Philippe Djian - Betty Blue

“Oh…” I said.

“Right,” he went on. “Just between us: beautiful girl, but a little jumpy…”

“That depends. She’s not always like that. You know, I don’t know how to explain… It happens once a month. It’s hard for us to understand what it’s like for them. It must be tough…”

“Yeah, okay, let’s not exaggerate…”

“No… no… you’re right…”

He looked at me attentively, then smiled. I was still wary, but I started to feel a little more comfortable. He seemed like a decent guy. Maybe for once I’d pulled the lucky number.

“So… you write novels?” he said.

“Yes. Yeah… I mean, I’m trying to get published.”

He nodded his head for a few seconds. He put the ruler down on his desk. He got up and went to make sure no one was standing behind the door. Then he took a chair and pulled it up right in front of me. He straddled it and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Listen,” he said. “I know what I’m talking about. Publishers… they’re all SOBs.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t move. I’m going to show you something.”

He took a stack of papers out of his drawer and dropped it on his desk. I’d say three pounds, just eyeballing it, wrapped with a rubber band.

“What do you think this is?… Give up?”

“A manuscript, right?”

I thought he was going to kiss me, but he contained himself. He just slapped my thigh, smiling like a goof.

“You got it! You know, I’m starting to like you…”

“Happy to be of service.”

He stroked his stack of papers and looked me right in the eye.

“Brace yourself,” he said. “They turned this book down twenty-seven times.”

“Twenty-seven?”

“Yeah. And I suppose it’s not over yet. Word must have gotten around. They’re all SOBs.”

“Shit. Twenty-seven times. God almighty!”

“I still think it’d sell like hotcakes-it’s the kind of thing people like. Man, when I think about it-ten years of my life in there, ten years of research-and I kept only the best episodes, the great ones. It’s a real keg of dynamite. So maybe it isn’t Al Capone, but believe me, it’s powerful stuff, you can take my word for it.”

“Okay.”

“Now, you’ll ask me why they haven’t published my book-ask me what the hell they use for brains. I know cops who’ve sold their memoirs for millions, so what’s the deal all of a sudden? Cop stories out of date?”

“You’re right. It’s not even worth it to try to understand.”

He nodded slowly, then glanced at my orange juice.

“May I…? You want a drink?” he asked.

I was in no position to refuse. I gave him one of the cartons, squashing a smile. He pulled a ten-inch knife out of his pocket and cut a hole in the spout. The knife was razor-sharp, but I didn’t bristle. Then he put two plastic cups on the desk and took out a bottle of vodka, already well used. While he filled the glasses, I started asking myself where I was.

“To our success!” he said. “We’re not going to let ‘em get us down.”

“Right on!”

“You know, your friend… I can’t really say that she was in the right… but I won’t say she was in the wrong either. Those guys just sit there, calmly cutting to shreds somebody’s life’s-work in five minutes. You can’t tell me that cop stories are old hat. No way…”

He poured us another round. I was starting to feel quite good. I was still carrying around the sake and the grog. I felt safe in his office. Things were getting to be just fine.

“Christ, when that asshole called in with this story, it warmed the cockles of my heart. He really had it coming. I tossed down a few short ones to celebrate. Finally, I said to myself, finally one of them has got his just deserts.”

“Yeah, well it was only a scratch. No need to make a federal case out of it.”

“Listen, if it was me, I’d have knocked him out cold. I mean, who do those guys think they are?… Freshen that up for you?”

The vodka went to my head like a horde of burning suns. I held my glass out with a smile. Sometimes life was lovely after all. I put my hand on the cop’s manuscript and looked into his eyes. We were both pretty out of it-good thing we were sitting.

“Listen,” I said. “I’m hardly ever wrong about these things, and I’ll tell you something-your book is going to get published. I feel it in my bones. I hope you’ll send me an autographed copy.”

“You really think so?”

“There are certain signs. Your book is warm to the touch. It is an airplane about to take off.”

The cop made a face like someone crossing the finish line of a marathon. He wiped his forehead with his hand.

“Shit,” he said. “I can hardly believe it.”

“Well, that’s how it is,” I said. “Now, what are we going to do about Betty? Maybe after all we’ve said, we ought to just call it even and…”

“Christ, I’ll finally be able to get out of this crummy office…”

“Right. Absolutely. So how about it?… Can I go get her?”

I had to wait a few minutes for him to stop emoting. I glanced out the window into the dark night. I hoped that soon it would all be over. Ile scratched his head with one hand and poured us what was left in the bottle with the other. He sat there, watching the last drop fall.

“Now for your friend… It’s a little tricky,” he said, making a face. “There is this fucking complaint, after all. I don’t really have a free hand here.”

“Shit, don’t you remember?” I said. “She did it for guys like you and me. She sacrificed herself so that those fuckers would think twice before burying our books! She fought for us! Now it’s our turn to do something for her!”

“My God, I know. I know. But there’s this complaint…”

He couldn’t even look me in the eye. He sat there scratching an invisible spot on his pants. All the vodka I’d drunk had gotten me hot. I started raising my voice. I’d totally forgotten I was in a police station.

“So what’s it gonna be?” I said. “I mean, who makes the laws around here, anyway? Are we going to let that asshole have the last word?! Are we going to keep writing only to be left behind in the dust?!!”

“You don’t understand. The complaint has been filed…”

He seemed embarrassed, but in the end he was just yellow, a lily-livered wimp, hogtied from head to foot. I started choking. “Listen,” I said. “Don’t tell me there’s nothing we can do here. This is a police station, after all. You ought to be able to do something…”

“Yes, but it isn’t that simple. A filed complaint… there are records…”

“Fine. I get it. Okay…”

“I swear, man, I’m really sorry. If there was a solution I would…”

We looked each other directly in the eye. I wondered if he thought it was funny-doling out his words one at a time like that; I wondered if it wasn’t conditioning that came with the job. I waited until he was good and ripe…

“Tell me what to do,” I said.

He looked at his shoes and shuffled his feet.

“It wouldn’t take much.” He sighed. “All you have to do is get the guy to withdraw his complaint.”

No one talked for a while. Then I stood up and grabbed my carton of juice-one hundred percent natural.

“Can I see her? Is that possible?”

“Yeah, I can arrange that.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for your book,” I said.

There was one other woman in there with her, laid out on the bench in back. There wasn’t much light-the minimum. It was awful. She seemed in decent shape, though, even relaxed. You might have wondered which one of us was locked up. I gave her the orange juice with a wan smile, and held on to the bars.