Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

He had left with a scornful air, passing Valentin with his still-bandaged nose, a reminder of his meeting with Captain Ryan Mosse. Their suspicion that he was now under the protection of someone even more dangerous than they were had totally destroyed their condescending attitude towards him.

Monsieur Bedon has paid up. Monsieur Bedon is free. Monsieur Bedon would like you to go fuck yourselves. Monsieur Bedon is out of this shithole.

Laurent adjusted the bag he was carrying on his shoulder and left, crossing the square diagonally, heading straight for the gardens in front of the casino. There were lots of people around. Aside from the season and the usual tourists, the serial killer story had attracted an incredible number of curiosity seekers, in addition to all the journalists. It was back to the buzzing activity of better times, even though, by a strange twist of fate, all that resurgence of life was caused by the close proximity of death. People spoke of nothing else. In the papers, on the radio, on TV, and at home in their own living rooms.

Suddenly, Laurent could see Jean-Loup Verdier before his eyes. Cynical as he was, he could not help shuddering. The idea that he had worked side by side with someone capable of doing what he had done churned Laurent’s stomach. How many people had he killed? Eight, if he wasn’t mistaken. No, nine, counting that Inspector Hulot. Shit. A real slaughter, by a handsome boy with green eyes, a deep voice and a reticent air. A guy who seemed more likely to be chased by a flock of eager women than by Europe’s entire police force.

And he was the one who had started Jean-Loup on his career, who had brought him to the station, only to see himself gradually replaced by the young man’s talent and charisma as a deejay. Now all that was changing, too.

Bikjalo, who was apparently completely shattered by the news of Jean-Loup, had been pushed aside by the station owner. Now all he did was smoke one Russian cigarette after another, and anything he said was just more smoke. The station owner had asked Laurent if he felt up to hosting Voices himself. The events had not lessened the public’s interest in the programme and there was a chance that ratings might shoot up even more with the gruesome fascination created by the violent crime.

Okay, dickheads, where’s your Jean-Loup now?

Laurent had also sold an exclusive interview for a shitload of money to a weekly, and the magazine’s publishers had offered him a sizeable advance for an ‘instant book’ titled My Life with No One. Then there was the unexpected win at Café de Paris, just now, and the night wasn’t even over.

The fact that Jean-Loup was still at large did not bother him in the least. Jean-Loup was no longer a problem. As the police said, it was just a matter of time. Where could a man hide whose pictures were all over the media and in the hands of every police officer from here to Helsinki? Jean-Loup Verdier’s sun had set for ever. Now it was the time for the rise of Laurent Bedon.

To his great surprise, he discovered that he didn’t give a damn about Barbara. Let her stay with her cop, her watchdog. Laurent realized that his stubbornness over the girl had only been caused by the bad times he had been going through. He had seen her as a symbol of his failure, the worst of the refusals he was getting from everyone at the time. Now he was sitting on a small throne and was finally able to make choices. The only thing he wanted, if he could want anything more from her, was to have her come to him with her tail between her legs and admit that leaving him had been a huge mistake. He would have liked to hear her humiliated voice begging him to forgive her and take her back. Just for the chance to tell her the truth. That he no longer needed her.

He sat down on a bench on the right side of the park, the area with the most shadows. Lighting a cigarette, he leaned back to watch the world go by, for once without the feeling that he didn’t belong. Soon after, a man slipped out of the shadows and sat down next to him. Laurent turned to look at him. He was not afraid of his lifeless eyes, as dead as those of a stuffed animal. All the man meant to him was more money.

‘Hello, Laurent,’ the man said in English.

Laurent bowed his head slightly and responded in the same language. ‘Hello to you, too. I’m glad to see you out and about again, Captain Mosse.’

The other man ignored his greeting and immediately got down to the reason he was there.

‘Do you have what I asked for?’

Laurent took the canvas bag from his shoulder and put it on the bench.

‘Here you are. It isn’t everything, obviously. I just casually picked up some material. If you had told me what this was for, I could have-’

Ryan Mosse interrupted him with a gesture. He ignored the implied question and thrust a cheap briefcase at Laurent. ‘Here. This is what we agreed on.’

Laurent grabbed the briefcase and put it on his knees. He clicked open the locks and raised the lid. It was full of row upon row of wads of cash. To Laurent, even in the shadows of the park were brighter than all the lights of the casino. ‘Fine.’

‘Aren’t you going to count it?’ asked Mosse with some sarcasm.

‘You have no way of checking the material that I brought you. It would be tacky for me not to trust you as well.’

Captain Ryan Mosse stood up. The exchange was over. The pleasure of each other’s company was certainly not enough to prolong the encounter, for either of them.

‘Goodbye, Mr Bedon.’

‘Goodbye, Captain Mosse,’ Laurent said, still seated on the bench. He waved. ‘Always a pleasure doing business with you.’

He sat watching the American’s athletic figure walk away with his purposeful, military step that civilian clothes did nothing to hide. He remained on the bench until Mosse disappeared from view. He was in an excellent mood. The evening had been a great success. First the win at the casino and then the briefcase… As the saying goes, money makes more money.

And that’s the way things would continue, he was sure of it. Give it time, he said to himself. Give it time. There was an old adage that even a stopped watch is right twice a day. His watch hadn’t stopped, after all.

Laurent got up from the bench and picked up the briefcase, much lighter than the bag he had given Mosse. He stopped to think for a minute. Enough of Café de Paris for one night. He could not ask for too much luck in one day. He had got a lift to the Place du Casino from Jacques, the sound technician. Now he could take a cab or walk down to the harbour, have a few drinks at Stars’N’Bars, pick up his brand-new car from the lot near the radio station, and go back to Nice. The car wasn’t the Porsche he wanted, but it was only a matter of time. For now, it was enough not to have to take the bus to work from his new pad near Place Pellegrini in the Acropolis district. A small place, but elegant and freshly decorated. The twists of fate. It was right near his old place, the one that had been taken over by Maurice, may he rot in hell.

He looked at the time. It was still early and the night was young. Laurent Bedon walked unhurriedly towards the Hôtel de Paris, full of optimism. For the rest of the evening he would just do whatever he felt like.

Rémy Bretécher put on his helmet and raised the stand of his motorcycle with his foot. Even on the downhill slope, he had no problem holding the Aprilia Pegaso. As excited as he was, he could have propped up his bike with one leg. He’d parked in the Place du Casino, in the area reserved for motorbikes right in front of the Metropole hotel. Through his raised visor, he kept his man in sight as he crossed the garden and walked towards the fountain. Shadowing people was nothing new for Rémy. He usually worked at the Casino of Menton or in Nice, or else in other smaller gambling joints along the coast. Sometimes he even got to Cannes. Monte Carlo was considered off-limits for this type of activity. Too dangerous, too small, too many cops around. There was an insanely large number of plainclothesmen mixed in with the normal clientele of the casinos and Rémy knew it.