Paris Noir

by Aurélien Masson

  “You told me the truth, Vania. Relax, fifty grams isn’t much. Do like this dirty cop says but watch your ass. I got a feeling it’s not doing too well.”

  He slipped out into the night and I stayed there like an idiot whining over my future as a cocksucker.

  Nico called me on my cell three days later.

  “How’d you get my number?”

  “I’m a cop, that’s my job. Meet me in twenty minutes at Ciné Cité. First row of The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada; move it.”

  He started to stroke my thighs when Tommy Lee Jones gets shot. Then he explained to me how I was to live from tomorrow on.

  “I’ve figured the whole thing out. I’m gonna post your contact info up on the Internet. Contacts by e-mail only. After that I’ll drop a card like, Vania, all positions. Leave a messageat… to all the rich ones. I’ll get you a second cell just for tricks; I have a pal at Orange. You give up the street, you buy yourself new clothes and wait for the john. You’re like a star, see. You’ll do home delivery but you’ll limit pussy delivery to Paris. Not bad, eh?”

  “Yeah. How much do you take?”

  “I take everything and I leave you enough to live nicely.”

  “What? You’re out of your fucking mind!”

  “I had the coke bags analyzed, your fingerprints are all over them. What’s that you were saying?”

  Shit, shit, shit.

  After that, I worked and shut up.

  I bought my panties at Chantal Thomas: fifteen grams of muslin and tons of fantasies.

  Sometimes I took the subway across Paris, other times when the dough came in big, I’d take a cab. Three weeks later, as I was leaving the duplex of a producer on rue de Ponthieu, I got beat up by two scumbags. The dough and my youth disappeared in five minutes.

  Nico didn’t like the fact that the bread had evaporated.

  He got me a chauffeur.

  Keller.

  The six-foot, two-hundred-pound type. He looks like the killer with the pipe in Charley Varrick.

  Keller picks me up at home, rue des Lombards, and drops me off at my client’s place. While I’m performing, he waits in the car, smoking stinky cigarillos and catching neo-bop jazz on the radio. One day, before I got out of the car, I leaned over him behind his wheel.

  “Hey, Keller, don’t you get ideas, sitting in your Italian coach while I get screwed front and back by all these guys?”

  “I try not to think about it.”

  I looked at his eyes. They were red and took great care to avoid turning toward me. I was such a jerk! The only guy ready to die for me. I put my hand on his forearm and pressed it for a while. Talking would have killed me.

  This is all coming back to me tonight. Keller just saved me from the clutches of two Brazilian crackheads behind Beau-bourg and we’re catching our breath in the car.

  “Don’t take me back right away, Keller. Drive along the Seine for a bit.”

  Two a.m. We’re gliding along near the Pont des Arts. The granola crowd: guitars and goat cheese. The Louvre, lopsided barges. I tap his shoulder when we hit rue du Bac.

  “Stop here, I’m gonna have a smoke.”

  I get rid of my high heels and proceed barefoot on the bridge, sucking on a Camel. Keller, who’s walking a little behind me, hasn’t pulled his Davidoff pack out. The last tourist boat lights up the embankments.

  Jolly Brits.

  Autofocus Japs.

  Nauseated broads.

  Without turning toward him, I ask: “How long we been working together, Keller?”

  “Six months.”

  “How does Nico control you?”

  “I could leave.”

  “Why don’t you then?”

  He looked down at the water wriggling under our feet, black as a bad dream.

  “I like the job.”

  We stare at each other for a whole century. I go on.

  “I ride in a car, I get laid on gorgeous rugs, but I don’t have much money at the end of the month. I can hardly support my family in Martinique with the money that bastard leaves me. I gotta get out of this mess, Keller.”

  “Turning tricks or Nico?”

  “Nico first.”

  Finally, he lights up a cigar. I wonder what kind of first name he has.

  “I know an honest cop. Well … I think he is.”

  “It’ll go too far. The word of a whore against the word of a police captain, there’s no way. I don’t want this to be official, I don’t feel up to it. I’m gonna think it over, I’ll find something.”

  “If you need me, just say so.”

  “I know, Keller.”

  May 30 in this crazy city. Nico, flanked by his slave (Lhostis, two hundred pounds of rotten meat), honks at me on rue du Louvre. The central post office is closing, the regular folks are heading home. A couple of steps toward the black Picasso.

  “Hi, Nico.”

  “Here’s your share. You didn’t work too hard this month.”

  “My period has been really bad.”

  “Right. I found you a mad scientist who wants to fuck while he watches Bambi on TV.”

  “Beats the Belgian guy and his snake.”

  “True. Hustle, Vania, I need money.” Upon which, he makes a U-turn on the asphalt and disappears toward rue Montmartre.

  I look inside the envelope and right there I feel like shooting that louse. Then I think of Noémie. His nice little wife.

  Two kids, their hair nicely parted to the right.

  Gerber baby jars.

  Outings to the zoo.

  The pleasant smell of cauliflower.

  Sundays at Grandma’s, after church.

  I’m going to splatter his white paradise.

  Next day. 10 a.m. Nico showed up at 2, blind drunk. He dragged me out of bed, put me naked on a chair, ass up. While he’s fucking me in the ass, he yells filthy words in my ear, lacerates my back, switch languages, jabbers in Greek, shoots his come all over the place, and asks for a beer.

  Okay. He just left. On duty at the precinct. So I run to the bathroom, take a shower. Black linen outfit, black shades, and a cab pronto to the Diamantis home in Neuilly, rue des Sablons.

  Noémie opens the door. Nico showed me pictures: She’s the freaking double of the ex-prez’s wife. Anémone Giscard d’Estaing. Yuck.

  “Noémie Diamantis?”

  “Yes. Nico’s not home.”

  “I know. I’m here for you.”

  “Can I ask who you are?’

  “I’m a ho.”

  And I shove her back into her hallway decorated with Delft plates to die for.

  “You have a really nice place, Noémie.”

  “But what—”

  “Go take a piss, you’re all red.”

  I sit down and take out a Camel. I love the smoke.

  “I’m gonna give you the short version. Nico, your honey, improves his monthly paychecks and supports his family in Neuilly thanks to me. I fuck and suck, he gets the dough. As a bonus, he screws me in the middle of the night because you can’t seem to get his Johnny up anymore, darling. I’m sick of the whole game, I need money, so tell your Nico that his wife is you, not me, and he should get off my ass. Am I making myself clear?”

  A mask on Noémie’s face. Chalk-white.

  “Leave immediately.”

  One of the twins appears unexpectedly, in his Mickey Mouse pajamas and holding a broken Fisher-Price toy.

  “Who is that, Mommy?”

  “Nobody.”

  “I’m your daddy’s breadwinner ho, sweetie. Okay, Noé-mie, I’m counting on you.”

  And I split, rather pleased.

  Haven’t heard from Nico for a whole week. Keller has a new car; we ride in a used Mercedes now. Cigar lighter and leather seats. I go visit lost souls on the Place des Victoires and rue Beaubourg. I have two clients working in advertising who survive in lofts near the Bastille. I drink Bordeaux, I eat Poilâne bread, and my butt is five pounds fatter.

  Right now, we’re on boulevar
d Sébastopol, driving toward Saint Georges. The john lives cheap in some building on rue Clauzel, fourth floor. Keller parks the car. 10 p.m.

  “See you later, Keller.”

  “You know this guy?”

  “No. Coleman, does that ring a bell?”

  “No. I’ll come and check.”

  No music in the elevator. Fourth floor. The guy who opens is standing in the dark.

  “Mister Coleman?”

  He pulls me inside, bangs the door shut, and I take a hit that shatters my nose. The carpet is thick. From the corner of my eye, I adjust my vision and make out the big cop, Nico Diamantis, dressed in gym sweats. He leans over me, totally enraged, and slaps me a dozen times. I’m going to pass out.

  “You showed up at MY HOUSE, you fucking whore! In my home, in front of my wife and kids, and you gave them orders! Who do you think you are, for chrissake, you’re just a piece of meat with two holes. So shut your fucking mouth and remember who you are, capish?”

  “You impotent fuck!” I stammer.

  He picks me up, grabs my head, and throws me against a framed print. I crash against the glass, my face is all bloody, I can’t see a thing; he catches me, rips my clothes off.

  The carpet.

  Blows.

  His smell.

  His fingers inside of me.

  And then this, coming from the end of the world: Keller. I grab an ashtray, throw it at the closest window. The man’s breathing like an ox, turns me over, and smashes my teeth with his brass knuckles. Something red bursts in my head.

  And

  I

  Fall

  Into

  The

  Black

  Room.

  The Others

  At the sudden noise, Keller quickly raises his head. Fourth floor. Vania. He grabs his Beretta from the glove compartment and, with his heart drumming, reaches the building in a few strides. He swallows up the steps, hammers on Coleman’s door. Noise of running feet inside. Keller steps back and with three kicks of his heel, knocks the latch free and rips open the right panel. Everything is dark, but in the main room he trips on a motionless pile of rags. He puts his gun away, leans above Vania, and turns her over. Her face is nothing but a puddle of blood. Keller, his heart violently pounding, leans lower. Listens to the young woman’s heart. Then he turns away, his fists clenched. A draft coming from the kitchen. The chauffeur rushes there in a state of fury. The backstairs door is open. He bends forward over the railing. Nobody. Now he goes back to the street side, turns off the light, looks down through the window, and sees Diamantis heading toward Saint Georges in his nouveau-riche car. Keller comes back to Vania. Pulls his cell out.

  “Diego, it’s me, Keller. You’re still working at that clinic in Poissy? … Okay, get a room ready and call the medics. I’m on my way.”

  Then the man leans over Vania again. His eyes red, his voice shaking. No one can hear him so he whispers against her hair: My angel, my love, my little girl. He kneels down on the acrylic carpeting, picks up the battered body, and after some hesitation, leaves through the backstairs.

  In a dingy room down in the basement of his precinct house, Nico Diamantis throws a last slap in the face of a local dealer.

  “Dealing drugs is bad, Rachid.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The Greek raises his eyes to the sky, sweeps the legs of the chair from under the teenager’s feet, and kicks him repeatedly. The kid folds himself into a fetal position. Nico gets tired of him, turns away, and leaves, locking the door behind him.

  Office. A thousand pounds of files. Lhostis, breathing heavily, walks toward him. Cholesterol and Marlboros. Tubular armchair.

  “I checked the three neighborhood police stations like you told me. Nobody.”

  “The apartment?’

  “I went in through the back door; she’s gone.”

  “The morgue?”

  “I called, they haven’t seen a black woman in five days. You sure she was dead?”

  “I’m not sure, no. I don’t know. She wasn’t moving and I left when I heard someone banging on the door.”

  “You’re in deep shit.”

  “Thanks. You’re a real help.”

  “What about the chauffeur, Keller?”

  Now Nico is thinking. It’s a painful task, he’s not used to it.

  “Yeah, I see. He’s waiting in the car, she’s not back, he knocks on the door, he knocks harder, and …”

  “And what?”

  “A hospital.”

  “No way. You think he’s an idiot?”

  “Sort of.”

  “A private clinic, Nico. We’re gonna have to go through the whole phone book to find that stupid bitch. All this crap so you can show off in front of Noémie. I can’t believe it.”

  “No one touches my family. Go on the Internet, it’ll be faster.”

  While Lhostis is settling down behind his computer, Nico looks distractedly at his files. Then thinks. Vania. The apartment. I’m so stupid.

  He takes his jacket, goes down to the garage where the Picasso is dozing off. Two lines of coke on the dashboard. Wow, what a boost.

  He rips the car out of the garage and steers for rue des Lombards. He doesn’t see the Mercedes pulling out behind him.

  Rue Saint Martin, Turbigo, then the underground parking garage of the Forum des Halles. He finally decided to rent a spot there year round to avoid getting depressed over the hunt for a space on the street. Third level, underground.

  He makes a face.

  Three

  Homeless guys

  Sharing

  One

  Muddy

  Big Mac.

  At the end of the second underground level, a hole between two Clios. He rushes in. Cell phone. A little kiss to Noémie then Nico thinks again: I’ve got to find me a whore. Okay. He gets out of the car, heads for the elevator. Keller, squatting behind the car to the left, dives into the cop and stabs him three times near his heart. For good measure he sticks the silencer of his Beretta into Nico’s mouth and pulls the trigger two times.

  Later, as he walks back to the entrance, he goes up to the guy who’s been watching the poorly parked Mercedes. An illegal alien. He hands him a twenty-euro bill.

  “See, it didn’t take long.”

  An officer in uniform informs Lhostis when he arrives at the Saint-Denis precinct the next day.

  “Lieutenant, Diamantis got whacked.”

  Lhostis freezes. So do the fatty acids.

  “Shit, how?”

  “Three stabs in the stomach and two bullets in the mouth. He’s getting butchered at the Institute right now.”

  “Who found him?”

  “A storekeeper from the Forum des Halles who was going to get his Clio. He was lying on the floor in the second underground level. The door of his car was still open.”

  “I smell a contract.”

  “Yeah, I agree. We’re all with you to find the son of a bitch who did it.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m going over to the Institute, fast.”

  Lhostis is playing back the bad movie as he drives. Vania. Noémie. The botched killings. And now this. He’s not too keen on playing the avenger. Nico, that stupid jerk. Well. Still.

  Fifteen minutes later, in front of the dead meat in the morgue, he finally makes up his mind, pulls his cell out, and types in Noémie Diamantis’s phone number.

  At the Poissy clinic, Keller watches over the young prostitute. The upper part of her body has disappeared under layers of gauze. Magic pipes link Vania to a complicated set of digital machinery. A doctor in a white smock reminiscent of George Clooney enters the room. Spots Keller.

  “Did you notify the police?”

  “No. She’s a prostitute.”

  “I know some honest cops.”

  “I don’t. Can I sleep in this room tonight?”

  “Ask the nurse. I don’t know if she told you but this young woman will have to have reconstructive surgery on her face. Nothing is certain as far a
s the results …”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “All right. I’ll be back in five hours.”

  When Lhostis walks into the Diamantis home in Neuilly, the family is in mourning. Noémie dressed in a black Chanel suit. The kids in gray with white low socks. Noémie, furious.

  “Spare me the condolences. He was cheating on me with a whore. In addition to whatever else he was hiding from me, stuff you know very well, it so happens.”

  “He was the father of your children.”

  “Thanks for the information. That’s why Nico has to be avenged.”

  “Cops can’t avenge anyone.”

  “Ten thousand euros might help you think about it.”

  Lhostis in the clouds. He’s been wanting to buy a motorboat to coast around off Marseilles for a long time now. At the moment, he’s picking the color.

  “Back to earth, Lhostis?”

  “Five thousand now, five thousand when I deliver the man who did it.”

  “The woman.”

  “She couldn’t possibly have killed him. She was very badly messed up. The chauffeur maybe.”

  “She’s pulling the strings. Just get your ass out there and find her.”

  “I’ve checked all the hospitals in Île de France. I’m left with the clinics. It won’t be long.”

  Noémie, bent over a small Regency desk, writes a check and holds it out to Lhostis. The man and the woman stare at each other.

  “How will you make it now with the kids and all?”

  “My parents have money. It’s not really a problem. Actually, yes, it is a problem since Nico always wanted to make money by himself. Which explains that prostitute. Destroy her.”

  Keller is in Vania’s room, kneeling at her bedside. He presses the young woman’s hand, and for the first time she’s responsive.

  She opens a swollen eye. Closes it again.

  Keller, lost in a pagan prayer.

  A storm is beating its knives against the windows.

  Lhostis’s computer has coughed up sixty-five private clinics.

  Three cops in uniform helped out. Then, at 8:30 p.m., the news comes in: There is an unidentified young black woman at the intensive care unit at the Myosotis clinic in Poissy. Lhostis sends the cops home so as not to miss the France-Georgia game in the early rounds of the World Cup.