Paris Noir - Aurelien Masson [32]
The Voice hangs up. Lover #2 rises, walks over to the bedroom window. Lover #2 looks down at Cavaillé-Coll park. Kids are playing before night comes, which won’t be long now. Lover #2 scratches his balls, Lover #2 looks toward the fa-çade of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul’s. Oh, not a great example of a faux Greek temple.
Lover #2 scratches his ass. Lover #2 has the feeling they’ve got him just where they want him. But come on, that’s paranoid, too much coke. Change dealers, must think about changing dealers.
Hey, Lover #2 says to himself, the place where my dealer wants me to meet him is not very far away, as a matter of fact. Near Saint-Louis Hospital. I’ll go as soon as everything is settled with this Berthet. I’ll have a blast with the Bastogne girl. I’ll order bo bun from the Asian restaurant on avenue Richerand. It’s the best bo bun in Paris. Coke, bo bum, and sex. If you’re going to spend an evening in this lousy area, you might as well make it a good one.
Behind him, the shower has stopped. The bitch has finally finished washing her ass.
Without turning around, Lover #2 senses the damp presence of Hélène Bastogne. Lover #2’s cock swells a little. This isn’t the right time, even if at a good fifty-plus years it’s always heartening to see that the machine can react in a split second.
“I got a tip over the phone while you were scrubbing yourself; I was told Berthet still has a bunch of stuff to spill. And fast. After that, he’s gone. He’s in the neighborhood, apparently. That’s lucky, don’t you think? We could ask him to meet us here. Do you have some way of reaching him?”
Hélène Bastogne looks at the soft buttocks of Lover #2. élène Bastogne wants to send this lousy fuck packing. But this lousy fuck is sometimes a good journalist. Not often, but sometimes. So Hélène Bastogne says: “I have his cell number, I’ll call him.”
7.
“Moreau?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re still at the Brady?”
“Where, sir?”
“At Mocky’s, moron.”
“At whose place?”
“Fuck, in your movie theater.”
“Yes, sir, and there are still black guys jerking off, sir.”
“You’re dismissed now, Moreau. You’re to go to an apartment on Place Franz Liszt, number seven. It’s near a bar called l’Amiral. The entry code is 1964CA12. Top floor. The apartment belongs to Hélène Bastogne.”
“And?”
“You clean up. If Berthet isn’t there, clean up anyway and wait. Until Berthet arrives.”
“Okay, sir.”
“Say, Moreau, what’s the film at Mocky’s?”
“What?”
“The film playing on the screen.”
“Something with the young Bourvil who filches from church collection boxes. I don’t understand anything. The actors are all terrible. Plus, with all these black guys jerking off—”
“Moreau, you don’t understand anything about film. And this nonsense about black guys jerking off—are you racist or what, Moreau? Or did you forget to take your Haldol? Forgetting to take Haldol makes you do stupid things, you know.”
“I took my Haldol, sir, and there really are black guys jerking off.”
“Okay, fine, though I don’t see why anyone would jerk off watching Un drôle de paroissien,unless they’re really serious film buffs. So, your mission?”
“Top floor, Place Franz Liszt, code 1964CA12. I clean up.”
“Good, Moreau. All right, get moving.”
8.
In his pay toilet at the Gare du Nord, Berthet puts his cell phone back into his pocket. Hélène Bastogne. Who wants to see him. Maybe it’s a trap, maybe not. Actually, Berthet doesn’t care. Berthet has a headache. Berthet looks at the bum’s dis-figured corpse. Maybe they’re right at The Unit, maybe he’s gone totally rotten. The fact that he lost it just by skipping one dose of Haldol proves it. Shit.
Might as well go see Hélène Bastogne. Berthet leaves the john. Two people are waiting. Berthet takes out a red, white, and blue official ID card.
“Health services, closed for the moment.”
And Berthet smiles. And Berthet signals with a broad, competent, and pleasant gesture that everybody must