Chourmo by Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis Read Free Book Online Page B

dead.”
    â€œI saw.”
    He looked at me, a wicked gleam in his eye. “What was he doing here?”
    â€œNo idea.”
    â€œAnd you?”
    â€œI told you, Pertin. I was passing. I wanted to see the kids play, so I stopped.”
    The basketball court was empty.
    â€œWhat kids? No one’s playing.”
    â€œThe game ended when the shooting started. You know how they are. It’s not that they don’t like you. But they’d rather not meet you.”
    â€œSave the comments, Montale. I don’t give a shit. What’s your story?”
    I told him.
    Â 
    I told him a second time. At the station house. Pertin hadn’t been able to resist the pleasure. The pleasure of having me sitting there opposite him, being interrogated. In this station house, where, for years, I’d ruled the roost. It was a meager revenge, but he was as happy about it as only a loser could be, and he wanted to savor it as much as he could. The opportunity might not come again.
    And behind those fucking Ray-Bans, the wheels were turning in Pertin’s brain. Serge and I had been buddies. Maybe we still were. Serge had just been whacked. Which meant he must have done something he shouldn’t. I was there, on the scene. A witness. Yes, but why not an accomplice? That made me a lead. Not to collar the guys who’d gunned down Serge, but to collar me. I could just imagine the kick he’d get out of that.
    I couldn’t see his eyes, but I was sure that was what I’d have read in them if I could. Just because you’re stupid doesn’t mean you can’t think logically.
    â€œProfession?” he’d asked, contemptuously.
    â€œUnemployed.”
    He burst out laughing. Carli stopped typing and laughed as well.
    â€œNo! So you’re on welfare, are you? Like the niggers and the Arabs?”
    I turned to Carli. “Are you getting this down?”
    â€œOnly the answers.”
    â€œMustn’t offend Superman here!” Pertin said. He leaned toward me. “And what do you live on?”
    â€œWhere do you think you are, Pertin? On TV? Or at the circus?”
    I’d raised my voice a little. To set the record straight. To remind them I was just a witness. I didn’t know anything about this business. I had nothing to hide, except the reason I’d gone to the project. I could tell my story a hundred times, it wouldn’t change. Pertin had figured that immediately, and it made him really mad. He’d have liked to hit me. He’d have done it if he could. He’d stop at nothing. In the days when he was under my authority, he’d always make sure the dealers were tipped off when I was getting ready to make a raid. Or he’d tip off the narcs, if he felt the haul would be a good one. I still remembered the failure of a bust in Le Petit Séminaire, another project in North Marseilles. The dealers were a family. Brothers, sisters, relatives: they were all in on it. They operated where they lived, like good neighbors. And the kids paid them in stolen hi-fi equipment, which they then resold immediately, at three times the price. The profits were reinvested in drugs. The raid was a damp squib. The narcs succeeded three years later, with Pertin in charge.
    He smiled. It wasn’t a genuine smile. I was scoring points, and he knew it. To show me he was still in control, he picked up Serge’s passport from the table in front of him and waved it under my nose.
    â€œTell me, Montale, you know where your buddy was crashing?”
    â€œNo idea.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œShould I know?”
    He opened the passport, and smiled again. “At Arno’s place.”
    Shit! What was that all about? Pertin was watching for my reactions. I didn’t have any. I waited. He hated me so much, he was making mistakes. He should never have revealed information to a witness.
    â€œIt isn’t written in here,” he said, waving the passport