Eyes Full of Empty (16 page)

His face says a lot about him: his nose must've been broken lots of time, his high cheekbones hide dark little half-shut eyes, his fat cheeks are swollen from old punches. He's not far from six feet and seems in good shape—the kind of guy who'll catch up if you try to run away. The fact that he's letting me see his face is not a good sign. He pulls a gun. I wonder if he's going to put a bullet in my head and leave me bleeding on the floor. I'll just be the second guy that happened to in this apartment. The truth is I'm shitting bricks and don't want history to repeat itself. Especially since, against a guy like him, I've got no chance.

“Mr. Vernay would like to see you.”

That accent. Mr. Ski Mask.

The car is double-parked—a black German sedan. Not the same model as last time. It's like they have a whole collection. I catch the driver's eyes in the rearview. About as comforting as those of his partner, who's gotten in next to me to make sure I behave. No point asking questions. I already know where we're going and why. I prefer silence. It helps me concentrate on the plan I'll have to come up with before we get there. I have one thing on my side: he doesn't know where Thibaut's body is. Or else I'd be dead already. It's my only leverage against him. I'm relieved when I see the car take the route I expect.

He welcomes me into his big apartment with a view of the Eiffel Tower, where I used to come as a kid for the parties Thomas would throw when his dad wasn't around, with all-you-can-drink champagne.

“Leave us alone.”

The goon obeys. He hasn't said a word since my apartment. He vanishes without a sound—two hundred pounds moving in perfect silence. Eric's sitting in an armchair.

“Sit down.”

“I like standing.”

He gets up. For the first time, I see him as someone who can't stand not having everything in his control. “Sorry to bring you over so late. But I think you're smart enough to know why you're here.”

I don't answer. He goes on. “You see, my boy, some things are just above your head. I'm not here to explain them all, much less justify myself. You don't become what I am without giving up a few things of a…moral nature.”

He trips up a little over these last words, like they're not quite what he means but he can't find better ones. “But let's say all this went off the rails. I didn't want certain information to slip out. The company's not doing very well. So the last thing I need is bad press.”

He snickers to himself. “I entrusted the affair to some small-timers, so they couldn't trace it back to me. I figured Oscar would be smart enough to figure out that it wasn't a coincidence—that his brother had been kidnapped, and it was no accident.”

“So you had his brother kidnapped and you called to tell him to back off?”

“I never called him. I wanted him to figure it out on his own. I had to remain invisible, or else I would've had my own men do
it. It was just a warning. A week or two. He'd know what I was capable of. I wanted to frighten him, that's all. But the shit hit the fan and believe me, I'm sorry.”

At no moment does it seem to have occurred to him that Oscar might have refused to back down. That his brother's kidnapping might only have stiffened his resolve.

“You should've been more careful with your human resources. For a CEO, that's a big oversight.”

He smiles, like he knows my remark hides the phony composure of a TV hero.

“Exactly, my boy, exactly. I hired a pair of incompetents. That they were ultraviolent didn't help. The brothers were supposed to keep the boy, not kill him. I sent my men to check on them. They were supposed to give proof of life and all that in exchange for a payment. Then sit tight. Instead, those morons stole the car. They took the money and the car and kept the kid. We managed to catch up with one of the brothers. The other one took it on the lam. I don't know what happened after that. You found the car—I think that was enough to cover me. I distanced myself from the rest. I thought they'd let the boy go. But today he calls me up—Mr. Great Media Tycoon, my ass—and tells me he knows where his brother died.” He scoffs at the whole fiasco, then goes serious again. “I just want to know where he is. I'll pay.”

He pauses for a moment, checks my reaction. I have no idea what my face betrays.

“So that's why you hired me. Once Thomas blurted that I was working for Crumley, you thought I might prove useful in the long run. Very inspired of you—”

“I may be a lot of things, but I'm no murderer. All you have to do is give me a figure and an address.”

“You're going to send your men in to clean up, is that it? No body, no charges. Trouble is I don't know where he is.”

“I don't believe you.”

“This is where you start threatening me, right? Telling me how your bodyguards were mixed up in some ugly shit back in Eastern Europe or wherever, that kind of bullshit. But they can work me over with a blowtorch, it won't change a thing. I didn't find him. I told Crumley I was giving up. It's been two weeks. It never occurred to you he might try to bluff, to do you one better?”

“No. Because I know when people are bluffing. That's why I'm going to be square with you. I'm going to let you go home and sleep on it. Sleep hard. Come up with a figure. And tomorrow, you can come back and we'll pick up our little conversation where we left off.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You're within your rights. I won't hurt you.” He notes the surprise on my face. He goes on. “But as for Nathalie, well…Oh, please, don't look so surprised. I know about you two. You really think I'm that stupid? I even have photos. You like that, when she sucks your cock?”

“You're a psychopath—”

“You like her. I don't. So go off somewhere, the both of you, with my money. I know you want to. And I'd be happy to give it to you.”

The ride home is even worse, stuck in back with the big goon again. I picture the possibility of skipping town with Nathalie and the money. It's tempting, but thoughts of Thibaut distract
me. With the goon not taking his eyes off me, I close my own to pay Thibaut a visit in the underworld. To tell him why justice will never be done. I owe him that much, a ghostly conversation a few minutes long, and then I'm out of there with a clear conscience. Right by the shallow grave where his corpse lies, unearthed by my frenzied digging, I whisper, “Better give up on a gravestone, buddy.”

“Who are you?”

“Your brother hired me to find you.”

“My brother? I have no brother.”

“Oscar.”

“He doesn't give a damn about me.”

“He's an asshole, I know, I listened to the tapes. But you're wrong, kid, he was sad when I told him you were dead.”

“He's a good actor. Where is he?”

“He won't be coming.”

“Why?”

“I can't tell anyone you're here. Nothing personal, pal. But you're already dead, so—”

“Can I get a coffin? It's cold here.”

I take off my coat and spread it over him. “Here. It's all I have.”

“Thanks. Now leave me alone, if that's all you have to tell me. Talking with you has worn me out. I'd like to rest now.”

“You hold it against me?”

But he's already fallen silent. He's underground. And he's told me what I have to do.

A hand pressing down on my shoulder jerks me from my reverie. The gorilla looks at me, no expression on his face. “We're here.”

I look out the window and recognize my neighborhood.

“You have kids?” I ask him before I get out.

“No,” he replies, simple as that.

“You want any?”

“No.”

“I know, right? World we live in.”

He grunts. I open the door, thinking that's all I'll get out of him.

“My sister had one. Cops gunned him down. I think that's what changed my mind,” he finally says.

I get out of the car, convinced his eyes are trained on my back when I open the door to my building.

As soon as I get in, I call Cherif. He picks up right away.

“I really need some help this time.”

“What else is new?”

My phone rings again a few hours later. It's Nat, panicked. “I have to see you right away.”

I can tell from her voice she's not doing so well. “What's wrong?”

She bursts into tears. “I was attacked.”

I take her to the ER at Lariboisière. Just another Saturday night by Gare du Nord: several junkies in withdrawal talking to themselves between screams; a guy cuffed to the radiator, flanked by SWAT in ski masks; and another guy, drunk—it's unclear if his nose was busted in a fight or if he did it himself pitching face-forward on the sidewalk. The list goes on. The down-and-out of every stripe, living a life in name only. And Nat, her eyes filled with tears, two fingers broken. For the tenth time, I make her tell me what happened.

She was going downstairs in her building when a guy came out of the elevator and hit her. Then he leaned over her, undid
her belt. She pushed him back; he broke her fingers. Then he changed his mind, smiled, and whispered in her ear, “I know that got you wet.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don't know. I can't remember. He had an Eastern European accent.”

“And he didn't take anything?”

“No.”

“And you're not pressing charges?”

“What?”

“You don't want your husband to find out, is that it?”

She peeks at me out of the corner of her eye. “Stop judging me.”

“I'm not judging. I'm trying to help you.”

“Sorry.”

I get out of my seat. “Wait here, just let me check on something.”

I head for reception and ask the woman who's tapping on her keyboard behind the counter, “How much longer will we have to wait?”

She lifts her head, looks at me. She's got bags under her eyes, and her makeup is cracked here and there. She brushes a lock of hair—a bad red dye job—back behind her ear and sighs. I wonder how many times she's heard the same question over the decade or two she's worked here, forget about just today.

“You have a number, sir. We'll call you when it's your turn.”

After two hours of waiting, our number finally comes up. The doctor asks her what happened. She tells him she fell. He gives me the
look
. Clearly, I'm the one who broke her fingers—out of jealousy, because I was drunk or the soup was cold. I don't blame him. He must see lots of cases like this. That look is his only retaliation, his only way of making people who do such
things know they're bastards. Or maybe I'm making things up and he doesn't give a damn.

“I'm going to give you a temporary splint while we wait for the X-ray.” The doctor positions the splint around her fingers, bandages them up, then points us to another room. “Wait here, they'll come get you for the X-ray.”

With these words, he strolls away without so much as a wave. I offer Nat a seat, but she refuses.