Dance of the Angels (4 page)

C
HAPTER
IV

Le Goënec’s Honda 1100cc roared up onto the sidewalk in front of his building. The supercop checked his letterbox on the way in. Depressing. There was nothing but a brochure touting the benefits of life insurance.

“Evening, sir,” said the blonde girl from the third floor as she extracted a thick stack of mail.

She’s hot. I should ask her out for a drink one of these days, just for the sake of maintaining neighborly relations,
Le Goënec thought to himself as he watched her disappear up the stairs. He pushed his motorbike toward the door on the right that led to a little corridor that served as a garage for his ride.

“Evening, Inspector, sir,” came a young boy’s voice.

“Frédéric! You’re not at school today?”

The twelve-year-old kid was hopping from foot to foot.

“It’s gym class this afternoon,” he said. “I’m exempt.”

“Exempt? A strapping boy like you?”

“I’ve got weak lungs. The doctor doesn’t want me doing sports right now. It’s too cold.”

“Aren’t you laying it on a bit thick?” Le Goënec said, and laughed.

“Say, Inspector, have you read the latest San-Antonio that’s just come out?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I’ve got a buddy who bought it, and he’s going to lend it to me. He says you really gotta read it, it’s awesome.”

Frédéric dashed away up the stairs, whistling the latest Michael Jackson hit.

Kids are funny. Sometimes, when his police life gave him the blues, Le Goënec thought he’d like to have some. Suddenly, a distressing image ripped through his head. As if in a nightmare, he saw Paul Hervet’s naked body bent over a terrorized little boy. To think that bastards like him still dared to swan about in official limos and play at being senior officials.

Le Goënec brusquely closed the lock on the Honda’s front wheel. Before going up to his apartment, he stopped by Madam Marthe’s. Talking to her was an excellent remedy for dark thoughts.

The concierge’s door was ajar. As he reached it, his nostrils detected the delicate scent of chocolate. Queenie had already recognized him and yapped joyfully in greeting. Madam Marthe joined the little dog in the corridor. She adjusted her thin, metal-frame spectacles on her nose with a little gesture that had become a mannerism. Le Goënec wagged an accusatory finger.

“Yes, I know,” she said almost guiltily, “I made a chocolate cake for this evening. But first, you must taste my
bœuf miroton
. You can tell me what you think.”

“Madam Marthe, you spoil me.”

“So I should. Left to your own devices you eat nothing but frozen junk food and crap out of cans.”

Le Goënec placed his foot on the first stair, which creaked. “Still not repaired,” he said, teasingly.

“I called the management company, but they’re not known for their speediness.”

“I’ll come back down for the cake.”

A delighted Madam Marthe went back into her apartment and plunked herself down in front of the television. Just like every evening on TF1, Schneider was delivering the news headlines, adhering to the usual policy of “if it bleeds, it leads.” The Moonlight Murderer had struck again. The excited concierge had an idea who the killer might be and couldn’t wait to talk to her favorite inspector about it.

Two p.m. Juan hadn’t shaved. She was wearing a thick turtleneck sweater underneath her jacket. Today was her weekly rendezvous with the old lawyer in the Sixteenth Arrondissement. Mr. Legrand liked to see Juan dressed as a man. He had refined tastes and didn’t appreciate Juan’s little studio apartment, even though it had been decorated with great care, complete with mirrors on the ceiling. But the attorney wouldn’t hear of it. Knowing that the sagging bed was where Juan received all the perverts picked up in the street turned him off completely. Psychological impotence.

Aristotle had given out instructions to his whole flock. The search was on for pedophiles of all kinds.

“The first one to bring me any information,” the pimp had said like a general trying to motivate his troops, “will get a bonus at the end of the month. You know how generous I can be sometimes.”

Juan was cooling her heels at the corner of Rue des Martyrs and Boulevard de Clichy, hands in the pockets of her Calvin Klein pants. Eventually, a splendid white Jag cruised down the street and braked hard right in front of the transvestite.

“Hi there, sweetie,” said Juan, settling comfortably into the plush leather seats. “You taking me to your love nest?”

Without wasting a second, Legrand pulled away from the curb, headed for southwest Paris. Juan could very well have taken the Métro to the client’s little nook. But the fogey took a while to get it up and loved foreplay en-route. Ever the professional, the prostitute laid her hand on the attorney’s bony knee as he drove, imperturbable. The overture of
Cosi Fan Tutte
played softly from the speakers.

Juan knew her regulars’ proclivities down to the smallest detail. Her hand glided slowly up Legrand’s leg, stopped just short of the groin, pressed a little, and then continued its course to nestle between his thighs. A series of slight jerks indicated that her client was reacting favorably to Juan’s ministrations. His eyes fixed straight ahead on the road, Mr. Legrand mused on how Mozart was the perfect accompaniment to Juan’s expert caresses.

The bijou apartment on Rue Scheffer in the Sixteenth Arrondissement was pure rococo in style, the bedroom decorated with countless erotic prints from the Belle Époque. Once they were inside, things heated up. Having gotten the geriatric piping hot, Juan only had another fifteen minutes’ work ahead of her. With simulated panting, she unbuckled the attorney’s crocodile-skin belt. Legrand, on the verge of coming, pulled out his weakly erect penis.

“It’s going to be good,” whispered the hooker softly. “You’re gonna give it all to me.”

She gently slipped the not-entirely-rigid member into her mouth and, with a technique all her own, began to suck him off. Succumbing to the back-and-forth rhythm, the attorney closed his eyes. Everything happened quickly, quicker than usual, to Juan’s great relief. A final spasm, like the soul leaving the body, and the old man shook and gave a muffled cry.

“You were in a rush today, pussycat. You really needed it,” said Juan, grabbing a tissue to carefully dab at the attorney’s manhood, which was visibly shrinking. “We must try something else next time. What would turn you on, you old pervert?”

Mr. Legrand didn’t reply. His eyes were closed, and his heart pounded heavily as Juan continued to play with the now-flaccid penis.

“I’m sure there’s still some fantasies you’d like to try,” said Juan. “You shouldn’t deny yourself anything, pussycat, particularly when it’s good. I can really imagine you doing some dirty stuff. I bet you’d like to try it with kids.”

“Don’t talk that kind of crap, Juan! I have grandchildren!” yelled the old man. “Here, take your thousand francs.”

“OK, we’ll say no more about it.”

The bride looked superb in her transparent voiles. The great couturier Armand, who designed clothes for the whole of the Paris smart set, always picked the wedding dress from his most recent collection for his secretive sex sessions.

The designer had always liked dirty brides, and he chuckled with pleasure as he watched Ginger Carla, his favorite tranny, prancing about. With all the ease of a top model, the beauty sashayed voluptuously across the room, knowing full well that the transparency of the lace permitted glimpses of her stiff member. With a sensual wave of her hand, the beautiful creature swept her cascading ginger locks across her shoulders and, tongue sliding across her lips, smiled at her client.

Carla visited the designer every two weeks to role-play this wedding masquerade in a fitting room. A very hard-core ceremony. It was so much more exciting to know that a sales assistant or some other unsuspecting soul might enter at any moment.

“We should modify our scenario a little,” Carla suggested to him. “What would you say to a third person? They would be our marriage witness.”

“Do you have someone in mind?” said the couturier, a glimmer of interest passing across his eyes.

“Something really dirty, to get you extra horny. Young, very young.”

“How young? Sixteen?”

“No, no, much younger than that.”

He brusquely ripped away Carla’s veil and threw it on the floor. A resounding slap reddened the transvestite’s cheek as Armand yelled, “You little shit! Who do you take me for? Go on, clear off. I never want to see you again. Go and get fucked elsewhere!”

Armand was so disgusted Carla barely had time to gather her clothes. Good-bye to those little haute-couture gifts he gave her from time to time. Pity. Off-the-rack dresses were not quite as chic for walking the streets.

“I’ll have the roast rack of lamb with thyme,” said Paul Hervet. “And you?”

The man sitting opposite him, over forty, slim face, considered the menu before saying, “Roast sea bass.”

“I’ll send over the sommelier,” said the headwaiter deferentially.

The terrace of Fouquet’s was filled with regulars at this hour of the day. Elegantly dressed businessmen and celebrities filled the large dining room. The VIPs were escorted to their tables by a succession of suited and booted minions.

Pierre Scheller swallowed a large piece of bread, deep in thought. With his Saint-Laurent suit, he could have passed for a clone of Hervet, but ill temper swirled in his eyes. The Swiss businessman seemed truly concerned.

“Well, Hervet, we’re already two weeks late. Can you guarantee me delivery of the cassettes for the eighth?”

“No problem at all. The duplication is done. You’ll receive the delivery as usual.”

“My dealers in Holland and Sweden are impatient. Remind me of the title of this movie.”

“
Little Perverts
,” answered Hervet and gulped back his whiskey. “I don’t think we’ve ever taken the punishments this far.”

“Pity those kids died after the shoot,” said Scheller, picking up an olive with a skeptical look in his eye. “If they’d been filmed at the right moment, we could have sold the tapes for ten to twenty times the price.”