The Mad and the Bad

19

His suit still damp from the rain, Thompson had parked his Rover in a lot at Orly and taken an air taxi. The next morning another air taxi brought him back. He took a room at the Hilton for an hour or so. He had his two suits cleaned and pressed. He sat waiting in his room wearing a blue-and-brown-striped flannel robe, drank some Vittel, and promptly went and threw up in the washbowl. His face had taken on a ghastly pallor, his eyes were bloodshot, and his attacks of nausea kept degenerating into uncontrollable coughing fits, quite awful. He was shivering. His nose was stuffed up and very dry. His skin was burning hot. He took a shower and his teeth began to chatter.

As soon as his clean clothes were delivered Thompson began to hurry. He put the taupe suit back on over an iron-gray turtleneck. He settled his bill, retrieved the Rover, and sped towards Paris. Waves of nausea made it very hard for him to drive. Leaving the Paris ring road at the Porte Brancion, he drove into Malakoff. Not far from the railroad, on a grimy street with grass pushing up between the paving stones, Thompson parked in front of a crumbling villa flanked by a yard and a rusting shed. The killer got out and went to ring the bell at an ironwork gate. The potholed sidewalk was strewn with trash, textile tailings, and metal junk. Stray cats went slinking by. An old, half-illegible graffito read RIDGEWAY GET OUT! Thompson’s expression was tense.

The gate opened and Thompson did not relax on seeing Coco in front of him clad in mechanic’s overalls.

“I have to bring my car in.”

Coco checked the street with a mean look.

“The money? What’s been decided?”

“We’ll talk later.”

Thompson got back into the Rover. Coco opened the double gates and the car entered the yard, which was cluttered with wheel hubs without tires, gutted laundry boilers, a Dodge truck cabin, and a Buick Roadmaster on its rims. Coco closed the gates behind the Rover. He stood still, legs apart, arms akimbo, as Thompson climbed out of the car, coughing.

“How is your brother doing?”

“Not so bad. You want to see him?”

“Yes.”

“Ha! Ha! Always careful, aren’t we, Mr. Thompson?”

“Don’t be silly. We need to talk.”

Coco pouted skeptically, then led Thompson up a short steep stairway sheltered by a glass awning. The glass was cracked in several places. The boot scraper at the head of the stairs was buried under a thick layer of dried mud.

Nénesse greeted them at the entrance to the villa. It was obvious that he had not shaved or washed since the day before. Skintight blue jeans emphasized his considerable genital apparatus. Beneath a tank top the slight bulge of a bandage was discernible. He smelled bad, he smelled of salami, and leveled in front of him he held a sawed-off Tarzan shotgun. Thompson closed the door behind him.

“I’m here for a friendly talk,” he said. “This sort of thing I cannot accept.”

Nénesse hesitated, then placed his gun, butt downward, in an umbrella stand.

“But I’m making no promises,” he noted. “You want a little drink?”

Thompson shook his head. The three men repaired to a petty-bourgeois living room with dumpy furniture and a waxed parquet floor. The window, with its cretonne curtains, overlooked railroad tracks. They sat around a table covered with an oilcloth. Coco produced a bottle of pear brandy and three tiny glasses from a hideous sideboard. He poured for all. Thompson made no objection.

“What about your wound?”

“It’s nothing. It’s clean. And it’s not the first time.”

“I’m happy for you,” said Thompson. “Now, something is happening. I need a driver. I’m carrying on with the job on a new basis. I’ve seen my client. He is very unhappy. In fact he’s in a blind fury. We were off to a bad start in our talk, then some new developments changed things. Have you been listening to the news?”

“Yes,” said Coco. “But they don’t tell you anything on the radio.”

“Quite so. The fact is, the girl didn’t go to the cops. She took off. And it’s up to me,” added Thompson, “to kill her.”

He clutched his stomach with both hands.

“She took off?” echoed Coco.

“Yesterday afternoon-but we only learnt this overnight-she assaulted a motorist who picked her up with the kid. She beat the guy to death with a starting handle. Stole his wallet and his car. And the car was found empty, out of gas, in a parking lot down the A6 forty-five kilometers north of Lyon.”

“She’s whacko!” said Coco.

“Well, yes.”

Coco shook his head.

“Where d’you get your information?” asked Nénesse.

“My client,” said Thompson. “He gets it straight from the police, where he has good friends.”

“And what does he want us to do?”

“He wants me to find her before the police do, and kill her. And I need a driver. I can’t drive anymore. I’m ill.”

“Your client,” said Coco, “what he wants, it’s not doable.”

Thompson winced. “No, I must kill her. The kid too. I have to.”

The two brothers exchanged glances. Thompson was off his trolley-that was obvious. On the other hand, there was dough in this.

“This client of yours, does he pay two big ones a head?”

Thompson nodded.

“We can give it a shot,” offered Nénesse.

“I need only one driver. Only Coco. You are injured.”

“Nénesse and me both,” said Coco. “We work together or it’s not on.”

“Very well, very well,” said Thompson. He rubbed his red eyes. He sighed. “An air taxi is waiting for us. I’ll explain in the car, give you all the details.”

Thompson got up abruptly. His chair fell over behind him. He noticed a woman’s handbag on the floor by the wall. He stooped and picked it up.

“Idiots!” he said softly, almost in a whisper. “Idiots! The girl’s bag. It must be destroyed. I’ll take it.”

He headed for the door. The brothers emptied their glasses and got to their feet.