Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

That evening, he had simply been a tourist, nosing around to see what people were saying in the Principality about the serial killer. He had gone into the Café de Paris almost by accident and it was only from force of habit that he had noticed the guy with the callow face and the swaggering air who had won three en plein in a row, enough luck to win the national lottery.

Cautiously, he had followed him to the cashier and had seen the amount of dough he had stuffed in his jacket pocket. That had immediately transformed his little vacation into a night of work. Actually, Rémy was a mechanic in a garage just outside Nice that specialized in personalized motorcycles. He was so good with bikes that Monsieur Catrambone, his boss, turned a blind eye on his past. What he was doing now had some years ago earned him a couple of stints in a young offenders’ institution. Those were youthful mistakes caused by lack of experience and a hot temper. Fortunately, he had kept out of jail since then. So far. Nowadays, bag snatching was only a misdemeanour and Rémy was smart enough not to use weapons in his ‘contracts’, as he called them. All told, it was worth the effort. You just needed a little savvy, and a second salary never hurt anyone.

Every once in a while, when he felt that the time was right, he went wandering around the casinos, eyeing solitary players who won large amounts. He would trail them and then follow them on his bike. If they left by car it was a little more complicated. He’d have to follow them home and if they had a garage, there was nothing doing. He’d watch them disappear through the gate or down the ramp with the brake lights on, knowing the evening was a goner. But if they parked in the street, it was a done deal. He’d go over to them while they were standing at the door of their building looking for their keys. It would all happen in a flash. He’d approach them with his helmet on, one hand in his jacket, and he’d tell them to hand over the money. His hand in his pocket could be a simple bluff or it could really mean he had a gun. The sums at stake were not large enough for them to risk their lives, and they’d hand it over double quick. Then, a fast getaway on his bike and it would all be over. All he had to do later on was count the winnings of what he liked to call his ‘cashpoint’ operation.

If his ‘customer’ left the casino on foot, he’d just have to find the right moment – a street without much traffic, no cops in sight and dim lighting if possible – and then do the same routine. It was often a lot faster that way.

Since he dealt with people who went to casinos, Rémy often wondered if what he did was a sort of vice, a gambling addiction, with all that that entails. He had finally reached the conclusion that he could consider himself a sort of healer for those who were addicted: living proof that gambling is the work of the Devil. In other words, he had absolved himself. It had never occurred to him that he was just a petty criminal.

He turned on the ignition and the Aprilia started up obediently, with a soft, powerful hum. He hoped his man wasn’t headed for the taxi stand next to the Hôtel de Paris. In one way, that could simplify things, since a man in a cab doesn’t pull into a garage. It might also mean that the evening was not yet over. Gamblers with winnings often blew their money right away in one of the many nightclubs in Nice. Legalized brothels, really. They’d buy drinks for everyone in sight and end up giving some hooker enough money to feed a family of four for a week in exchange for a blowjob in a private room. Rémy would be bitterly disappointed if the fruit of his labour ended up down some whore’s throat.

He raised his foot from the pedal, shifted into first and reached his man as he was crossing the square near the central flower bed. He stopped and put down the stand, getting off his bike as if he had to check on something hanging in the pannier on the back. He saw with relief that the man continued walking past the only waiting cab. If he went down to Sainte-Dévote, it would be an incredible stroke of luck. There were few pedestrians around there and Rémy would be able to take the road to Nice and disappear down one of the three corniches.

Rémy was particularly excited about this sudden, unexpected little job. From the Café de Paris, he had followed his victim on foot through the gardens. The man had headed close to where Rémy’s motorcycle was parked. It wouldn’t have been a bad idea to do the job right then and there, then he just could have jumped on his bike and vanished.

He had seen the man sit down on the bench. Rémy had walked on by without letting himself be noticed once he’d seen the other man sitting next to him. Something strange was going on. The man with the deathly pale face that he had been following had handed the other man a bag slung over his shoulder and had been given a briefcase in exchange.

The thing stank of money – or sweet perfume, depending on how you looked at it. There was a not too remote possibility that the briefcase contained something valuable. The contents of the briefcase, along with the money the man had just won at the Café de Paris, might make that evening a top winner in Rémy’s own personal trophy cabinet.

He had missed his chance when the exchange was over and the two of them had separated. A group of people heading towards the casino had been coming down on the right. Rémy had wondered if he should go for it anyway. Even if his victim cried for help, which he doubted, nobody usually got involved in things like that. Whenever a robbery occurs, people are suddenly obsessed with minding their own business. It wasn’t for nothing that self-defence classes taught students not to yell ‘thief during a robbery. That was a magic word that only made people turn their backs and walk away as quickly as possible. It was much better to yell ‘fire’. Then people would hurry to your rescue. Rémy knew that heroes were few and far between. But there might always be an exception to the rule, and he didn’t want to take that chance.

Rémy started the engine and cut down Avenue des Beaux-Arts, turning left on to Avenue Princesse Alice to keep the prey in view. His man was turning on to Avenue de Monte Carlo, which merged into Avenue d’Ostende. If he hadn’t been gipping his handlebars Rémy would have rubbed his hands together in delight. That stretch of road was practically deserted: the ideal place for people like him to earn their daily bread.

Rémy drove slowly in second gear with his visor up and the zipper of his light weight leather jacket half open, like a regular tourist on his motorcycle, lazily enjoying the warm summer breeze. He spotted his victim not far off, walking leisurely and smoking a cigarette. Excellent.

At the beginning of Avenue d’Ostende, the man crossed the street to the same side as Rémy. He was even carrying the briefcase in his left hand. Rémy could scarcely believe it. He couldn’t have chosen a better setting himself. His man had obviously used up all his luck at the Café de Paris.

Rémy decided to make his move. He took a deep breath, raised the front wheel, and with a push upwards on the handlebars, went on to the pavement.

He was behind his victim, just as he was tossing away his cigarette butt, the briefcase clasped tightly in his hand. Rémy accelerated suddenly and came right up to the man, who turned his head when he heard the noise. Rémy’s fist hit him on the left side of his face, between his nose and mouth.

More from surprise than from the blow, the man fell to the ground, still holding the briefcase tightly. Rémy stopped the motorcycle with a skid of the back wheel. He leaned the bike on the stand and got off as quickly as a cat. He’d modified the bike to meet his needs so that it wouldn’t turn off automatically when he put the lever down.