Eyes Full of Empty (18 page)

It's four o'clock when I throw up for the first time, on a bench in square Léon. Vomit falls on my shoes. I don't know how many bottles of beer I've tossed back on that bench. Cherif is having a grand old time. Until I keel over. I feel hands on me. Hands of the homeless people from square Léon—with purplish joints and skin eaten away by injections that have tripled the size of their fingers—grabbing me and setting me back on my feet.

“Can you walk?”

Cherif's voice seems to come from very far away. I say yes. He lets me go. I fall again.

“Right, I see.”

They all pick me up again.

“I'll go get the car. All I ask is don't puke inside.”

I have the decency to open the door at a red light and puke on the pavement. “Goddamn, Idir—!”

He goes back and forth between reprimands and bursts of laughter. “Man, you hung one the fuck on!”

“Shut your face,” I say. “I feel like shit.”

“I've never seen you looking this lily-white before. A perfect little Frenchman.”

Sometime later, I'm looking up into his face.

“You should go see your banker. This is probably the only day of your life he'll ever approve a loan.”

He laughs at his shitty joke. I close my eyes, trying to keep the nausea at bay.

In the stairwell. My arm slung around Cherif's shoulders.

“Hang on, we're almost there…Keys? Where are they?”

“Pocket.”

The old neighbor lady looks away when she passes.

“We're fine, madame—he's just a little under the weather.”

In the time it takes him to fumble around in my pocket, I fall to the floor. He leaves me there and opens the door.

He sticks a hand out. “C'mon, just a little further.”

“Leave me here. I'll go inside when I feel better.”

“Idir, you can't just lie here on your doormat.”

“No, I…I have to think.”

“You're wasted.”

“Just leave me alone!”

“Fine. Call me when you're better.” He doesn't insist, just hands me my keys and leaves me lying there in front of the wide-open door to my apartment.

I let my numb finger rest on the doorbell. I've managed to drag myself here after sleeping for an hour on my doormat. If she's inside, she'll either open up or call the cops. I hear footsteps. Then silence. A brief pause to peer out through the peephole.

“It's me. Open up, goddammit.”

Not a sound. I know she's behind that goddamned door, wondering what to do.

“You might not feel better once we've talked, but I will. I think you owe me at least that much.” I hear the dead bolt slide in the lock. Then there she is, impeccably made up, bright red lips, in a big sweater that hangs halfway down her thighs, sheathed in black stockings.

“What are you doing here? If Thomas knew—”

I wedge my foot in the doorway. “Stop treating me like a moron. I know full well he's not here. He's in New York.”

She tries to close the door, but too late, I'm already inside.

“You're crazy.”

I look at her.

“You've been drinking,” she adds, scowling with disgust.

I give her my wickedest smile on top of my acid breath.

“What do you want?”

“To know.”

“You know everything.”

“No, I don't think so. I want to know what you got out of it. If you were in on it right from the start, or if he manipulated you somehow.”

“He found out about us. He had photos. He threatened to show them to Thomas.”

“So what?”

“I'm over thirty, Idir. I'm not a girl anymore. I have to think about—”

“Your life in the high tower, huh? Is that it?”

“No, it's not. It's just I recently found out—”

“Found out you liked money. That this piece-of-shit life was right up your alley. That you were ready to throw me over for this apartment, these paintings on the wall, and the rest of that bullshit. You don't even realize. I was afraid Eric would hurt you. And here you come, with tears in your eyes—”

“You have no idea what this cost—”

I grab her bandaged hand and squeeze. “Here's what it cost.”

“Stop it! You're hurting me.”

“Here's what it cost. Two broken fingers to make me think you'd been assaulted. You're no better than they are, no better than father or son.”

She's weeping now. In a soft voice, she says, “You're right, Idir. You're always right.”

She turns on her heel and escapes down the hallway, leaving me standing there in the foyer of her vast apartment.

CHAPTER 7

A
WEEK GOES BY
. A
LONE AT HOME
. B
LINDS DRAWN FROM
noon on. A quick walk around the neighborhood because I can't sleep past five, but then I go back to sleep. I'm out cold three-quarters of the time to keep from thinking. I'm constantly tired, like I'm eating
majoun
for breakfast every day. I come out when night falls. Make myself TV dinners of fries and malt liquor. I'm living the dream. I can't stop thinking about Eric's question, his last words to me:
Why did the two brothers keep him and kill him?

The Louasse brothers, who decided to double cross Eric in the end, to take the money for the kidnapping job without handing over the kid—the R8 was a bonus. Maybe they finally decided to get rid of the kid when he became too much trouble. Given the personalities of those two psychopaths, it wasn't out of the question. But what if they'd decided to play both sides? If they'd reached out to Oscar and demanded a ransom? No more reason to get rid of Thibaut—unless Oscar had paid the kidnappers not to give his brother back, but to kill him. I can't get it out of my head. I keep mulling it over nonstop, about the fact that I'll never know what really happened, and I can't quite gauge the part I played in all this, how responsible I am for everything that went down. After all, dead people could give a fuck about being avenged.

The eighth day, at nightfall, I go over to my grandmother's. I
know wiser people, but they haven't been through as much, at least not in the same way. She still might wind up burying me someday, scrape by and survive the extinction of the human race itself, even the destruction of the entire world. So I decided a few years ago to always listen to what she had to say.

“I was out for a stroll nearby, so I thought I'd stop and say hi.”

From the mischievous glint in her eyes, I know she knows I'm lying. As if she knows nothing coming from me is ever sincere.

“Come in, come in. I was making a meal for Aziz.”

“Oh—”

“Don't worry, he won't be over right away.”

I follow her to the kitchen, sit down, and watch her cutting vegetables.

“You don't look so great.”

“I've been asking myself some questions. Doing a little soul-searching.”

“Really? You, the know-it-all, asking yourself questions! Now I've seen it all!”

“What about grandfather?”

She gives me a weird look, like bringing up her late husband makes her jumpy right away.

“What about him?”

“You think he was a good man?”

“I don't judge. I'm not God.”

“And Dad?”

“I can't judge him either; he's my son.”

I smile.

“Would you hate me if I went back to prison?”

She stops a moment, gives me the stink eye of a village witch. “Yes. Why are you asking these questions? Did you do something stupid?”

I refuse to answer and smile instead.

“Are you about to?”

She gives me another hard stare, making it clear that she won't ask a third time, that I have to tell her the truth now.

“No, no, don't worry. It was a dumb question. Forget it.”

“You know, Idir, you think the whole world's against you, that you can't lead a normal life, but I don't know what you're waiting for. You young people look down on us, like you're worth more. Like you invented the world. There's more than one way of living a life, of having a good time. But there's only one way to be happy. And if you refuse it, don't take it out on other people, or on God.”

I give her a hug. “You're the only woman who puts up with me. I don't know how you do it.”

She gives me a good long hug in return. “Oh, it's not as hard as all that.”

Eric's name is all over the papers. All they're talking about is beryllium oxide, public housing, a political-financial health scandal. I keep mulling over our conversation. I rewind the tape in my head and think he's right at least about one thing. I
am
the biggest dumb fuck on the planet.

It smells like last things. Cheap Médoc and disgusting food. The wheelchair I'm pushing slides smoothly over the linoleum. I knock before entering. He's reading the paper, glasses perched at the end of his nose.

“Mr. Crumley?”

“Where's Martin?” His voice is still full of vigor.

“He's sick. I'm filling in for him today.”

I've prepped my speech. I plan to tell him I'm new, that it's my first week on the job. But he doesn't ask any more questions. So I go over and pick him up. He lets me. It takes me two tries to get him settled in the wheelchair—the man's still heavy.

He remains silent until we reach the garden. I look around for a quiet corner, off to the side, where I can ask my questions undisturbed.

“What do you want?”

The question surprises me.

“I'm perfectly aware you don't work here,” he adds, to dissuade me from lying again.

I stop the wheelchair by a bench and sit down. “Your son Oscar hired me to find Thibaut.”

He blinks instinctively, though his eyes stay dry.

“So you're the one who found him.” His gaze, full of contempt, settles on me. As if I were to blame for what happened to his son. “You should leave now. You have no business here.”

He pivots his wheelchair. I grab the wheel with my hand, gripping it as tightly as I can, giving him no choice.

“I don't want to believe there was a link between my brother's death and the revelations.” Oscar's playing the dignified victim on every channel. He has refused any police escort. He knows he has nothing to fear now. He passes for a hero; his success is complete. I've been tracking his movements for several weeks now. I know that Thursday night he leaves work early, around
late afternoon, to meet up with a young poli-sci student with big tits that look natural, as far as I can tell through my binoculars. I've been watching husbands cheat on their wives and vice versa for a while now, and unlike most, he doesn't fuck her at a hotel. He fucks her on the top floor of an apartment building on rue des Saints-Pères, as if he can feel himself becoming a student again when he jumps her bones on the little sofa bed in that garret.

There's an apartment for sale on the third floor. It's empty. I had time to get a double of the keys made thanks to a slim metal shank sheathed in modeling clay. I've also brought a gun, the one Claude Louasse pointed at my face, the .45 with flaking paint.

I hurry into the building behind him; he glances briefly at me while holding the door. I thank him. The visor of the baseball cap pulled low over my eyes keeps him from recognizing me, unless it's that his imagination's already preoccupied by his girlfriend's breasts.

There's no elevator, which makes things easier. I let him start up the stairs. He goes up, whistling. One flight.
The best part of love is when you're going up the stairs
. Who said that? Can't remember anymore. Two flights. He's about to start up the next flight when I charge across the landing, take aim, and smack him right between the shoulder blades. His head smashes into the wall. He hits the ground, totally dazed. I use these precious seconds to open the door to the empty apartment. I drag him in by the sleeve while he's groaning. I shut the door. Alone at last. The apartment is spacious and bathed in bright white light. I take off the baseball cap and toss it at him. He starts blinking.

“Idir? Goddamn, Idir, it is you. What the hell are you doing?”

“You fucked me over.”

“What are you talking about? Have you lost it?” He brings a hand to his forehead. “Fuck, I'm bleeding!”

I draw my gun.

“Cut it out, don't do something stupid—”

“Shut your face!”

I bury the tip of my shoe in his liver. He lets out a hiss, like he's spitting something out.

“The only one who had anything to gain from things getting worse was you. Eric's a piece of shit, but Thibaut was only valuable to him alive. I paid a visit to your dad at the hospital. He was leaving half his shares to your brother.” I wipe the sweat from my brow, realize he's not looking at me anymore, just the gun. “Thibaut told his kidnappers he came from a rich family who'd pay for his freedom. So the Louasse brothers wanted to play both sides. They called you and demanded ransom for your brother. So you paid up—but to have him killed. That way, Daddy's money would be all yours. Eric's biggest mistake in this whole mess? Not knowing who your brother's worst enemy was.”

He doesn't answer. I rack the slide. He hears the noise and must be picturing the round entering the chamber.

“Stop it! Put that fucking thing away! Please!”

I lower the weapon.

“I didn't do anything. All I did was tell them that I wouldn't pay. That they'd go to jail.”

I forgot for a moment he was a coward, that he'd never be able to make a call like that, that he wouldn't want to get his hands dirty.

“You knew they'd kill him! You wanted to push them to it and cover your tracks.”

“I was just testing it out, to see. It could've worked; I wasn't sure. I didn't do anything wrong. It was just bad luck.”

“You fucked me over—”

“No. I paid you for your time. You did all the rest. You're the one who wanted to play the white knight. I had nothing to do with it. Nothing.”

I bring the gun to his forehead. He keeps his eyes down and lets out a little “no,” almost like a nervous breath. A few seconds of dead time before I stick the gun back in my belt and pick up my baseball cap.

“Pleasure working with you,” he mutters after me as I go through the door.

I don't look back.

In the metro, my phone rings. It's Thomas. I hesitate to pick up—then figure I'm not afraid. He has a right to know. If he asks, I'll give him a straight answer: his father's a murderer and I fucked his wife.

“Hello?”

“Idir, how's it going?” He sounds happy.

“Never better. You?”

“Great! I have some big news.”

“What's that?”

“I'm going to be a dad!”