Jacquot and the Waterman (24 page)

'And just exactly what the fuck do you think you were
doing?' he demanded, leaning over Jacquot's desk, his
weight supported on splayed pool-player's fingertips.

On reflection 'Where?' was probably not the right thing
to say, but Jacquot said it anyway. What the hell? He'd
always thought Lamonzie a shifty, jumped-up little
rigoriste
who behaved like police headquarters was his own
personal playground. No one ever knew what Narcotics
were up to, which meant that whenever some poor bastard
trespassed on a stake-out that Lamonzie had set up and
not told anyone about, down came Lamonzie, brandishing
his wrinkled red face like an offensive weapon. Which was
exactly what this little outburst was all about. Jacquot must
have crossed the line without knowing it.

'Where? Where?' Lamonzie lowered his voice, looked
around, then glared back at Jacquot with an even greater
intensity. 'Rue des Allottes, that's where, Jacquot. Number
65. A certain Alexandre Raissac. Or is it your mother you
were calling on?'

'That's right. Allottes.'

'And? And?'

'Just checking out a lead, you know.'

'Just - checking - out - a - lead

Jacquot's patience gave way. 'Look, Lamonzie, give it a
rest. You're not the only one around here who's got a job to
do. You keep everything buttoned up the way you do,
sooner or later someone's bound to cross your patch.'

'And how exactly does Monsieur Raissac figure in these
inquiries of yours?'

'Raissac? He doesn't.'

Lamonzie gave him a squinty look.

'Berri. Madame Berri was who I was after. She's a tattoo
artist. One of the best, they say.'

'Well, next time you want a heart on your arm make an
appointment someplace else. You got that?'

Lamonzie pushed himself away from Jacquot's desk. 'I
don't want to see you a hundred metres in any direction.
Clear enough for you?' He gave Jacquot another hard little
stare and marched out of the office, rattling the glass panel
in the door as he pulled it shut behind him.

'Bite,'
whispered Jacquot, leaning forward to wipe at his
boots where he'd noticed a fleck of Lamonzie's saliva land.
Brushing off the leather, he wondered why he hadn't just
said that Gastal had had him do it. Finger Gastal. But like
it or not, Gastal was on his team, and you didn't do that to
one of your own.

Still, taking the blame rankled, and a couple of hours
later, sharing a terrace table with Gastal outside the Club
Maras, Jacquot decided to have it out with his new partner.

'Lamonzie dropped by,' he said.

'Oh yeah,' replied Gastal.

'And he's not a happy man.'

Gastal nodded, covering a smile as he cracked a stubborn pistachio between his teeth and added the splinters
to the pile of shells in front of him.

'So next time,' continued Jacquot, 'have someone else
do your dirty work.'

Gastal raised his neck out of his collar, as though
squaring up for some verbal. But he let it go.

Which was a pity. They'd only been working together a
couple of days but already Jacquot felt an unhealthy
compulsion to bury his fist in Gastal's fat little face. A real
face-a-claque
if ever there was one.

They'd been sitting at Club Maras for more than an
hour, Jacquot watching the street and Gastal facing the
bar. It was one of the places that Vrech had said was a
likely Carnot haunt, a new set-up on a side street back
from the Cours Julian. There was a members-only club
downstairs, the bar at street level, and a so-so fish restaurant on the terrace above them. It was a long shot, Carnot
turning up at the first place they tried, but something told
Jacquot that it might be worth a call. A beer-after-work kind of diing, even if your drinking partner was Gastal.

'Isn't that him?' said Gastal, nodding over Jacquot's
shoulder.

Jacquot took a pull on his cigarette and reached around
to the table behind him for an ashtray. As he did so he
glanced up at the bar. Twenty feet away Jean Carnot was
slapping one of the waiters on the arm, swaggering over to
shake the barman's hand, nods here and there, glancing
around the room, taking a stool, looking at his watch.
Unmistakable.

'You wanna do it here?' asked Gastal.

Jacquot shook his head, repositioning his chair and
stretching out his legs.

Carnot was now in full view at the bar. He looked like
he was dressed for a night on the town: clean blue jeans, a
cream silk shirt, and a bright green jumper draped over his
shoulders. He was swinging a ring of keys in his hands, like
a set of worry beads.

'Let's give it a few minutes,' said Jacquot. 'See if anything turns up.'

Nothing did. Carnot finished his beer, swigging
elegantly from the bottle, kissed and hugged a couple of
the waitresses who didn't look to be enjoying the encounter as much as he did, then made his farewells.

Jacquot had been right about the smile. Pure platinum.

They caught up with him two blocks along as he was
getting into his car.

'Jean Carnot?' said Jacquot, bending down to the driver's window. Gastal leant against the rear door as though
his weight might somehow stop the car from moving off.

Carnot must have heard those words a hundred times.
He knew immediately who they were. He looked up at

Jacquot from under thick black brows. 'And? What of it?'

'I believe you may be able to help us.'

'Oh yeah?' Carnot replied, sliding a key into the ignition
and disengaging the gear.

Jacquot slipped the photo from his jacket pocket and
passed it to Carnot.

Carnot took it, turned it, looked. Looked closer. Then
handed it back.

'And?' It was a good act, given how he hadn't been
expecting them, hadn't expected to see the photo.

'Wondered if you'd seen that tattoo before?'

Carnot pushed out his bottom lip, shook his head.
'Couldn't say,' he replied.

Of course Jacquot could have got down to it straight off,
said how Vrech had given them his name, how Vrech had
confirmed that Jean Carnot had been there when the
tattoo was done, how he'd been the one who paid. But
Jacquot didn't want to put the Dutchman in a spot, even if
he was the most likely source for the information. So he
came at it from a different angle.

'We found it on a body.'

Carnot didn't react. 'And?'