Rough Trade Read Online Free Page B

your tits.’
    And Santoni undid his trousers, standing in front of the door.
    Once the girl had washed and dressed, Santoni passed her a photo of the little Thai girl and gave her some details.
    ‘You’ve two hours to ask around. I’m having lunch at Chez Mado. If I don’t have anything by the start of the afternoon, come this evening. I’m banging you up. Cold turkey for you. Understood?’
    *
     
    Thomas meanwhile, accompanied by five uniformed policemen, investigated one of the two Thai restaurants in the area. He made his presence known, brutally overturning tables, breaking a piece of china. A couple of smacks across the face for the owner, the staff lined up against the wall, the young cook (who had no papers) manhandled out of his hiding place under the kitchen table, handcuffed and attached to the coat rack by the entrance. Passers-by stared in, eyes popping.
    ‘Know this girl?’ Photo of the dead girl. ‘A girl from your own country. We want to know who she is, where she comes from. Find me details, and I’ll give you back your cook. Otherwise, he’s deported tomorrow, and the tax inspectors for you.’
    Thomas and Santoni called this tactic ‘getting rid of the dead wood’.

12 a.m. Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Martin
     
    After the fourth pastis, Attali ate the mutton sauté from a plate on his knees, and downed a bottle of Cahors with it, without leaving the window. At a rough guess, only Turks were going into the shop. Coffee and cognac. Attali caught himself hoping this cushy job wouldn’t last too long. The old boy went to have his siesta. Attali was nodding off too. The old boy was back, he was interested in the technology, was looking about, asking questions. It made his head reel even more than the pastis, but he had to remain friendly.
    ‘Why’re you only taking photos of the sandwich shop?’ the old boy asked.
    ‘Because we’re interested in the people working there. What else d’you think we should be photographing?’
    ‘Well, the accessory shop next door to it. (Shuttles, bobbins, scissors , sewing-machine repairs.) It’s owned by the same people. They’re either in one shop or the other, it depends on the time of day.’
    ‘How d’you know that?’
    ‘They’ve been there several months now, and we’ve had time to watch them, me and the owner of the bistro down there. They go from one shop to the other through the yard at the back: there’s a way through.’
    Attali grouchily went on taking photos.

12 a.m. Rue de la Fidelité
     
    Mado was an institution in the neighbourhood. An old prostitute, who’d moved over, with some style, into the restaurant business. Thomas went into the bar, behind which the ancient pimp and current husband sat enthroned, anaesthetized by alcohol fumes and abundant easy money. He’d served no useful purpose for a long time, but Mado was a woman of feeling and a faithful one at that.
    Thomas greeted him politely, parted the thick red curtain which divided off the dining-room. Mado was there, her fifties all but faded away, a bottle blonde of Fellini proportions, tightly constricted in a tiny black skirt and pink angora top, and smothered in rings, bracelets and necklaces. With a Yorkshire terrier tucked between left forearm and bosom, she navigated her way between the tables to check they were properly laid.
    Thomas placed his two hands on Mado’s buttocks. They were immense and firm, a foretaste of bliss.
    ‘Good morning, Big Boy. Table for later? Here, for two.’
    She placed a small reservation card on it. Then led him by the arm towards the apartment just above the restaurant. Mado still slept with her ‘serious’ clients, but they no longer had to pay. After a bout of rumpy-pumpy she would automatically offer them a meal. Revenge? No one, in any case, would have dreamed of refusing. And especially Thomas, who adored big blondes, and who, Mado had convinced him, was an extraordinary lover. She had talent and a trade, and thought it best to stay