Eyes Full of Empty (10 page)

“I'm here to see Tarik.”

The little one, mismatched in tight jeans and a tracksuit jacket, comes over flashing a grin that's all teeth, no friendliness. “And just who are you?”

My skull's got a nasty gash in it, my hands are in tatters; I'm pretty sure I've never looked better. And my last nerve is shot.

“I'm a friend of his. Call him.”

The little guy gives a nervous titter and turns toward his buddies. They're sizing me up. It doesn't look so bad. If they'd really wanted to lay me out, I'd already be crawling around looking for my teeth. But I'm in a hurry, which is the only thing that plays against me.

“Look at you—you look like a crackhead! You're spilling blood everywhere. Beat it before I get annoyed.”

“If Tarik finds out I came by and you didn't tell him, he'll take you down a few notches.”

The little guy draws his gun. I raise my voice. “But if he finds out you raised a hand against me, he'll cut your balls off. So one of you take out your cell phone, cross the street for a phone booth, or make some goddamn smoke signals, because I need to see him right now!”

I add, in a calmer voice, “Tell him it's Idir.”

They all exchange another round of looks. One of them finally decides to get up and leave the bar. “If you lied to us, you're dead.”

Tarik comes in a few minutes later. He can tell from my face I didn't drop by for some mint tea.

“Is it serious?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“You'd better come see.”

“Fuck me! You sure did a number on that guy.”

I told him the whole story on the way over—well, almost. I didn't tell him about the other brother, the one I ran into first, dead on his own sofa. All I told him was about a guy hiding in my stairwell who jumped me and tried to rob me. I'm not sure he believes me, but I also don't think he gives a damn. Tarik doesn't need to know much more.

He takes his phone out and dials. I don't even know what he's saying, completely absorbed by the body on my rug and the blood that, bit by bit, is taking over my apartment floor as it dries. He hangs up.

“The kids'll take care of this for you. On me. But leave 'em a little something, because they're putting it on the line for nothing. Ten grand should cover it. OK? I called them; they're coming over. Once they're here, just do what they say.”

“Thanks.”

He slaps me on the shoulder and gives me a wink. “Hang in there, buddy.”

And just like that, he's gone, like he's given up trying to start my car and called a tow truck instead. I hide out in my bedroom, unable to face waiting with the dead guy. I open up when they ring. The same bunch of shitheads who greeted me so warmly earlier, with the nervous little guy as their front man. They come in without saying hello, unimpressed by the spectacle and critical:

“Shit, man, you couldn't have done this cleaner? I mean, fuck!” The little one gives orders to the two others. “Go back the car up and bring in the tarps.”

The two guys obey nonchalantly. I find myself alone with the little guy.

“Funny, you coming into the bar earlier, looking like some old junkie. But this is why you were all unhinged! You weren't kidding.” He smiles and adds, almost like he gives a shit: “This'll give you a few sleepless nights.”

The idea seems to amuse him. I wonder what kind of guy he is to be used to all this at his age. “How about you?”

He smiles again. “I might have some trouble sleeping. But just tonight.”

The two men come back with several yards of opaque plastic sheeting.

“Pick him up and stick it underneath.”

The two men do as they're told.

“Well, this is going to take a while, so—” He looks around at the blood on the floor, sighing. “Give me your keys.”

“What?”

He says it again, enunciating every syllable, just so I know he doesn't enjoy repeating himself. “Give me the keys to your a-part-ment.”

“No, I can't.”

Another sigh. “Look, dude. You're fucked. You've got blood all over your face and hands; it's a miracle the cops didn't pick you up when you came by. There's a fucking dead body in the middle of your living room. Just look at the damn rug. If we don't do something, it's going to start raining blood on your downstairs neighbors. We're here to bail you out, bro. But it's going to take some time. We can't just walk down Pigalle with your body under one arm. Get it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can see you're freaking out. But staying here while we do our thing isn't going to do you any good. Because your apartment is going to look like a Rungis-style slaughterhouse for a
few hours. Tarik told you to trust me, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then trust me. Give me your fucking keys and take a long, long walk. I'll call you when it's over, OK? And when you come back, this'll all feel like a bad dream.”

I take the keys from my pocket. Probably a dumb move. But fuck it, I have no choice.

“C'mon,” he says, no doubt short of inducements. He takes the keys from my hand. I don't put up a fight. “You've made a wise decision, my friend. I'll call you when it's over, Scout's honor.”

I leave the crew to do their work in my apartment and go out. Night is falling, and I decide to get some distance from my place in case anything goes south. I rent a room near Montparnasse. The hotel's empty. I pick the second floor so I can still jump from the window if the cops barge in. I try to take my mind off things so I leave the room and go to the movies. I pick a film at random and leave after ten minutes, unable to concentrate on anything but the consequences of what I've done. Go back to the hotel. The guy at the front desk gives me a sideways look. In the room, I block the door with the dresser. I lie down on the bed. I haven't eaten for a long time. Through the wall, I hear a couple fucking in the room next door. I've killed a man. I've known this feeling; I've had it before: the point of no return. A decision that changes the rest of your life forever. I picture a cell. The same one I slept in for six months. Except this one will be in supermax with guys doing hard time. I cry in silence, cry and cry, without letting out a single sob. The first time in years I've cried for an actual reason. And it goes on for a long time.

CHAPTER 5

T
HE WEE HOURS
. A
MESSAGE ON MY PHONE
. I
RECOGNIZE THE
voice of the young guy Tarik sent over. He's saying I can come home now, the keys are under the doormat.

I go back to Pigalle. For half an hour, I circle my block without daring to go in. I can see plainclothes policemen on the café terraces—crazy paranoid. Finally, I punch in the entrance code. I push the door open slowly and go in. On the landing, my keys are indeed under the mat. I enter my apartment. Freeze for a few seconds in the dark. Turn the light on. Nothing. No more body, no more blood, no more smell. Like I'd dreamed the whole murder. I drop my coat on the couch. Still nothing. I search every corner, open the closets, look for evidence. Anything that might've been overlooked, that might prove my guilt. Nothing. They've cleaned house. The goddamned maids have been through. I'm happy as a kid who fucked up and by sheer force of will managed to wish it away.

Tarik's guy is in the bar, same place as last time. He sees me coming and grins. The two big guys aren't there; others have replaced them at the table. They're all sitting having coffee.

“Feels good to be home, right?”

Suddenly, I realize I owe my life to some dickweed barely old enough to shave with terrible fashion sense.

“Clean, right? We did a good job?”

A regular public works contractor. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He doesn't even need to send away the guys at the table. They've heard and get up all by themselves, packs of cigarettes in hand, overcome with a sudden jones for a smoke.

“Sit down. I'm all ears.”

I take a chair. “I'll pay you what I owe you. I'm waiting for some money to come in. As soon as I get it, I'll give it to Tarik.”

He shakes his head, as if to say I'm wrong. “You don't have to. We did it for the boss.”

“I insist. You can split the cash with your friends.”

“Count on it. Tarik was right. You're a stand-up guy.”

I stick out my hand. “Till next time.”

“If things get rough, you know where we are, right? We do quick, clean work.”

I leave the bar, hoping with all my heart I'll never have to call on his services again.

I feel relieved. I don't ask myself any unnecessary questions. No guilt, just happy to be back at home, like nothing's happened. I open the windows; there's still a strong smell of detergent. I notice the rug is gone. Better that way—I'd rather not have some stranger's blood in my living room for good. I indulge in some spring cleaning of my own, scouring the apartment top to bottom. Two hours and a shower later, I lie down on the couch in my boxers with the last beer from my fridge.

The telephone vibrates: my father.

“How are you, Idir?”

“Fine, and you?”

“Fine. I'm calling to see if you wanted to have dinner with me at your grandmother's tonight.”

“Uh—”

“It'll just be the two of us. If you have other plans, don't worry. I was just calling to ask.”

“No, no, that's fine. I'm free tonight. Meet you over there?”

“I could drop by and pick you up, if you want.”

“You won't mind?”

“I offered. Be out front at eight.”

He's on time. So am I. I get in his Jaguar, a symbol of social success that's as much a reminder to our family as it is to the world. When I was born, he didn't have the means to treat himself to one.

“It's still weird seeing you driving this car.”

“Why?”

“Dad, you're talking to your son here. Don't give me that. You're an Algerian, not an English lord.”

He laughs. So do I. But it doesn't last long.

“What's with your head?”

“You'll never believe this, but I hit my head again stepping into the shower, opened it right up.” I'm surprised there's no lecture, though he surely doesn't buy a word of what I've just said.

“I'll take a look at it later.”

My grandmother opens the door for us. Squints right at my wound.

“What did you do to yourself?”

“Oh, nothing; just fell.”

“I was talking about the haircut. You look like a convict. You're not a convict anymore, are you?”

I smile.

“So you decided to come back.”

I keep smiling. “You upset?”

“No, never, not at all.”

“Dad, was she upset?” I wink at him conspiratorially.

“She was very disappointed in your behavior last time.”

She flies off the bat right away. “Nonsense! I just don't like drama, that's all. Well, if the two of you are done spouting gibberish, you're late, it's time for dinner.”

I don't think I've ever known a stronger woman. She can't read, she's survived war and the hard life of a farmer; I always wonder if there's anything she couldn't endure. She never complains, except about other people. Her own she'd never say a thing about; she defends them like others defend human rights.

There's enough food for a family of twelve. Under my grandmother's watchful eye, I have to eat for at least two. My father is fairly relaxed. It's been a while since I've seen him this cheerful, especially in my presence.

“Did you see your son driving around in a car fit for a minister?” I ask my grandmother, just to get a rise out of her. “Soon he'll be demanding his couscous off a silver spoon.”

“Don't speak ill of your father.” She looks at her son, who's struggling to hold back his laughter, and launches into him next.

“You're no better. What do you need to drive around a flashy car like that for? Trying to get noticed?” she reprimands my father, who is now laughing out loud.

I start laughing too.

“And you stop making fun of him! That's it, this is the last time I'm having you over! The two of you are impossible!
Astaghfirullah!
You two are so complicated! Always up to something,” she moans.

My cell phone vibrates, just once, in my jeans pocket. It's a text message from an unknown caller, whom I can tell has an
international number, probably a Belgian chip. The message is in shitty French, but I understand it immediately. Cherif has found the car.

I get up from our cozy family table. “Work,” I say in apology.

My father waves at my grandmother to leave it be. He really is on my side tonight. I kiss them both on the cheek and run out the door.

I reach Riquet out of breath. I wait a good five minutes, hand on my knees—next to ex-cons surely high out of their minds—before a car pulls up. The window goes down; Cherif's at the wheel.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he says.

“You're always switching rides. How was I supposed to know?” I get in, and the car drives off. “So you sure this time? 'Cause all we found last time was a dead body.”

I don't dare tell him about how Claude paid me a visit. About what I was forced to do.

“Your car's at Pareira's.”

“Who?”

“One of the biggest resellers of stolen cars in the Paris region.”

“So what are we waiting for?”

He gives me an apologetic look. “Better forget about it.” “Why?”

“It's leaving for Morocco. Via Marseille. A guy over there bought it.”

“Why not let my client buy it back?”

“Are you shitting me, Idir? Pareira'll know I ratted him out! Everyone who's anyone knows I was asking questions about your goddamn car. You're really riding my ass on this one, you
know that? I'm a thief. I need guys like Pareira. He finds out I fucked him over, I'm dead.”

“Oh, c'mon—”

“Look, Idir—that car? You're never going to see it again. End of story. Explain that to your client.”

“I can't.”

“What does that mean?”

“Find a way.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. Not at all. I'm just asking you to find a way.”

“I don't have one,” he replies, furious.

“Well, I do,” I retort.

“So what is it?”

“You know where this guy Pareira hides his cars?”

For a moment, he hesitates. “No.”

Liar. I laugh: “I know you know everything about everyone you work with. You're fucking paranoid, I know you inside and out. You sure?”

“Fuck, Idir! Yes, yes, I know where he stashes them. What the fuck does it matter to you?”

“I'm going to steal it from him.”

“What?”

“I'm going to steal it back.”

He barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “You're nuts.”

He looks me in the eye. “You realize if you try this, you're going to get killed.”

“Look at you, always blowing things out of proportion.”

Cherif parks the car in the structure of a building on rue de Flandres. He has an apartment here, he says. It's pretty basic: a
one-bedroom, comfortably furnished—in short, a nice place to lie low. I wonder how many of these he has. I slave away to make rent each month—maybe he could put me up if things get tough.

He takes two beers out of the fridge, opens them with his lighter, and hands me one. He vanishes for a moment, then comes back with a pen and a piece of paper. He lays the paper flat on the coffee table and draws a rectangle on it. With his pen, he points at his drawing and says, “Here's the warehouse. There's a gate with a guard at the entrance.”

“And?”

“An alarm. Maybe a guy doing rounds, but I doubt it.”

“That all?”

“That not enough? What do you think this is,
Mission: Impossible
?”

“Should be easy.”

“You know how to take out an alarm?”

I look at him innocently. “No, but you—”

He gives me a dark look. “Me what?”

“Well, you do, right?”

He shakes his head. “No, Idir.”

“What?”

“No, goddammit! I'm not coming with you!”

“Why not?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, like he's got a migraine. “Idir, I'm not going to steal from a guy I work with. A business associate.”

“Is he your friend?” I press the point. “Is he your friend or not?”

“No. He's a huge asshole. But he buys my cars.”

“If he's not your friend, why the fuck do you care? He can never prove it was you.” I add, “Besides, if he's an asshole like you say, it means you can't stand the guy. C'mon, it'll be like
when we were kids again, for just one night, I shit you not. Like back in Belleville when we were just a couple of little fuckups, me on lookout and you—”

“Shut up!”

“We were ready to roll! We—”

“Shut the fuck up, Idir!”

I get up. “I get it, you're playing hard to get, that's cool. I'll go alone. But back in the day, you'd never have let a buddy down.”

“You know something? I don't know why we're even friends anymore, you and me. What the hell have you ever brought me? Nothing but trouble.”