by Michel Quint
Ettore buttoned his jacket, ran a hand through his wavy hair, and started toward his tottering home sweet home. What was a four-bedroom apartment worth in that demolished state? Nothing. The insurance companies never paid out for earthquakes, at least that’s what he’d heard. Insurance companies were fucking thieves.
Oh, the jewelry shop, thought Ettore. Monsieur Pradier probably won’t be admiring his stones today. Maybe a bigger stone has hit him on the head. The Grim Reaper couldn’t care less about jewels, but I care!
Standing next to the shop, Ettore took a moment to think, a difficult thing for a man of action. All those stones, those necklaces, those bracelets—they were in danger. Really, he would be doing the jeweler a favor if he took them and protected them from bad people. He could return them to Monsieur Pradier later. If the poor man didn’t have a use for them anymore, then he’d keep them as souvenirs.
Ettore stepped over the devastated boutique’s threshold.
Hearing the crunch of footsteps over broken glass, the group of friends simultaneously turned around to face a handsome, very tan man with a medium build. Well-dressed, jacket buttoned, and with his hands on his hips, he eyed them mockingly, his overall aura of composure a striking contrast to the general chaos. Adding to the effect, the morning’s copper light was creating a halo around his head.
“Hey there,” he said at last.
Dédé, at six foot two and two hundred sixty-five pounds, didn’t like the greeting. Dédé had once been a gentle giant, but that had ended when he realized that people were taking advantage of him. Now he was erratically cruel, a character trait that meant he had to repent from time to time with the women in his life. Or, inversely, sometimes he let them walk all over him, like the ones who made fun of his near-total baldness. Suffice it to say, he didn’t like the well-groomed Ettore and his Latin charm.
Dédé cracked his knuckles, plotting, but Pierrot’s voice put a stop to whatever plan he was hatching.
“What can we do for you?”
“Nothing in particular. The same as you. I’m just looking. I’m pretty sure that you’re not salespeople here. If you don’t mind my saying, I’d hazard that you’re new to this line of work.”
“Go on.”
Ettore presented himself to Rita, dusted off a night-blue velvet chair, and sat down. The six friends gathered around him.
“Well, you can’t leave anything to chance. As it so happens, I have experience in a parallel line of work.”
Ettore was surprising even himself. They say opportunity makes the thief, but he’d never talked so smoothly. He was enjoying just listening to himself—more than the others, who still had threatening looks on their faces. These young kids still had a lot to learn about life.
“Above all, I just want us to be clear on something,” he continued. “I’m on your side. I like to think of myself as a kind of godfather to promising young people like yourselves. If you want, I’ll introduce you to some people. I live upstairs. I know the area inside and out.”
No one said a word. Ettore looked at Pierrot because he’d noticed that the little green-eyed girl was clutching his arm and that he was the boss. No doubt about it. The leader of the pack.
Finally, Pierrot spoke up. “What exactly are you offering us?”
“Hold on, Pierrot. Be careful,” Max whispered. “This guy says he lives upstairs? He might be the shop owner!”
Weird-looking kid, the one who was whispering: half rock ‘n’ roll, with the studs and leather, and half-whorish.
“You’re wrong, my boy. Monsieur Pradier lives in the town of Les Milles. I’m a businessman. Jack-of-all-trades—the good ones in particular. One question,” Ettore said, addressing Dédé, who looked eager to fight and was sulking over the delay. “Have you managed to open the safe?”
Rita answered no for him. They had collected everything they could from the display cases.
“Did you take care of the alarm system?”
They admitted they hadn’t.
“You were lucky, then. It must have been busted in the earthquake. By the way, the display cases where you found those little baubles also have alarms. In any case, the safe is where you’ll find the real treasures, the ones worthy of this little beauty,” Ettore said, looking at Rita.
Smiling, Simon fingered the earrings he was still wearing.
“But there’s no time to waste,” Ettore added. “This chaos isn’t going to last forever.”
He stood, pushed through the group, and quickly crossed the length of the store, then turned when he reached the narrow door to the left of Monsieur Pradier’s desk. It looked like it might be off its hinges.
“Don’t bother,” said Rita. “We already tried. We couldn’t open the safe.”
“Come on. It’s a mess. If we’re lucky . . . ,” Ettore said, taking out a lighter and illuminating the wall to the right of the safe. “This is a really old fucking building,” he remarked. “The safe isn’t even a real safe. It’s just a reinforced door placed over a small hallway. Monsieur Pradier didn’t anticipate anything like this. He figured his alarm system with its direct line to the cops would do the trick. This wall here, it’s the back wall of the strong room. You might not realize it, but this isn’t a small-time clock repair operation. This is a jewelry shop, with pieces from Paris, Rome, New York!”
The six friends listened to the lesson, huddled together like school kids on a field trip. Only now they were all ears.
“At night, they store all the valuables and money back there.” Ettore moved his lighter over the wall, revealing a lot of damage; notably, two cracks that were as wide as a hand in places. “Well, we’ve got our work cut out for us! If you could give me a hand . . .”
In no time, Dédé, using a metal bar torn from a display case, kicked and pried open a hole that was big enough for Rita to slip through, which is what she did. Pierrot and Max provided the lighting, striking match upon match.
Ettore, in perfect command of the situation, smiled to himself as he watched them open boxes containing precious stones and silver. There was also a flimsy antique suitcase Rita had found on the shelf filled with silver and gold pieces. The matches were burning Pierrot’s and Max’s fingers, but they didn’t care; they were as excited as archeologists peering into an Egyptian tomb.
“Should we keep at it?” Dédé asked. “Maybe hit some banks?”
The operation had been a success. Pierrot and Serge were gawking and whistling at the price tags.
“Before we go on—if we can go on—we have to put this somewhere safe,” Ettore replied. “I’m sure the banks are already being guarded. In any case, they have better safes than this closet. If it’s okay with you, let’s go up to my place and discuss it over drinks.”
No one spoke out against this plan. They had stumbled into this operation, and now they intended to see it through. Anyway, there wasn’t much else to do in this apocalyptic town amid the constant shriek of sirens and human suffering.
As they made their way through the street up to Ettore’s apartment, the sun was already high in the sky, making the amethyst ring on Rita’s finger sparkle.
CHAPTER VII
Aix-en-Provence
Saturday, August 16, 11:00 a.m.
Hubert Imbert thought women horrible. That’s why he was in a good mood. The earthquake had just smashed, crushed, squashed, and incinerated his five-bedroom Louis-Philippe-furnished apartment, along with his wife. She was a vapid creature who was always putting on airs because she was her family’s sole inheritor of a twenty-five acre vineyard in Gigondas in the Rhône. And he, her husband, only cared for beer.
He’d often fantasized about offing her, and now fate had intervened. It was the perfect crime! He had an alibi and everything. Hubert had been working the morning of the tragedy. Another on-duty cop had relayed the good news that his apartment building wing had been pulve
rized.
Sitting at his desk, he gazed out the window, smiling to himself, thinking about the eviscerated living room and the bookcase she had forced him to buy. He saw reading as a subversive activity, except, that is, when it came to the sports section and his subordinates’ reports.
It should be said that Hubert Imbert was the police captain and lived at the precinct. His current happiness didn’t keep him from giving orders related to reestablishing telephone and radio contact with the world outside. He had already started organizing rescue teams and food and water distribution, and would soon have to find a way to protect property and survivors against looters.
But he had more than one reason to be happy today. Besides causing the death of his bitch wife, who hadn’t even let him screw her these past two years—the poor dear claimed to suffer migraines—this disaster would have professional consequences: one, some of the city’s gangsters had probably also been killed by collapsed buildings; two, like bait, it would draw other criminals out of the shadows to look for ways to take advantage of the chaos. With a little luck, the disaster would lure the big fish out onto the sand where they would fight each other for the spoils. They’d be fish out of water. Hubert Imbert would be there to catch them in his big net!
Hubert chuckled to himself.
Stretching his six-foot-tall body, he rubbed a hand over his stubbly head and heaved up his two hundred and twenty pounds to reach for a slightly disheveled binder, from which he retrieved a neat, glossy folder. This file had been assigned to him directly from the Marseille headquarters and the Ministry of the Interior. His mission: find the underground labs transforming morphine into heroin and, if possible, get his big bear hands on the ringleaders of Aix’s drug trade. Over the past several years, chemists had moved operations from the coast to Aix’s backcountry, where the market had been expanding.
The problem: he only ever managed to catch the small-time pushers. The big fish had found good ways to hide. If he figured out where, Hubert, at the age of forty-five, could be promoted to Paris, with a good salary, good food, beautiful women, and imported German and Czech beer. Don’t even think about mentioning Danish, Dutch, or Belgian beer to Hubert Imbert; as far as he was concerned, that piss was for country bumpkins who spent their days dreaming of BMWs, credit cards, the Ivy League, et cetera.
Thanks to the earthquake, he had an opportunity to verify some of his theories. That is, if he and a detective could be released from rescue operations. He was waiting to be put in touch with Marseille. They’d had to contact Paris. Then, he would go out hunting with Alain Mercurey. He liked Alain because the guy was a good cop who liked good beer.
With one buttock on the corner of his desk, Imbert flipped through a thick folder, some of whose contents dated back to his predecessor. Imbert was from the north of France and he hated this damn city, where not only was it always too hot, but you had to worry about buildings falling on you. Like what happened to Magali—his wife. But thank God for that!
Mercurey: brown-haired, thirty-five years old, solid. When he stuck his head into Hubert’s office, he was wearing a burgundy leather jacket—Imbert found his taste for outdated clothing hilarious.
“Hey, boss. I finally managed to get Marseille on the radio. The Big Boss himself!”
Imbert quickly placed a set of old-fashioned headphones over his ears.
“Captain Imbert speaking. Requesting permission to be released from rescue duty to focus on the White File. Has Paris replied? . . . Yes, sir. It is my belief that we’ll have this settled soon. Mercurey is coming with me . . . Very good. I’ll update you on the situation as often as possible . . . Understood.”
Imbert winced at the static on the line.
“Thank you, sir.”
He lowered the device. A red light switched off.
“Mercurey, old man, bone up on this file. Then polish your gun and grab some ammo. Don’t forget the camera. We’re going on a safari. Watch out, wild beasts!”
CHAPTER VIII
Aix-en-Provence
Saturday, August 16, 9:00 a.m.
“Martine, pour us seven glasses, will you?” Ettore cried as he pushed through his apartment’s polychrome door. “We’ve earned it!”
Behind him, the six new friends filed in, with Rita in the lead. Martine didn’t bat an eyelash, immediately setting glassware on the table, next to where the curly-haired Simon was breathlessly emptying the old suitcase. So long as Ettore was happy, she was happy, even in times of crisis. Only when she saw the jewels did she allow herself one exclamation: “Shit!” She didn’t even seem particularly fazed by the six young people wandering through her living room and making a lot of racket. Rita, lovingly perched on Pierrot’s lap, and Dédé, who was standing by a window, were silent. Dédé was paralyzed by the sight of Martine. In fact, he hardly noticed the tall glass of pastis she placed in his hand. Hypnotized, he watched her heavy breasts and backside bounce in the fitted cashmere dress she was wearing. Dédé felt that this was his kind of woman—classy, worldly.
Ettore was trying to think fast. How was he going to get rid of these kids and keep the loot? And what was the idiot doing staring at Martine like that? Where did he get off?
Everyone got settled, spreading out over the sofas and chairs.
“To our partnership,” Ettore said.
“Partnership? Ettore, are you sure?”
“Martine, if you want a pastis, take one. Otherwise, trust me—and button up your dress!”
A man had his pride, after all. Martine should have known better than to question him in public, but she was smart enough to smile and shut up. As for the kids, he needed time; he needed to make them trust him. Everyone was drinking the pastis, and that was a good start, but he had to get organized, figure out a way to convert those stones into cash.
“What are we doing?” Pierrot said impatiently. “Shouldn’t we try to sell this stuff?”
“Calm down. Be patient. You’re going to have to trust me, which is why I’ve brought you into my home and introduced you to my wife. That is, unless you know some people.”
Simon couldn’t stop staring at the piles of jewels. Meanwhile, the others were practically shivering with excitement.
“Okay! Here’s what I suggest,” Ettore continued. “Let’s take an inventory. Then I’m going to call a fence I know in Marseille. He’s a professional and has a network. The money will be transferred directly to Switzerland. No funny business. I’ll send word, and we’ll meet in Zurich to split up the cash.”
“What about the trip?” asked Serge, who was now wandering through the apartment, tracing a finger over the dust the earthquake had thrown onto the furniture.
Ettore had never felt so good. The world was collapsing and he didn’t give a fuck. He was the king of chaos! Fortune’s darling! He was going to screw these kids. With longing in her eyes, Martine was looking at Dédé, who hadn’t touched his glass.
Outside, the world was turned upside down, but in Ettore’s apartment no one was paying it any attention. They had just gotten away with the heist of the century.
“I need to pee. Where’s the bathroom?” Dédé asked.
Everybody stared at him, startled by the expression of primal needs on such a triumphant day. Did the gods on Olympus have toilets?
“Over here,” murmured Martine, leading the giant toward the now doorless boudoir.
Ettore watched them, suspicious but fearing nothing. After all, sometimes you had to make a few concessions.
“So, what about the money for the trip,” asked Max, breaking the silence. “First-class tickets to Zurich cost a lot more than a round-trip fare to Marseille’s Alcatraz, the Château d’If!”
“Before we part ways, I’ll give you some money. Not to mention that with the cash you stole from the jewelry shop you should have more than enough to spend the weekend in Miami! Ettore is a good guy. You won’t he
ar anyone calling Ettore a jerk! No one. Ettore, that’s me, Ettore Muginello. Perhaps you recognize me?”
The kids looked at each other questioningly. Rita said maybe he was a famous boxer, since he looked vaguely like Jean-Claude Bouttier.
“Muginello! Ettore! Soccer midfielder. Three times on the French national team. One goal in the championship game. The winning goal! You see, with me, you’re guaranteed success. I’m a businessman now. This job, it fits me like a glove. I’m going to make it happen for you, like a winning shot from the top of the goal box.”
“What if we can manage by ourselves?” asked Serge, who was feeling high from the heist and convinced that he, too, was on the verge of greatness.
In the rococo bathroom, Dédé had his pants down and his hand on Martine’s left breast, all thoughts of peeing vanished.
“You interested?” said the beautiful Martine.
“I am! In you!”
After saying this, he made love to her so quickly that it was over as soon as it had started. Pulling out, he said he needed a drink. She was still shaking with emotion.
His return to the living room was hardly noticed. The gang was kneeling on the carpet, laying out the jewelry. Rita was taking notes on Martine’s pink stationery. Ettore was calling out the items like a croupier in the now devastated casino. Whenever he picked up a piece with a label, he announced the price in such a way as to send shivers throughout the room.
“A brooch. Good size. Looks like a golden horse embellished with diamonds.”
“It’s definitely a horse,” Simon interrupted.
