Rough Trade

by Dominique Manotti

  Daquin sat down, his back to the bay window, so that he wouldn’t have to look at the artificially green golf links and the meticulously shaped yellow bunkers. He remembered a Sunday when he was a child, at the golf club bar in St Cloud, his father in an immense leather armchair, drinking whisky and going over the match he’d just played, blow by blow, with a human warmth he reserved exclusively for this sport.

  He’d scored eight above par, as a Sunday amateur, who normally reached a score of between fifteen and eighteen. The match of his life. And all this while his mother was dying from the effects of a clever cocktail of medicines. When they returned home she was dead. And little Théo always thought his father knew. That’s why he’d played so well that day. And I was used as his alibi, Daquin thought.

  Lestiboudois placed his hand on Daquin’s forearm.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Everything’s fine, Monsieur Lestiboudois. To be perfectly frank with you, I have a bit of trouble imagining you romping in front of the cameras at the Club Simon.’

  ‘You’re quite right. I’ve never lain on one of those beds.’

  The maître d’hôtel arrived. ‘Mixed grills. With a chilled Saumur.’

  ‘Explain to me then, why pay out all this money every month?’

  ‘I run the export department in a big French firm which sells cosmetics and beauty products.’

  ‘We know.’

  ‘As such, I have to entertain foreign customers who come from the whole world over to sign very big contracts with us. Paris has a certain reputation. When they get here, they want …’ hesitations, shame? ‘Let’s be clear, they want ass. Places like the Folies Bergère, the Crazy Horse, don’t match up to our customers’ expectations any more. They may be OK for a Chrysler dealer from Iowa or Danish peasants, but not for the type of person we’re dealing with. The specialized networks of call-girls for businessmen, who provide very pretty girls, multilingual, able to accompany other clients to dinners or the theatre and sleep with them afterwards, they’re quite good. We use some of them. But the Club Simon, believe me, is an inspired idea. We found some superb models there, models our clients have sometimes already seen as photos in magazines, who can give the illusion of being a bit amateur. And then, this kind of secret, members only, pseudonyms, a key, it’s exciting. And the video … they leave with it and they’re enchanted. A really personalized souvenir – and not corny – of Gay Paree. Some, who’ve come several times before, arrive with their own video tape recording, with a list of credits already prepared. I think the Club Simon has helped us clinch several enormous international contracts. A good investment.’

  ‘Was it your company who paid?’

  ‘Of course. Included in general expenses. I accompany our clients, check that everything’s going well, and then leave.’

  ‘What pseudonym do you use?’

  ‘Homer. I believe more or less all the pseudonyms are taken from Ancient Greece.’

  ‘Good. Now, let’s go on to the girls you’ve used. In fact, were there only girls?’

  ‘No. Not always.’ Lestiboudois was pink with confusion.

  ‘Let’s dwell on the girls. Who acted as the go-between?’

  ‘Simon gave us the name and address of a Virginie Lamouroux. I’d phone her several days in advance. I’d say to her more or less what we needed, and she’d look after everything. That arrangement’s always been perfect. And a lot cheaper than the classic call-girl networks.’

  ‘How were payments made?’

  ‘In our case, we came to an agreement that the girls shouldn’t ask for anything direct from the clients. They’d send their invoices straight to our company the following day. I’d check everything. If there were any disputes, I’d settle it with Virginie. A marvellous girl, commissaire. So, these are rather specialized activities for her so she can finance her studies, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do know. She wants to be a museum curator. So, how d’you contact her?’

  ‘By phone. I would leave a message on an answering machine. She’d always call me back during the day. As for paying, she’d send me her invoice and I’d send the payment to her postal address.’

  ‘And would that also come under general business expenses in your company?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘A few supplementary questions: who put you in touch with the Club Simon?’

  ‘M. Hershel, an industrialist, a whizz-kid in microcomputing. A sector which is also very open to international competition.’

  ‘Have you sometime used the services of young Thai girls?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Our requirement is to make it a “Parisian” experience.’

  ‘Did you rent a studio on the evening of Friday 29 February?’

  ‘No, commissaire. We always rent on weekdays. Our clients return home at weekends.’

  ‘To their family –?’

  ‘Precisely, to their family.’

  ‘Were drugs being used at these get-togethers?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ Lestiboudois had turned pink again. ‘But it’s not impossible. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Come on. You don’t have to pussyfoot. This is a private conversation.’

  ‘Some clients have hinted about it to me. They simply told me that the girls procured all the substances they could possibly want. All you had to do was ask. I pretended not to understand.’

  ‘And on the invoices?’

  ‘It never appeared.’

  ‘Not as such, but in another form perhaps?’

  ‘Well, yes. Some invoices were larger than others, and I once asked Virginie Lamouroux why. She gave me a list of products that our clients had been provided with that evening. After that I never asked any more questions.’

  ‘And what were those products?’

  ‘Pot and LSD, on that day. Listen, commissaire, I’m aware that all this isn’t exactly legal or very moral. But we’re fighting a real economic war. We can’t allow our business ventures to fade away in the face of foreign competition. It’d be like weakening France herself.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Monsieur Lestiboudois. If I wanted, I might take the same tack in your shoes.’

  ‘An ice-cream? A coffee?

  ‘Thank you for everything, Monsieur Lestiboudois.’

  *

  Back to the office. Santoni driving. Daquin in the passenger seat. Silence.

  ‘Lavorel will get a real kick out of that when I tell him.’ And a few kilometres further on. ‘People who play golf are capable of anything.’

  Santoni looked puzzled.

  4.15 p.m. Passage du Désir

  ‘I’ve some good news and some bad news, patron. Which shall I begin with?’

  ‘You can begin by making me a coffee, Attali. And you can then tell me the bad.’

  ‘It seems VL is nowhere to be found. She hasn’t slept at her girlfriend’s, hasn’t left any message, and Sobesky’s son hasn’t seen her again. None of her employers have heard from her since midday yesterday.’

  ‘We’ll see tomorrow morning. What next?’

  ‘The Drugs team who’ve been watching the shops since Monday last have left a big batch of photos. I’ve been working on them, and I’ve compared them with ours. I’ve made up a file of about thirty faces, let’s say, the hard core of people using the shops regularly. All we have to do is identify them. We can begin by comparing them with the twenty-two names found at the National Immigration Office. It may take a long time and need quite a few people on it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so. I’ll take charge of that. Next?’

  ‘Our colleagues in Drugs have told us that none of the regulars, except for the owner, turned up on Friday.’

  ‘Yesterday? Now, that does interest me. Ask them, even so, to keep their surveillance going till Monday.’

  ‘D’you think the traffickers can have closed down using the shops, after VL was arrested?’

  ‘It’s possible. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Sobesky’s Amer
ican associate is in Paris.’

  ‘Go on. Tell me.’ Daquin was suddenly very tense.

  ‘Sobesky phoned a manufacturer yesterday evening with whom he had an appointment at Deauville during the weekend, to put him off, as his associate had turned up unexpectedly from New York. He’s dining with him today.’

  ‘Baker never called him?’

  ‘No. I’ve listened to everything again. No trace.’

  ‘Thursday or Friday, Baker’s in Paris. Friday, VL disappears. The shops are put out of bounds. Coincidence?’

  ‘Wait. That’s not all. On Friday Sobesky was giving his agents a rocket all day. They didn’t want to sell his new collection of raincoats, the prices are too low, the margins aren’t big enough.’

  ‘Rivetting.’

  ‘These raincoats are going to be delivered at the end of the month. They’re coming from Romania.’

  Romania? Which has six hundred kilometres of shared border with Bulgaria.

  6 p.m. Villa des Artistes

  Returning home by taxi to change, have a bath, read a bit before meeting Lenglet, Daquin felt tired suddenly. His thoughts were that he was probably being followed and that he was going back to a house where Soleiman no longer was, and it was a shame. He opened his front door and, closing it behind him, stopped abruptly, without switching on the light. It smelled of stale tobacco. Not strong enough to alert a smoker, but there was no possible doubt as far as he was concerned, for he didn’t allow cigarettes in the house. Some unknown person had been in here, and had stayed long enough to smoke one or more cigarettes. To do what? Look through his papers? There weren’t any here. Bug the place? Plant a bomb? If I switch on the light, he thought, it could set it off. But if I don’t put the light on and go out again straight away, the man following me could be outside, most probably under the porch at this very moment and will know that I know. And if these people are traffickers, my chances of catching them will diminish. Daquin crouched down, turned his back on the room and, stretching up his arm, switched on the light.

  Nothing happened. So far so good. He sat on the floor, breathed again, relaxed. Now was a time to reflect. Someone was tailing him. Was it to find out how far the investigation had progressed? There were simpler, more discreet methods for the concerted services of the police, just as there were for traffickers. Was it to find a way of putting him under pressure to make him sing one way or another? Was it people who knew he was gay? That could mean a great many people. It was possible. They would have placed a lot of bugs in his house. That was the most likely. It was therefore unproductive to take risks. I simply won’t move, he thought, and tomorrow I’ll get the house examined by specialists. Still two hours to go before the meeting with Lenglet. He propped himself up as comfortably as he could. Nothing at hand to read.

  He sat thinking about his father, as he had at midday, playing golf. Authoritarian and cold. He’d never touched his son. Never a kiss, not even a handshake. He used to put gloves on to make love to his wife – my mother. My mother who got plastered on booze and medicines to forget her husband – my father. The happiest moments of my childhood were those endless walks in the forest in the holidays at Grandmother’s. And then, in that same forest, the year he was thirteen – the rape. The year his mother died. Suddenly, an obsessive thought came into his head: I’ve no way of protecting Soleiman. And then the flash of an image: his tanned body, under the orange duvet. Asleep. Inanimate. I don’t want you to die, he thought.

  5 p.m. Vincennes racecourse

  At the wheel of his Renault 5 Martens drove into the car-park reserved for owners and trainers. Romero let him go on a little ahead, then introduced himself with his warrant card. The man at the gate raised his eyebrows, but allowed him through. But, just in the time it took to park, Martens had vanished. Romero entered the racecourse enclosure and bought a programme for the evening’s races, which were to begin in two hours’ time. In the second: Rheingold, owner D. Martens. He went along to the stable area, found where the horses in the second race were stabled. And there, inside the maze of looseboxes, he saw Martens, feverishly walking around a very pretty trotting horse, small build, burnt chestnut in colour. Just as Romero was passing them, the jockey’s stable lad pushed Martens gently but firmly out of the box.

  ‘Scram! You’re making the horse nervous. Go and have a drink, we’ll see you after the race.’

  Inspiration. Romero caught Martens by the arm, gave him a big smile, and began: ‘Oh well, that’s that. I’ll take you away. Let’s go and have a drink.’

  Martens leaned on his arm and followed him. Martens didn’t want to go up to the Panorama restaurant, he preferred to stay in the great hall where all the punters were, he felt more anonymous like that, he would have liked the ground to swallow him up. They went to the bar on the ground floor to drink a pastis together. It was crowded, but there was no risk of losing one another. Martens clung to Romero as if he were suddenly all the family he had.

  ‘You know, it’s the first time one of my horses is running at Vincennes.’

  ‘Do you have many?’

  ‘No, only two. They are trained in the Orne, 200 kilometres from Paris. I’ve had to put up with a lot of disruption to see them run, but I’ve never missed one of their races. And you?’

  He would have to remain evasive, otherwise how could he explain his presence within the confines of the looseboxes. But the question and the reply were of no importance. Martens was only interested in his horses and himself. Romero ordered another round of pastis.

  ‘Have you placed your bets on the first?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Go and do it, quickly. I’ll wait for you here and then we’ll go and find seats in the stand.’

  Romero had never gambled, not at a racecourse, or a betting shop, or at the corner tobacconist’s. He observed what others were doing in front of him and put two lots of ten francs to win on two horses, chosen at random, nos. 4 and 11. And for the second, 500 francs to win on Rheingold. I can’t do less, he thought. Whether it would be accepted as justifiable expenses would be another matter.

  He climbed up to the stand. Martens was ashen, tense, and more and more silent. Romero was caught up in the spectacle. Projectors produced an unreal light in the dusk. The sulkys passed back and forth in front of the stands: horses like automatons, horses that flew, astonishing bursts of speed. And the roar from the stands began to mount. It was cold. The horses were under orders. They were off. Romero tried to find nos. 4 and 11. He never succeeded. Happily the loudspeaker was there, accompanying the race with a sort of recitative. The roar grew louder. No. 4 took the lead, the stands shouted, no. 4 had won, the stands emptied. Romero turned to Martens, astounded: I’ve won. A weak smile from Martens: Congratulations.

  ‘You seem pretty down in the dumps. I won’t desert you though. I’ll pick up my winnings a bit later.’

  ‘You know, to see my horse run at Vincennes is really important to me. I’d never have believed it possible. My colours on this course. But you’ve seen the odds aren’t good.’

  ‘Have you owned horses for a long time?’

  ‘Five years. Five years I’ve sacrificed all my money to them and every one of my weekends.’

  Five years at least since his scam’s been in operation, Romero thought. The horses for the second race had entered the course.

  Rheingold, no. 5, grey vest with two orange stripes, orange cap. Romero had a flashback: the girl’s dress at the lunch had had the same orange and the coat had been grey. Was it a present from Martens?

  The horses were under orders. They were lining up at the starting gates. Martens clasped Romero’s arm. The loudspeaker took up its chant again. No. 5 made a mess of his start, vanished into the depths of the cluster. Romero was surprised with himself: at the tight feeling in his chest. Martens was swaying and muttering, talking to his horse like a mother to her sick baby. The horses passed in front of the stand. Thunder of hooves, roar from the stands. No. 5 in the anonymous mass. Romero
couldn’t manage to track it down. Then in the line opposite, he saw no. 5 moving to the outside. The last lap: no. 5 was getting under way with a superior speed, all alone on the outside. Last straight, the speaker overexcited, no. 5 was passing the pack, and with a superb effort, a final burst of speed, it reached the finishing line, and crossed it in the lead. Romero was panting, and so hypnotized by no. 5’s race that he hadn’t even heard the stands this time. He turned to Martens, sitting as white as a sheet, tears in his eyes.

  ‘Excuse me. My head’s spinning.’

  Romero looked at him: he had to stick to him like a leech now, he was going to crack. Instinct of the hunt. He caught him under his arms and put him back on his feet.

  ‘We must go and congratulate the winners.’

  He held him up as he walked.

  Jostling, laughter, kisses, congratulations. Officials. Cup. All that flew past. The jockey was running in the fourth. He hardly had any time to spend with Martens. Martens accompanied his horse to the loosebox. Romero took the opportunity to collect his winnings while the third race was starting. His winnings were more than he earned in a month. The evening was becoming surreal. He ran towards the looseboxes. Found Martens again, who was gazing at his horse, punch drunk and full of love. It really had been beautiful: now, after the race, it had become a trotting horse, as though it had disintegrated through the effort. The stable lad was busy washing him, rubbing him down, protecting his legs.

  ‘Come on. It’s over. We’re going to celebrate now.’

  Martens woke up.

  ‘OK.’ To the lad. ‘Tell your boss we’ll be at the Rendezvous des Trotteurs, if he wants to join us after the races.’

  10 p.m. Closerie des Lilas

  The pianist was beginning a jazz piece. Daquin sat down at Lenglet’s table in the brasserie where he was waiting for him on a red banquette, in suit and tie, very strict.