Three Drops of Blood and a Cloud of Cocaine

by Quentin Mouron

  Someone knocks on the door. Franck sets down the book and stubs out his cigarette. He leaps to his feet.

  “Just a moment, please,” he says loudly, trying to sound cheerful and amiable. Quickly he dons his jacket and collects his machine pistol from the nightstand. He tiptoes over to the door and, with the gun at his side, ready to fire, looks through the peephole. Then he walks back and stows the Steyr TMP in his bag. When he opens the door, the bestselling author of crime novels is standing there, wearing a broad smile.

  “Hi!” he exclaims.

  Franck doesn’t react. He stares at him.

  “Surprised to see me?”

  “Not really. I just wonder how you were able to find my room.”

  “Ha ha! Mystery!” (He winks.) “You didn’t know we were staying in the same hotel?”

  “No, I thought you lived in Boston.”

  “I’m from Long Island.”

  Another silence from Franck.

  “I thought you wouldn’t be going to that party on Hammer Street. That sort of thing is okay for the young – they’re having new experiences, they’re getting stoned, right? That’s just natural. But it’s not for us! So I thought, since we’re both literary guys and obviously have the same sense of humor, the two of us could share a few drinks in the bar, if you’ve nothing else planned…”

  “I’m not a literary guy, and I don’t have the same sense of humor as you at all… But I accept your invitation. Give me ten minutes and I’ll join you.”

  “That’s great, Franck! Great!” (He gives him another wink.) “I’ll wait for you in the bar.”

  Franck locks the door. Then he stows the Péladan in the nightstand, changes his shirt, fills his cigarette case, and pockets the butterfly knife. What does that moron want with me? he thinks. Is he really counting on spending the evening with me? Or is it a trap set by Le Carré? Franck didn’t get the impression that the novelist was carrying a weapon, nor even that he would be capable of using a gun. But it’s wiser to take precautions.

  The bar is as cold and impersonal as the day before. The people sitting in it have a different veneer, but the wood is the same. Wholesalers, traders, portfolio managers, former celebrities, and the very wealthy – with, as if to confound expectations, a stunning young woman and a seductive young man every so often. The bestselling novelist is at a table off on its own, holding his head down, in the attitude of someone afraid of being recognized. One thing’s sure, thinks Franck. If this guy is supposed to kill me, I’ve nothing to worry about. He goes over to him, smiling. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long!”

  “Franck!” (The novelist roars with laughter, for no apparent reason.) “Not at all! That was fast! Thanks for coming. Life in Boston can be pretty grim if you’re in poor company.”

  You’re telling me! thinks Franck.

  The other man continues, “So, what will we have? I’ve good memories of the burgundy.”

  “Okay, let’s have some red!”

  He signals to the waiter. “Some burgundy, my friend.” Then, to Franck, “Just imagine, I only drink wine occasionally. Well, what can you do? I grew up the hard way: Budweiser and Molson were our household gods.”

  Franck smiles, and then murmurs, “May I ask you an embarrassing question…?”

  The novelist leans forward, with a complicit air. “Anything you like!”

  “Well,” says Franck, “I’ve forgotten your name.”

  The stout novelist is disconcerted. For a celebrity accustomed to people whispering as he goes by, this supposedly cultured guy’s question is disconcerting. Yet he forces a smile, to put on a good face for this schnook.

  “I’m James Ellsor.”

  Yes, Franck recalls. James Ellsor, displayed prominently in every bookstore, whose every book is an event, whose books sell in the hundred thousands, and who had recently been caught out in a hilarious transgression when a journalist noticed that he would regularly log on to Amazon to write positive reviews of his own books while brutally denigrating those of his fellow writers.

  Franck nods. “Yes, I recognize the name.”

  Amazing! thinks the novelist. “You’ve never read me?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Maybe you’re not a big reader…”

  “Not at all, I confess. But I’m delighted to discuss literature whenever the opportunity arises, especially with a man of taste.”

  Ellsor guffaws. “You see! I was sure we’d get on like a house on fire!”

  The waiter pours two glasses of wine.

  “To our meeting!”

  “To our meeting!” echoes Franck.

  Ellsor knocks back half his glass in a single gulp, before his little bloodshot eyes return to Franck. “And what do you read, if it’s not indiscreet to ask?”

  “At the moment I’m reading Péladan.”

  “Péla-who?”

  “Péladan.”

  “A big seller?”

  “Anything but, very probably.”

  “Ah, I see, he’s one of those obscure French writers who split every hair and spend their time chasing their tails for the benefit of the hundred or so nutcases brave enough to read them. Pardon my candor!”

  “You’re very astute.”

  “At the same time, the French prefer to read us because we know what a real novel is: something with a spark, action-packed, that makes you sweat a bit. Powerful writing! Something that makes you drop your work, sacrifice your spare time and coffee breaks to get back to reading us. We Americans have a talent for addiction!”

  Seeing the novelist’s small, reddish eyes and the slightly yellow circles beneath them, Franck tells himself that as far as that goes he must know what he’s talking about.

  Ellsor goes on: “A book has to be red-hot! Otherwise, what do you have? It drops from people’s hands, they put it away and never come back to it. Have you ever read a French author who really transports you?”

  “I can assure you I have—”

  “Allow me to doubt it!”

  Franck realizes that his fears were unfounded. This guy is just a crackpot who wants to yammer on interminably. He’ll soliloquize like that for a few hours, oblivious to the fact that there is someone sitting opposite, and find himself alone at closing time with no clue about what has happened.

  “Do you know the trick for making readers believe in your novel?”

  Franck doesn’t bother to reply.

  “All you have to do is write every twenty pages or so ‘This isn’t a movie,’ or ‘This is no soap opera, this is real life,’ that kind of thing. Then the reader tells himself that this guy has cojones, he’s not just a scribbler; he believes in your characters, in the world of your novel, whatever! Just remember, ‘It’s not like in books’; that’s all you need!” Ellsor takes another sip of red wine. He looks at the ceiling, apparently absorbed, almost melancholy. “There are two tyrannical bitches for a writer—”

  “Publishers?” suggests the detective, not thinking much about it, and looking elsewhere.

  “No, my friend, those guys make a pile of money; it’s clear, it’s clean, and that’s it. I’m talking about worse, real tyranny, actual fascism: it’s readers! Yes, siree! Surprised?”

  “Not really—”

  “You can’t imagine how many dickheads turn up at my book signings to tell me how I should have written my book, how I should write the next one, and what I’m supposed to be like as a person. Then they give me their blessing! They congratulate me on remaining modest, on preserving my humility, they say. Humility, that’s what really tickles them. They can’t get over it that I don’t attack them, that I say ‘hi’ to them, that I call them Mr. this or that. But sometimes they give me a hard time. Why? I haven’t a clue! They tell me I’m too this, too that, whatever! Assholes that have never written a book, never achieved anything in their whole lives, come and give me a hard time – me, that sells four hundred thousand copies a clip! Can they be serious?” He takes a deep breath, and goes on. “The second bi
tch is the critics.”

  Franck nods.

  “They’re a pack of rabid dogs; you’re never good enough for them; you’ve never proved yourself enough. That’s their great obsession: that you prove yourself! They expect something of you, you see? So you’ve got to show them you can live up to their expectations. And then they’ve the arrogance of guys that have read everything, heard everything, for whom there’s nothing new under the sun.”

  “It’s tough,” admits Franck, remembering a pamphlet by Théophile Gautier attacking journalists.

  “But you don’t know the worst! On top of it all, those pit bulls are proud as peacocks!”

  “You’re describing a zoo!”

  Ellsor roars with laughter. “Look, if you’re hoping to please the Boston critics, for instance, you should never set a book in Boston. What jingoists! What chauvinists! They’ll attribute the lowest of motives to you, catch you out on insignificant details, accuse you of drawing a caricature. On the other hand, in LA, in San Francisco, in Vancouver, they’ll praise you to the skies! Crown you with laurels! They’ll find you’ve ‘hit just the right note,’ that it’s ‘striking panic realism,’ that you’ve ‘given a real sense of the Eastern Seaboard,’ that you’ve ‘shown it in all its complexity,’ and a bucketful of praise you won’t even know what to make of.”

  Franck, finding this diatribe quite sensible, risks joining the conversation. “So you’re saying that unless you’re going to be full of praise, you should only write about far-off places?”

  “Ah! You’re a treat, Franck! That’s exactly it! Set the thing in Kingman, Arizona. Paint a really nasty scene, with addicts in every house, violence, fanaticism, a touch of incest. Who’s going to hold it against you? Honestly, do you know a lot of critics living in Kingman, Arizona? Waiter, another bottle for my friend and myself!”

  Ellsor leans toward Franck, and says, in a confidential tone, “Do you know what really sells these days? The dismembered bodies of young girls.”

  “The dismembered bodies of young girls?” repeats Franck.

  “Yessiree! Stolen childhood and all that crap. You’ve no idea how well that sells! All the bestsellers of these past few years are about young girls chopped to bits. Now explain that to me! Are the authors perverts? The readers? Maybe a publishers’ niche? I haven’t a clue.”

  Franck nods, then yawns and says, “Forgive me if I leave you for a few moments.”

  Ellsor titters and winks. “Go easy now, Franck! Don’t overdo it!”

  Franck smiles as he heads for the washroom.

  James Ellsor finishes his own glass of burgundy and also Franck’s (since that druggie’s never coming back from the john, he thinks). Then he heads for the elevators. A young, immaculately uniformed flunky is acting as elevator attendant – though guests only have to press the “up” button.

  “Will this damfool machine of yours not go any faster?” Ellsor finally yells at the attendant, as they reach the fourteenth floor.

  Unflustered, he merely answers, “Just a few moments more, sir.”

  Ellsor lets out a heavy sigh. He’s angry that Franck has abandoned him. How can the guy have the gall to take French leave like that while he, James Ellsor, whose books sell four hundred thousand copies, who has entire pages devoted to him in the Times, and a fan club numbering over twelve thousand active members, does him the honor of inviting him to his table? This upstart, whom he has secretly baptized The Vaselined Faggot from the Café de Paris, has left him in a fury.

  He doesn’t tip the lift attendant, and when he finally reaches his room, curses on realizing he forgot to lock the door. He switches on the light, takes a laptop from his suitcase, opens it, lowers the blinds, and unbuttons his shirt. As soon as Windows has finished loading, he opens an MP4 file entitled “Underage Runaway Hotties,” grabs a bottle of champagne from the fridge, pours himself a glass, and sheds his trousers. Just as he is ready to stretch out on the bed, he hears a creak. Before he has time to turn around, an arm passes under his chin, jerking his head back, and he feels a blade against his throat.

  “I’m sorry,” whispers a voice. “It took me a bit longer—”

  “Franck! What—”

  “Don’t call out, or you’re a dead man.”

  The novelist keeps quiet, barely uttering a squeak; he is sweating profusely.

  “Shush, James, shush—”

  “Stop this, Franck, you’re nuts!”

  “Worse than that!”

  “For God’s sake, what do you want? Tell me what you want!”

  “What do I want? Come on now, surely you can guess!”

  “I’ve got money, there, in my suitcase. Take it, my computer, my dope, everything. I won’t breathe a word! I swear! I won’t breathe a word!”

  “I just want to read to you, my friend. It means a lot to me.”

  Ellsor is literally peeing his pants. Franck’s nostrils are full of the stench of urine. In the mirror, he watches the novelist’s ashen, sweating head. He can feel him trembling in his embrace, with the blade of the butterfly knife resting on the carotid artery.

  “Have you got one of your books here?”

  “In my bag! In my bag!” yelps Ellsor, terrorized.

  “Thanks.” Yet Franck doesn’t relax his hold.

  “Let me go! Please—”

  “No, James, I’m afraid that’s not possible…”

  Ellsor is choking on his own spittle.

  Franck leans close to his ear, and murmurs, “I only read dead authors.”

  The novelist has finished urinating. He no longer tries to resist. He merely utters a gentle moan. They remain like that for about fifteen seconds. The point of the knife moves over the writer’s throat, exerting no pressure, leaving no trace. The moans continue. The smell of urine. Then, suddenly, Franck relaxes his grasp and pushes Ellsor onto the bed. He pockets the knife.

  Standing in the middle of the room, the detective is perfectly calm and smiling. “Mr. Ellsor, I’m really sorry if my manners weren’t to your liking. I just wanted to show you that, contrary to what you said a while ago, we haven’t got the same sense of humor. (He bows.) At your service.”

  Franck leaves the room, leaving the novelist pale and dazed, slumped on his bed before the shining computer screen, which is showing in close-up the rape of a little red-headed girl, aged about ten.

  15

  If hell existed, it would take the form of an ocean of souls depersonalized by a vain, gigantic collective movement: you would fancy that sometimes a higher wave, foaming as it breaks, is a soul illuminated for an instant by rage and bucking against the torment.

  JOSÉPHIN PÉLADAN

  THE SORROWFUL HEART

  Franck closes the Péladan. His cell phone vibrates, informing him that the file on Bill Hiscock has arrived. It is accompanied by a note from Mariella: “But very little about Ernest Caron. Worked at Brookline Technical College, 1990–2. Taught at Newtonville High School, 1992–2001. Lives in Boston. That’s all.” Then a WhatsApp message:

  (23:48)

  Can I ask you something?

  (23:50)

  Of course!

  (23:53)

  I don’t really get what’s behind this new case. I’m not being critical, Franck! It’s none of my business. It’s just I’m having trouble following you.

  (23:59)

  You’re probably right. I’ve no rational or even emotional reason to pursue it. As I said before: it’s just curiosity. I thought I caught a look, a rather shifty, guilty look. An interesting one. Maybe it was my imagination! But I’m going to follow the trail all the same, and I’m willing to bet whatever you like that Ernest Caron, Le Carré’s unhappy cousin, was somehow involved in the murder of the old guy. Anyway, what would I have to do in New York? Rummage in garbage bins? Sort through household trash? No thanks! This isn’t a “case.” Just consider it a diversion, a whim. But a very important one.

  Franck opens the file on Hiscock and reads it through as he leans back, a cigarette betwe
en his lips.

  Tom Lord was born in 1970, in Pasadena, California. His father held a junior position with the American Chase Bank; his mother was unemployed. They lived in a quiet residential neighborhood. Tom attended a public high school in Pasadena which enjoys quite a good reputation. He was a big, quiet boy, taciturn and a bit dumb. At the age of fourteen, devoured by acne, suffering from bulimia, and spending his recesses by himself, he was suspended by the school principal after a female teacher surprised him rubbing his penis against the belly of a deaf and dumb female student he had cornered in the washroom. He was only allowed to return to school three months later. Now the laughingstock of the school, for the next three years he would be beaten up regularly before finally leaving the establishment. According to him, it was only when he was eighteen, over a shared joint, that he established his first real relationship with another human being, an older boy named Billy Crams. For a year Billy and Tom met every afternoon to smoke grass they bought with the money they stole here and there. They shared their first experiments – first with drugs, then with sex: in 1989 the Pasadena police vice squad opened an inquiry into the rape of Mary Preston, a former classmate of Tom’s. Lord was arrested, but Billy managed to escape. A few weeks later he was found dead from an overdose in a Santa Fe motel. Tom was sentenced to six years in prison. Four years later he was out on parole. He worked successively in a record shop, a bakery, a boarding kennel, and lastly a hotel. It was there, in the Winnicot International Hotel, that he met a German producer of porn movies who was attracted by the downcast, dissolute air of the young man and offered him a part. He was required to act out a rape scene “as close to reality as possible” by drawing on his own memories. Initially Tom was a disappointment. Then, chewed out by the producer and humiliated, he threw himself so brutally on the actress – an eighteen-year-old Korean girl – that three actors were needed to prevent him from killing her. This feat of arms gained him quite a reputation in the California porn underground. He made films for another few years, and then ran a fitness club on Hollywood Boulevard. It belonged to the California arm of the millionaire Lance Le Carré. Tom did not meet this businessman until 2009, the year he came to live in a Boston suburb to take over the management of The Muscles of Love, also owned by Le Carré.