Dead Horsemeat

Saturday 16 September 1989

Le Dem hadn’t wanted to come. Romero didn’t press him, so it’s Lavorel who’s waiting with him outside Massillon’s villa. They’re both wearing miniature tape recorders concealed under their belts. Romero’s wearing a short-sleeved, floral summer shirt, and Lavorel a light blazer over a white shirt. A few cars crawl through the open iron gates and park in the garden. Two Porsches, a yellow Ferrari. And a lot of ordinary cars. Lavorel slips into the garden and makes a note of the registration numbers.

Blascos arrives on foot, at around 10 p.m., clean and neatly dressed. He’s still limping but he looks in much better shape. Romero gives him an envelope, which he holds in a Kleenex.

‘There’s some coke in there. Top quality. You can sell it for a good price or cut it a little. Now get to work.’

Romero whistles. Lavorel comes over to join them and the three men enter the vast nineteenth-century villa surrounded by gardens. There’s a flight of steps covered by an awning leading up to the front door which stands wide open. Entrance hall, to the left a drawing room which is empty for the time being, to the right the dining room where forty or so young men and women are gathered, chatting over drinks against a background of deafening house music. At the back of the room is a lavish buffet. Blascos greets everyone. Lavorel has his eye on six men, short, wiry, energetic, very well turned out, bespoke suits, luxury shoes, gold bracelets and chains. The jockeys, without a doubt. Very different from the others, young men of means, like Deluc, or others with more modest incomes, like Blascos. A dozen utterly beautiful girls. Romero feels a little tremor of excitement. And then a few others, nondescript.

Blascos steers Romero by the arm. Lavorel follows.

‘Massillon, I’ve brought you two good friends of mine…’

‘Pleased to meet you. We’ll squeeze them in.’

He shakes their hands. Then everyone goes back to the bowl of punch on the buffet. Things are already hotting up, although it’s still early. Lavorel wanders among the clusters of people, his ears pricked. The talk is of races, trainers, bonuses, bets or sex. Lavorel isn’t able to follow it all, and fears he’s wasting his time in this place which isn’t his scene. From time to time he glances at Romero. He watches him down one drink, then another, and starts to worry. People are attacking the food. Romero, glass in hand, is sitting on a radiator, in front of a window, beside a bottle blonde with pneumatic breasts and lips. She slips her arm around his neck. When she moves off towards the buffet, Lavorel goes up to Romero and whispers:

‘Be careful, please.’

‘I can’t resist blondes.’

‘Your first wife was a redhead, the second very dark, and this one’s not even a real blonde.’

‘There aren’t any real blondes left, didn’t you know? What with pollution, nuclear power…’

The girl’s on her way back, carrying two plates. With a flash of inspiration, Lavorel leans over to Romero, grabs his tape recorder and slips it into his own pocket. Damage limitation.

Just then, it’s already approaching midnight, a new guest arrives, smiling. He’s immediately the centre of attention. He kisses a few girls and then takes a pretty lacquered box from his trouser pocket. Hearty applause, and the box begins to circulate. Lavorel on the alert. As the box goes round, they all take a pinch of white powder and snort it from the base of their thumb. Things are hotting up even more. Lavorel helps himself and discreetly sprinkles the powder on the floor. Meanwhile Romero, with a big grin, stares at him and has a quick snort. By now, disaster is imminent.

Two girls jump up onto the buffet and start dancing among the dishes, high as kites, wild… They dance well. Everybody claps, the little box is still going around, faster and faster. The blonde has her hand between Romero’s legs, and her fingers are moving up and down to the rhythm of the music. When she gets the expected response, she suddenly leaps onto the table and begins a striptease between the two dancers, who become even more frenzied. The guests shriek with delight. She’s down to her bra… Romero rips off his shirt – Lavorel nervously pats the tape recorder in his pocket to reassure himself it’s there – beats his chest, lets out a Tarzan cry and clambers onto the table.

Blascos, standing next to Lavorel, his eyes wide, says in an undertone ‘Some cop, huh?’

Tarzan-Romero sweeps the blonde, now bra-less, into his arms, jumps down but misses his footing, crashes heavily onto the table, breaks a few plates, one or two bottles and gives himself a deep gash in his left buttock. Blood spurts everywhere.

Lavorel grabs Blascos by the shoulder.

‘Help me.’

They each grab Romero under one armpit, drag him out to the car parked outside and lay him on his stomach on the back seat. Head for the hospital. Blascos laughs uncontrollably.

‘I haven’t laughed like this for years. Come back guys. Whenever you like.’

Once Romero’s been taken care of and sent home in a taxi, Blascos and Lavorel return to the party, which is still in full swing.

‘Tell me, who’s the guy who’s so generous with the coke?’

‘A friend of Massillon’s. He’s called Nicolas Berger, and that’s all I know about him.’

Blascos waits until the end of the party to sell to the guests who want to stock up before going home. And Lavorel waits for Nicolas Berger to find out a little more about him.