Total Chaos (29 page)

 

I caught Babette by the arm. She turned.

“What's up? You've gone white.”

“The wops. Dead. And Morvan too. In the ditch and the field... Near my car.”

“Shit!”

“You were right. Batisti and the wops were doing a spring clean.”

“And Wepler?”

“Still at large. What I suspect happened is that when the shooting started, Morvan tried to get the hell out, and they ran after him. Forgetting all about Wepler. From the little you told me about him, he's the kind who'd stay in hiding, waiting for me to arrive so that he could make sure I was really alone. When the two wops showed up, he must have been puzzled but not especially worried. By the time he realized what was going down, everything exploded. When they came out, running after Morvan, he got them in the back.”

Flashbulbs started popping. Besquet and Paoli came out, supporting a woman. Simone. Auch followed ten paces behind. His hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, as usual. Looking solemn. Very solemn.

Simone crossed the parking lot. A very thin face, with finely-drawn features, framed by shoulder-length black hair. Slender, quite tall for a Mediterranean woman. Class. She was wearing an unbleached linen suit that set off her tan. She looked exactly the way her voice sounded. Beautiful and sensual. And proud, like all Corsican women. She stopped, overcome with sobs. Calculated tears, for the benefit of the photographers. She turned her distraught face to them. She had huge, magnificent black eyes.

“Do you like her?”

It was much more than that. She was exactly the type of woman Ugo, Manu and I had gone for. Simone looked like Lole. I finally understood.

“I'm getting out of here,” I said to Babette.

“Not without an explanation.”

“I don't have time.” I took out one of my cards. Under my name, I wrote Pérol's home number. On the back, an address. Batisti's. “Try to reach Pérol. He could be at the station, or home. Just find him and tell him to meet me at this address. As soon as possible. OK?”

“I'm going with you.”

I took her by the shoulders and shook her. “No way! I don't want you mixed up in this. But you can help me. Find Pérol for me. Ciao.”

She caught my jacket. “Fabio!”

“Don't worry. I'll pay for the calls.”

 

Batisti lived on Rue des Flots-Bleus, above Pont de la Fausse-Monnaie, in a villa overlooking Malmousque, the farthest headland in the harbor. One of the ritziest neighborhoods in Marseilles. The villas, built on the rock, had a magnificent, sweeping view of the harbor, from La Madrague de Montredon on the left to well after L'Estaque on the right, and the islands—Endoume, Le Fortin, La Tour du Canoubier, Le Château d'If—as well as the Frioul islands, Pomègues and Ratonneaux, straight ahead.

I drove with one foot on the floor, listening to an old recording by Dizzy Gillespie. I reached Place d'Aix just as
Manteca
was starting. It was a piece I loved, one of the first to fuse jazz and salsa.

The streets were deserted. I turned toward the harbor, and drove along Quai de Rive-Neuve, where a few groups of young people were still hanging out at the entrance to the Trolleybus. I thought again of Marie-Lou. The night I spent dancing with her. The pleasure I'd had that night had taken me back years. To a time when everything was an excuse to stay up all night. I must have aged one morning, coming home to sleep. And I didn't know how.

I was struggling through another sleepless night. In a sleeping city where there wasn't a single hooker to be seen on the streets, even in front of the Vamping. I was about to play Russian roulette with the whole of my past life. My youth and my friendships. Manu, Ugo. And all the years that followed. The best and the worst. The last months, the last days. Staking them on a future in which I could sleep peacefully.

The stakes weren't high enough. I couldn't confront Batisti with what amounted to the daydreams of an angler. What cards did I have left? Four queens. Babette: friendship found. Leila: a missed opportunity. Marie-Lou: a promise given. Lole: lost but still awaited. Clubs, spades, diamonds, hearts. So much for the love of women, I told myself as I parked about a hundred yards from Batisti's villa.

He was probably waiting anxiously for a call from Simone. After my call to Les Restanques, he must have made up his mind very quickly. To take us all out in one fell swoop. Acting in a hurry wasn't Batisti's usual style. He was cold and calculating, like all people who bear a grudge. But the opportunity had been too good to miss. It wouldn't come again and it coincided neatly with the aim he'd set himself when he'd buried Tino.

I walked all the way around the outside of the villa. The front gate was closed and there was no way I could get through a lock like that. Not to mention that it was probably connected to an alarm system. I couldn't see myself ringing the bell and saying: “Hi, Batisti, it's me, Montale.” I was stuck. Then I remembered that all these buildings could be reached on foot, along old paths that went all the way down to the sea. Ugo, Manu and I had explored every inch of this area. I went back to my car, and drove down, with the engine off, as far as the Corniche. I engaged the clutch, drove another five hundred yards and turned left along Vallon de la Baudille. I parked and continued on foot up the steps of Traverse Olivary.

I was directly to the east of Batisti's villa, facing the perimeter wall. I walked along it until I found what I was looking for. The old wooden door leading into the garden. It was covered in Virginia creepers. It couldn't have been used in years. There was no lock, no latch. I just pushed open the door and walked in.

The ground floor was lighted. I walked around the outside of the house. A fanlight was open. I jumped, steadied myself, and slipped inside. The bathroom. I took out my gun and entered the house. In the big living room, Batisti sat in shorts and a leather undershirt in front of the TV screen. A video was playing.
Don't Look Now...We're Being Shot At
. He'd dozed off and was snoring quietly. I crept up to him and put my gun to his temple. He jumped.

“A ghost.”

He blinked, realized who I was, and turned white.

“I left the others at Les Restanques. I don't care for family parties. Or for Saint Valentine's Day. Do you want the details? The body count, that kind of thing?”

“And Simone?” he stammered.

“On top form. You have a very beautiful daughter. You should have introduced us. I like that kind of woman too. Shit! Manu gets everything, and his friends get nothing.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He was fully awake now.

“Don't move, Batisti. Put your hands in the pockets of your shorts and don't move. I'm tired, and I can easily lose control.” He did as I said, but I could see the wheels in his head turning. “Don't build up your hopes. Your two wops are dead too.”

“Tell me about Manu. When did he meet Simone?”

“Two years ago. Maybe more. His girlfriend was away at the time, I can't remember where. Spain, I think. I'd invited him for a
bouillabaisse
, at l'Épuisette, in the Vallon des Auffes. Simone joined us. Les Restanques was closed that day. They got on well, but I didn't realize. Not straight away. I didn't mind about Simone and Manu. True, I've never been able to stand the Poli brothers. Especially Émile.

“Then the girl came back. I thought it was over between him and Simone. I was relieved. I didn't want any trouble. Émile was a violent guy. But I was wrong. They were still seeing each other, and—”

“Spare me the details.”

One day I said to Simone, “Manu's doing one more job for me and then he's taking off for Seville, with his girlfriend.”

“Oh!” went Simone, “I didn't know.” I realized it wasn't over between them. But it was too late, I'd blown it.”

“Are you telling me she killed him?”

“He'd told her they'd be going away together. To Costa Rica, or somewhere in that part of the world. Ugo had told him it was a great place.”

“Are you telling me she killed him?” I repeated. “Say it, for fuck's sake!”

“Yeah.”

I hit him. I'd been wanting to do it for a long time. Then I hit him a second time, and a third. Crying all the while. Because I knew I couldn't press the trigger. Or even strangle him. There was no hate left in me. Only disgust. Could I hate Simone for being as beautiful as Lole? Could I hate Manu for fucking the ghost of a lost love? Could I hate Ugo for breaking Lole's heart?

I'd put down my gun, thrown myself on Batisti, and lifted him. I just kept hitting him. He was completely limp now. I let go of him and he sank to the floor, on all fours. He looked up at me like a dog. A scared dog.

“I could shoot you, but you're not worth it,” I said, though that was exactly what I wanted to do.

“You said it!” a voice yelled behind us. “Lie down on the floor, asshole. Legs apart, hands on your head. You, old man, stay where you.”

Wepler.

I'd forgotten about him.

He walked around us, picked up my gun, checked it was loaded, and removed the safety catch. His arm was dripping with blood.

“Thanks for showing me the way, asshole!” he said, kicking me.

Batisti was sweating buckets. “Wait, Wepler!” he begged.

“You're worse than all the Chinks put together. Worse than the fucking Arabs.” With my gun in his hand, he walked up to Batisti and put the barrel against his temple. “Get up. You're a worm, but you're going to die standing up.”

Batisti got to his feet. He was an obscene sight, in his shorts and undershirt, with sweat pouring down his body over rolls of fat. And fear in his eyes. Killing was easy. Dying was something else.

The shot rang out.

And the room echoed with several reports. Batisti collapsed on top of me. I saw Wepler take a couple of steps, as if performing a ballet. There was another shot, and he went through the glass door.

I was covered in blood. Batisti's rotten blood. His eyes were open, looking at me.

“Ma...nu..” he stammered. “I... loved...”

A gush of blood spattered my face. And I vomited.

Then I saw Auch. And the others. His squad. Then Babette running to me. I pushed away Batisti's body. Babette kneeled.

“Are you OK?”

“Where's Pérol? I told you to get Pérol.”

“He's had an accident. They were chasing a car. A Mercedes with gypsies in it. Cerutti lost control of the car on the coast highway, above the Bassin de Radoub. It skidded. Pérol died immediately.”

“Help me,” I said, holding out my hand to her.

I felt dizzy. Death was everywhere. On my hands. On my lips. In my mouth. In my body. In my head. I was a walking corpse.

I swayed. Babette slipped her arm under my shoulder. Auch came toward us. His hands in his pockets, as usual. Sure of himself, proud, strong.

“How are you feeling?” he said, looking at me.

“Can't you see? Ecstatic.”

“You're just a pain in the ass, Fabio. In a few days, we'd have collared all of them. You had to go fuck it up. Now all we're left with is a pile of corpses.”

“Did you know? About Morvan? About everything?”

He nodded. He was pleased with himself, when all was said and done. “They just kept making mistakes. Starting with your buddy. That was too much.”

“You knew about Ugo too? You let him do it?”

“We had to see things through. It would have been the haul of the century. Arrests all over Europe.”

He offered me a cigarette, and I punched him in the face, with a strength I'd found somewhere in the deepest of the black, damp holes where Manu, Ugo and Leila were rotting. I was screaming.

After that, it seems, I fainted.

I
woke around noon, wanting to take a leak. The answerphone display told me there were six messages. I really didn't give a shit. I immediately sank back into the blackest darkness, as if I'd smashed my head on an anvil. By the time I resurfaced, the sun was setting. There were eleven messages now, but they could all wait. In the kitchen, there was a note from Honorine.
Didn't notice you were sleeping. I put some farci in the fridge. Marie-Lou called. Everything's fine. She says hi. Babette brought back your car. She says hi too.
She'd added
What's wrong with your phone? Is it out of order? Anyhow I say hi too.
And then another postscript:
I read the newspaper.

I couldn't stay like this for long. Beyond the door, the earth was still turning. There were a few less bastards in the world. It was another day, but nothing had changed. Outside, it still smelled bad. I couldn't do anything about that. Neither could anyone. It was called life: a cocktail of love and hate, strength and weakness, violence and passivity. And people were waiting for me. My bosses, Auch, Cerutti. Pérol's wife. Driss, Kader, Jasmine, Karine. Mouloud. Mavros. Djamel maybe. Marie-Lou who said hi. And Babette and Honorine who also said hi.

But I could take my time. I needed silence. I didn't want to move, let alone talk. I had a
farci
, two tomatoes and three courgettes. At least six bottles of wine, including two white Cassis. A pack of cigarettes, barely started. Enough Lagavulin. I could hold out another night and a day. Maybe one more night after that.

Now that I'd slept, and had recovered from the exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours, the ghosts were about to launch their attack. They started with a dance of death. I was in the tub, smoking, a glass of Lagavulin next to me. I'd closed my eyes for a moment, and there they all were. Formless, decomposing masses of gristle and blood. Supervised by Batisti, they were busy exhuming the bodies of Manu and Ugo. Leila's too, tearing her clothes off. I wanted to go down and save them, get them away from these monsters. I couldn't open the grave, though, and I was afraid of putting my foot in the black hole. But Auch was standing behind me, with his hands in his pockets, and kicking me in the ass, pushing me forward. I was falling, falling into the slimy hole. I pulled my head out of the water, and breathed hard. Then I sprinkled myself with cold water.