Night fell on the street. It was one of those evenings that we can not decide if they are cold or mild. The rain had been falling since morning and at times slipped into slush. I finished my espresso, the eighth day in the brewery where I have my habits. The room is noisy and smoky, but the clouds, there are pretty girls who are thinning. At the next table there was one who seemed to be waiting for someone, but we felt it was wrong soon grew tired. She was so beautiful that time I wonder what I liked in her, she had already handed his coat and sent me a slap of cold air through the revolving door. Finally, it was a cold evening.
was almost a good day: I did not have a corpse on his hands and had had to kill someone today. In short, things were rolling nicely. Soon it would be true at night when the streets turn orange, with the crunch of smoked down to those descended from the limousine in front of the carriers of luxury restaurants. The time also when the riverboats harshly illuminate windows of the rich, on the covers who are missing teeth and poor alike. In town, in those moments, there's always cooing pigeons to you all that makes no sense. Gallieni bridge, they were three.
This will soon be Christmas and flashes across the city as a red light. People going about their purchases, screaming and gesticulating on the sidewalks as if their lives depended on it. The caps are in full swing but from time to time in the middle of the brothel hallucinating, you meet an old man with wandering eyes, a little lost with his empty basket, and that counts his steps to return to his two-room kitchen. Species visions diluted, figurines wet really already there with the mower that perhaps waiting to kiss the pavement slippery.
There are also teenagers who talk like machine guns. They are blond. They laugh. Me, more so.
I got back in the old navy blue Safrane, with its creaking door and slamming it takes three times to close it. In "the box" 10 years ago, the Safrane was for the chiefs. Ten years and 250,000 km later, they are for people like me. Maybe I became chief, then. Or old.
I drove for five minutes when the radio crackled something like "mayhem to disused warehouses of 106 Quai de l'Avenir, a neighbor had heard gunshots. "Calling all cars available.
As I close, I said" OK, you take. On site in five minutes ".
I say" it takes ", but this is not my area or my business normally. But now, all flicards base are taken from the demo, matches football and the bomb is in the air. Bigger world to do business the old way.
I say "it takes" because I'm supposed to team up with Steff tonight. But it will operate in the prostate in three days, and he wanted to sail with a "small" one last time before the curtain is finally drawn on the high tide. He asked me if he could slip away two or three hours. I said yes. I understand.
I understand everything, and that's what I tired more quickly than others, I think.
I tabled in town, and just now, I'll call his wife to say they had a corpse that will keep us quite a while.
I "put the blue" to try to fight my way through the tide of woodlice asleep on their GPS screen, and I got the old warehouses along with a rinsed frighten squirrels.
I waited a moment in the middle of halberds which ricocheted onto the roof of the car, the time to look around if everything was normal. In doing so, I met my gaze in the mirror.
My eyes eaten by the beard of three days, my tired eyes that ever sailed yet, after my hand trembling a little to have done so much clinking ice cubes. I have eyes of sailor. It makes me seem to know everything that goes into the sea as sung Souchon.
Souchon, the nickname he gave me many years ago.
But people sometimes say anything.
I got off the car without slamming the door, taking my Beretta in his right hand, wrapped in a plastic supermarket bag. Not bother to play cowboy and rouse the neighborhood. I work with old, to vice.
Got into the warehouse through a door window smashed, I advanced cautiously, intermittently, by putting me under cover. From time to time, I turned on my mini flashlight, holding it away from the body, not to provide too easy a target. I progressed slowly in huge auditoriums abandonment, frozen in their mineral state, sometimes walking on broken glass or debris.
But there was no noise or anything suspicious.
Finally, at the foot of a huge loom, I found the body of a dog, a shepherd-type Undetermined, who took a dump right in the chest with buckshot. The blood was fresh and I stood there the explanation of the shooting. No doubt that the homeless shelter here sometimes, or a dog dealer making transactions.
I pulled a tissue from my pocket, and told her closed eyes. This was probably not useful, but it will do for the times I could not sleep with men, with the UAS which always gesticulate on the corpses to avoid giving the impression of having come to nothing .
But even so, it does not please me halfway.
I removed my old mac green water, one that is full of tasks diverse, and threw him on the body.
is what I always tell young people who enter the profession: "the stiffs, you can not save them and murderers, you do not stop often. So be respectful of the dead, if that's all what you can do. "
I found myself in the open singles jacket and it was still raining, but long ago I feel nothing.
I lit a rod in the recess of the metal door of the warehouse. Yes, the rain will not relax its prey, it always drooled his rage and I have blown smoke in my face. It makes us all one. I noticed
lost a black cat who was walking on the sidewalk. He had the hair stuck in places on the spine, and advancing by leaps and bounds from its hindquarters sway. He had been wounded in the pelvis. Twice, he turned to me her slender profile, pierced by two green-eyed panther. That is all that remained of his grace lost.
And then he hopped towards an alley toward a garbage can, another, about anything.
I also observed a Santa tempered regained his old van parked straddling the sidewalk. He had not removed his disguise, presumably to protect a little rain. When to throw on the siege, he just removed his beard and cap. And I saw he was black, no longer young, with curly hair almost white, like the old uncle packets of rice heartily wished his friends. It started with difficulty, to appear again in a store or two for ten bucks an hour.
I got back in the Safrane, I took the microphone in hand to tell the radio station "RAS, case settled on the spot". But at the end, I realized that I did not know the names of the warehouses. I looked up, peering through the windshield drops her crying and I read with great penalty, on which the rust black letters running down the wall:
"Ets Bonaventure. Cutting wholesale" .
And that, in wanting to take the microphone in hand, the iron grip tightened on my chest and my jaws. I took the hot flash like a wave higher than the others you wet the towel at the beach. The sweat came to me, oozing everywhere, like a stream under rocks. I heard my heart beating in the last beat, and then the stuff I farted in the head. I took all of a sudden, as we drink the cup. My head hit the steering wheel, I saw km / h, rpm, oil , Airbag and then nothing. This heat and sticky liquid in the head, this small pool of blood like a leaky faucet stubborn. Perhaps like childbirth.
It made me think of my Mom, and I wanted to send a message as a closed winter under a duvet, words to say nothing, or rather to say the opposite, because here it becomes urgent, it's cold, it's scary, it's random.
On the Quai de l'Avenir, the caps are now very important, especially at the No. 106, where vehicles must laboriously around a blue Safrane the windows fogged up encroaching on the roadway. We see in column three, lines of those who pretend to rush into something, someone, or anything. Prisoners of their beetle plate, one can not distinguish the red from their stop lamps. The rest is already night. They hasten slowly, sheep without a shepherd.
One day they will have to burst too.
Sandro
Philip Baudou
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