Eyes Full of Empty (3 page)

I switch off the computer and push the chair back under the desk.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Done already?”

“Yeah.”

He laughs and tilts his head. “I don't have a minute rate. Forget about it.”

“Thanks, my man. Have a good one.” I leave, touched by his gesture. I should stop chatting up his wife.

I decide to head up to Abbesses for my first coffee of the day, sort out my ideas. Seated on the café terrace, I pull out my cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Eve. It's Idir. The one looking into Thibaut's disappearance.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“How's it going?”

“Fine. Is there something you want? I already told you everything I know.” She doesn't sound delighted to be talking to me.

“You guys ever go to parties?”

“Uh…”

“What I mean is when's the next one you have lined up on your social calendar?”

“Saturday.”

“Think I could stop by, speak to some people, y'know—”

“You want to interrogate people?”

“No, no, just drop by, talk a little. We could go together if you want.”

She doesn't really seem into that. “I don't know if that's a good idea.”

“What if I brought a little something along?”

“What do you mean?”

She knows exactly what I mean. But maybe I'm wrong about her, and she doesn't partake? I add, “The party favors will be on me. Free. All you have to do is bring me to the party and say I'm a friend. That's all. I won't hassle you.”

“OK,” she says quietly. I wasn't wrong.

“What time should I swing by?”

“I don't know, ten? Eleven?”

“Where do you live?”

“In the Sixth. I'll text you my address.”

“Great. See you Saturday.” I hang up. Now I have a window of opportunity to find out a bit more about the kids at the party.
It's not much, but at this stage, things could be worse. At least I'm making progress, which can feel rare in my business when you're trying to pay the rent. All I have to do now is score some drugs.

I set course for Belleville. Why go all the way over there to score when I live so close to the Goutte d'Or? Well, I have my habits, and it gives me a chance to visit an old friend.

I step into the bar at the foot of the boulevard, walk past the counter, and spot Hakim at a table with two other guys. He gets up to greet me. I give him a kiss on either cheek, then extend a hand toward his two associates.

“You here to see Tarik?”

“Yeah.”

The only way to see Tarik is through the guys who work for him.

“Sit down, grab a coffee. I'll call him.”

With these words, he pulls his phone from his pocket. I head back to the bar and order a coffee. I'd had some nasty preconceptions about Tarik when they moved me to the cell he'd had all to himself till then. I felt like a poacher on someone else's property. I was scared stiff and he could tell. I made a total mess of everything. He turned out to be a good shoulder to lean on. It was a relief, spending six months with a guy like him, on the quiet side, only spoke when he felt like I needed to hear someone's voice. He was used to prison; it was an integral part of his line of work. He was just past forty and he'd already spent a dozen years behind bars. A telephone allowed him to stay in touch with his men and watch over his territory, which small-timers were always trying to cut in on. So he spent most of the day “at work” and left me the fuck alone.

Hakim comes back and says, “He'll be here in a few.”

“OK, great. Thanks.”

I sit down at a table off to the side, pick up the sports pages, and flip through, sipping my gross coffee. Paris St.-Germain F.C. on the front page. A couple dozen million for a young Brazilian player. I like my team as much as ever, but I can't stand how hip it's gotten. I bet in a few years there won't be any more genuine PSG fans, with seat prices going through the roof. I bet they'll make us play at the national stadium, that piece of shit. Fuck, we came to see some soccer, not the four-hundred-meter hurdle.

“No way! It's the little Kabyle, back in his hood!”

I look up, and Tarik's standing in front of me all smiles, hair slicked back, face closely shaven. Seeing him always puts me right back inside, where I was constantly in fear of a crying fit coming on. The fact that it never came I secretly attribute to Tarik's friendship.

I get up, and he clasps me to his muscled torso for a long hug and asks, “Another cuppa joe?”

“No thanks.”

“You know Ramadan's over, right?”

“I just had one. It'll do me. Got a delicate heart.” I smile back at him.

He sits down next to me and shouts at the owner, “Admer, coffee, please.”

“Looking good.”

“You too, buddy. So what brings you over?”

“I need to buy a little something.”

He looks at me, astonished.

“Not for me, asshole.”

The waiter brings his coffee over. Tarik knocks it back in one gulp. “I don't get it.”

I lean over closer and whisper, “I have to find this kid. His
folks are loaded, you know how it is. His friends are throwing a party Saturday and I want to bring a present.”

Tarik stifles a laugh.

“Come on man, this is
work
.”

“Sorry, I just can't get over it. Damn, so even bougie kids go missing. But I don't see how I can help you.”

“I want to get them talking, and I can't think of a better way.”

“You want to be the man with the candy?” He busts out laughing again. I shut up and wait for it to blow over. He must be able to tell from my face I'm getting impatient.

“Sorry. It's just I haven't seen you for a month, and now you show up with this story.”

“Can you help me or not?”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“Well, uh, I don't know. What do you think this crowd is going to want?”

“Wait a sec, Idir—where's the camera? You come see me and you don't know what you wa—”

Exasperated, I crank the volume up a notch. “It's not like I'm the dealer here!”

He shakes his head sadly. “Yell a little louder, why don't you? I don't think they heard you at the other end of the bar.”

I start in again, more calmly. “How about some blow?”

“Are they bougie?”

I nod.

“So bring some X and a few pills. On top of the coke, I mean.”

“That's fine. I trust you.” I get up and put my jacket back on. I leave a two-euro coin on the table for the coffee. “Put something together for me?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“When should I come round?”

“Don't worry, I'll have it dropped off.”

“Thanks. I'll be by to pay you in two days.” We trade cheek kisses.

“Don't worry. You can get me back sometime. I never forget, you know.”

“Cut it out with that shit. You're the one who helped me out back in there. I never did a thing for you.”

“You always came by for visiting hours after you got out, even when my own friends stopped showing up. I don't need any more than that.”

Once I'm outside the café, I head back to the Tenth to drop in on my grandmother instead of going home. On the way, my phone rings. I check the screen, pick up.

“Thomas!” I say. “Just the man I was thinking of. I was about to call.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You'll never guess who offered me a gig.”

“Spill.”

“Oscar.”

“No?” A beat. “Oscar Crumley?”

“Yep.”

I know just the mention of the name makes him sweat. Even years later, he hasn't gotten over it.

“Why'd he come see you?”

I give a half-grin he can't see. “That's between him and me.”

“Fine, whatever, Mr. Private Eye. Just picturing that asshole ruins my afternoon. And you said yes even though he sent you to prison?”

“You know, guys like me got rent to pay. Our daddies don't foot the bill.”

“Quit it.”

Thomas is the son of one of the richest men in France—an entrepreneur who in just under thirty years has carved out an empire in construction. He's also my closest friend from college. I can't remember how we became buddies anymore. I think he more or less matched up with the image of the kind of guy I wanted to be back then, when I'd finally leave Belleville far behind and spend my days luxuriating in Passy—like there'd ever be anything for me to do there besides beg for scraps. I vividly remember the first time we ran into Nathalie, without a doubt the hottest girl in the whole school. Also vivid is the memory of seeing Thomas kiss Nathalie right in front of me during a party at someone's town house in the Seventh. Wild with rage, I'd left the festivities, smashing a mirror on my way out. I still have a tiny scar on my left hand from that rush of bogus violence, fitting for a teen with masculinity issues. Thomas and Nathalie started going out. He didn't know she was also sleeping with Oscar Crumley, and two or three other guys, more or less regularly. Since Thomas had no balls, he'd paid me to do his dirty work for him. No balls, but he had brains—probably more useful. I got into trouble, and he married the girl. End of story. Maybe because of this, he has never given up on our friendship, though I suspect he wants to sometimes. For me, just seeing Nat softens any lingering misgivings I have with Thomas.

“Wanted to invite you over for dinner.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Kind of short notice, isn't it?”

“What, I need to book you two weeks in advance now? If you're busy, say so.” He knows better than I do just how shitty my life is.

“I'll be over at nine, cool?”

“Perfect. See you then—and don't bring anything.”

No worries there
, I think, and hang up.

“Oh, it's you,” my grandmother says, opening the door.

“Well, yeah. I said I'd stop by.”

“I thought you wouldn't come.” Annoyance fills her eyes, set deep into that wrinkled old face. She is the only one who gets to me. We sit down in the living room where an old tape of Arab prayers is playing, surely purchased at a market in the village back home, volume turned up all the way on a radio that saw me born and will probably see me die.

“Think we could maybe pause it for a minute? I can't hear a word you're saying.”

She hits stop on the tape deck.

“Thanks.”

She points at a chair by the window. I sit down across from her.

“You giving me the silent treatment?” I ask.

“Why'd you do that last night? At your age! You should be ashamed.”

I try to play it fair with her. “I'm sorry. I know I fucked up. I don't know what got into me.”

“Well, I do. Prison changed things for you. Made the condition worse.”

“Fuck, I haven't had a fit in eight months. It's gone for good. No more condition, I promise!” I sigh and stand up. I should've gone home.
Forget it
, I think.
She's an old woman. Just stay. Say
your sorry, ask her to translate some songs
. And then I notice the cassette player and remember the tapes again.

“I have work, gotta run. Great seeing you.”

Outside, I've made it all of thirty feet when it starts to rain. I run all the way to Gare de l'Est for some shelter, soaked. I should've apologized, should've just shut up for once and stayed a bit longer at my grandmother's. But she's right. After prison, things changed. I can't stay. An empty taxi goes by. I lift my hand, and it pulls over, tossing up a spray of water that stops just short of my shoes. I get inside.

“Rue de Bretagne. I'll give you directions from there.”

He drops me at Thibaut's.

I open the door and call into the apartment: “Anyone home?”

No answer. The place is empty. So much the better.

I scan Thibaut's room to see if anything's changed, if there's any trace that he's been by or somebody's been messing around. But the room's in the exact same shape as last time. I pull the file with the cassettes from under the bed. In the closet, I find a gym bag and dump them in. The clacking sound they make inside the bag is kind of ridiculous. For good measure, I pull open the desk drawers and dump their contents in too. I'll sort through it all at home. I rifle through the wardrobe, jeans and jacket pockets. Nothing but used metro tickets. The zipper gets stuck; I force it and catch the skin on my thumb. I swear through my teeth and punch the bag in rage. The cassette cases squeak and clatter, like they're telling me to go fuck myself.