Paris Noir by Aurélien Masson Page B

around Hélène Bastogne’s office at the paper—“It’s a bombshell, baby!”—a pitiful parody of rappers by a fifty-, soon sixty-something baby boomer with an indecent income.
    And afterward, he had wanted to fuck Hélène Bastogne. Logical. For the moment Hélène Bastogne, thirty-two in a month, likes the cynical animality of it. Lover #2 is no longer that abstract power managing the editorial board like some tyrannical Nero, who makes trips to New York and back in one day, who meets tired and greedy faces in the drawing rooms of luxurious hotels, who takes telephone calls with a cell nickel-plated like a handgun.
    No, Lover #2 suddenly had a body. Hormones, adrenaline, cologne. Slightly trembling hands, moist temples: the flashes of amphetamines, the flashes of triumph, the flashes of his exultant gonads. A spy who’s ratting, a spy spilling names, dates, evidence, a spy who’s going to explode the paper’s circulation.
    Hélène Bastogne is going to come.
    A stronger gust of wind. The nameless trees in Cavaillé-Coll park are moving. Lover #2 is coming. By distilling all this little by little, they can double the sales over two weeks.
    Hélène Bastogne topples onto Lover #2’s torso. Then slips down beside him on a Bordeaux spread. Crumpled La Perla un- derwear. A Mac screen is pulsing. Hélène Bastogne buries her face in a sweaty neck, near a madly beating carotid artery.
    “So, baby, can I take you to this new bar? It’s on Quai de Jemmapes.”
    “If you like.”
    Lover #2 is a typical baby boomer. Lover #2 likes to exhibit girls who are half his age with a third of his income in lame places like Canal Saint-Martin, which has completely turned into a museum by now. Always in the hope of bumping into the ghost of Arletty. Asshole. For her trouble she’ll play the whore a little and get him to buy her some stuff at Antoine et Lili, a trendy clothing boutique a little farther down, on Quai de Valmy. The fact is, Hélène Bastogne is not in a very good mood.
    Because Hélène Bastogne did not come. As usual.
    4.
    “We missed Berthet, sir.”
    “You’re really dumb, Moreau. Did you subcontract again?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “With your tightwad savings, you’re going to land us up shit creek. Was that you, the killing in the 10th? I just heard it on France Info.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Who are the dead?”
    “My two subcontractors, three civilians, and Morland.”
    “You killed the counselor? You’re so stupid, Moreau.”
    “If the counselor was with Berthet, it means the counselor was talking, right?”
    “You’re an idiot, an asshole, and a moron. And on top of that, you wrecked one of the nicest restaurants in Paris. Where are you calling from?”
    “From the Brady—”
    “The alley or Mocky’s movie theater?”
    “A movie theater, actually, yes, sir. The room is full of black guys jerking off, sir. Whose movie theater did you say this is?”
    “Mocky’s, Moreau, Mocky’s. You’re completely ignorant on top of it all. Stay there, Moreau, and wait for orders. I’m going to fix your dumb blunders.”
    They hang up.
    Moreau is not happy. Moreau is forced to sit in the dark movie theater.
    Moreau is forced to watch a film in black-and-white with the young Bourvil who steals from church collection boxes.
    Moreau is forced to stay there with black guys who are jerking off.
    Berthet will pay for this.
    5.
    Berthet goes into the Gare du Nord. The caryatids are making fun of him in the blue November sky. Especially the Dunkirk one, it seems to him. A train to Dunkirk, why not? And then a freighter.
    And then what?
    Berthet is totally losing it. Berthet knows he’s got to get a grip on himself, and fast. This isn’t Conrad. This isn’t Graham Greene.
    Berthet has The Unit after his ass. Berthet has a torn suit that smells of cordite and langoustine. Berthet still has one clip for his Glock, two for his Tanfoglio. Berthet knows that going home isn’t an option. The Unit is waiting for him, of