False Nine

13

‘Have you any idea why Jérôme should have felt the need to get himself a gun?’

‘My God, I’d forgotten about that.’

‘You saw it?’

‘He showed it to me.’

‘When was this?’

‘October? Maybe November. I’m not sure.’

Bella leaned out of bed, grabbed her cigarettes and lit one. She was still wearing a black corselette, black stockings and suspenders, but her tiny floss panties were long gone. Looking at her golden bare butt now and remembering with lips that were still glowing just how much time I’d spent with my head between her legs, I wasn’t so sure I hadn’t eaten them. That’s the thing about forbidden fruit. Like the saying goes, it often tastes the sweetest. Paolo Gentile was right about that much anyway. Women had always been my weakness. I might have said they were my Achilles heel except that my feet had nothing to do with what I wanted to do with Bella. I might have felt a little more guilty about betraying Louise but I’d already managed to persuade myself that I had an out with my girlfriend on account of the fact that Bella was a Marilyn supermodel, and of course it’s not every day that a supermodel with legs up to an arse you could eat your sushi off makes it clear that she wants you to fuck her brains out. That’s not much of a defence. And I wouldn’t like to see anyone try that in court — even a good barrister. Rumpole of the Bailey couldn’t have put that one over. An all-male jury might just have bought it. Gentlemen of the jury, just look at this woman, for God’s sake. Wouldn’t you have fucked her, too? If you’d had the chance? Sure you would. But how many juries did you get these days that didn’t have at least one disapproving battleaxe on board for the trial? The days of 12 Angry Men were long gone.

Of course I knew that eventually I would feel guilty; just not yet.

‘Want a cigarette?’

‘No, thanks. I really only smoke when it means keeping someone I like company. Like last night. No one should have to smoke alone. Least of all a beautiful woman. And certainly not in this city. So, tell me more about Jérôme’s gun.’

‘It was a black thing, he said.’

‘I’m black. And I’ve never wanted to own a gun.’

‘A gangster thing. You know, like 5 °Cent or Ice Cube. He liked to wave it around in his apartment. To point it at the mirror and pose with it. That’s all. He was like a kid with it. Although sometimes he had it under his pillow. It was more of a style thing, I guess. I mean, he wore the clothes and listened to the music and, from what you’ve told me, he got down with the guys on the street. I think the gun was just part of all that bullshit. Like I said, this guy is five years younger than me. And it showed sometimes, you know? He liked his toys. The Lamborghini. The gold chains. The diamond panther studs in his ears. He bought them at the same time as he bought my bracelet, from Cartier. They were thirty-five thousand euros.’

‘What kind of a gun was it? Can you remember?’

‘I don’t know. It’s not like they’re made by Hermès, are they? One gun is much like another to me.’

‘A handgun.’

‘Yes.’

‘Revolver or automatic?’

Bella thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know. No, wait. I have something.’

She slipped out of bed and walked into the bathroom where she hauled open several drawers.

‘An ex-boyfriend gave me this when I was last in the States,’ she called out and I began to wonder what it was she was looking for. Another gun?

But when she returned to the bedroom she was carrying a box containing what was described as a MAGNUMDRYER: Model 357. The authentic western gun hair dryer. It had a pink handle and an extra large silver barrel. A novelty, obviously, but the kind that might easily get you killed.

‘It was like this,’ she said.

I opened the box and smiled. The hairdryer was even equipped with a white leather holster.

‘A magnum?’

‘Yes. Only his was black, with a rubberised handle. Not silver with a pink handle like this one.’

‘No, well, you can see how that would wreck the effect. It’s hard to look like an authentic gangster when you’re holding a magnum that has a pink handle.’

‘I don’t use it,’ she explained. ‘It’s the wrong current for France.’

‘There’s that, and the neighbours. Someone might think you were planning to kill yourself if they saw you put that next to your head.’ I shook my head. ‘Only in America. You’d think they had enough guns without making innocent objects look like guns, too. I mean, you look at this and figure that it’s only a matter of time before some dumb hairdresser in St Louis gets shot for blow-drying a lady’s hair. I mean that; it will almost certainly happen. Everything you can say about America — good or bad — is always true.’

‘I never thought of that. But yes, you’re right. Especially if you’re black.’

I nodded. ‘Especially if you’re black.’

‘You pull the trigger to operate it.’

‘Just like a gun. I don’t use them myself. Hairdryers, that is. But even I figured that you pulled the trigger to make it work.’

‘And you control the temperature with the thing at the back.’

‘The hammer.’

‘The hammer, yes.’

‘You know, I searched Jérôme’s apartment from top to bottom and I didn’t find a gun. Nor any ammunition. Have you any idea what became of it?’

‘After I found out that he was keeping it under his pillow I told him to get rid of it — to chuck it in the Seine before he hurt himself. Either it went or I did. So maybe he did get rid of it. All I know is that I never again saw it.’

‘What about gambling? Paolo Gentile told me that when Jérôme was back in Monaco there were some guys he owed money to. Debts.’

‘I know he liked to play poker. He was always watching it on television. But he never mentioned that he’d lost any money. And as for debts he always seemed to have plenty of cash in his pocket. He usually had at least a thousand on him. I know because I was often borrowing money for a cab.’

‘Tell me about his other friends. His team mates at the club. Who was he close to?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Yes, that’s what I heard from Mandel.’

‘Especially after the piece in L’Equipe. He trained. He played. He went home. He said that’s how he preferred it. Are you going to speak to any of them?’

‘No, the club want this kept as quiet as possible. It only takes one idiot with a Twitter account to fuck that up and then this is all over the newspapers.’

‘I certainly don’t want that. And not just for Jérôme’s sake. I mean, if they start looking for him, it won’t be long before those bastards at Closer are hanging around outside my building again.’

Closer was the celebrity picture magazine that had broken the story of how the French president, François Hollande, was having an affair with actress Julie Gayet.

‘I thought you French had privacy laws to stop that kind of thing.’

‘Oh, we do. But the magazines just pay the fines, which aren’t much compared with how many sales a big story can put on their circulation.’

She finished her cigarette, swept the box and the novelty hairdryer onto the floor, lay back on the bed and fixed me with a steady, blue-eyed stare that could have unzipped my trousers, had I been wearing any. If I could have read her mind I think I would have said that she wanted me to fuck her again. Paolo Gentile had been right about that, too. It had been a while since anyone had fucked her.

‘So, what’s your next move?’ she asked.

‘My next move?’ I rolled on top of her, pushed her long white thighs apart and nudged inside her. She gasped as I flexed my pelvis and swiftly found my way right up against the neck of her womb. ‘My next move is this.’

‘That’s what I hoped it would be.’

Which just goes to show that when it comes to sex a man and a woman can read each other’s minds pretty well, really. There won’t ever be an ebook that can take the place of all that.