The Prone Gunman by Jean-Patrick Manchette Page A

redhead as he ate. The special was surprisingly disgusting.
    At the end of the meal, after downing two cognacs, Terrier tossed some bills on the table and stumbled slightly as he made his way over to the redhead. She watched him approach. She was licking melted sugar from the bottom of her coffee cup with her red tongue.
    â€œWould you come outside with me for a minute?” Terrier asked her. “I would like to speak to you.”
    â€œGo sleep it off somewhere else, friend,” said one of her companions.
    Terrier picked up the speaker’s coffee cup and emptied it on his head. He was a skinny dark young guy dressed in a checked suit. Dédé had noticed Terrier and was on his way over, looking worried and with a round tray under his left arm. The young guy knocked over his chair as he stood up, raising his fists, with coffee dribbling down his face. The redhead broke into a slow laugh and bit her knuckles. Terrier slapped his open palms against the skinny guy’s ears. Grimacing, his eyes shut, the young guy fell to his knees and brought his hands to his ears. He gritted his teeth to stop himself from screaming. Tears sprang from the corners of his eyes. His companion half rose, then slowly sat back down.
    â€œAre you looking for trouble?” asked Terrier.
    The other man shook his head. A watery-eyed Dédé had halted a little way off, shaking his head. The diners nearby were covertly observing the scene.
    â€œLet’s go get your coat,” Terrier said to the redhead.
    â€œWhat if I don’t want to?” she asked, getting up. “I don’t have a coat, anyway.”
    Terrier took her arm and guided her away. She threw her head back and smiled. They had to pass Dédé on their way out.
    â€œSo you’re going to start acting like your old man, huh?” said the old waiter as they went by.
    Later, Terrier awoke in a messy bed that was just a big mattress on the floor with sheets and a blanket in a big white room plunged in darkness (but through the slats of the shutters daylight could be seen). The man’s clothing lay strewn about and crumpled on the cheap carpet. There were long twisted butts on a plate full of ashes, a poster of Marlon Brando in The Wild One hung on the wall, and a turntable softly played Brian Ferry’s “Tokyo Joe.” Terrier checked his wristwatch. Two o’clock in the afternoon. Certainly not two o’clock in the morning. Engines were running outside; inside the building children were crying and television sets were going. The man got up and pulled on his briefs. The redhead came into the room and pointed the HK4 at him. Terrier was three meters away from her. He blinked and stayed absolutely still.
    Smiling, the redhead came closer, aiming the HK4. When she came within two meters, Terrier grabbed his jacket by the collar from the back of a chair and swept the air with this article of clothing, striking the automatic and the girl’s wrist. The weapon flew out of her hands. At the same moment, Terrier dove full length onto the floor and grabbed the redhead’s ankles. He made her fall on her back. The girl’s head collided with the cheap carpet.
    â€œOw! You’re nuts!” she complained as she tried to get back up.
    Terrier had retrieved the automatic and, with one knee on the floor, was aiming it with two hands at the head of red hair. He noticed that the safety was on. He relaxed a little.
    â€œShit, you hurt me! Shit on you!” The girl was sitting up on the floor with legs spread and massaging her curly head.
    â€œSorry,” said Terrier. “You scared me.”
    He stood up and stuffed the HK4 into a jacket pocket.
    â€œI didn’t go through your pockets,” said the redhead, who was getting back up while still rubbing her skull, but now with only one hand. “I was looking for cigarettes. What is that thing? Are you a crook?”
    In the darkness, her heavily made-up eyes and