Total Chaos

by Jean-Claude Izzo

  “The point the three of us have reached, there’s no going back.”

  “We can always admit we made mistakes.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Fabio. It’s too late. We waited too long. We’re in it up to our necks, and we can’t get out.”

  “Speak for yourself!”

  He looked at me, without malice, but with a rather weary irony. I couldn’t look him in the eyes. I knew he was right. I was no better than he was.

  “OK,” I said. “We’re in it up to our necks.”

  We clinked glasses, and finished the second bottle.

  “I made a promise to Lole. A long time ago. A promise I’ve never been able to keep. To shower her with money. And take her away from here. To Seville, or somewhere else down there. Now I’m going to do it. I’m onto something good. For once.”

  “Money isn’t everything. For Lole, it’s love—”

  “Let it go! She waited for Ugo. I waited for her. Time has shuffled the cards. Which one of us was right?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Lole and I have been together, what, ten years now, but there’s no passion there. Ugo was the one she loved. And you.”

  “Me?”

  “If you hadn’t been built like a girl, she’d have come to you. One day or another. Whether or not Ugo had been around. You’re the strongest of us. Your heart’s in the right place.”

  “Now, maybe.”

  “No, it always was. Of all of us, you’re the one who’s suffered the most. Because of that. Your heart. If I get in any trouble, take care of her.” He stood up. “I doubt we’ll ever see each other again. We’ve said all there was to say. Let’s leave it at that.”

  He’d walked out very quickly. Leaving me to pick up the tab.

  I had a beer, Batisti a glass of orgeat.

  “I hear you like hookers. That’s not very nice. Cops who go with hookers. You were given a warning. Period.”

  “You’re a jerk, Batisti. I cornered the hitter just an hour ago. The guy who sent him, Farge, has been in my office since this morning. And trust me, we’re not talking hookers. We’re talking drugs. Possession of arms. In an apartment he was renting in the Bassens project.”

  “Ah!” he said, laconically.

  I was sure he already knew. About Farge, and Mourrabed, and my meeting with Toni. He was waiting for me to tell him more. Once again, that was why he’d come. To worm information out of me. I knew it. And I also knew where I wanted to take him. But I didn’t want to lay all my cards on the table. Not right away.

  “Why are the wops tailing you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Listen, Batisti, let’s not beat about the bush forever. I can’t say you’re in my good books, but it’ll save time if you tell me.”

  “Why bother to save time? You’re going to get yourself killed in the end anyhow.”

  “I’ll think about that later.”

  Manu had been at the center of all this shit. After he died, I’d talked to a few informers and gone around the different squads, asking questions. No one had heard the slightest rumor that there’d been a contract out on him. I’d found that surprising, and had come to the conclusion that he’d been gunned down by some punk as revenge for a stunt he’d pulled in the past. He’d been unlucky, that was all. I’d satisfied myself with that. Until noon today.

  “It was Manu who did the job at Brunel’s, the lawyer. He did a clean job. That was his style, I guess. This time it was even better than usual, because there was no chance he’d be disturbed. That was the night you were all having dinner at Les Restanques. But Manu didn’t have a chance to get paid for the job. Two days later, he was dead.”

  I’d pieced the story together when I typed up my report. At least the sequence of events. But not always what they meant. I’d questioned Lole about the famous job Manu had mentioned to me. He didn’t usually confide in her. But this time he’d told her everything had gone well. It was a great job, and at last he was going to make a lot of money. They’d bought a round of champagne that night, to celebrate. The job had been child’s play. Open the safe of a lawyer on Boulevard Longchamp, and steal all the documents inside. The lawyer’s name was Éric Brunel. Zucca’s right hand man.

  Babette had given me the info when I’d called her after finishing my report. We’d arranged to talk on the phone before my appointment with Batisti. Brunel must have been double-crossing Zucca, and the old man must have suspected. He’d sent Manu to clean up, or something like that. Zucca and the Poli brothers weren’t on the same planet. Or even the same family. There was too much money involved. Zucca couldn’t allow himself to be double-crossed.

  According to a Roman contact of Babette’s, the Neapolitans weren’t too happy about Zucca’s death. They’d get over it, of course. They always did. But it put the brakes on some important deals that were going through. Zucca had apparently been in the middle of negotiations with two big French companies. The laundering of drug money was an essential factor in Marseilles’ economic recovery. Businessmen and politicians both agreed about that.

  I told Batisti what I knew. I was hoping for some reaction. A silence, a smile, a word. Anything to help me understand. I still couldn’t figure out Batisti’s part in all this. I didn’t know where he stood. Babette thought he was more closely linked to Zucca than to the Poli brothers. But there was Simone. The only thing I was sure of was that he’d pointed Ugo in Zucca’s direction. I couldn’t let go of that. It was the one thing connecting Ugo’s death to Manu’s. And somewhere in that sordid mess, Leila had found herself trapped. I still couldn’t think of her without seeing her body covered with ants. Even her smile had been eaten by ants.

  “You’re well informed,” Batisti said, without blinking an eyelid.

  “I don’t have anything else to do! I’m just an unimportant neighborhood cop, as you know. Your buddies, or anyone else for that matter, can wipe me off the map without making any waves. And all I want to do is go fishing. I like an easy life, with no one bothering me. I really can’t wait to get back to my fishing!”

  “Go fishing. No one will come looking for you. Even if you do fuck hookers. That’s what I told you the other day.”

  “But it’s too late! I keep getting these nightmares, you know what I mean? I keep thinking about my old friends and how they got themselves whacked. I know they weren’t saints...” I paused for breath, and looked Batisti straight in the eye. “But the girl they raped in the back room of Les Restanques didn’t even have a part in this movie. I know she was only an Arab. And to you and your kind, Arabs don’t count, do they? They’re like niggers, just animals, no souls. Isn’t that right, Batisti?”

  I’d raised my voice. At the table behind us, the cards remained suspended in mid-air for a fraction of a second. Félix looked up from the comic book he was reading. An old, yellowing issue of Les Pieds Nickelés. He collected them. I ordered another beer.

  “Belote,” one of the old guys said.

  And life resumed its course.

  I’d hit home, but Batisti wasn’t going to let it show. He was an experienced operator. He tried to stand, but I put my hand firmly on his arm. One phone call from him, and Fabio Montale would end the evening in a gutter. Like Manu. Like Ugo. But I had too much anger in me to let myself be suckered into getting killed. I’d put almost all my cards on the table, but I still had a rummy in my hands.

  “Not so fast. I haven’t finished.”

  He shrugged. Félix put the beer down in front of me. His eyes went from Batisti to me. Félix wasn’t a violent guy. But if I’d said to him, “Manu was killed because of this jerk,” old or not, he’d have smashed his face. Unfortunately, with Batisti, things couldn’t be settled with fists.

  “I’m listening,” he said, in a brusque tone. I was starting to annoy him, which was fine by me. I wanted him to fly off the handle.

  “I don’t think you have anything
to fear from the two wops. My guess is, they’re protecting you. The Neapolitans are looking for a successor to Zucca. I think they contacted you. You’re still in the Mafia phone book. Under ‘advisors.’ Maybe you’re their choice for the top job.” I was watching his reactions. “Or Brunel. Or Émile Poli. Or your daughter.”

  He had a kind of twitch, at the corner of his mouth. Twice. I must be getting closer to the truth. “You’ve gone completely crazy. Where do you get this stuff from?”

  “No, I’m not crazy, and you know it. Stupid yes. I don’t understand any of it. Why you had Zucca whacked by Ugo. How it was all set up. How Ugo came to show up out of the blue. Or why your pal Morvan was waiting for him once he’d done the job. Or what rotten game you’re playing. It’s all a mystery to me. Especially why Manu died and who killed him. I can’t do anything to you. Or the others. But there’s still Simone, and I’m going to bust her.”

  I knew I’d hit the bull’s eye. His eyes turned an electric gray. He squeezed his hands together so hard, I thought his knuckles were going to snap. “Don’t touch her! She’s all I’ve got!”

  “And she’s all I’ve got too. Loubet is handling the girl’s murder. I have everything I need, Batisti. Toni, the gun, the scene. I just pass it all on to Loubet, and in less than an hour he brings in Simone. The rape happened at her place. She owns Les Estanques, doesn’t she?”

  That was the latest piece of information Babette had given me. Of course, I had no proof for any of the things I was saying. But that didn’t matter. Batisti didn’t know that. I was taking him somewhere he didn’t expect to be. Exposed ground.

  “I thought she was stupid to marry Émile. But children never listen. I’ve never been able to stand the Poli brothers.”

  It didn’t feel so cool in the bar now. I’d have liked to take off, to be on my boat, on the open sea. Sea and silence. I’d had more than I could take of human beings. All these stories were like a microcosm of the world’s corruption. On a grand scale, it gave rise to wars, massacres, genocide, fanaticism, dictatorship. As if the first man had been so fucked coming into the world, he’d immediately started hating. If God exists, we’re all sons of bitches.

  “They have a hold over you through her, am I right?”

  “For years, Zucca was an accountant. Numbers were his thing, not guns. Gang wars, feuds: he stayed away from all that. That helped him score points. When the Mafia wanted to set up a branch in Marseilles, they chose him to be their liaison. He was good at handling business. Chairman of the board. That’s what he was these last few years. A businessman. If only you knew...”

  “I don’t want to know. It doesn’t interest me. I’m sure it’d only make me vomit.”

  “You know, I preferred working with him than the Poli brothers. They were like shopkeepers. They didn’t have his caliber. I think Zucca would have eliminated them one day or another. They were getting too big for their boots. Especially after they came under the influence of Morvan and Wepler.

  “They think they’re going to clean up Marseilles. They’re dreaming of setting the town alight. Starting in North Marseilles. Kids going on the rampage, looting. Wepler’s handling all that. Using the dealers and their networks to build up the pressure among the kids. Looks like they’re getting there.”

  Violence on one side, fear and racism on the other. If it worked, their fascist friends would end up in City Hall. And then they’d be left in peace. The same way Carbone and Spirito, the two big bosses of the pre-war Marseilles underworld, had been protected by Sabiani, the all-powerful deputy mayor. They’d be able to carry on with their business, and they’d be in a position of strength to confront the Italians. They could already see themselves getting their hands on Zucca’s fortune.

  I’d heard enough to disgust me for a hundred years. Fortunately, I’d be dead before then! And what was I going to be able to do with all this? Nothing. I couldn’t see myself taking Batisti with me and forcing him to tell the whole story to Loubet. I had no evidence against any of them. The only one I could charge was Mourrabed. The bottom of the list. An Arab. The fall guy. As usual. Babette wouldn’t even be able to get an article out of it. She had a strict code of ethics. Facts, and nothing but. That was how she’d made a name for herself in the press.

  Nor could I see myself in the role of judge, jury and executioner. I couldn’t see myself in any role anymore. Not even as a cop. I couldn’t see anything. I was dizzy with it all. The hatred, the violence. Gangsters, cops, politicians. With poverty as the breeding ground. Unemployment, racism. We were all like insects caught in a spider’s web. We struggled, but the spider would eat us in the end.

  But I still had to know.

  “Where did Manu fit into all this?”

  “He never touched Brunel’s safe. He negotiated with him. Against Zucca. He wanted to make more money for himself. Much more. I think he was going off the rails. Zucca didn’t forgive him. When Ugo called me from Paris, I realized that I had my revenge.”

  He’d talked fast, as if letting it all out. Too fast.

  “What revenge?”

  “Huh?”

  “You mentioned revenge.”

  He looked up at me. For the first time, he was being sincere. His eyes clouded over. He stared into the distance, to a place where I didn’t exist. “I really liked Manu, you know,” he stammered.

  “But not Zucca, right?”

  He didn’t answer. I wouldn’t get anymore out of him. I’d touched a sore spot. I stood up.

  “You’re still jerking me around, Batisti.” He kept his head lowered. I leaned over him. “I’ll keep going. Keep nosing around. Until I know everything. None of you are getting away with this. That includes Simone.”

  I was threatening him for a change, and it felt good. They hadn’t left me a choice of weapons. He looked at me at last, and smiled maliciously. “You’re crazy.”

  “If you want to have me killed, you’d better hurry up about it. To me, you’re a dead man, Batisti. And I like that thought. Because you’re nothing but a piece of shit.”

  I left Batisti with his glass of orgeat.

  Outside, the sun hit me full in the face. I had the feeling I was coming back to life. Real life. Where happiness is an accumulation of insignificant everyday things. A ray of sunlight, a smile, washing drying at a window, a boy dribbling with a tin can, a song by Vincent Scotto, a slight breeze lifting a woman’s dress...

  13.

  IN WHICH THERE ARE SOME THINGS YOU CAN’T LET PASS

  I stood outside Chez Félix for a few moments, motionless, my eyes blinded by the sun. I could have been killed there and then, and I’d have forgiven everyone everything. But there was no one waiting for me on the street corner. The appointment was somewhere else. I hadn’t fixed it yet, but I’d be there.

  I walked back up Rue Caisserie and cut across Place de Lenche. I walked past a bar called the Montmartre, and couldn’t help smiling. I smiled every time I passed it. The Montmartre was so out of place here. I turned onto Rue Sainte-Françoise and went into the Treize-Coins. I gestured to Ange to bring me a bottle of cognac. I drank the first glass straight down. He stood there in front of me, with the bottle in his hand. I gestured to him to pour me a second glass, and downed it as quickly as the first.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, a bit worried.

  “Great! Never felt better!” I said, holding out my glass to be filled again. I took it and went and sat down on the terrace. There was a bunch of Arabs at the next table.

  “But I’m French, you jerk. We were born here. I’ve never been to Algeria.”

  “Oh, you’re French, are you? We’re the least French of all the French. That’s what we are.”

  “If the French don’t want you anymore, what are you going to do? Wait till they shoot you? Me, I’m taking off.”

  “Oh, yeah? And where are you going? You’re out of your mind!”

&
nbsp; “Well, I don’t give a shit. I’m from Marseilles. I’m staying here. Period. If they want me, they know where to look for me.”

  They were inhabitants of Marseilles more than they were Arabs. They felt the same way about it as our parents had. The way Ugo, Manu and I had fifteen years ago. One day, Ugo had said, “In my house and Fabio’s house, they speak Neapolitan. At your house, they speak Spanish. At school, we learn French. But what are we, when you get down to it?”

  “Arabs,” Manu had replied.

  We’d burst out laughing. And now they were here, too. Reliving our poverty. In the same houses as our parents. Taking it at face value as a kind of paradise and praying for it to last. “Don’t forget,” my father had said to me. “When I first came here, there were mornings when my brothers and I didn’t know if we’d have anything to eat at noon, and yet somehow we always ate.” That was the history of Marseilles, and always had been. A utopia. The only utopia in the world. A place where anyone, of any color, could get off a boat or a train with his suitcase in his hand and not a cent in his pocket, and melt into the crowd. A city where, as soon as he’d set foot on its soil, this man could say, “This is it. I’m home.”

  Marseilles belongs to the people who live in it.

  Ange came over to my table with a pastis in his hand and sat down.

  “Don’t worry,” I told him. “It’ll all work out. There’s always a solution.”

  “Pérol has been looking for you for two hours.”

  “Where the fuck are you?” Pérol screamed.

  “At Ange’s. Get over here. With the car.”

  I hung up, and quickly drank my third cognac. I felt a whole lot better.

  I waited for Pérol on Rue de l’Evêché, at the bottom of the Passage Sainte-Françoise steps. It was the only way he could come. By the time he arrived, I’d had a smoke.