by Michel Quint
“Okay, a horse. I don’t care,” said Ettore. “We just have to agree on how we’re labeling the merchandise.”
They solemnly passed the article between them, emitting little sounds and nodding. The object would then be placed in one of five canvas beach bags provided by Ettore.
“One pearl necklace.”
Martine craned her neck, her eyes glittering. “What about me? Can I have a look?”
“You’re with me, so you shut up and put a few socks in a bag. We’re going on a weekend trip.”
She obeyed. Dédé didn’t even look up from the jewels.
Once they’d established the inventory, they realized just how extraordinary the take really was. Max, Serge, and Dédé started slapping each other on the back and yelling like bears. Simon arranged the bags in a line on the coffee table and made sure they were zipped. Then, unmoving, he stared at them as if they were relics. Rita and Pierrot smiled and kissed each other, certain they would skip September’s classes and travel instead. Ettore reread the pink sheets, then returned them to Pierrot. He’d taken four revolvers from under the sink in the kitchen. He gave one to Max because he seemed bad, one to Pierrot because he was the boss, one to Simon because he didn’t like Serge, and no gun to Dédé, who had already gotten something from him. For himself, he kept an impressive Colt Python.
The time was speeding by, so Martine and Rita made them all sandwiches. Ettore thought of his organization, of the risk he was running by leaving. Regardless, considering the situation, his distribution network needed to keep a low profile.
“Here’s the plan,” Ettore announced. “I have a few things I have to check on before leaving Aix. My business is going to have to get on without me for a while. The little lady is going to accompany me on my errands.”
“Rita? Why?” asked Pierrot.
“Because Mademoiselle Rita is my insurance policy. In exchange for her, I’m leaving the jewels with you.”
“What about me?” asked Martine.
“You’ll stay with the jewelry and these gentlemen. You’ll be their insurance.”
“Whatever you want,” Martine said.
There was a short silence. Dédé sniggered and ran a hand over his smooth head.
“We’ll leave together. This building could collapse at any minute. I read in Match about some people who got crushed in an Italian church—an hour after an earthquake. To think they’d been thanking God for saving them!”
Everyone laughed at the divine joke.
“Wait for me in the car and try to clear a path,” Ettore said. “You never know what could happen with all the looters once they decide that the Red Cross’s medicine and food isn’t enough. Come on!”
“Okay,” Pierrot said, picking up a bag. “After all, we’re keeping the jewels on us.”
They all looked at Rita.
“You jerk,” she said, smiling.
“They’re all the same,” Martine added.
They should have known what it would be like, what with all the television they watched and the magazines they read, but when they returned to the street they were all sickened by the sight of the apocalypse.
A swarm of green flies was already buzzing over the body of a little girl.
P.J. felt dizzy as they stepped out of the lobby. Lydie had to stop him from falling. It was already quite warm.
“Are you okay?”
“It’s nothing. Just a dizzy spell. It happens when I’m stressed out. Let’s go, we’ve already lost time.”
As P.J. said this, he realized the cruelty of his words. Lydie had lost a whole lot more than time. Despite her emotions, she was being propelled forward by an obscure mixture of sadness and fear.
“They won’t find the bodies right away,” she said, sensing P.J.’s hesitation. “When they do, they won’t be the only bodies. The police will have too much on their plate to investigate.”
P.J. realized that he and Lydie wouldn’t even be suspects. Everyone would take this as a case of retaliation against a looter.
They were on the other side of the complex, in front of the covered walkway between buildings A and B. P.J.’s car was parked in front of the breezeway’s arches, while Lydie had put hers in the underground parking garage. That had been a good idea yesterday. But today, the entire garage, surrounded by flowering shrubs, Catalpa trees, and maples, had collapsed. From where they were standing, it seemed obvious that no car would ever drive out of there again. Even if someone managed to reach their car, they would still have to make their way through the chaos.
P.J. had the strange sensation that his old demons had returned. The overturned landscape gave body to his vertigo, and no amount of head shaking or fist biting could stop it.
The embankment next to the walkway had crumbled; the carefully pruned spindle trees hadn’t been able to stop it, and the structure had smashed into several vehicles, including P.J.’s car. The Alpine may not have been totaled, but they didn’t have time to unearth it.
While Lydie stared absently at the disastrous scene, P.J. was knee-deep in earth the color of dried blood, imagining that there might be people buried in the garage, survivors scratching at the concrete, desperate to escape.
The air was filled with the hushed, mournful sounds of people looking for their loved ones, adding to the already audible layers of the chaos, honking horns and screeching vehicles. Disaster response teams were beginning to mobilize as best they could. The survivors did their best to tend to the wounded. Not wanting to stay inside the teetering buildings, people had set up makeshift beds on the streets.
Lydie and P.J. walked through the outdoor common area, which had already been transformed into a field hospital. Instantly, they were surrounded by commotion: people running, scared and lost, but rushing to help.
A six- or seven-year-old boy lying on a striped mattress, in the shadow of a pile of rubble, was complaining about his legs. His mother, unscathed save for a gash on her forehead, was sponging his face with a blue napkin. The kid was pale, his lip curled in pain. Lydie offered an unflinching diagnosis: the boy had fractured both femurs.
A second later, P.J. found himself searching through the rubble for material to create makeshift splints. Not that any of them knew how to apply them, but a nurse or a doctor would eventually take care of the patient, who was managing despite the overwhelming pain.
P.J. couldn’t get over the fact that he was there, breaking off branches with a large pocketknife. The weight of the revolver against his back made it more difficult to move. Only a few minutes earlier, he’d killed a man. In addition, he was preoccupied by thoughts of Valérie, the dealership, and all his problems from before the earthquake.
Every time he caught Lydie’s gaze, he realized that she was also thinking about the two bodies they’d left behind. But she couldn’t leave this scene without trying to help the wounded. What difference did two more bodies make? The body count was going to be high . . . except the two in the building had holes in their heads.
P.J. couldn’t stop thinking about Valérie in Pierrevert. He hadn’t been able to get in touch with her, and he knew that she must be worried sick.
Helping these people, he’d lost all sense of time.
The kid’s father, who had gone looking for a doctor, returned. Marc was his name. P.J. helped him make a tent out of blankets and boards for his son. Similar camps had been set up around them, with groups of able-bodied people tending to the wounded. One man who had worked as a nurse’s aide during his military service was doing his best, but some of the people laid out on sheets outside Building C were beyond hope.
Around eleven or twelve o’clock, a dull rumble gave way to a crash as 3B’s teetering balcony fell to the ground. Luckily it didn’t injure anyone, but it did cause some panic.
Lydie looked at the sun as it reached its peak. It would eventually fall and disappear behind the horizon. Suddenly,
she told P.J. she was going to see her mother on La Provençale Road—west of Aix.
CHAPTER IX
Aix-en-Provence
Saturday, August 16, 12:30 p.m.
The little group was circled around the BMW as if it contained the crown jewels. In fact, the bags of jewelry were now stashed in the trunk. Instinctively, the eight accomplices, including Rita and Martine, were as defensive as bodyguards protecting heads of state during an official visit.
“Okay. Now what?” asked Simon.
It was past noon. Clean-up crews were multiplying throughout the city center. Excavators and bulldozers hulked though the streets. Firefighters surveyed the vehicles’ movements, signaling for them to shut off their motors from time to time so they could listen for voices under the rubble. There was also the sound of police helicopters buzzing, which blended with the horrible thrum of flies.
“Let’s be clear here,” Ettore replied. “I have to take care of some things. The little lady is coming with me. It won’t take long. You wait here. So as not to waste time, you can clear a path for the car. If you can get out of here, or if they make you leave, wait for me at the entrance of the Route de Sisteron. I might get held up. In that case, don’t panic, wait there. We’ll meet you there eventually. Remember, no funny business! I won’t put up with it—and the little lady won’t like it if I get mad.”
“Come back soon,” Pierrot said before kissing Rita passionately.
Martine, who was already sitting in the passenger seat of the BMW, was pouting. That big bald idiot who had fucked her earlier in the day wasn’t paying her any attention! She wasn’t sure if she would help them clear a path for the car. They had to get to the Cours Mirabeau—it was the only way out. The sycamore trees had acted like retaining walls and blocked the mass of falling rocks. Crews were trying to clear a path from the Cours Mirabeau to the city’s periphery, which linked Aix to the highway that led to the Alps. The same work was being done in the south of the city, from the Fontaine de la Rotonde toward the highway leading to Marseille.
Ettore opened the car’s passenger door and said to Martine, “I’m going to see Mélissa. I’ll tell her and the girls to keep a low profile for a while. Too bad for all the old widowers. They and their balls will have to content themselves with amateurs for the time being. I can’t pass on this break! You keep an eye on these boys.” To himself, he said, “I’ll leave a message with Mélissa for The Gentleman. He’ll know what to do. At a minimum, I’ve got to put my network to sleep for a while.”
The others were laboring like volunteer aid workers, clearing away rocks and broken branches, only their efforts were directed at the concrete surrounding the BMW. Simon, the smallest of the group, was mostly pretending. No way was he going to overexert himself. Not today, when finally a gift had fallen from the heavens. All this worthless life had ever given him was unemployment, a Jewish name, and a frizzy mop of hair. He was more French and more ethnocentric than anyone! If all the Jews, Portuguese, and everyone else left the country, who would get the good jobs? The shopkeeper’s post at the Main Hardware Store, the bartender’s position at the four-starred Grand Hôtel?
No one, if not Simon!
Walking a few paces behind Rita, to whom he’d communicated the directions, Ettore ascended the Cours Mirabeau. He wasn’t crazy: he didn’t want to walk ahead of the girl and be forced to check that she was still there. He relied on his former athleticism to keep up; this girl could walk fast.
Ettore was feeling less and less inclined to share the loot. In fact, he wasn’t planning on it at all. The jewels were gleaming inside the trunk of his car. In a rural area near the town of Tignes-les-Boisses in Savoie, Ettore had a cabin he almost never visited due to his bad leg. It was in Martine’s name. That’s where he’d hole up until this thing blew over.
Then he would get in touch with his fence in Marseille. The cops in Aix would no doubt be watching his every step. He would have to create a solid alibi, maybe even make it look like he died in the earthquake. Captain Imbert wasn’t an idiot—far from it, and he’d had his eye on Ettore for a while. That was another reason he had to get rid of the kids. They didn’t have any experience. They were sure to get caught, and he knew they would sing. But how to do it? He would have to wait and see.
Rita would make a good addition to his team, but he didn’t have the energy to teach her. The kids had to go. With the earthquake, anything was possible. There was just too much chaos. No one would know whom to blame.
Those were Ettore’s thoughts as he eyed Rita’s hips, swaying above her black cowboy boots. He hoped Mélissa was okay; he hoped she’d lived through this shit storm.
Mélissa’s real name was Francine. A pretty redhead, intelligent and headstrong, she’d moved to Aix from Lyon for the climate, in the hope of curing her sinusitis. In addition to being in Ettore’s stable of girls, she was his channel of communication with The Gentleman. She was the only one The Gentleman communicated with. For Ettore, that was a security measure in case of any problems. It was also a necessary barrier in this business. The Gentleman was the wholesaler and Ettore the large-scale distributor. The less they saw of each other, the better. Mélissa oversaw the girls, who had contact with customers who managed different sectors of the distribution. Mélissa also served as a mailbox for secret messages between The Gentleman and Ettore. That was how Ettore provided management for The Gentleman’s network. Of course, those informed of the details of this operation could be counted on one hand. Only Ettore knew The Gentleman’s true identity. Mélissa’s only real contact with The Gentleman was over the phone.
“Get a move on, little lady,” Ettore barked, gently smacking Rita’s bottom. “We’re not here to take in the sunshine!”
Back at the BMW, Dédé was working like a Titan, heaving giant stones out of the way and piling debris into an unstable heap. He’d even had the balls to ask a fireman for help carrying a very battered but still breathing man to safety. After they’d finished, the fireman told Dédé, “Good work, man! I wish there were more people out here like you. Keep it up!”
Dédé did keep it up. You’d think he was getting paid for this, thought Simon. For his part, he was sitting in the driver’s seat of the BMW. He’d been momentarily put out of commission thanks to a rock that had landed on his right big toe. Man, had he screamed. Anyway, he preferred sitting in the car, looking at Martine and the tiny blond hairs pearling with sweat against her sheer black tights. Naturally, Simon felt more comfortable sitting on the luxury car’s leather. It was a beautiful piece of machinery, with a nice sound system and everything! The keys dangled from the ignition, lightly swaying in the breeze made by Martine, who was fanning herself with a roadmap.
CHAPTER X
Aix-en-Provence
Saturday, August 16, 4:12 p.m.
Hubert was finishing off a pint of Spaten while Alain flipped through the last pages of the White File. They had taken time to eat sandwiches and wash them down with beer.
“Now you know everything I know, Alain! In my opinion it’s ripe for the picking. This disaster will be a kind of catalyst. The scorpions will come out of their hiding places, and the nest of vipers will disintegrate.”
“Looks like these days there’s just one guy orchestrating both the manufacturing and the distribution. Before 1970, it was practically artisanal. Ad hoc.”
“Exactly. And then what happened?”
“In May ’77, Carbasi was taken out. His car exploded in the countryside—a ticking bomb. Odile Rocher was arrested a month later. Until then, all the labs were set up in remote cabins throughout the countryside. Le Jas de Baume, Odile’s place, was the anchor, the central nervous system, with a lab in a secret cellar. That was a fairly light operation and, if needed, it was easy for them to pick up shop and move elsewhere.”
“Anything else stand out to you?”
“No.”
“Consider the amoun
t of merchandise seized back then.”
“Right. It wasn’t much for five labs.”
“Which means?”
“Someone took over.”
“Right. Who?”
“The one who ratted on Odile Rocher and killed Carbasi, or had him killed.”
“Right again. Have a beer and hand me one, will you?”
Alain took two beers out of his desk drawer and uncapped them. “They’re getting warm.”
“No big deal. You don’t drink Spaten ice-cold anyway. Keep thinking. What happened after 1970?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on! Nothing?”
“It didn’t stop. The number of junkies continued to increase. So labs must have been producing and selling hard drugs. It also means there was still an incredibly well-organized distribution network.”
“That’s why none of the suppliers, none of the dealers—nobody—gave us anything. Even the ones who would have wanted to, provided we gave them a permit to open some bar or greasy spoon.”
“Yeah. It seems like the second-tier contacts might have been prostitutes. It’s not an obvious answer, and we weren’t able to nab any of them because they either died or moved. The ones we picked up didn’t know anything. The organization is constantly changing its structure and compartmentalizing its different sectors. Those are its strengths.”
“Good! What about the labs?”
“We haven’t found any labs since 1970. Despite the fact that the station never skimped on funds; even the Narcotics Bureau has helped us out. The official conclusion is that there aren’t any labs in the region anymore.”
“You know that’s not true. As if the guy behind the whole operation would let someone else benefit from the trade. He has the means and the brains to put together a Mafia-type organization. So where are the labs?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Do you?”
“Nope, but we’re going to find out. I have an idea. Think about it: things that move can’t be caught. Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out. We’ll get them.”
