Past Imperfect

slowly... the birds suddenly alighting from a nearby tree, making Chapeau look up. He feared for a minute that Chapeau had seen the gun — had thrust it quickly back in his pocket. In the last seconds of their meeting, that fear had stayed with him, that Chapeau would suddenly wheel around, level his gun and fire. He stayed vigilant as Chapeau walked away, but the moment to take the initiative had gone. He said lamely that he wanted to stay in the lane for a bit more fresh air as Chapeau drove off. Truth was, he was shaking too much to be able to drive. Almost as soon as Chapeau had disappeared from view, he was physically sick. He couldn't face going through that again. It had taken him another eighteen months of suffering Chapeau's blackmail and insults even to be able to summon up the courage to arrange this meeting.

But despite the precautions, looking at Brossard's lips curled in a slight smile at his description of murder, his deeply hooded eyes blinking behind dark glasses — he couldn't help fearing that he might just be replacing one nightmare with another. The room they were in smelt of pine disinfectant fighting hard to disguise the odour of musky bed linen and bad plumbing. A seedy back street hotel which Vacharet had recommended where clients took hookers. 30 Francs to a cleaning lady for a room for an hour, no questions asked. She'd just raised an eyebrow and grunted at the sight of two men entering, one wearing a strange blonde wig. Duclos was eager to get out.

Brossard looked back at the list. 'So is the hundred thousand supposed to make me feel better about having my name on this list?'

'By the time you get the hundred thousand, hopefully your name won't be on the list. I'm paying Vacharet another fifty thousand to spread the right noises in the right places that you were in a friend's restaurant the night of the attack. It happened too early for you to be in one of his clubs. Within a few weeks it should spread on the milieu network and hopefully your name will come off the list.'

Brossard's eyes flickered. He was impressed. Client's plans were normally clumsy; most planning had to come from his own quarter to compensate. 'So who is it you want hit, and when?'

'That's another reason for the list. He's there, sixth name down. You probably know him: Tomas Jaumard.'

Brossard's eyes flickered more rapidly. Hopefully he'd disguised his initial flinch. Tomas Jaumard, alias Chapeau. One of the old reliable milieu die hards. It wouldn't be the first time someone had tried to have Jaumard killed. Of the last two hired guns sent, one died instantly with a bullet through the head, the other was shot in the stomach and groin and spent four hours with surgeons piecing together what was left of his manhood. Jaumard escaped from the fray with only a shoulder wound. ‘Jaumard is a high risk target. For that type of hit, it will cost more. It's not worth doing under F150,000.'

Duclos stared back. 'Is that because of allegiances, possibly upsetting others within the milieu.'

'No. I take work from the milieu strictly as an independent — I owe no allegiances on any side. It's because of the extra risk. Jaumard is one of the few men on this list I have some professional respect for. It will take more to set up.'

Duclos nodded. Strong allegiances with the milieu had been the one remaining area to concern him. Brossard asked where and when.

'Two months, give some time for your name to come off this list,' said Duclos. 'So you're not quite so hot. The where is up to you. Set it up the way you want.'

They made the final arrangements and set the time for their next meeting. By then Brossard would have the outline of a plan and Duclos would give him the first payment. Brossard left the room first and asked Duclos not to leave for at least a few minutes after. Duclos assumed it was part of Brossard's obsession with protecting his identity, but Brossard offered no explanation.

Walking down the corridor, Brossard thought: a total of F200,000 to drop Jaumard including the payment to Vacharet, and the client had hardly blinked. Almost twice what he'd been paid to hit the Nice city planner. Jaumard had obviously stepped on some important toes. Poor old Chapeau. A sly smile crossed Brossard's face after a moment. At least it was nice to know people in his profession were so highly valued. More than a City Planner. He could think of worse tombstone epitaphs.

Alone in the dank room, Duclos started to feel uncomfortable after only a minute. A sudden shiver of desolation that reminded him just how far he'd sunk to be rid of Chapeau. He packed up the tape recorder and left the room.

Marseille. 10th January, 1979

'We're jamming… we're jammin' till the jammin's through… wer' jammin'. To think that jammin' was a thing of the past… wer' jammin'. And I hope this jammin's goin' to last…'

The motorbike messenger bopped with the rhythm of the music on his walkman as he got off his bike, kicked it on its stand and entered the cafe. The package he was carrying was his arm’s length and half as wide. The cafe was almost an exact ten metre square. There were about fourteen or fifteen people inside, four at the bar and the rest scattered at tables. The messenger's eyes behind dark motorcycle goggles scanned the room quickly. He could see the two people he expected in the far corner, but didn't dwell — his attention shifted quickly to the approaching barman. He lifted out his earpiece.

'Monsieur Charot?'

The barman pulled a face and shrugged.

The messenger tilted the package and read from the label. 'Monsieur Charot. Thirty-eight, Rue Baussenque.'

Puzzlement from the barman. 'The address is right, but I don't know a Charot. Let me check with my wife.' The barman disappeared behind a bead curtain at the end of the bar.

Brossard put back the earpiece. Behind the motorcycle goggles, he let his eyes scan slowly across again. He was interested only in one position — the table in the corner with Chapeau and Marichel, the local pimp he'd paid to set things up. He wanted it to look like a casual surveillance. The bored messenger waiting to see if he had the right address, head bobbing lightly to the rhythm on his walkman, fingers tapping on the package.

'… We all defend the right that your children must unite… life is worth much more than gold. Wer jammin'… jammin'…'

The barman was back by the bead curtain, now with his wife. The barman pointed, his wife shrugged and returned to the back. As the barman returned, in the corner of his eye Brossard could tell that Marichel was looking over briefly. Don't look! Brossard silently screamed. Just let me blend in, don't bring Chapeau's attention to me.

He'd made the arrangements with Marichel just the week before. Ten thousand francs to set up the meeting with Chapeau, act as if he was a go-between for a hit contract. Brossard had given Marichel all the details, had practically written the script for him. With a contract on offer, what better way to guarantee Chapeau's attention. But Marichel was probably watching for the timing of the package being opened, the moment he would have to suddenly jump aside.

Brossard swivelled back the earpiece until it rested on his neck. The barman was explaining that his wife didn't know the name either. Brossard pointed to the corner and asked if he could use the phone. 'Check back with my office to see what happened.'

The barman nodded, turned to the end of the bar by the door to serve another customer.

With the package under his arm, Brossard went towards the pay phone on the wall. It was almost directly opposite Chapeau and Marichel's table. He noticed Chapeau look up as he started across, but he couldn't tell if Chapeau's gaze had stayed with him as he approached the phone — couldn't risk turning or glancing back to see.

He started to worry: was there something in his disguise that didn't fit? Some small detail that Chapeau might have picked up on. He'd tried on several long curly wigs, but most were too bushy to fit comfortably under a crash helmet. Finally he found one that was slightly flatter on top with ringlet curls starting further down, spilling out of the base of the helmet and onto his shoulders. Just another rockin' messenger with some sounds to blot out the drone of city traffic.

Brossard's fingers tapped on the package as he set it down by the phone. The tone was tinnier pulled away from his ear. '… The love that now exists is the love I can't resist, so… jam by my side. Wer' jammin'… jammin', jammin'…'