Paris Noir [Anthology] Read online

  Omar stood up and faced the man. The man looked around - Omar wondered if he was looking for a friend who might be in the bar to help - then said, ‘How about we settle this outside, you dirty Muslim bastard.’

  Omar wanted to punch him in the face right there, but before he could react Frederic, the bartender, said quickly, ‘Not in the bat.’

  The man held out his arm, as if to say ‘After you,’ but Omar wasn’t going to leave first. He knew that as soon as he turned his back the man would try to sucker punch him. When the man headed towards the door, Omar left thirty euros on the bar to cover his tab, and carrying his jacket over his shoulder, followed the man outside.

  Until he had stood up and started walking, Omar didn’t realise how drunk he was. He hadn’t had anything to eat since a ham sandwich for lunch, and he’d had only booze since.

  It had been raining all day and it was raining even harder now. The man was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the bar. Omar was about to put down his jacket and get ready to fight when the man said, ‘Not here - around the corner.’

  The man started to walk up the block and Omar followed, staying a few metres behind. The man was walking unsteadily and seemed drunker than Omar. It was raining even harder now, the big drops splattering against the pavement.

  They went around the corner, on to a darker, narrower street. After every couple of steps the guy kept looking back over his shoulder, like he thought Omar might try to jump him, but Omar was walking at the same pace, keeping the same distance between them. The street was dark and empty. About a third of the way down the block, the guy stopped and raised his fists like a boxer.

  ‘Where’s your head scarf, mujahadeen?’ he asked.

  Omar responded, ‘I don’t wear a head scarf.’

  ‘Yeah, sure you don’t. All you dirty bastards do, even in the summer. Come on, what’re you waiting for, let’s go. I’ll make you sorry you ever left Iraq.’

  Figuring it would be best to make the first move. Omar lunged forward, dropping low at the last second, tackling him by his legs. Then the guy surprised him, turning him around, so he had his back on the sidewalk and the guy was on top. This was exactly what Omar wanted - a wrestling match. He was taller and stronger than the man and he knew he would have an advantage. Using his legs, Omar flipped the guy over and he was back in control again. He pinned him down, then started to beat him in the face. Left-right, right-left, he kept it up as fast and as hard as he could. Blood was dripping out of the guy’s mouth and nose, but it was hard to tell how much he was bleeding because the rain was splashing against his face.

  ‘Fucking Muslim bastards,’ the guy managed to get out. ‘Screwing up our country, rioting, coming over from Clichy-sous-Bois, no respect for the law, stealing money from our children, screwing our women . . .’

  Omar kept beating the babbling racist in the face until his arms were exhausted. Then he stood up, pulling the guy up with him. He pushed him against a wall, gave him a few hard punches to the stomach, making the man gag, then he gave him the knockout punch, catching him right between the eyes. The guy’s head snapped back, banging against the brick. Omar held the guy up for a few more seconds, then let go, letting his limp body collapse onto the concrete.

  Omar felt like he’d just run a marathon. He was gasping so hard his lungs hurt. The rain was coming down in sheets. He looked around, but there was still no one in sight. He kneeled down over the body. The man was unconscious, but still breathing. Omar reached down and slid his hand into the man’s back pocket, removing his wallet. There was a bunch of credit cards and banking cards - the guy’s name was Michel Perreaux - and there were sixty-four euros. He pocketed the racist bastard’s cash, then slid the wallet back. He was about to get up when he noticed a smaller bulge in the man’s right front pocket. Hoping it was more money, Omar removed a thin leather case and opened it. Only after staring at the badge for several seconds did the words register: Préfecture de Police. He stuffed the badge and the wallet back into Michel’s pocket. Michel was starting to wake up, squirming, moaning something. Omar lifted Michel’s head and then banged it against the concrete, knocking him unconscious again. Then he stood up, put on his jacket, and started walking back towards Oberkampf.

  * * * *

  When Omar arrived at his small, two-room flat in Montparnasse, he gulped some Whisky de Bretagne straight from the bottle, then took a long shower. When he got out, he took another gulp of booze, then leaned close to the mirror on the medicine chest and examined his face. Although he had pains in his jaw and cheeks, he didn’t look like he’d been in a fight. He didn’t have any cuts or swelling or black-and-blue marks. His knuckles on both hands were a little sore, but that was about it.

  If Omar had known the guy was a police officer, there was no way he would’ve started anything, despite the slurs and everything else. He would’ve just finished his drink and gone home. But now he knew he was in big trouble. The police would probably come looking for him later tonight, if they weren’t looking already. Although Omar’s parents had been born in Paris and he wasn’t very religious, he knew the police would treat him like any other Muslim. He’d have to lie low for a few days, spend as little time as possible in the 11th Arrondissement, and the entire Right Bank.

  But Omar knew he’d have no chance if the cop was dead.

  The police would never give up trying to find a cop killer, especially a Muslim cop killer. Omar wasn’t sure how hard he’d banged the guy’s head against the concrete, but it could’ve been hard enough to kill him.

  Omar watched some TV, but he was just staring at the set. He wanted to call his ex-girlfriend, Rania, just to talk to her, or maybe even convince her to let him come over to her place and hide out for a few days. But it was too late and, besides, she didn’t want anything to do with him any more. She was looking for a rich, successful French guy - a white French guy - who didn’t drink and stayed out of trouble and who could take care of her and be a good father. That sure as hell wasn’t Omar.

  Omar brushed his teeth, swallowed a few painkillers, and went to bed.

  * * * *

  He barely slept. Drinking all of that whisky on a half-empty stomach had been a bad idea and it didn’t help, having to worry all night about getting arrested for murder. After he got ready for work, he looked online, but there was nothing about a cop getting beaten up or killed. Omar wondered if the cop could still be lying there. Bums often slept in the street in Paris and people always walked right by them.

  At about 8.15, Omar headed towards the Métro. He wondered if there was a description of him going around already. If there wasn’t there would be soon. Even if the cop was dead, Frederic the bartender, or someone else at the bar, would tell the cops all about the fight. Omar couldn’t believe he’d got himself into this situation. He always went about his own business, never looked for any trouble. But trouble always seemed to find him. It wasn’t the first time he’d got into a bar fight. Over the last year alone he’d been in several fights. He had to give up drinking, was what he had to do. Rania was right about that. If he wasn’t a drunk he certainly wouldn’t be in the situation he was in right now.

  Omar worked in customer services for an insurance company. During a break, he went into the hallway and called Rania on his mobile. He said he had to see her again, that she had to give him another chance. She told him to stop calling her and hung up on him. When he called back he kept getting her voice mail.

  For the rest of the day, Omar couldn’t stop thinking about Rania. He had to convince her to take him back somehow.

  At five o’clock, he left the office. As he headed towards the Métro, someone grabbed him from behind, forced him against the side of the building, and cuffed him.

  ‘Hey, what’s going—’

  ‘Shut up,’ a voice said.

  Officer Michel Perreaux turned Omar around to face him. Perreaux was wearing dark sunglasses, but Omar could see the cuts and purple bruises all over his face. Another cop was next to him
- probably his partner.

  Omar was thrilled that Perreaux was alive. At least it meant that he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life in jail.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry about last night,’ Omar said. ‘It was a very big misunderstanding. I was drinking too much, way too much and—’

  ’Get in the car.’

  Omar didn’t move so Perreaux pushed him ahead towards the squad car. The cops stuffed Omar into the back, then they got into the front.

  ’I didn’t do anything,’ Omar said. ‘This is bullshit. What did I do?’

  ’You assaulted a police officer,’ Perreaux said.

  ’You started it, not me. You spilled your drink on my head. It was your idea to go outside and fight, not mine.’

  ‘Was it my idea for you to steal my money?’

  ’I didn’t steal from you. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Then what happened to my money? Did it just d vanish?’

  ’Somebody else must’ve robbed you while you were passed out.’

  ‘And then he resisted arrest,’ Perreaux said to his partner. ‘Didn’t he, Georges?’

  ‘He shouldn’t’ve tried to take your gun away from you like that,’ Georges said. ‘He’s lucky he didn’t kill somebody.’

  As the car headed down Batiste, Omar realised that the cops must’ve found out where he worked from Frederic the bartender. Omar remembered having a conversation with Frederic about his job a few weeks ago.

  They drove somewhere to the outskirts of the city. It definitely didn’t seem like they were heading to a police station.

  Finally, in an industrial area that Omar didn’t recognise, the car pulled up by an abandoned building. For the first time in years, Omar prayed to Allah. If Allah got him out of this Omar would go to the local mosque every Friday, read the Koran regularly, and he’d stop drinking so much. He’d become the type of man Rania wanted him to be.

  Perreaux came around and opened the back door and said, ‘Get the hell out.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Omar asked, terrified.

  ‘I said get the hell out of the car or I’ll shoot you with the handcuffs on.’

  Omar got out of the car slowly and then the two cops pushed him along towards an alley.

  Perreaux said, ‘Come on, walk, you goddamn mujahadeen bastard - pick up those lazy feet and walk.’

  Omar tried to kick Perreaux, but he couldn’t get any strength into it. The other cop grabbed his arms and then Perreaux started punching him. It felt like he was using brass knuckles and the pain in his jaw was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Omar knew his nose was broken too, and probably a few other bones in his face. Everything was a daze and Omar hoped he’d just pass out and wake up in a hospital bed somewhere. Well, the first part of his wish came true, but when he opened his eyes both cops were still beating him mercilessly. He was propped against a wall and he felt sharp pains in his stomach and face. He tasted warm salty blood.

  ‘Muslim bastard. Maybe this’ll teach you not to steal. You’re supposed to be religious people, meanwhile you’re all fucking thieves.’

  ‘Hey, Michel, I think I broke one of his teeth.’

  ‘The dirty mujahadeen won’t be eating for a while, huh?’

  Omar heard more cursing and laughing, then he blacked out again. When he woke up, he was lying on the ground and every part of his body was in pain. It was quiet for a while, then he heard voices.

  ‘Michel, what’re you doing?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Come on, don’t do that. Let’s just get out of here.’

  ‘I said shut up.’

  ‘Come on, Michel. You got even, let’s just—’

  ‘I said shut up.’

  It was quiet again. Omar opened his eyes slightly, but he wished he’d kept them shut. Perreaux pulled his pants down and began peeing on Omar’s face.

  When it was over Georges said to Perreaux, ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  Laughing, Perreaux said, ‘It’s a good thing I had all that wine during lunch today, huh?’

  The cops left, laughing. Omar wiped at his face with his sleeve a couple of times, trying to get the blood and piss off his lips, but then he was too exhausted to move his hand any more and he just lay there.

  Then, as his eyes started to close again, he thought he was imagining it. But no, it was definitely there, attached to the side of the building, maybe twenty metres away, pointed in his direction. It was working too, because it was shifting slowly back and forth.

  Looking up at the surveillance camera, Omar managed a wide smile.

  <>

  * * * *

  THE LOOKOUT

  MARC VILLARD

  LYDIE

  I

  pull away from the pavement, dropping two Rastas in front of La Cigale. There’s a Gladiators comeback show on tonight. Then my taxi cruises into Square Anvers, picking up a scared blonde. She says she lives at La Madeleine.

  Midnight.

  In thirty minutes we’ll be alone among the taxis and motorbikes, speeding down the city’s streets. I take the wide boulevards, avoiding drunken louts staggering onto the tarmac, cans of beer in hand, and sleepy couples, cyclists without lights.

  I’ll never forget Paris, all the cities I’ve driven through. Stockholm’s powdery snow. The strangled guitars of Barcelona’s Rambla del Raval. The shouts of restless rockers in Camden. The youngsters streaming with sweat in the port of Naples, about to sail for Ischia. The drizzle darkening Amsterdam’s windows. And I was forgetting Berlin: Berlin, its smell of warm beer in the nightclubs, leather gear and Lobotomie playing punk rock. All slip by under the wheels of my Citröen, between my fingers fiddling with my twenty-third Camel. The girl behind me moans on, talking about health and the environment, but I don’t give a shit. My cab’s my kingdom. I slam the brakes.

  ‘Get out, bitch.’

  She gets out, shouting, while I tune in to Radio Nova: Solomon Burke pounds out ‘Don’t give up on me’. I can see him from here, Stetson glued to his head, in his regal attire, slumped on his king’s throne. I change into second, go back up to Barbes where the lights are smothered by kebab smells.

  Glance in the rear-view mirror: a forty-five-year-old woman’s there, bags under her eyes, hair tumbling over her black biker’s jacket. The night is vast, the wind picks up under the elevated section of the Métro. Neon explodes in the dark. I park the Citröen round the corner from Virgin and go into Mekloufi’s bar.

  * * * *

  SUGAR

  I’ve got Roger in front of me and I already know what he’s going to say. A tirade about how I’ve got him by the balls on my walkie-talkie. Lomshi, next to me, thinks the same thing.

  ‘Right guys, I’ll give it to you straight: my balls are attached to your walkie-talkies. The deal’s going down in Square Saint-Bernard. Sugar, you’re covering rue Myrha and you, Lomshi, rue Stephenson. Is that clear?’

  ‘Got you, Roger.’

  ‘The slightest thing, you call me, that’s it. You’re the only ones on that frequency.’

  ‘How much are you dropping?’

  ‘Five hundred grams of coke. OK, get to your positions.’

  I scarper to my bit of terrace on the fifth floor, just round the corner from the mosque on rue Myrha. Then my imperial eye sweeps the street. Nobody. So I take out my Colombian, my papers and my matches. And roll myself the spliff of the century. If Marley could see me with my Rasta hat, he’d be proud of me. I light it, inhaling the sweet smell. Vague glance down the street. I zone out, thinking about the cock fight the night before in the Sernam warehouses. I’d bet on a little runt with a gold comb the breeder called Chico. He was fighting a creature that was raised easy in the dust of the cock-fighting pit. After three minutes both of them were pissing blood and my breeder’d lost his beast who deserved a fortnight’s holiday in the country. But he was dead, doped with brandy, his neck broken by a country hick.

  I must have dropped off as I found
my joint singeing my jeans, which cost me a fortune at Diesel.

  Shit, it’s coming back to me, the deal. I risk a glance over the concrete parapet and see five cops, two in plain clothes, who are shoving Roger against a wall and laughing, swinging the coke at arm’s length.

  Fuck. The shame of it.

  I crawl across the terrace like a road, tumble down the staircase and hurtle down the five flights, sick to the stomach with fear. As I reach the lobby, I see Roger whispering something to Lomshi, who’s just arrived. Lomshi’s my age, fifteen, he’s the lookout for all the Barbès dealers. Then he runs off towards the corner of rue Myrha and rue des Poissonniers. Running to tell all the drug barons hiding out at the Les Bees Salès bar.