Dead Horsemeat by Dominique Manotti Read Free Book Online Page A

Blascos.’
    Well you’re going to hospital, Blascos. We’ve got to get that burn seen to, otherwise it can get infected. You won’t have any trouble, I’ll take care of it.’
    When they reach A&E, Romero helps the boy out of the car. Holds him by the arm for a moment and whispers:
    ‘I’ll be at the party tomorrow night at ten. You’ll be there too and you’ll introduce me to your friends. And I’ll make sure you’ve got something to sell. OK?’
    He nods.
    ‘I want to hear you say it.’
    ‘All right.’
    ‘If you let me down, you know what’ll happen to you?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Now get in there.’

Saturday 16 September 1989
    Le Dem hadn’t wanted to come. Romero didn’t press him, so it’s Lavorel who’s waiting with him outside Massillon’s villa. They’re both wearing miniature tape recorders concealed under their belts. Romero’s wearing a short-sleeved, floral summer shirt, and Lavorel a light blazer over a white shirt. A few cars crawl through the open iron gates and park in the garden. Two Porsches, a yellow Ferrari. And a lot of ordinary cars. Lavorel slips into the garden and makes a note of the registration numbers.
    Blascos arrives on foot, at around 10 p.m., clean and neatly dressed. He’s still limping but he looks in much better shape. Romero gives him an envelope, which he holds in a Kleenex.
    ‘There’s some coke in there. Top quality. You can sell it for a good price or cut it a little. Now get to work.’
    Romero whistles. Lavorel comes over to join them and the three men enter the vast nineteenth-century villa surrounded by gardens. There’s a flight of steps covered by an awning leading up to the front door which stands wide open. Entrance hall, to the left a drawing room which is empty for the time being, to the right the dining room where forty or so young men and women are gathered, chatting over drinks against a background of deafening house music. At the back of the room is a lavish buffet. Blascos greets everyone. Lavorel has his eye on six men, short, wiry, energetic, very well turned out, bespoke suits, luxury shoes, gold bracelets and chains. The jockeys, without a doubt. Very different from the others, young men of means, like Deluc, or others with more modest incomes, like Blascos. A dozen utterly beautiful girls. Romero feels a little tremor of excitement. And then a few others, nondescript.
    Blascos steers Romero by the arm. Lavorel follows.
    ‘Massillon, I’ve brought you two good friends of mine…’
    ‘Pleased to meet you. We’ll squeeze them in.’
    He shakes their hands. Then everyone goes back to the bowl of punch on the buffet. Things are already hotting up, although it’s still early. Lavorel wanders among the clusters of people, his ears pricked. The talk is of races, trainers, bonuses, bets or sex. Lavorel isn’t able to follow it all, and fears he’s wasting his time in this place which isn’t his scene. From time to time he glances at Romero. He watches him down one drink, then another, and starts to worry. People are attacking the food. Romero, glass in hand,is sitting on a radiator, in front of a window, beside a bottle blonde with pneumatic breasts and lips. She slips her arm around his neck. When she moves off towards the buffet, Lavorel goes up to Romero and whispers:
    ‘Be careful, please.’
    ‘I can’t resist blondes.’
    ‘Your first wife was a redhead, the second very dark, and this one’s not even a real blonde.’
    ‘There aren’t any real blondes left, didn’t you know? What with pollution, nuclear power…’
    The girl’s on her way back, carrying two plates. With a flash of inspiration, Lavorel leans over to Romero, grabs his tape recorder and slips it into his own pocket. Damage limitation.
    Just then, it’s already approaching midnight, a new guest arrives, smiling. He’s immediately the centre of attention. He kisses a few girls and then takes a pretty lacquered box from his trouser pocket. Hearty applause, and the