Paris Noir by Aurélien Masson

to his mouth;
the well-endowed blond waitress, who has no more face but is still standing with a bottle of Châtel-don mineral water in her hand;
the other couple who were having lunch at Chez Michel, quite dead, their shredded heads on their plates of grouse with foie gras, still tempting despite two manicured feminine fingers, cleanly cut off, lying on the meat; a cat right next to his face,
a cat meowing as if to express its displeasure, but a cat that Berthet can’t hear.
    Berthet is thinking two things:
first, cats are not democrats, which must be a vague, Baudelairean reminiscence;
second, I’m deaf because of the explosion. Probably a defensive grenade. They’re going to come back to finish the job. Shit. Shit. Shit.
    Berthet gets up. Berthet stinks of langoustines and cèpes.
    Berthet is annoyed. Berthet has a romantic notion of the last-ditch stand. And it does not fit the image of a man in a ripped Armani suit that smells of langoustine.
    Hélène Bastogne, what do you know?
    A car somewhere blares its antitheft alarm.
    Counselor Morland’s topped-off head is dripping into the Dilettante from Cathy and Pierre Breton.
    Barbarians. Bunch of barbarians. To do that to a practically unadulterated wine.
    A motorbike makes a half-turn at the end of rue de Bel-zunce. Two guys in helmets. Petty subcontractors. The Unit subcontracts now, like any other big firm in the private sector. It’s pitiful. The driver of the bike leans against the buttress of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul church before skidding to a halt.
    The passenger pulls the pin out of a second grenade.
    Fucking subcontractors, I’m telling you.
    Professionals would have stepped right into Chez Michel, come up to Berthet and Counselor Morland’s table, shot them simultaneously through the back of the head with low-caliber weapons, like the Tanfoglio .22 against Berthet’s ankle.
    Farting noises. By the time everybody has reacted and understood that the strike wasn’t really a stroke, they’re far away.
    Come on! Stupid temps. Even The Unit has accountants now. Even The Unit is into budget cuts. Part-time work in the intelligence services. Assholes. Berthet knows that he’s living in a system in which, even on the day the world ends, there will be guys complaining about deficits.
    Berthet takes out his Glock. Berthet puts a clip in the barrel. The nondemocratic cat is still silently yowling at him. Berthet would have liked to be sure the bullet is properly in place. You can always tell by the sound, but Berthet is still deaf.
    Berthet opens fire. Berthet does not hear the irritated gunship-like noise the Glock lets out.
    Berthet hits the grenade-throwing passenger first. Who is theatrically thrown off, who falls, who explodes all by himself on the pavement of rue de Belzunce.
    Then Berthet changes his line of fire.
    Then Berthet shifts into a new target acquisition phase.
    Then Berthet thinks: Motherfucker!
    Then Berthet punches holes into the driver’s helmet. Four times.
    The bike wobbles, the body rolls over, the bike keeps going on its side and stops at Berthet’s feet.
    Now the enucleated waitress is sitting on the banquette, the Châteldon water is spreading, the Châteldon water is fizz-ing on the moleskin seat.
    Counselor Morland is still and forever waiting for the nervous impulse that would allow his arm to bring the glass of Dilettante to his lips, which move spasmodically.
    Berthet understands that his hearing has returned when Berthet hears:
the yowling of the reproachful cat; Counselor Morland humming Sacha Distel’s song “La Belle Vie” through a reddish mush;
the bike’s motor running in neutral; the police sirens.
    Hélène Bastogne. Shit.
    And to think that Berthet missed the grouse with foie gras.
    Berthet puts the Glock back in its holster, gulps down the last of the Dilettante directly from the bottle.
    And Berthet takes off.
    Hélène Bastogne.
    3.
    Unlike Berthet, Hélène Bastogne loves the 10th arrondisse-ment. Hélène Bastogne