Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  It was the thought of Jojo’s woman that made him hesitate.

  She was a bitch, first class. She made Vasson feel uneasy. She was crafty, clever, like a cat, and, when she wanted to she could make people feel small – especially men who didn’t go for her. Not that there were many of those. She was beautiful in a flashy, grotesquely physical sort of way and men made fools of themselves over her. Vasson always went out of his way to avoid her.

  Also, she was a whore.

  For several minutes Vasson leant against the wall, full of indecision, angry he should be nervous of the wretched woman.

  But suddenly he made up his mind and strode into the building, thinking: Christ, what the hell am I worrying about?

  Today Jojo’s woman was going to be the very least of his problems.

  Solange lay on the bed and drew heavily on her cigarette. She noticed that her hands were shaking. She wasn’t surprised: she’d never been so angry in her life. Her temper was, she knew, appalling. But it wasn’t her fault, it was just the way she was made. It was the mixed blood or something. She liked to think she had some of the gentle qualities of her Cambodian mother, but her father seemed to come out in her every time. He had been half-French, half-Martinican, and his favourite sport was fighting. He’d died in a bar brawl.

  Jojo had finally gone too far. She loved him most of the time but at other times she could kill him. This afternoon was one of the times when she could positively strangle him. Why, oh why couldn’t he get going and actually do something? All he did was talk – and even then he backtracked.

  There were sounds from the tiny kitchen and she guessed that Jojo was making some of his beloved black treacly coffee. She considered whether to go in and have it out with him again but she knew it would end the same way as before, with her throwing something. Just half an hour ago it had been an ashtray – the shards were still lying on the floor – but as usual Jojo had ignored her.

  The row had been about the same old subject: their future.

  They had discussed their plans more times than she could count. At first Solange had loved going over the details, it really used to cheer her up. The idea was simple: as soon as they had saved enough money they were going to take an apartment off La Canebière – something really smart with large rooms and a beautiful bathroom – and live there together, just the two of them. During the day Solange would see her high-class punters, but strictly by appointment; she would have a maid-cum-secretary, dressed in elegant black, to answer the door and the telephone. Then Jojo and she would have the evenings all to themselves, they would walk down La Canebière and look at all the smart shops and visit the top restaurants, like that La Babayette place where the waiters wore stiff collars and the crêpes were flambéed at the table.

  It was all going to be wonderful. She just knew their new life would be a success.

  Solange had saved nearly all the money, even though it had meant taking on punters she could normally have turned over to someone else.

  Then Jojo had got cold feet. He had started to mutter about the problems, always the problems. Solange had the unpleasant feeling he was just frightened, nervous of the Patron and how the old man would feel about it. To hell with it – girls had left the Patron’s establishments before and nothing had happened. Jojo was just a goddam coward.

  It was more than she could bear to think of staying on at the Red House. It was a dead-end job: the decent punters didn’t dare be seen round the place too often because of its reputation, though they all said they would love to visit her more often. And those who did come regularly were rubbish: no finesse, no style at all. Solange admired style.

  She deserved better, everyone said so. But she couldn’t get out on her own, she had no illusions about that. She needed Jojo to protect her, and she needed him now, damn it.

  Jojo appeared in the kitchen doorway and she could see that he was still sore with her. He was avoiding her eyes and shuffling his feet like a spoilt child. Suddenly she didn’t have the energy to yell at him any more. Her frustration and rage began to evaporate. She went towards him and hugged his back. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Jojo pulled a face. He enjoyed being a martyr and Solange knew she would have to cajole him into forgiving her, a process which could take two days or more. She thought: The bastard, how he’s putting it on. But at the same time she knew she would play the role of repentant sinner to the full, as she always did.

  She sighed. ‘Am I forgiven?’

  Jojo stared out of the window and shrugged, but she could see he was softening.

  She smiled brightly. ‘Let’s go out for a drink. Come on. I’ll buy!’

  He moved away and she spotted a sheepish look in his eye. She thought: He’s feeling guilty about something, he’s got something to hide.

  He murmured, ‘I’ve got to go out. Vasson’s arriving in a while and we’re … going on a job.’

  Solange froze. She knew exactly what that meant. It meant they were going to deliver a consignment for the Patron. The anger came surging back. ‘You’re mad, bloody mad! You … You realise that you could go down for years if you’re caught. And it’ll be you who gets caught, not the Patron! He should do his own dirty work.’ Jojo started to move hurriedly round the small apartment, collecting clothing. She followed him, shouting, ‘How do you think he gets so rich, eh? I’ll tell you – by getting fools like you to move all the stuff around for him. And I suppose it’s the hard stuff, noire! … Eh? Jesus!’

  He turned on her. ‘Shut up! Do you want everyone to hear?’

  In the fraction of silence that followed, she heard a shuffling sound at the apartment door and stared at Jojo, horrified. He had heard it too and reached the door in two strides. He flung it open and she saw him relax. ‘Oh, it’s you. Come in, for Christ’s sake.’

  Vasson came through the door and Solange glanced at him furiously. She turned to Jojo, catching his arm as he walked back into the room. She heard herself shouting again. ‘You have no brains, none of you. No idea! You think you’re so clever!’ She threw her hands up in a gesture of despair, ‘You’re mad!’

  Jojo turned slowly to face her. He spoke deliberately, his eyes cold. ‘Shut up, you nagging cow. You talk crap. Stick to what you’re good at.’

  Solange stared, aghast. He had never talked to her like that before. He’d always treated her with respect. Suddenly she realised why he’d said it: to impress Vasson. She glared at Vasson with distaste. She didn’t like him at the best of times. He was a real little creep, always trying to muscle in. Some people were fooled by his polished airs and his educated accent – the Jesuits had schooled him, so they said – but not she. She had his measure: she recognised him for the shifty little rat he was.

  There was something else about him too, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it; something not quite right, something that made her hackles rise.

  She stared at Vasson and saw that he was looking uncomfortable. She thought: Good.

  She pulled her mind back to the problem: something had to be done to persuade Jojo to drop this mad idea. She hated pleading with him in front of Vasson, but there was no other way. She whispered gently to him, ‘Please, Jojo. Don’t go, don’t get mixed up in that side of the business. The Patron’s just using you, don’t you see that?’

  Jojo frowned. ‘Look, I do as I’m told and then I have a quiet life, okay? Anyway, it’s extra money.’ He turned to Vasson and said, ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’ He pulled off his shirt and, taking a towel, disappeared into the kitchen.

  Solange yelled, ‘You’re bloody mad!’ at the closed door, then groaned with exasperation. There was no getting through to the stupid idiot. He would end up in prison for years and she would be stuck in this tomb for ever. She thought: God, what a bloody mess.

  She looked at Vasson. He was sitting on a small chair in the corner, lighting a cigarette and pretending not to listen but hearing everything. Solange hesitated. She hated the idea of asking him anything, far less a favour. B
ut – it might just work. She pulled up another chair and sat beside him. ‘Look, what do you think about this? I mean, you must agree that it’s mad. If you’re caught you’ll take the time, not the Patron.’

  He looked down at the floor and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then his dark eyes darted up to her face, and she was surprised by the intensity of his stare. He said, ‘I just do as I’m told, like Jojo.’ He smiled, but Solange noticed that his eyes were cold. He went on, ‘You see, I’m a new boy around here, and I’ve got to stay on the right side of the Patron, otherwise I’m out.’

  His eyes held hers, still smiling. So he was trying some charm on her, was he? Right, if that was the game, she could play it too.

  She moved still nearer and put her hand on his leg. ‘You’re an intelligent man. You can see it’s far too risky.’ She gave him a long intense look from under her lashes. It was her favourite weapon and it usually did the trick. But almost immediately she saw that she had made a mistake. A look of alarm had come into his eyes, a look almost of … for a moment she was puzzled, then she had it: it was revulsion. She thought: Ah, so that’s it, that’s what I couldn’t pin down: you’re a woman-hater.

  She withdrew her hand and stared at him. His smile had vanished and he was watching her coldly. Eventually he said, ‘Nothing’s risky if you’re careful enough. Jojo was right, you should keep to your work and mind your own business.’ He had put a small but unmistakable tone of insolence into the word ‘work’.

  Solange gritted her teeth. He had humiliated her and she thought: One round to you, but not the last!

  Jojo came into the room and Solange moved away. One glance at Jojo and she knew he wasn’t going to listen to any more arguments. She sat down on her favourite piece of furniture, a little pink chaise longue, and thought: To hell with him.

  Jojo planted a kiss on her cheek, and said: ‘See you later. Don’t know when.’

  Solange did not reply, but sat stiffly on the chaise staring out of the window. She felt the dull ache of anxiety in her heart and she knew she wouldn’t stop worrying until Jojo was safely back.

  Vasson watched Jojo striding ahead of him and wondered why he was in such a hurry. God forbid that the pick-up was going to be early. That would ruin everything. He had told the Algerian that it would be at ten, and everything had been arranged accordingly. Damn, he would have to make sure.

  He put in a couple of loping strides and came up beside Jojo. ‘What’s the hurry? We’ve got hours yet. It’s only six, you know.’

  ‘Eh?’ Jojo slowed up and looked around him, as if realising for the first time where he was. ‘Oh. Sorry. I was … still thinking … you know.’

  Vasson was relieved. It was the woman who was on Jojo’s mind, not the pick-up. He shivered at the memory of the woman, with her roving hands and her large open mouth. She had no idea of how disgusting she was: the foreign brownish skin was somehow greasy and unclean.

  But at least she’d got Jojo in a state and not thinking straight, which should make things easier. He wondered what to ask first. Best to make sure about the time. He said casually, ‘It is still on for ten, isn’t it?’

  ‘What? … Oh, yes, yes. There’s no change.’

  Vasson gave Jojo a sidelong glance. He was frowning, his eyes on the paving in front of his feet. Vasson decided that some sympathy, some intimate conversation, was needed before it was safe to go on. He touched Jojo’s arm and said, ‘Look, I’m sure it’ll all be all right when you get back. She’ll have forgotten why she was angry.’

  Gratitude flashed across Jojo’s face and Vasson saw that he had been right to bring up the subject. Jojo shook his head. ‘Honestly … I don’t know why she has it in for me sometimes. It’s a mystery to me. Trouble is …’ He looked across with an expression that Vasson couldn’t fathom. ‘I like having her around.’

  They turned a corner and Vasson had to drop behind Jojo to pass two black-scarved women talking in the middle of the street. He considered whether to ask the big question now or leave it till later. Jojo might refuse to answer in such a public place. It might be better to wait until they’d had a couple of pastis and Jojo was more relaxed. On the other hand time would be getting short by then and the right moment might not come up again. Vasson prided himself on judging the right moment.

  Suddenly he decided that this was the best moment he would get. It was only fear, he realised, that had held him back.

  He came up beside Jojo again, his heart thumping loudly. He swallowed and, leaning towards Jojo, said, ‘Look, I’ve got a bit of a woman problem too. I want to see this girl tonight. She’s really hot stuff … But, well, she can’t get off work until nine and … it would mean a lot to see her for just half an hour or so. Is there any chance that I can meet you there?’

  Jojo looked at him sharply. Vasson put on a rueful, sheepish expression and laughed. ‘I know it’s stupid, but I’m really mad about her and there’s this other guy hanging about. If I don’t get to see her tonight, he’ll be there like a shot.’ He sighed. ‘He’s got the lot: money, a car, flash clothes. My only hope is to see her and tell her …’ He trailed off and tried to look lovelorn.

  They turned on to the quay and up a small road beside a fish warehouse. This was where the car was kept. Jojo still hadn’t answered and Vasson glanced across at him, trying to read his face.

  Jojo paused to unlock the garage door. He was frowning. ‘I’d have to tell you where the pick-up was and you know the Patron’s rules about that.’

  Vasson nodded and stroked his chin. ‘Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  Jojo backed the car out. Vasson closed the garage door and got into the passenger seat. The Citroën set off towards the quay, bumping gently over the cobbles.

  Jojo lit a cigarette one-handed and said brightly, ‘Well, where’s it to be? Hamid’s? Or shall we go to that new bar just off the Rue Caisserie? There’s a place next door that does a really good cous-cous.’

  Vasson thought: Shit! He’s not going to buy it. That meant that Vasson would have to contact the Algerian to arrange a tail and then stay with Jojo all evening, right up until the end. He didn’t like that idea at all: it would mean slipping away at the very last moment which would be risky, horribly risky. He felt angry. Christ, he didn’t ask much. Just a little confidence, and Jojo, who was meant to be his friend, wasn’t even going to give him that!

  Jojo was waiting for an answer. Vasson shrugged and said in a tight voice: ‘I don’t care where the hell we go.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, it’s that bad, is it? This girl, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  Jojo sighed deeply. Eventually he said, ‘Okay, okay, you win. But if it ever gets back to the Patron that I told you where to go, I’ll kill you. He’s really nervous at the moment. There’s a lot of pressure, as you know.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The Algerian. He’s trying to move in again. You must have heard.’

  ‘Ah. No, I hadn’t.’ Vasson enjoyed lying, mainly because he found it so easy. The best thing in the world was to carry a lie through all the way, to build on it, to refine it. He really liked that; it gave him a lot of satisfaction.

  Vasson appeared to consider, then said, ‘Well, of course, there’s no way the Patron is going to find out, but … if you really think there’s a problem?’

  ‘No, go on. See her. Just don’t let me down, that’s all. Be there, and on time.’

  They stopped at a junction. Jojo turned and said softly, ‘Okay, the place is a small store off the Quai de la Rive Neuve. Behind the big warehouse, L’Entrepôt du Midi. It’s got Laborde et Fils over the main door. It’s in the same street as that night club, La Ronde.’

  ‘Okay, and thanks. Thanks a lot. I’ll remember the favour.’ Vasson smiled warmly. He really was pleased. Jojo had done him the biggest favour of his life.

  ‘Where to, then?’

  ‘Hamid’s. I don’t like that new place.’ Vasson didn’t like the new place beca
use there was only one telephone and it was on the bar itself.

  Hamid’s was already crowded and the air was thick with smoke and the smell of herbal tobacco. The two men squeezed in at the far end of the counter and ordered Pernod. Vasson didn’t attempt to keep the look of triumph off his face. After all, he had every reason to be happy: he was in love, wasn’t he?

  There was only the phone call left now, and that would be easy. He waited for Jojo to order another round, then made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Look, I can get her on the telephone at work now. It’ll save me having to go round to meet her.’

  Jojo stirred the water into his Pernod. ‘Where does she work?’

  ‘La Belle Epoque. It’s a dress shop off La Canebière. Very classy.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Marie-Hélène. Hey, why all the questions? You’re not thinking of pinching her, are you?’ He gave Jojo a friendly dig in the ribs and leered at him, thinking: This inquisition has got to stop.

  Jojo smiled and said, ‘No, I’ve got enough trouble with Solange. She doesn’t give me enough time for other women. Anyway, I’m not an educated type like you. I’m not into classy pieces who work in dress shops.’

  Vasson took out his wallet and put some money on the bar. ‘Here. Have another while I’m phoning.’ A drink would keep Jojo busy.

  Jojo caught his arm. ‘What’s that you have there?’ He was peering at Vasson’s still-open wallet.

  Vasson’s heart missed a beat and he thought: God, what the hell’s he spotted?

  Jojo smiled and, taking the wallet, pulled out the newspaper cutting of the Delage. ‘That car again, eh? What with girls from La Canebière and cars like this …’ He shook his head and flicked the picture with his finger. ‘You have expensive tastes. Very expensive.’

  Vasson shrugged and smiled casually. ‘No harm in dreaming, is there?’