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Then – bam! – some twat in a beat-up truck cuts us off. “Outta my way, you filthy war boy!” I yell, pissed as hell. Nearly smashed the martini glass I don’t even have. She’s cacklin’, lovin’ the chaos, says, “You’re mad, ain’t ya?” Damn right, doll – mad for ya curves and that hustle. “Shaken, not stirred,” I wink, dodgin’ potholes like I’m dodgin’ Blofeld.

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Now, real talk, the neighborhood of Belle Vue is my favorite. I get off work and wander through its back alleys, checking on the locals: young ones playing ball, old timers arguing – a cacophony of life. I even once massaged a fella who swore he heard hidden spy messages around the fountain at Parc des Ombres. Yeah, that place? Freaky at night; lights flicker like secret codes being sent. Reminds me of that movie quote: “We all have our secrets.” Heh.

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