Dance of the Angels

by Robert Morcet

  “What can I do for you, Inspector?” asked the pimp uneasily.

  “Your hookers must have some freaks among their clientele?”

  “Freaks?” Aristotle said, bursting out laughing. “They’re all freaks! You know that as well as I do. You have to be a little bit weird to fuck a tranny. You either like women, or you like men. But a tranny, that’s a funny old mix.”

  They crossed the square and walked up Rue Germain Pilon.

  “Listen, this is urgent and super-confidential,” continued Le Goënec. “I need to know about any of your clients with an interest in kids. Children—girls or boys.”

  “You’re mixed up in some sordid shit, Inspector,” said the pimp, with a cheeky grimace.

  The transvestites hustling in the street smelled the cop coming fifty yards off. As the two men walked toward them they disappeared into building lobbies or bars, dodging a possible roundup.

  “How much time do I have to find out?”

  “Call me on my cell as soon as you have any names. Forget about ringing police HQ. Not all of them are your buddies there,” Le Goënec said, scribbling two telephone numbers on a scrap of paper. “You can also reach me at my local, the Brasserie du Maine in the Fourteenth Arrondissement. If I’m not there, leave a message with Maurice Domergue or his wife, Josette. I advise you to move your ass—it’s urgent.”

  Le Goënec didn’t have much time. As soon as Aristotle learned that calling him “Inspector” was no longer the order of the day, that would be the end of his cooperation.

  CHAPTER IV

  Le Goënec’s Honda 1100cc roared up onto the sidewalk in front of his building. The supercop checked his letterbox on the way in. Depressing. There was nothing but a brochure touting the benefits of life insurance.

  “Evening, sir,” said the blonde girl from the third floor as she extracted a thick stack of mail.

  She’s hot. I should ask her out for a drink one of these days, just for the sake of maintaining neighborly relations, Le Goënec thought to himself as he watched her disappear up the stairs. He pushed his motorbike toward the door on the right that led to a little corridor that served as a garage for his ride.

  “Evening, Inspector, sir,” came a young boy’s voice.

  “Frédéric! You’re not at school today?”

  The twelve-year-old kid was hopping from foot to foot.

  “It’s gym class this afternoon,” he said. “I’m exempt.”

  “Exempt? A strapping boy like you?”

  “I’ve got weak lungs. The doctor doesn’t want me doing sports right now. It’s too cold.”

  “Aren’t you laying it on a bit thick?” Le Goënec said, and laughed.

  “Say, Inspector, have you read the latest San-Antonio that’s just come out?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “I’ve got a buddy who bought it, and he’s going to lend it to me. He says you really gotta read it, it’s awesome.”

  Frédéric dashed away up the stairs, whistling the latest Michael Jackson hit.

  Kids are funny. Sometimes, when his police life gave him the blues, Le Goënec thought he’d like to have some. Suddenly, a distressing image ripped through his head. As if in a nightmare, he saw Paul Hervet’s naked body bent over a terrorized little boy. To think that bastards like him still dared to swan about in official limos and play at being senior officials.

  Le Goënec brusquely closed the lock on the Honda’s front wheel. Before going up to his apartment, he stopped by Madam Marthe’s. Talking to her was an excellent remedy for dark thoughts.

  The concierge’s door was ajar. As he reached it, his nostrils detected the delicate scent of chocolate. Queenie had already recognized him and yapped joyfully in greeting. Madam Marthe joined the little dog in the corridor. She adjusted her thin, metal-frame spectacles on her nose with a little gesture that had become a mannerism. Le Goënec wagged an accusatory finger.

  “Yes, I know,” she said almost guiltily, “I made a chocolate cake for this evening. But first, you must taste my bœuf miroton. You can tell me what you think.”

  “Madam Marthe, you spoil me.”

  “So I should. Left to your own devices you eat nothing but frozen junk food and crap out of cans.”

  Le Goënec placed his foot on the first stair, which creaked. “Still not repaired,” he said, teasingly.

  “I called the management company, but they’re not known for their speediness.”

  “I’ll come back down for the cake.”

  A delighted Madam Marthe went back into her apartment and plunked herself down in front of the television. Just like every evening on TF1, Schneider was delivering the news headlines, adhering to the usual policy of “if it bleeds, it leads.” The Moonlight Murderer had struck again. The excited concierge had an idea who the killer might be and couldn’t wait to talk to her favorite inspector about it.

  Two p.m. Juan hadn’t shaved. She was wearing a thick turtleneck sweater underneath her jacket. Today was her weekly rendezvous with the old lawyer in the Sixteenth Arrondissement. Mr. Legrand liked to see Juan dressed as a man. He had refined tastes and didn’t appreciate Juan’s little studio apartment, even though it had been decorated with great care, complete with mirrors on the ceiling. But the attorney wouldn’t hear of it. Knowing that the sagging bed was where Juan received all the perverts picked up in the street turned him off completely. Psychological impotence.

  Aristotle had given out instructions to his whole flock. The search was on for pedophiles of all kinds.

  “The first one to bring me any information,” the pimp had said like a general trying to motivate his troops, “will get a bonus at the end of the month. You know how generous I can be sometimes.”

  Juan was cooling her heels at the corner of Rue des Martyrs and Boulevard de Clichy, hands in the pockets of her Calvin Klein pants. Eventually, a splendid white Jag cruised down the street and braked hard right in front of the transvestite.

  “Hi there, sweetie,” said Juan, settling comfortably into the plush leather seats. “You taking me to your love nest?”

  Without wasting a second, Legrand pulled away from the curb, headed for southwest Paris. Juan could very well have taken the Métro to the client’s little nook. But the fogey took a while to get it up and loved foreplay en-route. Ever the professional, the prostitute laid her hand on the attorney’s bony knee as he drove, imperturbable. The overture of Cosi Fan Tutte played softly from the speakers.

  Juan knew her regulars’ proclivities down to the smallest detail. Her hand glided slowly up Legrand’s leg, stopped just short of the groin, pressed a little, and then continued its course to nestle between his thighs. A series of slight jerks indicated that her client was reacting favorably to Juan’s ministrations. His eyes fixed straight ahead on the road, Mr. Legrand mused on how Mozart was the perfect accompaniment to Juan’s expert caresses.

  The bijou apartment on Rue Scheffer in the Sixteenth Arrondissement was pure rococo in style, the bedroom decorated with countless erotic prints from the Belle Époque. Once they were inside, things heated up. Having gotten the geriatric piping hot, Juan only had another fifteen minutes’ work ahead of her. With simulated panting, she unbuckled the attorney’s crocodile-skin belt. Legrand, on the verge of coming, pulled out his weakly erect penis.

  “It’s going to be good,” whispered the hooker softly. “You’re gonna give it all to me.”

  She gently slipped the not-entirely-rigid member into her mouth and, with a technique all her own, began to suck him off. Succumbing to the back-and-forth rhythm, the attorney closed his eyes. Everything happened quickly, quicker than usual, to Juan’s great relief. A final spasm, like the soul leaving the body, and the old man shook and gave a muffled cry.

  “You were in a rush today, pussycat. You really needed it,” said Juan, grabbing a tissue to carefully dab at the attorney’s manhood
, which was visibly shrinking. “We must try something else next time. What would turn you on, you old pervert?”

  Mr. Legrand didn’t reply. His eyes were closed, and his heart pounded heavily as Juan continued to play with the now-flaccid penis.

  “I’m sure there’s still some fantasies you’d like to try,” said Juan. “You shouldn’t deny yourself anything, pussycat, particularly when it’s good. I can really imagine you doing some dirty stuff. I bet you’d like to try it with kids.”

  “Don’t talk that kind of crap, Juan! I have grandchildren!” yelled the old man. “Here, take your thousand francs.”

  “OK, we’ll say no more about it.”

  The bride looked superb in her transparent voiles. The great couturier Armand, who designed clothes for the whole of the Paris smart set, always picked the wedding dress from his most recent collection for his secretive sex sessions.

  The designer had always liked dirty brides, and he chuckled with pleasure as he watched Ginger Carla, his favorite tranny, prancing about. With all the ease of a top model, the beauty sashayed voluptuously across the room, knowing full well that the transparency of the lace permitted glimpses of her stiff member. With a sensual wave of her hand, the beautiful creature swept her cascading ginger locks across her shoulders and, tongue sliding across her lips, smiled at her client.

  Carla visited the designer every two weeks to role-play this wedding masquerade in a fitting room. A very hard-core ceremony. It was so much more exciting to know that a sales assistant or some other unsuspecting soul might enter at any moment.

  “We should modify our scenario a little,” Carla suggested to him. “What would you say to a third person? They would be our marriage witness.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?” said the couturier, a glimmer of interest passing across his eyes.

  “Something really dirty, to get you extra horny. Young, very young.”

  “How young? Sixteen?”

  “No, no, much younger than that.”

  He brusquely ripped away Carla’s veil and threw it on the floor. A resounding slap reddened the transvestite’s cheek as Armand yelled, “You little shit! Who do you take me for? Go on, clear off. I never want to see you again. Go and get fucked elsewhere!”

  Armand was so disgusted Carla barely had time to gather her clothes. Good-bye to those little haute-couture gifts he gave her from time to time. Pity. Off-the-rack dresses were not quite as chic for walking the streets.

  “I’ll have the roast rack of lamb with thyme,” said Paul Hervet. “And you?”

  The man sitting opposite him, over forty, slim face, considered the menu before saying, “Roast sea bass.”

  “I’ll send over the sommelier,” said the headwaiter deferentially.

  The terrace of Fouquet’s was filled with regulars at this hour of the day. Elegantly dressed businessmen and celebrities filled the large dining room. The VIPs were escorted to their tables by a succession of suited and booted minions.

  Pierre Scheller swallowed a large piece of bread, deep in thought. With his Saint-Laurent suit, he could have passed for a clone of Hervet, but ill temper swirled in his eyes. The Swiss businessman seemed truly concerned.

  “Well, Hervet, we’re already two weeks late. Can you guarantee me delivery of the cassettes for the eighth?”

  “No problem at all. The duplication is done. You’ll receive the delivery as usual.”

  “My dealers in Holland and Sweden are impatient. Remind me of the title of this movie.”

  “Little Perverts,” answered Hervet and gulped back his whiskey. “I don’t think we’ve ever taken the punishments this far.”

  “Pity those kids died after the shoot,” said Scheller, picking up an olive with a skeptical look in his eye. “If they’d been filmed at the right moment, we could have sold the tapes for ten to twenty times the price.”

  “You know very well it was an accident,” said the police chief, fidgeting in his seat as if he’d just touched a high-voltage cable. “An overdose! They couldn’t take that final injection.”

  “Bullshit,” said Scheller scornfully. “I want to produce a movie as soon as possible where everything will be shown right until the end! A real snuff film. I have some serious contacts in the United States and Japan. I’m sure I can sell it all over the world. If you’re not interested, I’ll have somebody else shoot it.”

  This was not something Hervet had been expecting. Scheller had backed him into a corner this time. It would be disastrous to lose such a good client, despite the risks an operation like this entailed. After all, Scheller was at the center of an international sex empire. He handled millions of dollars in transactions and was not afraid of anything in his quest to satisfy a clientele of twisted perverts prepared to blow fortunes to gratify their basest instincts.

  “We can do that,” Hervet assured Scheller. “Just give me enough time to make the necessary preparations.”

  “I want a high-quality video; none of that amateur rubbish. Hire the best of the best. I promised the buyers they’d get their money’s worth.”

  “No problem, Pierre. I’m in touch with a network perfectly capable of making the kind of video you require. You’ll be satisfied beyond your expectations.”

  “I hope so, Hervet. My clients are very demanding.”

  “What’s my commission?”

  The businessman took out his notebook and scribbled a figure with enough zeros to sweep away any lingering reticence Hervet may have had.

  “I’ve prepared a comfortable advance for you,” said Scheller, indicating his briefcase. “One more thing: be very careful. They found those children’s bodies. That should never have happened.”

  Just then, the sommelier arrived with his most courteous smile.

  “What might I suggest for you gentlemen?”

  As he walked into the bookstore on Avenue du Maine to get his daily paper, Le Goënec thought about little Frédéric, and asked if they had the latest San-Antonio.

  “I think I have one left. At the back, on the left.”

  Le Goënec slipped between the display stands. He ran his eye over the titles and eventually found it. As he reached up to take the copy, his hand met another hand, slender, with nail polish and rings. He turned, and his gaze met that of a lovely woman. Her delicate curves, wrapped in a light, figure-hugging Kookaï dress, would have stirred an entire horde of impotents. They both laughed as they stared at each other.

  “Apparently we share the same tastes,” said the young woman in a melodious voice.

  She appraised Le Goënec’s honest, cheerful gaze and full lips with a connoisseur’s eye. Here’s a guy who must know all about love.

  “Apparently there’s only one copy left. I’ll let you have it,” said Le Goënec gallantly.

  “No, no, not at all. I’ll find it elsewhere.”

  “I have a better idea. Let’s arrange to meet and read it together.”

  His own audacity astounded him. But sometimes shy people have sudden flashes of brazenness. That must certainly have been due to the shining eyes of the stranger staring at him so insistently. A look like that was capable of eradicating all his inhibitions.

  “You don’t waste any time, do you?” she said with a chuckle of amused surprise.

  “Can I buy you a coffee?”

  A few minutes later they were seated opposite each other behind the steamed-up windows of a café. Le Goënec and the stranger didn’t really know what to say to each other at first. The novel sat on the table. They both exchanged a smile and looked at the cover.

  “It was a kid in my building who told me about it,” said Le Goënec, jump-starting the conversation.

  “I buy every one! I’m mad about crime novels.”

  Her name was Florence, and she worked as a journalist for the daily newspaper France-Soir.

  “What do you
do?” she asked.

  “I’m a freelance photographer. Gun for hire, as they say.”

  “I’ll take your contact info. I often need a photographer. I do a lot of human-interest stories.”

  “What shall we decide about the book?” Le Goënec asked, smiling. “If you agree, I’ll read it first, and you can come round and pick it up from my place. Here’s my phone number.”

  Florence didn’t object. She took the scrap of paper on which Le Goënec had written his number and looked at her watch. “Sorry, I must dash. I’ve got a meeting and I’m already late. Here,” she said, leaving her business card on the table and standing up with perfect elegance.

  “I’ll call you—promise,” he said.

  Le Goënec would have liked to find better words to make sure that the stranger wouldn’t just vanish like a ghost, but he didn’t know what else to say. Every time it was the same story. Try as he might to subdue his shyness, it always popped up again at the crucial moment. Although he had a golden rule never to get too involved with a woman, he still wanted to experience a real love affair. Le Goënec sipped his coffee as he dreamily watched Florence’s sculptural figure receding. When would he see her again? He could already imagine their next rendezvous. A girl like that, as fit as that, was impossible to pass by. Le Goënec stuck his nose into the first chapter of the book, the only souvenir of their encounter that allowed him to believe the beauty had really existed.

  The book began with a rather steamy bedroom scene. Good omen.

  In her little studio apartment on Rue Quincampoix, Nina was pulling on her nineteenth-century rags, starting with some tight, frilly panties that left little to the imagination. She bore a passing resemblance to the famous can-can dancer La Goulue, immortalized by Toulouse Lautrec. That was how Antonio liked her. He was a pervy pop singer who’d had some success back in the sixties and was trying to make a comeback.

  Once Nina had fully satisfied him sexually, she performed Piaf’s “Hymne à l’amour,” to Antonio’s considerable pleasure. It was their ritual, one of her client’s very specific demands. A real glutton who never missed an opportunity to explore new pleasures, Antonio had a voracious sexual appetite.