Total Chaos Read Free

the time on his watch, he’d have had to move, and he didn’t want to move. He preferred to watch Lole coming and going through half-closed eyes.
    She’d come out of the bathroom wrapped in a terry towel. She wasn’t very big. But she had everything she needed, and in the right places too. And she had gorgeous legs. Then he’d fallen asleep again. His fears had vanished.
    It had gotten dark. Lole was wearing a sleeveless black dress. Simple, but it really suited her, hugged her body nicely. He looked at her legs again. This time she felt his eyes on her.
    â€œI’m leaving you the keys. There’s coffee heating. I made some more.”
    She was saying only the most obvious things, avoiding everything else. He sat up, and took out a cigarette, his eyes still on her.
    â€œI’ll be back late. Don’t wait up for me.”
    â€œAre you still a bar girl?”
    â€œHostess. At the Vamping. I don’t want to see you hanging around there.”
    He remembered the Vamping, overlooking the Catalan beach. Amazing decor, like something out of a Scorsese movie. The singer and the band behind stands full of spangles. Tangos, boleros, cha-chas, mambos, that kind of thing.
    â€œI wasn’t planning to.”
    She shrugged. “I’ve never been sure what you were planning.” Her smile made clear she wasn’t expecting a reply. “Are you going to see Fabio?”
    He’d thought she’d ask him that. He’d asked himself the same thing. But he’d dismissed the idea. Fabio was a cop. That had drawn a bit of a line under their youth, their friendship. He’d have liked to see Fabio again, though.
    â€œLater. Maybe. How is he?”
    â€œThe same. Like us. Like you, like Manu. Lost. None of us have known what to do with our lives. Cop or robber, it makes no difference...”
    â€œYou liked him a lot, didn’t you?”
    â€œYes, I liked him a lot.”
    He felt a pang in his heart. “Have you seen him again?”
    â€œNot in the last three months.” She picked up her bag and a white linen jacket. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off her.
    â€œUnder your pillow,” she said at last, and it was clear from her face that his surprise amused her. “The rest is in the sideboard drawer.”
    And with that, she left. He lifted the pillow. The 9mm was there. He’d sent it to Lole, in an express package, before he left Paris. The subways and railroad stations were swarming with cops. The French Republic had decided it wanted to be whiter than white. Zero immigration. The new French dream. There might be checks, and he didn’t want any hassle. Not that kind. Having false papers was bad enough.
    The gun. A present from Manu, for his twentieth birthday. Even then, Manu had been a bit crazy. He’d never parted with it, but he’d never used it either. You didn’t kill someone like that. Even when you were threatened. That had happened to him a few times, in different places. There was always another solution. That was what he thought. And he was still alive. But today, he needed it. To kill a man.
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    It was just after eight. The rain had stopped, and the warm air hit him in the face as he left the building. He’d taken a long shower and put on a pair of black cotton pants, a black polo shirt, and a denim jacket. He’d put his mocassins back on, without socks. He turned into Rue du Panier.
    This was his neighborhood. He was born here. Rue des Petits-Puits, two streets along from where Pierre Puget was born. His father had lived on Rue de la Charité when he first arrived in France, fleeing poverty and Mussolini. He was twenty, and had two of his brothers in tow.
Nabos
—Neapolitans. Three others had gone to Argentina. They did the jobs the French wouldn’t touch. His father was hired as a longshoreman, paid by the centime. “Harbor dogs,” they were called—it was meant as an insult. His