Eyes Full of Empty (7 page)

“Let's get something to drink.”

We enter the living room through wide-open sliding glass doors. The music's turned all the way up. I follow her to the kitchen, dodging en route a young girl wiggling around by her lonesome. Towering over the bar are stockpiled bottles and plastic cups. As Eve pours herself vodka, I ask, “What'd you tell the people outside?”

“About you? That you were my dealer. Like you asked. What are you having?”

“I'll have a Jack.”

She pours, pointing a finger at the soda bottles on the table. “What with? Coke?”

“Straight up,” I say, taking the cup from her hand.

We toast. I take a gulp, eyes riveted on the living room, which has become an improvised dance floor where cute girls in short dresses are swaying their hips. Eve asks me if I like what I see.

I smile. “Between friends? I'm too old for that.”

“But do you like it, Idir?” This little girl already knows everything about the sexual hang-ups of men in general—and I'm no exception.

“Yeah, they're pretty.”

Just then, a boy comes up and starts talking to Eve. Tall, skinny guy, poorly shaven, with a lock of hair falling over his eyes. He seems happy to see her. She feels obliged to introduce us.

“Hugo, our host. Idir, a friend.”

“Pleasure,” he says.

He seems sincere. Eve must've filled him in. I don't feel like having the two of them underfoot all night just because I'm playing pharmacist.

“Can I offer you a line?”

Eve and the skinny douchebag break out in huge smiles, a display of affection I'm not used to, at least not when it's directed at me.
Tarik, you lucky bastard, people must love you
.

Hugo drags us upstairs. We go into his room; there's a poster for
Pierrot le fou
on his wall.
Damn, what is it with all these kids and Godard?
I turn my back on him, let them snort their shit while staring at Belmondo, his face painted blue. Hugo gets up and declares it's good stuff. He asks if I can score some more easy. I toss him the bag, which he catches midflight, and then I leave the room before I'm overwhelmed by the desire to punch him. I go downstairs to mingle with the other guests. I figure hanging around the bar is a good way of making sure I talk to everyone. So I pour myself another Jack Daniel's and settle in by the bottles, watching the girls dance, like some sad old loser.

A guy who looks like a high school football player straight out of some American TV show bumps into me. He's already pretty tipsy and has to steady himself on the bar for a moment to stay upright. I take no notice. He grabs a beer, uncaps it with his lighter, and takes a long swallow. When he goes by me again, I can't help myself: I stick my foot out. He trips over it and all six feet of him hit the floor. The beer he just grabbed goes rolling away, pouring out its contents. Quick as he went down, he's back on his feet, eyes wide and alert, as if the fall sobered him up. Furious, he points a finger at me, and shouts, “Fuck you do that for?”

I look at him evenly and, without raising my voice, say, “I didn't do anything, man. You're the one who's drunk and can't stand up straight.”

He pulls his fist back, but his friends pop up out of nowhere and surround him. They move him away, trying to calm him down. Never punch the drug dealer. He's still struggling and shouting insults at me, wild with rage. Just then, Eve shows up. I didn't know she'd watched the whole scene. I give her a smile.

“Drop it,” she says.

“Oh, I wasn't about to get all worked up.” I eye her lips a little too intently. I don't think she'd care if I eyed her intently all night. As long as I was the one with the drugs.

“Ignore him. I told you the guy was weird.”

I look at her, smiling. “So he's Tantalus?”

She gives me a weird look. “What? No, he's the guy I told you about on the way over.”

I should drink more often. Sometimes connections get made without my even realizing. I'd call it genius if it hadn't taken me so long. Which makes me a dumb fuck instead. I forget that I've been to college, am capable of logical reasoning, can do something besides this shitty job where I'm paid under the table.

“‘Condemned to thirst forever'—is that what you said to me in the taxi?” I ask her, taking a firm grip on her arm.

“Yeah—I mean, I don't remember. Something like that.”

Tantalus. Torment. I must look like a visionary right now, or a crank. Thank you, Dad, for keeping me from spending my days in the streets and forcing me to go to class. What a dumb fuck I was. Why couldn't the guy who'd taken Thibaut to the club also be one of his friends?

“What's his name?”

“Who?” she asks.

“The guy I just messed with.”

“Julien.”

“He do drugs?”

“Does he ever,” she replies, with a smile that tells me that if he were a blue-collar boy, she'd call him a junkie.

“Perfect. Go see him. Tell him I want a word. Say I'm ready to give him a little pick-me-up as an apology.”

She stares at me, eyes wide open.

“Stop staring at me like that. C'mon now, please?”

She obeys. I knock off the rest of my glass and follow her out on the patio. I look around for her. She's holding Julien's hand in a corner of the yard. I walk over to them and extend my hand. “Try this again? I'm Idir.”

He looks me over warily without replying or taking my hand. I figure it's time for the pills to come out. I don't know what the fuck they are, but he pops two like they're candy before I can even ask if he wants any.

“Keep the rest, if you want. I'm sorry about earlier. It was an accident.” Discreetly, I signal Eve to clear off and leave us alone. She gets it and goes. He watches her walk off, eyeing the sway of her hips.

“You fuck her already?” he asks, just like that.

“Nope.”

I know guys like him. He wants me to turn the question around so he can say he fucked her, give me all the details of what he did to her, tell me she was screaming with pleasure and begging for more. Guys like him make me want to puke. Instead, I say, “I'm headed out. This party's too tame for me.”

“Where to?”

I can feel him on the hook. “Score something. I'm all out.”

A spark lights up in his eye. “Any way you could get some for me?”

“Depends. You got cash?”

“Not on me.”

“Sorry, man, I don't do credit.”

“Can't you get it delivered here? While I go hit up an ATM?”

I shake my head. “My guy won't deliver to a place he doesn't know, especially with tons of people around.”

He nods like he understands. I make ready to leave. That's how you win at this game.

“Hey!”

“What?”

“We can wait at my place, if you want. Think he'll go for that?”

“You live alone?”

Outside. We get in his car, a metallic-gray Mini. For ten minutes, give or take, we cross a deserted city, shitty electro music turned all the way up, without exchanging a word. He's too high to talk, staring at the road in front of him, eyes wide open. He's starting to scare me. We reach a carriage entrance a stone's throw from the Champs-Élysées; he pops the door with the beep of an opener. We park at the rear of the building's inner courtyard. He gets out of the car, lets out a mumbled, “Over
here,” keeps on mumbling to himself. I shouldn't have given this fuckwit all those pills.

He doesn't bother switching on the light, and I follow him up the stairs in the dark. He takes the steps quickly; I lose him and flatten myself against the wall to keep going, for fear of a nasty surprise. On the landing he finally hits the lights. His hand's trembling; he drops his keys. Not a good sign. We enter the apartment. He tosses his coat on the floor and looks at me, white saliva flecking the corners of his mouth.

“You call him now?”

“All right. What's your pleasure?” I pull out my phone.

He sounds like a kid writing Santa a letter. “Uh, two grams of—”

“You know what? I call him, he drops by with whatever he has left, and you take your pick, OK?”

He nods. “OK.”

I dial Cherif. He's the guy I trust the most. Or maybe he's the one I'm most comfortable getting in trouble with. He doesn't pick up and it goes to voice mail. I leave him a message with the address, asking him to get back to me as soon as he can. I turn back to Julien. He's staring with glazed eyes at Paris gleaming through the casement windows. I look around for something heavy. I find a big ivory ashtray on the mantle. All things in moderation. If I hit him too hard and break it over his head, there's a good chance I'll kill him right off the bat.

“Julien?” I call out so he'll turn around and give me a profile. That way, I won't whack him at the base of his skull. For once, I get it just right. He pivots around, chin out, so all I have to do is tap his jaw with a quick flick of my wrist. The weight of the ashtray does the rest. He collapses on the cream-white carpet, the trickle of blood from his mouth barely ruining the perfection of the scene.

I pull my hand back for a second blow and lean over his body, but he's already out cold. This was not really my plan, but sometimes I lose my patience, especially with garbage like this guy.

I toss the ashtray aside and take a tour of the apartment. I go in the bedroom and turn on the lights. Nothing unusual, apart from the rubber dildo enthroned on the desk next to police handcuffs. I find his laptop and tap the touchpad, and the screen lights up. Just a few clicks and I realize the computer's brimming with the worst kinds of porn—garbage with kids and worse and I'm glad I lost my patience. I get a bitter taste in the back of my throat. Was this guy capable of killing Thibaut? My train of thought is short-lived. I hear a groan and turn around. Too late. Julien brings it down with all his strength right on top of my skull. The ashtray cuts right through my scalp. I can't tell if it's because I moved my head a tiny bit to the side, or because he was trying too hard and didn't aim right, but I don't pass out, even if it hurts like hell and blood's running down my eyes. We're on the ground, him on top, raining blows on me. I land one instinctively, right on his cheek—far from enough to lay out a guy as high as he is. I thrash around as best I can until a right connects with my chin. My guard drops, I take another hit, start blacking out, every blow that makes me see stars calling me back to my flesh, its resilience incredible when threatened with death.

“Hold up, hold up, please!” I beg. I can tell I have to. Fear always comes afterward, in hindsight, once the threat has passed and before the self-hatred born of shame sets in. That fear always played tricks on me when I was a kid, kept me from running with the predators. But right now, I just want to survive.

Wham
. A brutal blow like a golf swing. Both hands clasped, hitting the corner of his mouth. I shut my eyes and wait for the
emptiness. But instead, my attacker collapses next to me, and a pair of arms haul me to my feet.

“What the fuck is this? I got your message. You're lucky I was nearby.” Cherif is furious. I'm just happy he's here, even if I'm still seeing stars.

“And who's this fuckhead?” he yells, pointing at Julien.

I struggle to catch my breath. I'm having trouble speaking. I sponge up the blood on my face with my sweatshirt. I want to reply, but it takes a few seconds before the words come out of my mouth. “It's…the guy who…raped Thibaut.”

“What? Who's that?”

“The kid I'm supposed to find. This is probably tied to his disappearance.”

Cherif rubs his face with one hand. He's about to lose his shit, but I'm too dazed to do anything about it right now. Julien's still out cold on the floor.

“Listen up, Idir. The cops are on my ass every day. They've got a thousand reasons to put me away. I live like a goddamn paranoid freak. And you, you jump a guy at his own place and ask me over. You think I need this? You think I don't have enough bullshit to deal with? No, you know what? Go ahead, just call the cops while you're at it. Tell them, ‘You were looking for a chance to bust him, well here you go. He's holding someone hostage in his house.' I kicked the guy's door in because I heard you screaming inside.”

“I think I'm going to barf.”

“No, no—hold still and keep your eyes open. Now I'm going to tell you if this guy's guilty or not.”

I watch him turn this way and that, a crazed look on his face, casting about for something. He sees the handcuffs and grabs them.

“What are you doing?” I ask, ready for the worst.

“You called me over here. So now you shut your face and let me do what I do.” He grabs Julien's arm and drags his unmoving body over to the bed. Julien starts moaning. Cherif slaps a cuff around one foot of the bed and the other around his victim's wrist.

“The fuck are you doing?”

He makes no reply and starts slapping Julien lightly.

“The fucking hell are you doing?” I shout again.

“Shut your face,” he says without looking at me. “Wake up. Wake up, shit-for-brains.”

Julien mumbles, still groggy.

Cherif takes Julien's shoes off and starts in on his pants too. He really looks terrible in his boxers and his white shirt all covered in blood.

“Quit it, it's not worth it.” I go over, determined to stop him, and grab him by the arm. He shoves me away and I find myself right back on the ground, nowhere near getting up again.

“You want to know if he did it? Well, let's ask him.” He slaps Julien twice. “Where is he?”

No reply. Cherif gives him one swift kick below the belt. Julien howls in pain. “Where is he?”

Julien whimpers, “I don't know.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Who the fuck are you talking about?”