Eyes Full of Empty (9 page)

The kid hesitates before giving in. “This guy around here has the car. His name's Stephan.”

“Is that all? Are you fucking kidding?”

“He's got an older brother named Claude. Claude Louasse. There was a shoot-out at a parking lot in Tremblay last week. Made the news. Seems Claude was involved. They said it was narcs, but that's bullshit. He's lying low; no one's seen him since.”

“Why is it bullshit?”

“Those guys aren't drug runners. They're into more full-contact stuff—armed robbery.”

“Go on.”

“The day after the shoot-out, Stephan went around everywhere trying to unload the car. He was freaking out. He told everyone about it. He was ready to slash the price, he needed to sell; that much was obvious. Everyone could tell he was afraid too. And that was just weird. Nobody's ever seen him like that.”

“You think he needed the money to stash his brother?”

The kid shrugged. “Not my call.”

“Know where he lives?”

The kid nodded.

“Take us over?”

“That'll cost you.”

Calmly, Cherif opens the glove compartment and takes out a snub-nosed pistol. He turns back to the kid and says, “This what you need? Is this what it's gonna take for you to stop thinking I'm your bitch?”

The kid starts to panic. “It's cool, man, we're all cool here. I'll take you.”

“Well, there you go.” Cherif puts the gun away and starts the car.

“Why are you giving up a guy from your own hood?” I ask.

“That son of a bitch would kidnap his own mother to get money from his dad. I got nothing to do with him.”

“How old is this guy? What's he look like?”

“Twenty, twenty-five? I don't know. White brother from the projects.”

That fits with the description Eric's driver gave.

He directs us to a street in a suburban residential area. “That's it—third one down.”

Cherif keeps driving and pulls over into an intersecting street fifty yards down.

“Everyone out,” announces Cherif.

“I'm staying right here. I don't want nothing to do with this,” the kid says.

Cherif gives him a look; I signal him to drop it. He grabs the gun from the glove box and sticks it in his belt. The house has a small front yard of yellowing grass, its only residents a grill and an old plastic table, hemmed in by a rusty metal fence. Not exactly your upstanding Parisian's dream of a place in the country. Something tells me the owner isn't the type to do his own gardening, but really the whole thing just looks deserted.

“You sure you want to bring that?” I point at the hidden gun.

“Why, you think I'm going to show up at some psycho's house not packing?”

“You know, I'm a firm believer in the theory of conflict escalation.”

He doesn't seem to be paying much attention to me. “What's your read on this guy?”

“No idea.”

“You think he'll be nice and open the door?”

“Why not? After all, you have a gun.”

“Idir, has it not occurred to you that he might have one too?”

As we get closer, I realize the gate in the fence is shut but not locked.

“I'll go around back,” says Cherif. “This is your gig. I'm not about to take a bullet. Wait a minute before you knock.”

He circles around back and lets me enter the yard alone. I grab a barbecue fork from the grill, hold it flat against my side, and head for the door. I sneak a peek at the weapon in my hand.
Pretty weak if the guy has a gun and is used to using it. I knock once. Then again. After thirty seconds, I hear footsteps inside. I ready the fork.

“Don't do anything stupid, it's me.” Cherif opens the door.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“The garage door out back was busted.”

“Anyone around?”

“Yeah,” he replies.

I follow him into the darkness.

“Don't you touch a thing,” he says.

The house is a mess, but the air itself is worse—a terrible stench. A short hallway leads to the living room. The guy we're looking for is sitting on his sofa in front of the TV.

“Which one of them you think it is?” asks Cherif.

“No idea.”

The man has a red hole in his left cheekbone and another in his heart. Apart from a homeless man I found frozen one particularly harsh December on rue des Couronnes when I was a kid, this is the first dead person I've ever seen. I have a hard time believing it. I wonder if I'd think it was as awful if it weren't for the smell. Cherif shakes me out of my trance.

“Whoever did this wasn't from the projects. It was a clean job. No Parisian gangbanger knows how to shoot like a goddamn sniper. What's the matter with you, anyway? What are you looking at? We have to get out of here.”

“Just give me two minutes.”

“That's it. I'll go wipe off the doorknob.”

We split up. I make the rounds of the house. A small kitchen with dirty dishes. Nothing interesting. I find the bedroom in back. The bed's unmade, and the air smells of tobacco and mustiness. Lots of butts in an ashtray, porno magazines, a gun,
and a GPS. I grab the GPS, stuff it in my jacket pocket, and head back down to the living room. Using a handkerchief, I go through the coffee table in front of the TV, watched over by the cadaver of one of the two brothers.

“The fuck are you doing?”

“I can't find the keys to the car.”

“Drop it,” Cherif says. “Whoever came by must've lifted the car too. Or, possibly, he had time to unload it somehow before he died.”

“So where's the money?”

“Idir, fucking save the questions till we're gone!”

I take one last look at the dead man before leaving the premises.

Outside, I run around, looking for a luxury car parked among the residential streets.

“The fuck are you doing now?”

“I have to find that car.”

“It's not here, goddammit! Get that through your head! C'mon, get in.”

Back in the Twentieth now, after dropping our snitch off in a shitty-looking OTB bar.

“Coffee?” Cherif asks me.

“No, whisky—and a beer.”

He goes to order. I realize my hands are trembling. I think back to the dead man. Cherif comes back and sets the glasses down on the table. I down the whisky in a single gulp and start in on the cool beer right away.

“You were thirsty,” Cherif says.

I feel my neck muscles relaxing and sink down into the seat a little more.

“What's the matter?”

“Why do you think he got killed?”

“No idea.”

“Cherif, don't treat me like a moron.”

“What do you want me to say? That guy wasn't going to die in bed of old age. All you have to do is find a car.”

“Yeah, a car, not a fucking dead body. Besides, you said it. Whoever did that was no amateur.”

Cherif starts laughing.

“What?”

“Idir, the guy who stole that car was a hard case, a psycho who kidnapped people for rent. If you don't want to see stuff like that or get shot or stabbed, stick to runaway teens and cheating wives.”

I get up and dig in my pocket for change. Cherif waves me off to say he's got this round.

“If you hear about an R8 for sale, say I'm buying and put me in touch with the seller. Thanks for everything, ol' buddy.”

Back at my place, I have a big glass of water and lie down on the sofa. I turn up my jacket collar, wedge my head against the armrest, and close my eyes. I think the tears are about to come but all that comes is sleep.

The doorbell rings. Again and again. I open my eyes and, in no hurry, go to open the door, still groggy. And here comes a nasty blow to the head.
Nice to meet you too!
I fall over backward. The pain is spreading through my reopened scalp. My
father's stitches won't be much good now.

The guy drags me by the collar into my living room. I open my eyes, awash in my own blood, and realize he'd hit me with the butt of his gun.

“The fuck were you doing at my brother's?”

A wave of inspiration helps me connect the dots. “Claude—” I manage.

Bad idea. I get hit again.

“How do you know my name?”

I'm too panicked to talk. He sticks the gun to my cheek and pushes hard. Warmth suddenly trickles down my thighs.

“Look at you, pissing yourself like a little bitch.” He chortles. “The fuck were you doing at my brother's?”

“Stop, please. I was just looking for a stolen car, is all.”

“Don't give me that bullshit! I was hiding right out front—I saw you come out! You and that other guy. Then I followed you here.”

“He was dead when we got there. I don't know who did it.”

He hesitates a few moments, then points at the sofa with his gun. “Sit.”

I do as he says.

“I want to know who killed my brother.”

“I don't know.”

“Listen up,” he says, “the only thing you can negotiate for is how long this is going to last.”

I can feel something pressing against my back, behind the sofa cushion. “I swear I don't know who killed your brother.”

He turns the barrel away from me. I know he's about to pistol-whip me again. I feel like I'm moving with incredible sluggishness. Like he'll have time to shoot me in the head, and my body will fall at his feet and then he'll dance on it. Still, I'm moving,
and I manage to grab the Walkman and chuck it at him. It hits him right the face. Before he figures out what's going on, I slam into him full force below the belt. He goes down beneath me, and I hear his pelvis crack. I seal my fists shut with my thumbs, keeping them wrapped around the bones of my fingers, and start hammering his face and temples. I keep it up for a long time. Something has come loose. I do not stop. Not until his face is just shapeless mush, a blend of saliva, mucus, blood, and broken teeth.

Finally, I let myself fall to one side and throw up. A lot. I drag myself over to the bathroom, tear off all my dirty clothes, and take a shower. My fingers are twice their normal size, my knuckles split open just like the wound on my skull, which is gushing blood. I stay under the spray of warm water for a long time, like it's going to help make the body in my living room disappear. Without toweling off, I return, naked, to the living room to look at what I've done. Reality does me no favors. It wasn't a dream. He's still there. His gun, a huge piece that looks like a .45, is still lying in his open hand. I grab it and hide it in the kitchen drawer with the flatware. I know full well I've done something irreversible, something way above my head, something I won't be able to handle alone. At this point, I still may have a choice. But I prefer to believe the opposite.

They're all looking at me sideways. Naturally, Hakim's not around. Naturally, I don't recognize a single one of them, not even by sight. It's a brand-new team. Three sneaky-looking weasels: two goons and a little guy. They're all young, pushing twenty, just starting out, and they know the harder they are, the more they'll rake in.