Tuesday is Book Promotion Day.
Years before Prince Albert of Monaco appointed me to be his spymaster, I penned a nonfiction book (published in 1993 by Enigma Books under the pseudonym Robert Westgate) about my first year (1988-89) of residence in a principality I discovered to be a cosmopolitan Peyton Place.
Monaco Cool chronicles the lives of quirky characters who cling to Le Texan, on a Monaco backstreet, like algae to a Venice wharf.
Down the long Alamo Bar, Crazy George waxes philosophical about the Riviera’s topless season, past and present.
Shorty is running around, expecting Ringo Starr for nachos while Roberto, from Milan, is on the prowl for blonde American gals too young for Roman Polanski.
Super-spook John McMillard III, known as “Pickleman” to the regulars, is sipping red wine and whispering about a secret mission, probably undertaken in his bathtub.
He’s keeping an eye on Barry the Lamster, a reclusive investment guru and self-styled “freedom-fighter,” who returns Pickleman’s glare from a bad table near the door.
And and at table nearby, Prince Albert, clad in blue jeans and cowboy shirt, is throwing back slammers with the boys while his elderly uncle, Prince Louis de Polignac, holds court with strolling mariachis.
Excerpt:
The essence of Monaco Cool: sitting, sipping, soaking and watching. Especially if these strenuous activities are performed after a workout, sauna, jacuzzi and massage at Lowes Health Spa overlooking the sea. This sets you up for the day. In fact, why leave? You can stay the whole morning and afternoon for a measley 11 francs, the price of a cappuccino. You can peruse the British newspapers, read a book, write one—and all the while grow a George Hamilton suntan.