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Louis Shalako
In the pre-dawn gloom,
Gilles had felt the first few pin-pricks of cold wetness, blinking a bit in
denial perhaps, and the car headlights, the streetlamps just up the way now
revealed the awful truth…
“Nom
de Dieu. Are those snowflakes?” He
settled into the back seat, grateful for the heater and the fact that Alphonse
had probably been driving for fifteen or twenty minutes just to get here.
She was all warmed up,
the windows were clear and the wipers in good condition, knowing Alphonse...this
one time Gilles had gone looking for him and found him down in the garage, hood up,
rag in hand, and the engine just gleaming, and Alphonse sort of drinking in the
smell of grease, petrol, coolant, brake fluid, wet rubber and glass cleaner.
“Yes, it’s the season for
it. I can’t wait until it’s all over you know—” He eyed Gilles in the mirror;
presumably, he was talking about Christmas.
Maintenon knew the
feeling, actually. He allowed himself a bit of a sigh.
“Boss.” Tires hissed on
pavement, and one particular gust rocked the vehicle discernably.
“Yes, Alphonse.”
“I was up in the room the
other day. Somebody said something and I’ve been thinking about it.”
Tires hissed on wet
pavement.
The stoplights up ahead
were just about to change, he somehow knew it, and Alphonse concentrated on the
driving for the moment. Sure enough…he pulled to a stop, left turn signal
going…there was nothing there at this time of day, but one just had to wait
patiently. They were cops, after all. He’d composed his thoughts.
“No. It’s just that a few
people saw the black car, right. When Hector was killed. And that’s about all
they remember. They do all agree,
right. Ah, but there was this one witness. A real aficionado, sir. If you know
what I mean.”
An aficionado.
“And?”
“The witness didn’t just
see the car, Gilles. He watched it. Fuck, he ogled it. He looked at it with envy and longing, and some sort of a
future dream in his head. Yeah, if I know guys like that. If he ever won the
lottery, I mean a real big one. He would try and replicate that car. He loved
it, Gilles. Also. He gave a very precise and observant description, far more
than any of the others.” Black on black, inside and out, the only other thing
was the chrome, lots of it, and according to the gentlemen, probably the best
looking car in town. Big, swooping exhaust pipes coming out on either side up
front.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to go up to the
unit and read that report, ah, again, Inspector.”
“Sure. No problem—”
But there was more.
“The thing is, Gilles.
The guy said it turned right at the third intersection. That’s the part that
I’ve been thinking about.” They were rolling again, pedestrians on the
sidewalks somehow familiar and yet anonymous at the same time.
The snowflakes were
getting thicker, and bigger, and yet the street was still just black and wet.
“Ah.”
“Basically, I want to
read the report for myself. Rather than just some random remark in passing, and
then. Then I want to look at the map, not just this pissy little thing in the
glove-box.”
Which he had surely
already done, thought Maintenon.
“Absolutely.”
He thought. Alphonse must
know every street, alley and cul-de-sac in town by now.
“Do you want to go out
there today?” Perhaps around lunchtime—
No irony there, it was just a thought.
I’ll
buy you lunch—
But he didn’t say it.
“No, I want to think
about this. It depends on the map and the report. Besides—you guys got the big
shindig on tonight.”
Maintenon nodded.
Yes, he was going to need
his energy. Quite frankly, he was planning a nap, whether at his desk and in
his chair, or maybe even on one of the long maple pews lining the walls of the
hallway outside their office. An emergency blanket and a couple of cushions
under his head, the thought of sleeping in his shoes somehow better than taking
them off…
The benches were just too
big, or he’d have had one dragged into the Unit. There was a reason people like
him kept a spare shirt and a razor in their desk drawer. Clean socks and a new
toothbrush. More than one reason, when one thought about it. What he really
should have done, was to sleep in—something which he seemed incapable of, these
days.
He had a ton of time off
coming to him, something he actually dreaded.
Fuck.
“Very well.”
***
Four of them piled into
the limousine, courtesy of Roger, Langeron that is to say, as well as what
Maintenon assumed was either his current mistress, or possibly the new wife.
Either way.
Of course, the department
had to have at least one limo—maybe even more than one.
For the sake of cover, or
rather the lack of it, something for the tabloids perhaps—anyways, just in
case, Margot and Gilles were going together, in something vaguely resembling
logic. Alphonse, up in the front seat, did not need a ticket although he’d be
around, as he put it—he’d be keeping the engine warm and no apologies for that.
Racking up the overtime hours in his own inimitable fashion.
A couple of other
tickets, plus increased police foot patrols in the immediate vicinity, a pair
of radio vans aimlessly cruising nearby, meant that their backsides were about as
covered as they could possibly be under such circumstances, which were murky at
best. Someone had phoned around, trying to locate spare tickets, from friendly
newspapers, the radio news organizations. A few literary and arts magazines.
That part of the plan would leak like a sieve, although it might be a few
hours. The plan was to flood the place with off-duty cops…all under orders to
stay as sober as possible, keep an eye on the crowd and be ready for just about
anything. He hadn’t heard back on that one. It struck him that at least a few
proper journalists would check it out—free food and drink being a powerful
inducement, considering their long hours, poor pay and pounding out the next
great novel in a candle-lit garret somewhere in their off hours. One or two of
them might even get a story out of it.
“All right. We had best
be going.” Cold as it was, Gilles was sweating.
“Have you seen this,
Gilles?” Langeron proffered a file folder with a few typewritten sheets.
He reached up and snapped
on the interior light.
“Oh, God.” Gilles groaned after about three lines.
More bullshit—a delivery
van, a company name that no one had ever heard of, and it probably didn’t exist
except in someone’s fertile imagination, and a bunch of severed fingers…fuck.
Sitting there for an entire week.
Phone line disconnected
at about the same time as the last killing. The phone company would soon give
them an address, and it too would be empty and deserted, perhaps an empty desk,
a chair and a lamp, all pulled out of dustbins or picked up for a few francs
from a second-hand shop. The city had a few hundred such shops, a thousand, or
so one must assume. There’s another thousand man-hours. It was easy enough to
get a phone line installed, all it took was a name, an address and a deposit.
Fuck.
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There it was, right at
the very bottom. The suspect vehicle, likely stolen, had been worked over
pretty thoroughly. Stolen plates, (they might get something there if they had
the time), vehicle identification number missing…serial numbers ground off the
vehicle frame, engine and transmission. It sounded like someone had been very
thorough. It looked like a fairly professional job. Police technicians would
take it down, piece by piece and bolt by bolt. Virtually all of the really
expensive parts had a serial number, and the original manufacturer would be
contacted. If there was anything there to find, they would find it.
His instincts told him
otherwise.
“Just more confirmation.
Or more nonsense.” Roger had a point. “Okay, so all of this is a presentation.
We had no big idea that the killings were unrelated. That’s about the farthest
thing from our minds. The odds of getting fingerprints would appear to be
rather small, but then of our known or imaginary victims, none of that
information is available anyways. What, then is the point? Other than the fact
that they can run circles around the police, and not much more. Otherwise—”
Otherwise, why not muffle
the voice and call in from a phone booth, or leave some bullshit manifesto at
the front desk of a newspaper. It had been done before, as often as not some
kid, a wino, dropping it off for a few francs and thinking they were doing
someone a favour. Such places were busy enough, with enough background
distractions, such a person could drop an envelope on the reception counter,
give a quick nod and a wave, and fade back out into the street, never to be
seen again…sooner or later, someone would pick it up and open it up, just to
see what the hell it was.
So. Why not? Why not just
throw one more fuck into the system.
Why
not.
***
END
Louis has books and stories on Google Play. Many of them
are free.
Thank you for reading, ladies and gentlemen.
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