Total Chaos Read Free Page B

said.
    He stared at the two of you as if you were strange animals, then turned his back on you and concentrated on the music. Lole was looking at you. You’d emptied your glass. Slowly. Deliberately. Your mind was made up. You were leaving. You stood up and went out, unsteady on your feet. You were leaving. You left. Without saying a word to Manu, the only friend you still had. Without saying a word to Lole, who’d just turned twenty. Who you loved. Who you both loved. Cairo, Djibouti, Aden, Harar. The itinerary of an eternal adolescent. That was before you lost your innocence. From Argentina to Mexico. Ending up in Asia, to get rid of your remaining illusions. And an international arrest warrant on your ass, for trafficking in works of art.
    You were back in Marseilles because of Manu. To take out the son of a bitch who’d killed him. He’d been coming out of Chez Félix, a bistrot on Rue Caisserie where he liked to have lunch. Lole was waiting for him in Madrid, at her mother’s place. He was about to come into a tidy bit of cash. For a break-in that had gone without a hitch, at a big Marseilles lawyer’s, Eric Brunel, on Boulevard Longchamp. They’d decided to go to Seville. To forget Marseilles and the hard times.
    You weren’t after the guy who’d whacked Manu. A hitman, for sure. Cold and anonymous. Someone from Lyons, or Milan. Someone you wouldn’t find. The guy you were after was the scumbag who’d ordered the hit. Who’d wanted Manu killed. You didn’t want to know why. You didn’t need any reasons. Not a single one. Anyone attacked Manu, it was like they’d attacked you.
    Â 
    The sun woke him. Nine o’clock. He lay there on his back, and smoked his first cigarette. He hadn’t slept so deeply in months. He always dreamed that he was sleeping somewhere other than where he was. A brothel in Harar. A Tijuana jail. On the Rome-Paris express. Anywhere. But always somewhere else. During the night, he’d dreamed he was sleeping at Lole’s place. And that’s where he really was. It was as if he’d come home. He smiled. He’d barely heard her come back and close the door of her bedroom. She was sleeping in her blue sheets, rebuilding her broken dream. There was still a piece missing. Manu. Unless it was him. But he’d long ago rejected that idea. That would have been to put himself in too good a light. Twenty years was a hell of a long time to mourn.
    He stood up, made coffee, and took a shower. The water was hot. He felt much better. He closed his eyes, and imagined Lole coming to join him. Just like before. Clinging to his body. Her pussy against his dick. Her hands gliding over his back, his buttocks. He started to get a hard-on. He turned on the cold water, and screamed.
    Lole put on a record.
Pura salsa.
One of Azuquita’s first recordings. Her tastes hadn’t changed. He attempted a few dance steps, which made her smile. She moved forward to kiss him. As she did so, he caught a glimpse of her breasts. Like pears waiting to be picked. He didn’t look away quickly enough. Their eyes met. She froze, pulled the belt of her bathrobe tighter, and went into the kitchen. He felt wretched. An eternity passed. She came back with two cups of coffee.
    â€œA guy asked after you last night. Wanted to know if you were around. A friend of yours. Malabe. Frankie Malabe.”
    He didn’t know any Malabe. A cop? More likely an informer. He didn’t like them approaching Lole. But at the same time it reassured him. The Customs cops knew he was back in France, but not where. Not yet. They were angling for leads. He still needed a bit of time. Two days maybe. Everything depended on what Batisti had to sell.
    â€œWhy are you here?”
    He picked up his jacket. Don’t answer, he told himself. Don’t get involved in a question and answer session. He wouldn’t be able to lie to her, and he wouldn’t be able to