The Prone Gunman by Jean-Patrick Manchette Page B

mouth formed three spots or three holes in her white face. She was wearing a black acrylic dressing gown decorated with Chinese ideograms in red.
    â€œNo. Don’t worry about it.”
    â€œI’m not worried.”
    A kettle whistled in the kitchen.
    â€œMay I?” asked the girl.
    â€œSure.”
    She left and came back in with a tray, cups, sugar, Nescafé, and the kettle. Meanwhile, Terrier had put his clothes back on. The girl raised the blinds a little to brighten the room.
    â€œIt’s a defensive weapon,” said Terrier. “For my job.”
    â€œAnd just what is your job, if I may ask?”
    â€œBusiness. Sometimes I have to carry a lot of money. And you?”
    â€œI’m in electricity,” said the girl. She sat down cross-legged near the tray and made coffee in the cups. “Yes, well, shit, I’m a worker, to be more precise. I assemble record players.”
    â€œI’ve already met someone like you before,” said Terrier.
    â€œThere’s no shortage.”
    â€œTell me, did we fuck last night?” asked Terrier.
    â€œOnly a little. You don’t remember?”
    â€œNot really. Was I good?”
    â€œYou were loaded.”
    â€œBut for a guy who was loaded, was I good?”
    â€œYou piss me off,” the girl said.
    â€œCome to bed.”
    â€œOh, no!” exclaimed the girl. “It’s my Saturday. I have one Saturday per month.”
    â€œSaturday,” repeated Terrier. “Saturday? Oh, yeah.”
    He got up and left.

11
    â€œI talked a little with Anne,” Félix said affably. “She’s annoyed because she doesn’t know how to make you understand that she doesn’t want you.”
    Terrier said nothing in response. Félix emptied his glass.
    â€œI like whisky sours because they taste like vomit,” he said, looking malevolently at Terrier. (Félix seemed to have already had a lot to drink.)
    The two men were seated in bamboo armchairs on the terrace of the so-called cabin—actually, a rather spacious wooden chalet, planted on a steep, wooded hill some hundred kilometers from Nauzac. The Atlantic was visible between the pine trees. The ocean was iron gray, and the whitish sky was turning darker. There was little wind. It was cold, but less so than inland. Félix was wearing jeans and boots and a thick white ribbed sweater of virgin wool. He had offered to lend Terrier a pullover, but Terrier had refused and sat stiffly in his suit. His back didn’t touch the back of the chair; the tips of his elbows were on the armrests; his hands were clasped around his nearly full cylindrical glass.
    â€œIf you systematically drink something that tastes like vomit,” continued Félix, “you won’t be confused when you end up vomiting.”
    The two men were looking attentively at each other. Félix was smiling; Terrier was not. Near the low table with its cane top was one more armchair, an empty one. Anne came back from inside the house with a silver cocktail shaker and sat down in the chair. She was wearing a thick loose sweater, corduroy trousers, and red boots. She refilled her husband’s glass, then served herself. She glanced at Terrier, then looked down at the ground.
    â€œWe regularly come here because there’s nothing to do in Nauzac,” declared Félix. “What a hole! Two photography exhibitions per year, domino tournaments, things like that. An undubbed foreign film the first Monday of every month, at midnight—you get the idea. Have you seen the latest Altman?”
    â€œWhat?” said Terrier.
    â€œThe latest Altman. Robert Altman.”
    â€œHe’s a film director,” Anne explained. She was looking up now; the sky was turning darker than the sea; it was twilight.
    â€œWhat do you think of Régis Debray’s position on the media and intellectuals?” asked Félix, giving Terrier a mean look. “What do you think