François VII

                                    

                                          

To say that the Mockingbird Inn was a weak replacement for the Trump Tower would be the understatement of the century. The shower was small and covered with stains that were colored assorted shades of yellow, the full-sized box spring bed was wholly inferior to the king-sized bed François enjoyed at Trump Tower. Where the Tower had three restaurants, the Mockingbird Inn had stale American pastries and burnt coffee. Alas, Remy demanded that they spend most of their time in America at the Mockingbird, which meant François rarely got to return to his expensive room at the Tower. On the bright side, François could chain smoke in his room at The Mockingbird. 
The Frenchmen stayed in number thirty-seven from an hour or so after they woke up at the Trump Hotel until well past midnight. In those hours, Remy would use a strange piece of equipment he purchased at a filthy establishment called 'Fox's Spy Store', along with an assortment of other devices François couldn't make sense of, to listen to the American in the room next to theirs while occasionally barking orders at François.
"It's been three days of this, what are you even doing?" François whined.
"Shh!" Was Remy's only reply. François rolled his eyes at the disgraced detective and threw himself back down on the bed.
David Robinson was a boring man, François had only met him once at the gas station but had gotten to know him even better through the wall of number thirty-seven. He woke up every morning at Five AM, exercised by doing calisthenics in his room, then going for a run of five miles with a heavy-looking military backpack, after that, he'd return to his room and tinker quietly for hours on end, Remy had no idea what he was doing, but said he heard small power tools and occasional banging.
After that, Robinson would mail one or two small packages, because of how the large blue mailbox was constructed, François and Remy had never been able to retrieve one when they followed the young man, but Remy said it was safe to assume they were mail bombs.
Finally, he would order Thai food from the same place as always, dance with Alice, and then they'd fuck. François thought they should at least afford their suspect a bit of privacy in those moments, but Remy insisted that Robinson could use that time as a cover.
"Maybe sometimes they are really fucking, but other times, they could just be playing a recording while they discuss their plans. The woman's moans sound pretty much the same every time, you know." Remy had said. François scoffed and accused his friend of just being a pervert who wanted to listen in, which earned him a slap from the former detective. 
Now, François lay back on the bed wondering if it was a good idea to come at all, a lit Gitane hanging from his lips.
The man is strange and I have no doubt he will try and kill Monsieur Cartwright, but can we really stop it? Me, with my finicky clairvoyance, along with my friend, a disgraced cop who bought a bunch of junk from a shady store, our less-than-merry duo are going to stop a trained soldier with robot limbs, military weapons, and explosives? The idea is so stupid it may as well be out of an American action movie, like the ones me and Françoise used to watch when we used to laugh together. Back when she was small and her mother did not hate me so. Perhaps that would be a good poem?
The artist extinguished his Gitane and pulled out his notepad, the one he kept in the back pocket of all his trousers next to his cigarettes , the blue one with the black pen in its coiled metal binding. He pulled it out and began to write:
Oh, ma petite fille Françoise 
 Le cœur de mon cœur
Pourquoi as-tu changé? 
Ensemble, nous avons joué
Mais tu as grandi 
...Avec ta haine pour moi