Total Chaos (15 page)

T
hey were waiting for me outside my house. My mind was on other things, and I was exhausted. I was dying for a glass of Lagavulin. They emerged from the shadows, as silent as cats. By the time I realized they were there, it was too late.

They pulled a thick plastic bag down over my head, and two arms slid under my armpits and around my chest and lifted me off the ground. The arms were like steel. I was pinned against the guy's body. I struggled.

A powerful blow hit me in the stomach. I opened my mouth and swallowed all the oxygen that was still in the bag. Shit! What was the guy hitting me with? A second blow. Same strength. A boxing glove. Fuck! A boxing glove! There was no more oxygen in the bag. Shit! I kicked out with my legs, and hit nothing but air. On my chest, the vice-like grip grew tighter.

A blow landed on my jaw. I opened my mouth, and another blow followed in my stomach. I was going to suffocate. I was sweating gallons. I wanted to bend double, to protect my stomach. The guy with steel arms must have felt it. For a fraction of a second, he let me slide down. Then he pulled me up again, still pinned to him. I could feel his cock against my buttocks. The bastard was getting a hard-on! Two more blows. Left, right. In the stomach again. With my mouth wide open, I moved my head in every direction. I tried to cry out, but no sound emerged, except a slight moan.

My head seemed to be floating in a kettle, with no safety valve. The vice on my chest did not relax. I was nothing but a punching bag now. I lost all sense of time, didn't even feel the blows anymore. My muscles had stopped reacting. I wanted oxygen. That was all. Air! A little air! Just a little! Then my knees hit the ground, hard. Instinctively, I rolled up into a ball. A breath of air had just entered beneath the plastic bag.

“This was a warning, asshole! Next time, you're dead!”

A kick landed in my back. I groaned. I heard a motorcycle engine. I tore off the plastic bag and breathed in all the air I could.

The motorcycle rode off. I stayed there without moving, trying to get my breathing back to normal. A shiver went through me, then I began to shake all over. Move, I told myself. But my body refused to obey. It wouldn't do it. If I moved, the pain would start all over again. Lying there in a ball, I felt nothing. But I couldn't stay like this.

Tears were running down my cheeks. I felt the salty taste of them on my lips. I must have started to cry when I was hit and hadn't stopped.

I licked my tears. The taste was almost good. How about going in and pouring yourself a glass of scotch, huh, Fabio? You just have to get up and go inside. No, don't stand up straight. You can't. Take it easy. Get down on all fours and crawl to your door. There it is, you can see it. Good. Now sit down with your back to the wall. Breathe. Go on, find your keys. Good, lean on the wall, get up slowly, put all your weight against the door. Now open it. The top lock first. Then the middle one. Shit, you forgot to lock that one!

The door opened, and I fell into Marie-Lou's arms. The impact made her lose her balance. I saw the two of us tumble to the floor. Marie-Lou. I must be hallucinating. Then everything went black.

 

I had a glove soaked in cold water on my forehead. I felt the same cold sensation on my eyes and cheeks, then on my neck and chest. A few drops of water slid down over my shoulder blades. I shivered, and opened my eyes. Marie-Lou smiled at me. I was on my bed, naked.

“Are you all right?”

I nodded, and closed my eyes. Despite the dim light, I found it hard to keep my eyes open. She took the glove off my forehead. Then put it back. It was cold again. It felt good.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Twenty after three.”

“Got any cigarettes?”

She lit one for me and put it between my lips. I sucked on it, then lifted my left hand to take it out of my mouth. It was a small movement, but it gave me an excruciating pain in my stomach. I opened my eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you. I mean, I had to see someone, and I thought of you.”

“How did you get my address?”

“Minitel.”

Minitel. Shit! Fifty million people could show up here uninvited, thanks to Minitel. Stupid fucking invention. I closed my eyes again.

“I was sitting outside the door. The woman next door, Honorine, suggested I wait in her house. We talked. I told her I was a friend. Then she opened this door for me. It was getting late, and she thought it was better for me to wait here. She said you'd understand.”

“Understand what?”

“What happened to you?”

I told her. As succinctly as I could. Before she could ask me why, I rolled over on my side and sat up. “Help me. I need a shower.”

I put my right arm around her shoulders. I weighed only a hundred and fifty pounds, but it took all the strength of Hercules to lift myself from the bed. I was still bent over. I was afraid of reawakening the pain that still lurked in my stomach.

“Lean on the wall.”

I put my back against the wall. She turned on the faucets.

“Lukewarm,” I said.

She took off her T-shirt and jeans and helped me into the shower. I felt weak. The water immediately did me good. I was standing against Marie-Lou, my arms around her neck. I closed my eyes. The effect didn't take long to make itself felt.

“Well, I'll be damned!” she cried, becoming aware of my hard-on. “So you're not dead yet!”

I smiled, despite myself. All the same, I was feeling increasingly unsteady on my legs, and I was shaking.

“Shall I make it hotter?”

“No. I want it cold. Get out.” I placed my hands on the tiles. Marie-Lou got out of the shower. “Go on!”

She turned the faucet full on. I screamed. She stopped the water, grabbed a towel, and rubbed me. I went to the bathroom sink. I needed to see my face. I switched on the light. What I saw didn't thrill me. My own face was intact, but behind me, I could see Marie-Lou's face. Her left eye was swollen, and almost blue. I turned slowly, holding onto the sink.

“Who did that?”

“My pimp.”

I drew her to me. She had two bruises on her shoulder and a red mark on her neck. She huddled against me and began to cry, softly. Her belly was against mine. It felt hot. That made me feel a whole lot better. I stroked her hair.

“We both look like hell. Tell me all about it.”

I freed myself from her, opened the medicine cabinet, and took out a bottle of Dolipran. The pain was intense.

“Get two glasses from the kitchen. And there's a bottle of Lagavulin around in there somewhere.”

I went back to the bedroom, still bent over. I collapsed on the bed, then set the alarm for seven.

Marie-Lou came back. She had a wonderful body. She wasn't a hooker anymore, and I wasn't a cop. We were two of life's walking wounded. I took two Dolipran with a little scotch. I offered her one. She refused.

“There's nothing to tell. He beat me up because I was with you.”

“With me?”

“You're a cop.”

“How does he know?”

“Everyone knows everything at the O'Stop.”

I looked at the time. I emptied my glass. “Stay here. Until I get back. Don't move. And...”

I don't think I even finished the sentence.

 

They picked up Mourrabed as planned. He was in bed, his eyes swollen with sleep, his hair a mess. There was a girl with him, just a kid, not yet eighteen. He was wearing a pair of flowered shorts and a T-shirt with the word ‘Again' on it. We hadn't told anyone in advance. The Narcs would have told us to drop the idea. They didn't like us collaring the middlemen. It threw the big boys in a panic, they said, and jeopardized their operations. And the local station would have quickly spread the word all over the projects, just to frustrate us. That was happening more and more frequently.

We took in Mourrabed like a common criminal. For assault. And now, corrupting a minor. But he was no ordinary criminal. We grabbed him just as he was, didn't even let him get dressed. We were humiliating him, quite gratuitously. He started yelling, calling us fascists, Nazis, telling us to go fuck ourselves and our mothers and sisters. We just laughed. Doors opened on the landings, and everyone could see him with handcuffs on his wrists, wearing nothing but his shorts and T-shirt.

Outside, we even took time to have a smoke before we put him in the van. Just to give everyone a chance to gawp at him from their windows. The news would spread through the projects. Mourrabed in shorts: it was an image that would amuse people, and would stay in their minds. It was a whole lot different than getting arrested after a car chase through the projects.

We took him to the station house in L'Estaque. They didn't know we were coming, and they weren't thrilled. They could already see themselves being besieged by hundreds of kids armed to the teeth. They wanted to send us back where we came from. To our local station house.

“The complaint was registered here,” Perol said. “So it seemed sensible to deal with it here.” He pushed Mourrabed ahead of him. “We're expecting another customer. An underage girl we picked up with him. She's just getting dressed.”

We'd left Cerutti at the scene with a dozen men. I wanted them to take an initial statement from the girl. And to go through the apartment, and Mourrabed's car, with a fine-tooth comb. Then they'd inform the girl's parents and bring her here.

“There are going to be a lot of people here,” I said.

Mourrabed had sat down, and was listening to us. He seemed to be finding it funny. I went up to him, grabbed him by the neck, and pulled him to his feet without letting go.

“Why are you here? Do you have any idea?”

“Yeah. I hit a guy the other night. I was drunk.”

“Just hit him, right? What did you have in your hands? Razor blades?”

Then my strength failed me. I went pale. My legs started to shake. I was going to fall, and I felt like throwing up. I didn't know which to do first.

“Fabio!” Perol said.

“Take me to the toilet.”

Since the morning I'd taken six Dolipran, three Guronsan and gallons of coffee. I wasn't feeling great, but I was still standing. When the alarm had rung, Marie-Lou had moaned and turned over. I made her take a Lexomil, so she could sleep in peace. My shoulders and back ached. And the pain wouldn't go away. As soon as I put my feet on the ground, I got these stabbing pains, as if I had a sewing machine in my stomach. That filled me with hate.

“Batisti,” I said as soon as he picked up the phone. “Those buddies of yours should have finished me off. But you're nothing but a low-down scumbag piece of shit. You're going to sweat like you've never sweated in your rotten life.”

“Montale!” he screamed into the receiver.

“Yeah, I'm listening.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I was run over by a steamroller, you piece of shit. If I gave you the details, would it give you a hard-on?”

“Montale, I had nothing to do with this, I swear.”

“Don't swear, scumbag! Just explain.”

“I had nothing to do with it.”

“You're repeating yourself.”

“I don't know anything about it.”

“Listen, Batisti, to me you're just a prize bastard. But I'd like to believe you. I'll give you twenty-four hours to find out what happened. I'll call you tomorrow and tell you where to meet me. You'd better come up with something good.”

Pérol had seen that I wasn't feeling myself as soon as I'd met him, and had been throwing me worried looks. I'd reassured him, telling him it was an old ulcer.

“Yeah, I see,” he'd said.

He saw it only too well. But I didn't want to tell him about the beating I'd received. Or the rest of it. Manu, Ugo. I'd scored a bull's eye, somewhere. I couldn't make head or tail of any of it, but I'd gotten myself involved in something that could easily cost me my life. But there was only me, Fabio Montale. I didn't have a wife or kids. No one would weep over me. I didn't want to drag Pérol into my business. I knew him. I knew that, for friendship's sake, he'd be ready to dive headlong into anything, however shitty. And it was obvious that wherever I was heading stank really badly. Worse than the toilet in this station house.

The smell of urine seemed to impregnate the walls. I spat. Coffee-colored phlegm. My stomach went from high to low tide in thirty seconds. With a cyclone in between. I opened my mouth even wider. It would have been a relief to throw up everything. But I hadn't put anything in my stomach since noon yesterday.

“Coffee,” Pérol said, behind me.

“It won't go down.”

“Try.”

He was holding a plastic cup in one hand. I rinsed my face with cold water, grabbed a paper towel, and wiped myself. I was feeling a bit better. I took the cup, and swallowed a mouthful of coffee. It went down without too many problems. I immediately broke out in a sweat. I could feel my shirt sticking to my skin. I was sure I had a fever.

“It's OK,” I said.

Then I retched again. It felt as if I was taking the punches one more time. Behind me, Pérol was waiting for me to explain. He wouldn't budge until I did.

“OK, let's deal with the asshole, and then I'll tell you all about it.”

“That's fine with me. But let me handle Mourrabed.”

All I had to do now was find a story that was more convincing than the one about the ulcer.

Mourrabed watched me coming, with a sardonic smile. Pérol slapped him, then sat down opposite him, astride the chair.

Mourrabed turned to me. “What do you want, man?”

“To send you down,” I said.

“That's cool. I can play soccer inside.” He shrugged. “All I did was hit a guy. The judge is gonna take some convincing. My lawyer will eat you for breakfast.”

“We have a closet with ten bodies in it,” Pérol said. “I'm sure we can stick one of them on you. And see what your crap lawyer makes of that.”