“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 Beaubourg 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, Noémie, 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 boulevard 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.