Total Chaos by Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis Page A

kids, aged from twelve to seventeen, stood talking. In the few feet of shade offered by the building. They saw me coming toward them. Especially the oldest of them, Rachid. He started shaking his head and making blowing noises, convinced that just my being there meant the hassles were starting. I had no intention of disappointing him. “Open air classes today?” I said, to no one in particular.
    â€œIt’s teachers’ day, monsieur,” the youngest of them said. “They have classes for each other.”
    â€œYeah, to see if they’re good enough to stuff our heads with their shit,” another kid said.
    â€œGreat. So I guess this is kind of like your practical work right now?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Rachid said. “We ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.”
    For him, school was long over. Expelled from vocational college, after threatening a teacher who called him a moron. A good kid, all the same. He was hoping for an apprenticeship. Like a lot of kids in the projects. That was the future, waiting to go on some kind of course, whatever it was. It was better than waiting for nothing at all.
    â€œI didn’t say you were, I was just asking.” He was wearing a blue and white tracksuit: the colors of OM, the Marseilles soccer team. I felt the material. “Mmm. Brand new.”
    â€œIt’s paid for. My mother bought it for me.”
    I put my arm around his shoulders and pulled him away from the group. His friends looked at me as if I’d broken the law. They were ready to scream.
    â€œLook, Rachid, I’m going over there to B7. You see? Fifth floor. To Mouloud’s apartment. Mouloud Laarbi. Do you know him?”
    â€œYeah. What about it?”
    â€œI’ll be there... oh, maybe an hour.”
    â€œWhat’s it to me?”
    I walked him a few more steps, toward my car. “Now, this is my car. Nothing amazing, I can hear you say. I agree. But I like it. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to it. I wouldn’t even want it to get scratched. So I’d like you to keep an eye on it. And if you have to go take a leak, get one of your buddies to take over. OK?”
    â€œI’m not the super.”
    â€œGet in some practice. There may be a job for you there.” I squeezed his shoulder a bit harder. “Remember, Rachid, not a scratch, or else...”
    â€œElse what? I’m not doin’ nothin’. You can’t accuse me of nothin’.”
    â€œI can do anything I like. I’m a cop. Don’t forget that.” I ran my hand down his back. “If I put my hand here, on your ass, what’ll I find in your back pocket?”
    He freed himself quickly. He was on edge. I knew he didn’t have anything. I just wanted to be sure.
    â€œI don’t have nothin’. I don’t touch that shit.”
    â€œI know. You’re just a poor little Arab being harassed by a stupid cop, right?”
    â€œDidn’t say that.”
    â€œYou think it, though. Keep an eye on my car, Rachid.”
    B7 was no different than the other blocks. The lobby was filthy, and stank of piss. Someone had thrown a stone at the light bulb and smashed it. And the elevator didn’t work. Five floors. Climbing them certainly wasn’t taking a stairway to Paradise. Mouloud had called last night and left a message. Surprised at first by the recorded voice, he’d said ‘Hello’ a few times, then left a silence, and then spoken his message. “Please, Monsieur Montale, you must come. It’s about Leila.”
    Leila was the eldest of his three children. The others were Kader and Driss. He might have had more, if his wife, Fatima, hadn’t died giving birth to Driss. Mouloud was the immigrant dream personified. He’d been one of the first to be hired for the Fos-sur-Mer site, at the end of 1970.
    Fos had been like Eldorado. There was enough work for centuries. They were building a port that