Total Chaos (23 page)

“And you'll have time to go see her, won't you?” she asked, winking at me. “It's not the middle of nowhere.”

“I'll go there with you, Honorine.”

“You don't need me, handsome. I'm too old to play the chaperone.”

We both laughed. I'd have to sit her down sometime and tell her I was in love with someone else. I wondered if Honorine would like Lole. But to me, Honorine was like my mother, and I'd never been able to talk to my mother about girls. The only time I'd ever dared was when I'd just turned fourteen. I told her I thought Gélou was really beautiful and was in love with her. In return, I got a slap. For the first time in my life. Honorine might have reacted the same way. You didn't mess around with cousins.

Taking Farge into custody reduced the risk for Marie-Lou. Someone might be watching her place, but he wouldn't do anything without contacting Farge. All the same, I preferred to be there. Farge was denying the whole thing, except where the evidence was staring him in the face. He admitted he was the person who rented the two-room apartment where Mourrabed was crashing. But he couldn't stand the projects anymore. Too many Arabs and blacks. He'd sent his notice to the Public Housing Office. Of course we found no trace of his letter. But the story made it possible for him to declare that he didn't know Mourrabed. He was just a squatter, he kept repeating. “They go there to get their fix! That's the only thing they know how to do. Apart from raping our women.” I thought of Leila and Toni and the two killers, and almost punched him.

“Say that again,” I said, “and I'll make you eat your own balls.”

He had no record. White as snow, our Farge. As with Toni, someone had done a bit of cleaning up. We'd find a way to make him confess where the arms came from. Maybe not us, but Loubet. I was ready to hand Farge over to him. I went to see him, with the Astra special in my pocket. I told him what I'd found at Mourrabed's place. He looked at the gun, which I'd placed on his desk.

“The third man is still on the streets. So if you have time...”

“You're certainly persistent,” he said, smiling slightly.

“Luck.”

By sending Farge to Loubet, I was kicking the ball into touch. Getting Auch off my back. And Morvan. Loubet was respected in a way that I wasn't. He didn't like people interfering in his investigations. He'd do his job.

I didn't tell him about Toni. He'd been driving the taxi. That didn't make him a killer, or a rapist. At most, he'd have to explain his connection to the two killers. Since they were both dead, Toni could make up any story he liked. Since all I had was a belief, but no proof, I preferred to keep one length ahead of everyone else.

“Having a few Arabs under your belt gives you a thrill, does it?” Mourrabed the ‘squatter' yelled, suddenly angry.

“I don't have a problem with Arabs. I have a problem with you.”

I told him I'd met his lawyer and that unfortunately he couldn't do anything for him right now. Out of pure spite, I added that I could phone his fiancée, if he liked.

“Your lawyer spoke very highly of Jocelyne. But if you're still thinking of marriage, I think you've blown it!”

Improbably, his eyes misted over. He was a picture of misery and despair. The hatred had gone. It would come back, though. After a few years of prison, it would come back more violent than ever.

He finally cracked. After all the threats, the phony allegations, and the slaps. Farge was not only supplying him with drugs but regularly bringing him guns. The arms thing had been going on for six months. His job was to sell them to a few buddies who really had balls. But he never touched them himself. All he did was find customers and make a bit of commission. It was Farge who ran the show. With another guy. A tall, well-built guy, with very short hair. Blue eyes, like steel. Wepler.

“Can I have some decent clothes?”

You could almost have felt sorry for him. His T-shirt was haloed with sweat and his shorts were stained yellow where he'd pissed himself. But I didn't feel any pity for him. He'd long since crossed a boundary. And his personal background was no excuse. No point in calling Jocelyne. She'd just gotten married, to some asshole who worked for the post office. She was just a bitch. The fag was none other than her brother.

 

There was no welcoming committee at Marie-Lou's. The apartment was just as she'd left it. She packed her bags quickly. Like someone going on vacation, she was in a hurry to get away.

I carried her cases to her car, a white Fiesta parked at the top of Rue Estelle. Marie-Lou was packing a final bag with objects she cared about. This wasn't a vacation, it was a farewell. I went back up the street. A motorbike, a Yamaha 1100, was parked before the bridge that crosses Cours Lieutaud. Marie-Lou lived just after the bridge, in a building that clung to the stairs leading up to Cours Julien. There were two of them on the bike. The passenger got off. A tall, blond guy, very muscly. When he moved his biceps, the sleeves of his T-shirt came close to bursting. I followed him.

Marie-Lou was coming out. Muscles went straight up to her and grabbed her arm. She struggled, until she saw me coming.

“Is there a problem?”

Muscles turned around, ready to punch me, but recoiled when he saw me. I don't think it was because I impressed him all that much, physically. No, it was something else. I realized what it was. He was my friend the boxer.

“I asked you a question.”

“And who are you?”

“That's right, we weren't introduced the other night, were we?”

I opened my jacket. He saw the holster and the gun. Before leaving the station, I'd put on the holster, checked my gun and loaded it. Watched anxiously by Pérol.

“We have to talk.”

“Later.”

“This evening?”

“I promise. But I have an urgent appointment. With one of Farge's girls. She was the tip-off.”

He made no comment. I'd proved to him yet again that I was an outstanding cop, but completely crazy. We really did have to talk. This business with Mourrabed had landed us both in the garbage.

“Put your hands against the wall and spread your legs,” I said.

I heard the motorbike take off. I approached Muscles and relieved him of the wallet sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans. I couldn't believe they'd beaten me up like that because of Marie-Lou.

“Your pal Farge is inside. What did you come for the other night?”

He shrugged, and all his muscles moved. I recoiled. The guy could lay me flat just by clicking his fingers.

“Why don't you ask him?”

He didn't really believe me. And I sure didn't scare him any. I wouldn't be able to take him in on my own. Even with my gun. He was just waiting for the right opportunity. I placed the barrel against his skull. A few people passed, but no one stopped.

“What should I do?” Marie-Lou asked, behind me.

“Go to the car.”

Time passed. It seemed like a century. Finally, what I was hoping for happened. A police siren could be heard on Cours Lieutaud. It came closer. There were still some good citizens around. Three cops arrived. I showed them my badge. I was a long way from home, but to hell with manners.

“He was bothering a young lady. Take him in for resisting arrest. Hand him over to Lieutenant Pérol. He'll know what to do with him. Go on, you. I'll speak to you later.”

Marie-Lou was leaning on the hood of the Fiesta, waiting and smoking. A few men turned around to look at her as they passed. But she didn't seem to see anyone. Or even to feel their eyes on her. She had that look I'd first seen on her face this morning, after we made love. A distant look. She was already a long way away.

She cuddled up to me. I buried my face in her hair, breathing in its cinnamon smell one last time. Her breasts felt hot against my chest. She moved her fingers down my back. I slowly freed myself, and placed my finger on her mouth before she could say a word. Goodbye, so long, whatever. I didn't like departures. I didn't like returns either. I just liked things to be done as they were supposed to be done.

Gently, taking my time, I kissed her on the cheeks. Then I walked away down Rue Estelle. I had an appointment with Batisti at five o'clock.

W
e jumped onto the ferry just as it was leaving the pier. In the case of Batisti, it wasn't so much that he jumped, more that I'd pushed him. I'd pushed him hard, without letting go of him. He ended up in the middle of the cabin. I thought he was going to lose his balance and fall, but he steadied himself against a bench. He turned, looked at me, and sat down. He lifted his cap and mopped his forehead.

“
The wops!” I said, as I went to pay.

I'd spotted them the moment Batisti had joined me by the ferry pier on Place aux Huiles. They were following him at a distance of a few yards. Dressed like tourists. White linen pants, flowery shirts, sunglasses, and bags slung across their shoulders. As Djamel had said, they were playing their roles to the hilt. I recognized them immediately. They'd been having lunch behind us the other day at the Bar de la Marine. They'd gone when Batisti had left. It was Batisti they were tailing. The only reason they'd followed me to the Panier was because they'd seen me with him. At least that was what I reckoned, and it made sense.

The wops weren't trailing me. Neither was anyone else. I'd made sure of that before coming to meet Batisti. When I left Marie-Lou, I went down Rue Estelle and turned onto Rue Saint-Ferréol, Marseilles' biggest pedestrian-only street. All the big stores were concentrated here. Nouvelles-Galeries, Marks and Spencer, La Redoute, Virgin. They'd replaced the beautiful movie houses of the Sixties, the Rialto, the Rex, the Pathé Palace. There wasn't even a bar anymore. At seven o'clock, the street became as sad and empty as the Canebière.

I'd plunged into the stream of pedestrians. The middle classes, managers, civil servants, immigrants, the unemployed, the young, the old: after five o'clock, the whole of Marseilles walked along this street. Everyone rubbed shoulders naturally, unaggressively. This was the true face of Marseilles. It was only at the ends of the street that the divisions reappeared. The Canebière, the implicit frontier between the north and south of the city, at one end. And Place Félix-Baret at the other end, a stone's throw from Police Headquarters, where a van full of riot police was always parked. The gateway to the rich parts of town. Beyond it, the bars, including the Bar Pierre, which for a century have been the most sophisticated meeting places for gilded youth in the downtown area.

With the riot police constantly watching, there was always the feeling of a city at war. Beyond those limits, the enemy was watching, with fear or hate depending on whether your name was Paul or Ahmed. The way you looked was considered reasonable grounds for being arrested.

I'd walked aimlessly, not even window shopping. I was trying to get my thoughts in some kind of order. I was starting to pick apart the thread of events leading from Manu's death to Ugo's. I still couldn't make sense of them, but at least I could put them in some kind of order. For the moment, that was enough for me. The teenage girls on the street seemed much prettier than the ones I'd known. Their faces were a map of their racial history, and the city's. They walked with confidence and pride in their beauty. They were Marseilles girls, and had that languid Marseilles way of walking, and that almost impudent look if your eyes lingered on them. Someone, I couldn't remember who, had called them mutants, which seemed a good word to me. I envied young men today.

On Rue Vacon, instead of continuing on to the Quai de Rive-Neuve, as far as the ferry pier, I turned left and went down into the underground parking garage on Cours d'Estienne d'Orves, where I lit a cigarette and waited. The first person to appear was a woman of about thirty. Salmon-colored linen suit, plump body, heavy make-up. When she saw me, she recoiled, clutched her bag to her chest, and walked off very quickly in search of her car. I finished my cigarette and went back upstairs.

Batisti was still sitting on the bench, mopping his forehead with a big white handkerchief. With his short white shirt over blue cotton pants, his espadrilles, his sailor's cap pulled down tight over his head, he looked like a retired naval officer. A good old Marseilles citizen. Batisti was looking at the pier as it receded into the distance. The two wops seemed uncertain what to do. Even if they found a taxi, which would be a miracle, they wouldn't get to the other side of the harbor in time. They'd lost us. For the moment.

I leaned against a window, ignoring Batisti. I wanted him to soak in his own juice. At least while the crossing lasted. I loved that crossing. Looking at the channel between the two forts, Saint-Nicolas and Saint-Jean, which guard the entrance to Marseilles. Facing the open sea, not the Canebière. By choice. Marseilles, gateway to the East. To foreign lands, adventure, dreams. Marseilles people don't like traveling. Everyone thinks of them as sailors and adventurers, or imagines their fathers or grandfathers went around the world at least once. At most, they'd been as far as Noilon or Cap Croisette. In middle class families, the children weren't allowed near the sea. The port allowed business to flourish, but the sea itself was dirty, the source of vice, and plague. As soon as the weather turned fine, you went to live inland. Aix and the surrounding countryside, with its cottages and country houses. The sea was left to the poor.

When I was a child, the harbor was our playground. We'd learned to swim between the two forts. One day or another, to prove you were a man and impress the girls, you had to swim there and back. The first time, Manu and Ugo had to come and fish me out. I was sinking, and couldn't catch my breath.

“You were afraid.”

“No, I wasn't. I was just out of breath.”