Total Chaos

by Jean-Claude Izzo

  To anyone who could read between the lines, the situation was clear enough. The criminal hierarchy of Marseilles lacked a recognized leader. Zucca was dead, and Al Dakhil had joined him wherever bastards go when they die. The police were moving in, and Auch was trying to get his bearings. He needed to know who he was dealing with now. I’d have staked my life that Joseph Poli would be the one to come out on top. That gave me the creeps. His rise was being backed by a group of extremists. Some politician must have bet his career on it. I was sure now that Ugo had unwittingly been doing the devil’s work for him.

  “I’m not asleep,” Marie-Lou said, just as I was leaving the coffee and croissants beside the bed.

  She drew the sheet up over her. Her face was tired, and I supposed she’d slept as badly as me. I sat down on the edge of the bed, placed the tray beside her, and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Are you OK?”

  “That’s kind of you,” she said, looking at the tray. “It’s the first time anyone’s ever brought me breakfast in bed.”

  I didn’t reply. We drank our coffees in silence. I watched her eat. She kept her head lowered. I offered her a cigarette. Our eyes met. Hers were sad. Mine I tried to make as gentle as I could.

  “You should have made love to me last night. It would have helped me.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “I need to know that you love me. If I want to get out of this life. It’s the only way I can do it.”

  “You can do it.”

  “You don’t love me, do you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So why didn’t you fuck me the way you’d have fucked any other girl?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “What is it you can’t do?”

  She quickly slipped her hand between my thighs, grabbed my dick through my pants, and squeezed it, squeezed it hard, her eyes still on mine.

  “Stop it!” I said, without moving.

  “Is this what you can’t do?” She let go of my dick and just as quickly caught hold of my hair. “Or is it this? Is it in your head?”

  “Yes. That’s it. You’d have to stop being a hooker first.”

  “I have stopped, asshole!” she cried. “I have stopped. In my own little head. Why else would I come here? Here, to your house! You don’t see it, do you? You must be blind! And if you don’t see it, then nobody will. I’ll always be a hooker.” She wrapped her arms around my neck and started to sob. “Love me, Fabio. Love me. Just once. But love me the way you’d love anyone else.”

  She fell silent. My lips were on her mouth. My tongue found her tongue, full of words that would never be spoken. The tray went flying. I heard the cups smashing on the tiles. I felt her nails pierce the skin on my back. I almost came as soon as I entered her. Her pussy was as hot as the tears coursing down her cheeks.

  We made love as if for the first time. Shyly and passionately. Without any ulterior motive. The shadows under her eyes vanished. I collapsed to the side. She looked at me for a moment, seemed about to say something, but instead just smiled at me. Her smile was so tender that I too couldn’t think of anything to say. We lay like that, silently, staring into the distance, each searching for a possible happiness. By the time I left her, she’d stopped being a hooker. But I was still just a fucking cop.

  And waiting for me on the other side of the door, without a shadow of a doubt, was all the world’s corruption.

  11.

  IN WHICH THINGS ARE DONE AS THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO BE DONE

  Pérol’s face said it all: there was trouble in the air. But I was ready to confront anything. “The chief wants to see you.”

  That was an event. It was two years since the last time my chief had sent for me. After the riot triggered by Kader and Driss, Varounian had sent a letter to Le Méridional, in which he talked about his life, the way the Arabs were constantly harassing him in his store, the endless robberies, and gave his own version of events. His conclusion was that the law was on the side of the Arabs. Justice was their justice. France was capitulating in the face of the invasion, because the police were with them. He finished his letter with one of the National Front’s slogans: Love France or leave it!

  OK, it didn’t cause as much stir as J’accuse. But the local station, who’d never much liked outsiders muscling in on their territory, spent good money to produce a damning report on my squad. I was the main target. My team was good at protecting public places, everyone recognized that. But I was accused of not being firm enough inside the projects, and spending too much time negotiating with delinquents, especially immigrants and gypsies. There followed a list of the cases in which I’d been seen to be too lenient.

  I was given the standard dressing down. First by my boss, then by the Big Chief. My mission wasn’t to understand, but to crack down. I was there to maintain order. It was up to the judges to apply the law. In the case that had made the front page of Le Méridional, I’d failed in my mission.

  The Big Chief had then moved on to something that, in police terms, amounted to treason: my meetings with Serge, a community organizer. Serge and I had met one evening at the station. He’d been picked up with fifteen kids in the parking lot of the La Simiane project. It was the usual thing: ghetto blaster playing, shouting, laughter, mopeds backfiring... He was with them, drinking beer. The idiot didn’t even have his papers on him!

  Serge was amused. He looked like a slightly ageing adolescent. Dressed like the kids. The police took him for the leader of the gang. All he’d wanted was to go somewhere with the kids where they could make noise without disturbing anyone. That was a provocation in itself, since there was nothing in the area but high rise blocks and parking lots. Admittedly, the kids were no choirboys. Four or five of them had already been collared for bag snatching and other trivial offences.

  “Hey, we’re the one’s who’ll pay for your retirement, so shut up!” Malik screamed at Babar, one of the oldest cops in the station house.

  I knew Malik. Fifteen years old, four car robberies under his belt. “We don’t know what to do with him,” the assistant prosecutor had declared. “We’ve placed him in foster homes, but it never works out.” Whenever they finished with him, he came back to the project. It was his home. He’d made friends with Serge. At least you could talk to Serge.

  “Shit, it’s true, man!” he said, seeing me. “We’re the ones who pay.”

  “Can it!” I said.

  Babar wan’t a bad guy. But there was a quota in operation at the time. A hundred arrests a month. If you didn’t meet it, they cut the budget and reduced manning levels.

  I got on well with Serge. He was a bit too pious for my taste. He and I would never be friends, but I liked his courage and his love for the kids. Serge had faith, and a strong sense of morality. An urban morality, he called it. We started meeting regularly, at the Moustiers, a café in L’Estaque, near the beach. We talked. He was in contact with the social workers, and he helped me to understand. Often, when we collared a kid for some trivial offence, he’d be the first person I called to the station, even before the parents.

  After my interview with my superiors, Serge was transferred. Of course, it was possible the decision had already been taken. Serge sent an open letter to the newspapers, called Cross section of a volcano, appealing for a greater understanding of young people living in the projects. The fire is smoldering, he concluded, and firefighters and arsonists are in a race to fan the flames. It was never published. Local journalists preferred to keep on good terms with the cops, who supplied them with information.

  I’d never seen Serge again. It was my fault he’d gone: guilt by association. Cops, community organizers and social workers were different jobs. They shouldn’t work together. “We aren’t social workers!” the Big Chief had screamed. “Prevention, dissuasion, outreach, community policing, that’s all crap! Do you understand, Montale?” I understood. We preferred fann
ing the flames. Politically, that paid higher dividends these days. My boss had put a stop to all the community work. My mission was effectively shelved, and my squad became nothing more than the cleaning service of North Marseilles.

  With Mourrabed, I was on home territory. Nobody cared about a stupid fight between a punk and a fag. I hadn’t yet written my report, so no one in the station knew anything about our little ride last night, or about the spoils of war: the drugs, the arms. I had an idea what the arms were intended for. I recalled a memo I’d seen—one among many that circulated all the time—referring to armed gangs that had appeared in the suburbs. Paris, Créteil, Rueil-Malmaison, Sartrouville, Vaulx-en-Velin... Every time there was a flare-up in one of the projects, these commandos emerged. Scarves covering the lower halves of their faces, leather jackets worn inside out. And all carrying guns. A riot cop had been shot down, I couldn’t remember where. The weapon, a Colt 11.45, had previously been used in the killing of a restaurant owner in Grenoble.

  My colleagues were sure to be aware of all that. Loubet, certainly Auch. As soon as I came clean about what we’d discovered, the other squads would muscle in and take us off the case. As usual. I’d decided to delay that moment as long as possible. To keep shtum about what had happened in the cellar and in particular to say nothing about Raoul Farge. I was the only one who knew about his connections with Morvan and Toni.

  Cerutti arrived with the coffees. I took out a piece of paper on which Marie-Lou had scribbled down Farge’s telephone number, and a likely address, on Avenue de Montolivet. I gave it to Cerutti.

  “Check if the number and the address match. Then go over there with a few men and pick up Farge. I don’t imagine he’s an early riser.”

  They looked at me in astonishment.

  “Where did you get this?” Pérol asked.

  “One of my informers. I want Farge here, by noon,” I said to Cerutti. “Check if he has a record. Once we’ve got his statement, we’ll confront him with Mourrabed. Pérol, get the asshole to talk about the junk and the arms. Especially the arms. Who supplies them? Tell him we have Farge in custody. Get someone to do an inventory of the arms, also by noon. Oh, and I also want a list of all the guns that have been used in murders in the last three months.” They were more and more astounded. “It’s a race against time, guys. The whole station will be on our backs soon. So get a move on! It’s not that I’m bored with your company, but I can’t keep God waiting!”

  I was in top form.

  God’s justice is blind, as everyone knows. The chief didn’t beat about the bush. “Come in!” he cried. It wasn’t an invitation, it was an order. He didn’t stand up, or offer me his hand, or even say hello. He left me standing there like a bad pupil.

  “What’s all this about...” He looked at the file. “Mourrabed. Nacer Mourrabed.”

  “A fight. Between punks.”

  “Is that a reason to put people behind bars?”

  “There was a complaint.”

  “The mezzanine is piled high with complaints. Nobody died, as far as I know.”

  I shook my head.

  “Because I don’t think I read your report yet.”

  “I’m writing it now.”

  He looked at his watch. “It’s been exactly twenty-six hours and fifteen minutes since you brought this punk in, and you’re telling me your report still isn’t ready? About a fight?”

  “I wanted to check a few things. Mourrabed has a record. He’s a repeat offender.”

  He looked me up and down. The bad pupil. Bottom of the class. His contemptuous look didn’t scare me. I’d been used to looks like that ever since elementary school. I’d been insolent, a fighter, a loudmouth. I’d had my fill of lectures, both individually and as part of a group. I looked straight back at him, my hands in the pockets of my jeans.

  “Repeat offender. I think you’ve got your hooks into this...” He looked at the file again. “Nacer Mourrabed. That’s what his lawyer thinks, too.”

  He’d scored a point. I had no idea Mourrabed’s lawyer was already in the picture. Did Pérol know? He scored another point when he asked on the intercom for Éric Brunel to be sent in.

  The name was vaguely familiar. I didn’t have time to think about it. I recognized the man who now came into the office. I’d seen him in a photo, as recently as last night, sitting next to the Poli brothers, Wepler and Morvan. My heart started pounding. Things were coming full circle, and now I was really in the shit. Total Khéops, to quote a rap by IAM. In other words, total chaos. A complete mess. I couldn’t rely on Pérol and Cerutti working fast anymore. It was up to me to gain time. Until noon.

  The chief stood up and went around his desk to greet Brunel. He looked as impeccable as he had on the photo, in a navy blue double-breasted linen suit. As if the temperature outside wasn’t close to 30 or 35 degrees. Clearly, he wasn’t the kind of guy who sweated a lot! The chief indicated a chair. He didn’t introduce me. They must already have talked about my case.

  I was still standing. Since I hadn’t been asked anything, I lit a cigarette, and waited. As he’d already stated on the phone, Brunel said, he found it abnormal, to say the least, that his client, who’d been arrested yesterday morning because of a fight, had not been granted the right—he insisted on the word—to call his lawyer.

  “I’m within the law,” I retorted.

  “The law doesn’t allow you to harass him. Which is what you’ve been doing. For several months now.”

  “He’s one of the biggest dealers in North Marseilles.”

  “So you say! There isn’t a single shred of evidence against him. You’ve already had him up before a judge, and that didn’t work. Your pride was hurt, and because of that you’re hounding him. As for this so-called fight, I made some inquiries of my own. Several witnesses state that it was the complainant—a junkie and a homosexual—who attacked my client as he was coming out of a bar.”

  I could sense that he was gearing up for a big courtroom speech, and I tried to head him off, but the chief gestured to me to keep quiet. “Carry on.”

  I let my cigarette ash fall to the floor.

  We were treated to his ‘client’s’ unhappy childhood. Brunel had been handling Mourrabed for just under a year. Children like him deserved a chance. He was defending several ‘clients’ in the same situation. Some, like Mourrabed, were Arabs, while others had completely French names. The jurors would have had tears in their eyes by now.

  Now the speech started.

  “At the age of fourteen, my client left his father’s apartment. He no longer felt at home there. He started living on the streets. He soon learned to get by on his own, to be self-reliant. And to fight. He had to fight hard in order to survive. That’s the desperate situation in which he grew into a man.”

  Much more of this, I told myself, and I’d blow my top. I’d throw myself on Brunel and make him eat his National Front card! But the hour hand was turning, and, thanks to these fairy tales of his, I was gaining time. Brunel was still going strong. He was on the future now. Work, family, country.

  “Her name is Jocelyne. She lives in a project too. La Bricarde. But she has a real family. Her father works at the Lafarge cement works. Her mother is a cleaner at the Northern Hospital. Jocelyne was a conscientious, well-behaved student at school. At the moment, she’s training to be a hairdresser. She’s his fiancée. She loves him and helps him. She’ll be the mother he never knew. The woman of his dreams. Together, they’ll get an apartment. Together they’ll build a corner of Paradise. Yes, monsieur!” he said, seeing me smile.

  I hadn’t been able to stop myself. It was too much: Mourrabed in carpet slippers in front of the TV, with three brats on his knees. Mourrabed a happy wage slave!

  “You know,” Brunel said, appealing to my chief, “what this young man, this delinquent, told me once? One day, he said, my wife and I will live in a building with a marble
plaque at the entrance, and on it the letter ‘R’ in gold. ‘R’ for Residence, like the ones around Saint-Tronc, Saint-Marcel and La Gavotte. That’s his dream.”

  From North Marseilles to East Marseilles. That was real social climbing!

  “I’ll tell you Mourrabed’s dream,” I interrupted, just about ready to throw up. “A big car, a suit and a ring. His dream is to be like you. But he doesn’t have your gift of the gab. So instead he sells junk. Supplied by guys as well dressed as you.”

  “Montale!” the chief screamed.

  “What about it?” I cried too. “I don’t know where his sweet little fiancée was the other night. But I can tell you what he was doing at the time. Fucking a sixteen-year-old runaway! After beating up a guy whose hair was a tad too long. And for good measure, he had two of his buddies to help him. Just in case the... homosexual, as you call him, knew how to fight. Personally, I have nothing against Mourrabed, but I wouldn’t have minded seeing him knocked out by a fag!”

  And I stubbed out my cigarette with my foot.

  Brunel had remained unruffled, a discreet smile hovering on his lips. He was making a mental note of me, imagining what his buddies could do to me. Cut my tongue off and shove it down my throat. Blow my brains out. He adjusted the knot on his tie, even though it was already impeccable, and stood up, looking sincerely contrite. “In the light of such opinions, monsieur . . .”

  My chief stood up at the same time, also looking shocked by my words.

  “I demand that my client be released immediately.”

  “If you’ll allow me,” I said, picking up the office phone. “I have to check one more thing.”

  It was seven minutes after twelve. Pérol picked up at the other end.