Paris Noir - Aurelien Masson [5]
“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 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.