Bad Conscience

by Michel Quint

  P.J. put a hand on the revolver under his belt then sprinted toward the new cars. He wanted an R30 TX, something powerful that wouldn’t have any problems, even in difficult conditions. The mechanics never left the keys in the cars over the weekend. The receptionist put them all in a secure lockbox under her desk. In order to get the key he wanted, P.J. would have to remember the car’s reference number.

  Squinting, he tried to read the temporary license plate number of a white R30 TX and simultaneously listen for the presence of the other person. It wasn’t easy, considering the symphony of noises the strained building was emitting.

  When the man opened the car door, the overhead light flicked on and Simon got a good look at him: a youngish, well-built, mustachioed man. Simon raised his revolver, pressing the barrel into the window, “Where do you think you’re going, man?”

  The question surprised P.J. Instinctively, he turned and ran toward the receptionist’s office. From the corner of his eye, he saw the shot’s flare before his ears could register the sound.

  “Shit!” Simon cursed. The guy had moved at the exact moment when he’d fired. He needed to ration his bullets, especially since he wasn’t a practiced shot. He’d wait it out. The guy was trapped in the little office; Simon would take care of him when he tried to leave. The guy must not be armed; otherwise, he would have fired back.

  P.J. realized that the iron gate wouldn’t open on its own. Not only was there no electricity, but the thing seemed stuck in its frame. Bad luck!

  He thought for a few moments then took the keys to the R30 TX and the spare parts van. He’d use it as a bulldozer to get out. He would keep the keys to the other van on his person. He didn’t trust anyone else with the rally support van or the special equipment he had installed in it. The receptionist, Jeannot, was a rally fan and often took the keys to the other van, following the teams serviced by the workshop.

  The door to the R30 TX was still open, its overhead light glowing faintly through the broken windows.

  P.J. knew he couldn’t stay where he was, but if he left his hiding place, this idiot would shoot him. He’d sounded young, a more audacious looter than the others.

  “Lydie should be here any minute,” P.J. whispered to himself.

  All the more reason to act fast.

  The reception area consisted of two small connecting rooms with doors leading to the garage. P.J. crawled to the back office. First, he would have to distract the kid, who was probably expecting P.J. to return to the car. If P.J. did the opposite, he would surprise him. Then, he would have a chance of getting rid of the kid.

  P.J. simultaneously threw the phone book against the first door and exited through the second door, sprinting about five yards to the space under his office.

  Simon shot as soon as he sensed a movement. He’d targeted the wrong door, and before he had time to readjust his aim, he saw the man run into the showroom. That wasn’t good. The afternoon’s alcohol had begun to leave his system, but he’d been reinvigorated by the port. Rather than sobering up, he was becoming increasingly agitated. In fact, he decided to take extreme measures.

  “I’m going to kill you,” he said to himself.

  P.J. had one advantage: he had a gun, and the kid didn’t know it. Actually, the kid probably assumed P.J. was unarmed, and since the kid was clumsy, he’d come closer. Stupidly. There he was now. P.J., who knew the ins and outs of his dealership, recognized the light rustle of footsteps on the carpeting in the hallway. He listened for the creak on the staircase. P.J. hadn’t even stopped to consider whether he should kill the kid or simply disarm him. Given the state of things, there was no point in taking any risks.

  Crouching under the stairs, P.J. heard the telltale creak, counted to three, and then jumped. P.J.’s bullet hit Simon in the middle of the chest.

  The kid slid down, his back against the staircase. He saw his feet in front of him, and he felt like he was chewing cotton wool; then his face fell toward the windows. His eyes were as reflective as lakes under a rising moon.

  Outside, Pierrot and Serge looked at each other, counting a third shot. Where were the others? Why hadn’t they joined them yet?

  CHAPTER XX

  Aix-en-Provence

  Saturday, August 16, 10:30 p.m.

  A milky light shone on the motionless cars. P.J. climbed upstairs to his office without giving the kid’s corpse another thought. Ever since that morning, his motivations had shifted, the sun hadn’t been the same color, and love and death no longer meant what they once had.

  He set the two guns, his and Simon’s, on the worktable. Simon had left one thing standing during his raid: a little yellow Renault flag—yellow like a quarantine flag.

  P.J. searched for a long while, lifting documents toward the dimming light, collecting the ones he wanted to take with him. In the end, he tore them all up and threw them away. The little safe to the right of the bar was still intact. P.J. emptied out the cash.

  It was ten thirty. Lydie wouldn’t be long. He’d give her an hour. After that, he’d leave by himself. Aix was becoming toxic; all the bodies would soon start to rot.

  A revolver in each hand, P.J. descended the staircase. Before climbing into the spare parts van, he checked to make sure that the other van was locked.

  He started the big diesel van, backing it up against the iron gate. He didn’t want to ruin the motor on his first try; it was probably going to take several rams. He pressed his foot hard into the accelerator, backing into the gate at full force.

  A corner of the gate flew off with a great bang, only to reposition itself in the frame when P.J. shifted to first. He realized that this wasn’t the right strategy. The metal gate would either snap back into place or he would break through parts of the gate but risk getting the big truck stuck and obstructing the way out. He went in search of a towrope, which he found lying in the back of the garage amid some old tires.

  He attached one end of the rope to the gate and the other to the truck. He got back into the vehicle and pressed the accelerator. This time, he veered right, shifting into second. This method tore the gate like a piece of paper, but he’d only managed to rip off three of the metal bars. P.J. wouldn’t be able to leave in the van. However, an R30 TX could slip through the opening.

  He returned to the R30 TX, its door open and overhead light on. P.J. checked to make sure everything was all right under the hood: coolant, brake fluid, oil. Then the trunk. What the hell was that? What were those bags? P.J. opened them quickly, one after the other, taking them out of the trunk so he could get a better look.

  His decision was fast. He closed the trunk and locked it. The motor started up soundlessly. P.J. positioned the car for departure, parking it in front of the exit ramp and facing the damaged gate.

  Where had those jewels come from? P.J. was smart enough to know that they represented hundreds of thousands of francs. He realized now that the frizzy-haired kid hadn’t come to loot his dealership. All he’d needed was a getaway car. P.J. also realized that rarely were such heists solo acts. He hoped Lydie would be back soon!

  Others were sure to follow the kid. Where should he wait for Lydie? He left the keys in the ignition of the R30 TX, ready to depart at a moment’s notice. Stepping out of the car, he looked at the support van. He didn’t like the idea of leaving it there in his gutted garage.

  He decided to wait for Lydie in his office upstairs, where he’d be able to keep an eye on everything. At the bottom of the stairs, he passed the frizzy-haired kid, who was still looking at the world from the ground. P.J. righted his office chair and lowered himself into it. He couldn’t suppress thoughts of his past. Meanwhile, a calm seemed to be regaining in the city, the cries of its citizens dying down, the green scent of freshly turned earth permeating the air.

  Years ago, in this same dealership, Carbasi had come to a skidding but controlled stop while driving a brand-new Renault Dauphine.
Dad had yelled at him. “You think the customer is happy? He thinks you’re an idiot, a show-off!” Carbasi, the salesman, had ignored the vitriol, smoothing his mustache and leaning against the trunk of the green beauty, a gem.

  Thanks to that yellow and black flag on the desk, P.J. was flooded with memories of a beautiful, lush Sunday in spring. P.J.’s father had launched a promotional campaign, presenting new models, offering test-drives, the works. He’d even hired a hot air balloon. Women had on flowing dresses like the ones Brigitte Bardot was wearing, and Carbasi was taking advantage of it. Whenever they sat down in the Dauphine, their skirts would fan out over the seat and cover the gearstick. Carbasi would apologize, fumble around, find the knob, and then take off in a roar, whisking away a pretty girl from under the worried eyes of her father or husband, the girl at once scandalized and flattered. That was Carbasi’s sales technique. If the missus was tempted by the car, her husband would end up buying it for her. It only took a couple days to convince them, a week or two max if the man’s sexual appetites were dull. The numbers spoke for themselves.

  That’s why my father kept him on as long as he did, P.J. thought. Dad couldn’t stand the self-satisfied foreigner who was always dressed to the nines in white moccasins, polyester suit, and a ruffled shirt—the height of fashion back then. A smooth operator, as my father used to say, a troublemaker. But Carbasi impressed me. My father was my father. His success was the product of hard work, and he had the black lines on his hands and clothing to prove it. My father loathed desk work. Ever since its opening, the dealership had performed well. My father had a way of making the mechanics feel that he could have done their work for them—and done it better. He was authoritative and efficient. What I liked about Carbasi were all the ways he wasn’t like my father. He was relentlessly charming, with his casual attitude and flashy clothes. His success with women, too. When you’re a boy between ten and fifteen, that’s all you can think about. One day, I walked in on him kissing what seemed to me at the time like an old woman. She was at least thirty-five. It was in the little sales office.

  The very one where P.J. was standing right now.

  That Sunday, Carbasi had taken a ride in the black-and-yellow hot air balloon. P.J. had longed to join him, but he’d been too afraid so he stayed on the ground.

  Carbasi had given P.J. ten brand-new francs to buy some ice cream, and it was Carbasi who’d helped him hand out the yellow-and-black flags on the day of the big promotion. To Carbasi, it was P.J.’s job. For P.J., it was a way to start getting involved in the dealership. No one could have stopped him from taking over the dealership and making it into what it is today. Or what it was, rather.

  P.J. gazed into the broken mirror featuring a Michelin-made map of France.

  Imbert and Mercurey circled the makeshift camp in the center of Sycamore Place. The glow of fires sharpened the shadows, flickering over disaster victims’ faces and the random assortment of blankets on which they lay. Suddenly, Imbert grabbed Mercurey by the arm and dragged him through the door into Building B.

  “Do you see that brown-haired guy in the suit and the little blonde?”

  “Muginello. But I don’t recognize the girl.”

  “Me, neither. She must be new. Watch for where he goes.”

  Ettore and Rita entered the building that Imbert and Mercurey had been in earlier, Building C.

  Cynically, Imbert added, “I’ve never seen such a well-visited cemetery. After he’s offered his flowers, he’ll leave. We’ll wait and then follow him. Let’s not lose him!”

  It was almost ten thirty.

  Lydie tried not to think too much. The darkness made her return difficult, and she had to be careful to avoid obstacles in the road. Trundling toward the city by bike, she let her old love for the pastoral envelop her, a light breeze brushing against her skin, the warm countryside wrapping her in its drooping leaves and woolly fields.

  As she approached Aix, she saw dark clouds hanging above bonfires. They looked like smoke signals. Suddenly, Lydie felt the back tire of her bike deflate. She had no choice but to ride on the metal rim of the bicycle wheel until she saw the vaulted silhouette of a building in the distance. Her only option was to continue to the garage despite the flat tire. P.J. was probably there by now.

  Once she was in Aix, the lights of the cleanup vehicles made it easier to see the road. Amid the debris, survivors huddled around fires.

  At a few minutes past eleven, she reached the top of the hill next to Paul Cézanne High School. The garage was just a few minutes downhill from there. The brakes on her bike were worn, and her descent was fast. As she flew down the hill, she caught sight of a bulldozer on her right—the one that had rammed into Simon—and the garage ramp on her left. Skirting past a car parked against the parapet, she darted into the black hole, lowering her head to avoid being decapitated by the iron gate. She tumbled over the handlebars and into P.J., who gently helped her to her feet.

  As P.J. pulled her off the ground, Lydie realized that people were pointing guns at them and that she’d scraped her hands and knees on broken glass.

  Fifteen minutes earlier, Max and Dédé had rejoined their friends. Exhausted, they were whining like cranky schoolboys. They hadn’t seen or found anything.

  Dédé’s mood wasn’t lifted when Pierrot told him that they hadn’t gone far and that they’d been waiting at the rendezvous point for hours. They’d heard gunfire and seen the iron gate get torn off its frame.

  Dédé’s buzz had worn off. Hungover, he felt fifteen years of resentment toward Simon boil up within him, and he seized Max’s gun. Serge tried to intervene, but Dédé had no trouble fending him off. Crossing the boulevard, Dédé ran toward the concrete slope of the garage entrance. Unaccustomed to firearms, he accidentally shot the gun, a bullet ripping into the windshield of a Renault 4L. Breathless, he raised his eyes to find himself facing P.J. From his office above, P.J. was pointing two revolvers at the kid and shaking his head. Dédé raised his arm, aiming at P.J., and received a bullet in his jugular vein; Dédé managed to pull the trigger with his right index finger, but the bullet hit him in his own buckling knee.

  Outside, the others, whose first reflex had been to follow Dédé, stopped in their tracks. Pierrot was the only one among them who still had a gun. They would have to reevaluate their situation once Ettore was there.

  He arrived with Rita exactly five minutes later. When Pierrot described what had happened, Ettore wasn’t surprised. Pierrot put his arms around Rita, who, smiling and passive, didn’t object. Ettore looked at his wrecked car, a slight tic fluttering at his right eyelid. Things weren’t going according to plan, and he didn’t like it.

  “Idiots!” he screamed. “You’re worthless!”

  Pale, he pressed his revolver into Max’s stomach.

  “You’re going to pay for Martine’s death. Now, tell me again what he looked like, the guy who went in after your idiot, murderous friend!”

  “Tall,” said Pierrot, who was also getting annoyed. After all, they’d gotten to the jewels first.

  “And?”

  “Strong, with brown hair. He had a mustache and he acted like he owned the place.”

  “He does own the place, you moron! His name is Paul-Jacques Sinibaldi. That’s his dealership and garage, and believe you me, if you want those stones, it’s not going to be easy. You’re going to have to get in and get out—fast. That guy does not joke around. And there’s no way I’m going to let you attack him. He and I are in business together, and now I’ve said too much. You’d better not touch a hair on his head. We’re going to talk to him, agree on a percentage, and then we’re getting out of there. That’s it. If any of you try anything, I’ll deal with you myself!”

  The boulevard was still a mess, but the cleanup crews had cleared a lane for cars. A little farther up the road, an official was on a pay phone discussing a plan to relocate disaster victims.


  Mercurey and Imbert were waiting beside the official.

  Imbert wanted to use the phone to verify an idea. Mercurey was keeping an eye on Ettore and his motley crew.

  CHAPTER XXI

  Aix-en-Provence

  Saturday, August 16, 11:00 p.m.

  P.J. held guns in both hands.

  “Monsieur Sinibaldi!” Ettore’s voice was distinctive, and P.J. was surprised to hear it. The former soccer player wasn’t dead, which meant the he was up to something. P.J. had to be careful.

  “Monsieur Sinibaldi! We have something we’d like to discuss with you. I have a proposition. Don’t do anything hasty.”

  Ettore was flanked by a cocky teen and a pimply faced kid, whom P.J. had seen earlier when he’d shot their friend, as well as a sleepy-eyed rocker type and a little blond girl. The cocky teen had his left arm around the girl’s shoulder. His right hand was holding a revolver. Bad news.

  The group had stopped in front of the iron gate, their backs to the light of the moon. P.J. was illuminated by the light coming through the windows above and in front of him. It wasn’t an ideal situation. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. While Ettore was talking, he saw the pimply faced kid’s head turn. The bastard was trying to get the lay of the land. God, so much had happened since the morning!

  “Monsieur Sinibaldi, you know me. I’m not going to make a speech. These are exceptional circumstances; everything is up for negotiation. We’re prepared to offer you thirty percent. That’s fair. Give me the merchandise; I’ll take care of the rest. You can be happy with your cut. What do you think?”

  P.J. didn’t think anything. He didn’t understand this trap. He noticed the rocker was eyeing the store. Serge and Max also noticed something.

  “The asshole killed Simon and Dédé!”

  Ettore was losing control of the situation.