up to the suites. Their bags and the car keys were brought up.

Helen flashed a dazzling smile. “Mr. Clinton, do you need to rest? If not, I can take you to the Champs-Élysées for some shopping.”

Franklin sat on the couch and shook his head. “Fuck shopping. We can do that later. We’re in Paris. Time to see the ’sights.’”

Helen looked surprised. These two don’t exactly scream ’art lovers.’

She recovered. “Okay! The Louvre this morning, Notre Dame this afternoon, and the Eiffel Tower tonight!”

Franklin grinned. “That’s the one. Perfect.”

………

After a quick break, they drove to the Louvre.

The Louvre. One of the “Big Four” museums. Built in 1204, used to be a palace for 50 kings, turned into a museum in 1793. It held over 400,000 pieces of art, most of it stolen from other countries.

They parked and walked to the main plaza. There was the famous glass pyramid, designed by I. M. Pei. A must-see photo-op for every goddamn tourist.

They took a few stupid pictures and then got in line for tickets.

Inside, Helen started her guide-spiel, rambling about history and where all the stolen things came from.

Not even thirty minutes in, A-Train was dying of boredom.

He whispered, “Yo, Franks… you gettin’ any of this shit? I’m about to pass out.”

Franklin rubbed his eyes. “Same, bro. I don’t get it. What’s the big deal about a bunch of old statues and paintings?”

A-Train scoffed. “Right? Look at all these naked motherfuckers. The statues ain’t even that good. A good sex doll looks more realistic.”

They kept their voices down. This place was full of art-snobs who would probably have a heart attack if they heard them.

Helen, clueless, kept talking. “The Louvre has so much, but it’s most famous for its ’Big Three’ treasures!”

Treasures. That got their attention. “What three?”

“The Venus de Milo,” Helen said, “The Winged Victory of Samothrace, and… the Mona Lisa!”

They looked at each other. Holy shit. Even they’d heard of that one.

“Yo, Helen! Leave the others, take us to the Mona Lisa!”

“Okay! Right this way.”

A few minutes later, they were standing in front of the priceless painting.

They stared for a long time. Finally, Franklin asked, “Yo, is that the real one?”

“It’s supposed to be,” Helen said. “There are a lot of rumors about fakes and copies, but honestly, only the museum knows for sure.”

Franklin pressed, “So… how much is this worth?”

Even if it was the famous Mona Lisa, Franklin couldn’t appreciate the art. A price tag, however… that was a language he understood.

Helen laughed. “The insurance value is, like, $830 million. But unless the French government goes completely broke and insane, they’d never sell this thing.”

“$830 million? That’s it?” Franklin muttered, unimpressed.

Fuck it. I’ll just grab it on the way out. Take it back to the boss. Be a nice ’welcome’ present for the new kids. Imagine hanging the real-deal fucking Mona Lisa in your living room. Now that’s some boss-level shit.

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