Paris Noir: Capital Crime Fiction Read Online Free PDF Page B

broken by a country hick.
    I must have dropped off as I found my joint singeing my jeans, which cost me a fortune at Diesel.
    Shit, it’s coming back to me, the deal. I risk a glance over the concrete parapet and see five cops, two in plain clothes, who are shoving Roger against a wall and laughing, swinging the coke at arm’s length.
    Fuck. The shame of it.
    I crawl across the terrace like a road, tumble down the staircase and hurtle down the five flights, sick to the stomach with fear. As I reach the lobby, I see Roger whispering something to Lomshi, who’s just arrived. Lomshi’s my age, fifteen, he’s the lookout for all the Barbès dealers. Then he runs off towards the corner of rue Myrha and rue des Poissonniers. Running to tell all the drug barons hiding out at the Les Bees Salès bar.
    The cops cuff Roger and bundle him into a car marked ‘Police’.
    The fear of it.
    Lookouts aren’t allowed to doze off. The walkie-talkie crackles in my right hand. I stash it in the fuse box in the hallway. Then leg it to the bottom of the street. I run down the street behind Saint-Bernard, think about doing a tour of Barbès, choosing the darkest, seediest streets. It’s not hard.
    The cannabis slows me down.
    I think of my sister, on the Tarterets estate.
    Of my brother, Mamadou, working like a bastard at the post office, feeding the whole family.
    I hear a Capelton reggae number, it’s doing my head in.
    I think of the pile of money we made from the deal and deposited at the BNP.
    And most of all, I clock the two guys running after me. A dark patch and I cut into rue Polonceau and jump over the fence around the square. Ten or so babes surround a rabble of boys playing football and swapping panini in the half-light. I crouch behind a bench and close my eyes. I don’t want to die.

LYDIE
    The guy playing guitar at Mekloufi’s is known as Mimine and he knows three songs: ‘Black Eyes’, ‘Minor Swing’ and ‘Clouds’. When he’s finished those three, he turns to his accompanist, another guitarist, and they improvise. I still don’t get why they’ve got gypsies playing a Moroccan bar but who cares: the beer costs two euros, the music isn’t bad if you like Django Reinhardt and the boss cooks couscous for the regulars. Perfect.
    The promotional clock tells us it’s 9 p.m. Through the cafèwindows, I check out the immigrants rushing back to their tiny freezing rooms, women in African robes and baggy-jeaned rappers jangling their two-carat bling.
    I’m working till midnight tonight because Alex, the second driver, only picks the car up at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning. I throw ten euros on the table and stick my nose outside, just as a fine drizzle begins to fall. A young Senegalese woman decked out like a Christmas tree rushes towards me, waving her tresses.
    ‘Are you the taxi?’
    I nod.
    ‘I’ll take it. I’m going to rue Polonceau.’
    ‘You’re kidding. Rue Polonceau’s three hundred metres away on foot, that works out a lot per hundred metres.’
    ‘I know, but I’m going to a birthday party and I don’t want to get my hair wet. Shall we go.’
    I get into the cab, turn on the meter and tune into TSF which is playing ‘Paris Blues’, an old Terry Callier number that brings tears to my eyes. In five twists of the steering wheel I’m back up La Goutte J’Or, turning into rue Polonceau. The girl gets out at number 14. A bit further on, a whole group of mothers and kids leaving the square with old newspapers shielding their heads. I put the meter back to zero when a son of Jah – a teenager – throws himself on to the back seat, bent double.
    ‘Come on, grandma, get going!’
    I half turn round and give him a professional slap. Little shit.
    ‘Hey, what was that for? Get a move on, I’m in a hurry.’
    ‘I’m not your servant, kiddo.’
    ‘OK, OK.’
    Then I spot three black guys, dressed hip-hop style, making their way towards us. And swivel to look at the kid, who’s turning green.
    Trembling,