ulcer. The Hyena had asked him, “Are you fed up with this job?” and it had been like a lightbulb going on: yes, he was fed up with getting up every morning not knowing whom he was going to threaten next, whether there would be many of them, whether he’d be frightened or, worst of all, whether he’d feel sorry for them and ashamed of what he was doing. He was fed up with clenching his buttocks every night when he put the key in his front door, with a hollow in his stomach at the thought of finding some men waiting for him in the living room, or his girlfriend’s body lying mutilated in the kitchen, or being pinned to the ground by a squad of cops. Yes, he was fed up with living in constant terror, without earning enough to move out of his one hundred square feet in Belleville. The only reason he was hanging on was to work with her. She had said, “If you give it up, yes, I’ll miss you. But you’re capable of doing something else. I’m not. I can’t stand being crossed. Whereas you can adapt, it’s a shame for you to wear your health out doing a job you hate.” Cro-Mag says that made him want to cry, because he realized at that moment he was going to give it up and that it was over, being a team with her. But also because he knew she was telling the truth: she was beyond saving, unfit for normal life. The difference between the truly tough and those who opt for redemption is that some people have the choice, others don’t. Every time he reached this part of their story, he got emotional, spontaneously, as if he’d abandoned an injured teammate on top of a mountain, knowing he couldn’t last long, and was now feeling guilty at being able to escape on his own two legs and get back to normal life. “The Hyena, she’s pure tragedy, when you get close to her, you really understand what it is to be lonely, sad, and unfit for the world.” When he went on like this, it was obvious that he loved her. Not “loved” as in “I want to eat your pussy,” but like when someone’s whole attitude is dear to you and every memory you share is covered with a fine golden sheen. Well. In the two years I’ve been doing my present job, I’ve had many occasions to hear things about her, and I’ve learned that she has inspired the same feelings in many people, so don’t try to tell me she suffers from loneliness . . .
They’d carried on meeting, in the usual Cro-Mag way, for a coffee from time to time. This guy must spend a crazy amount of energy keeping up with old friends. Over the years, the Hyena had become a star among private investigators: there aren’t many of those in the trade, outside crime novels. Her speciality was missing persons. Since then, the stories told about her have evolved into various, contradictory versions, some of them pure fiction. Everyone has their own tale to tell, lawyers, informers, special branch officers, the cops, other PIs, journalists, hairdressers, hotel staff, and prostitutes . . . anyone who’s involved in our little world has their own story about what she’s up to, where, how, and who with. She provides drugs for government ministries, with cover from the secret service, she recruits call girls for officials, she has ultrasecret information about ex-French Africa, she speaks Russian fluently and gets on fine with Putin, she’s on a mission to rescue hostages in Turkestan, she’s trafficking on behalf of South American countries, she’s spying on the Scientologists, she’s involved with synthetic medicines imported from Asia, the big agro-industrial firms have hired her to defend their interests, nuclear power holds no secrets for her, she’s protected by radical Islamists, she’s got a house in Switzerland, she often travels to Israel . . . But the stories all agree on one point: she’s never been sentenced in any court, because her files are too explosive for her not to be covered in any circumstances. And it’s a fact that over the past five years, when lawsuits and trials have mushroomed, no legal practice has boasted of having her as a client. She hasn’t worked for any outfit exclusively for a long time now, but her name crops up—occasioning scorn, admiration, anger, or amusement—whenever people are looking for something vaguely sensational to talk about.
I watch the door out of the corner of my eye, with growing nervousness. I repeat over and over the sentences of introduction that I’ve prepared. I keep reassuring myself that she couldn’t have done a tenth of the things people say, and that in times of economic crisis, five thousand euros cash bonus is a sum worth discussing. At regular intervals, Cro-Mag asks me if I want anything else, I refuse, and he shuts his eyes and nods several times, a mysterious smile floating across his face, all meaning, I presume, that she’ll be along soon, you have to be patient, she’s no doubt on some top-level mission. The bar has filled up, a hoarse-voiced male singer is croaking something out of the speakers, I’ll never understand the appeal of that kind of music, you’d think you were on a construction site. Suddenly Cro-Mag’s face lights up, and the Hyena is right beside me. Very tall, hollow cheeks, Ray-Bans, men’s style, a figure-hugging white leather jacket, she must think she’s a film star. Cro-Mag points toward me, and she holds out her hand.
“Lucie? You wanted to see me?” She doesn’t take the glasses off, doesn’t smile, and doesn’t give me time to say anything. “Five minutes if you don’t mind? I’ve got to say hello to some friends, then I’ll be back.”
Seen close up, she doesn’t look at all like the mythical person I’ve heard so much about. I wait, while conscientiously sipping my half-glass of beer, clench my teeth, and tell myself that even if this is a ridiculous attempt, it won’t kill me to have made the effort.
“Shall we sit down over there? It’ll be quieter to talk.”
She goes ahead of me, confident and casual, her legs are long and slender in her tight-fitting white jeans, she’s fashionably slim, a body that tends to vanish and carries clothes well. I feel like I’m short and fat, my sweater is damp with nervous sweat, I realize my hands are shaking, and I suppose I’m lucky not to fall on my face as we go over there. She sits down facing me, arms draped over the back of her chair, legs apart, as if she’s trying to take up the maximum space with the minimum body mass. I collect my wits and wonder how to begin. She takes her shades off at last, and gives me a long cool look up and down. She has very big dark eyes and an expressive face, lined like an old Indian woman’s.
“I work for the Reldanch Agency.”
“Yeah, Cro-Mag told me.”
“I’ve sort of specialized in checking up on minors.”
“Onto a good thing there, I gather.”
“Yes, it’s one of our best lines. I’ve been tailing this girl, she’s fifteen, and I lost her, in the metro, the morning before yesterday on her way to school. She didn’t come home, she hasn’t been in touch. Her grandmother’s offered five thousand euros if we can get her back in two weeks. And . . .”
“Five thousand euros, alive or dead?”
I suppose that’s the kind of question I ought to have thought of asking.
“I hope we’ll find her alive.”
“What do you think, runaway or kidnap?”
“No idea.”
“What kind of girl?”
“Difficult, sex-mad, off the rails.”
“What’s the family like?”
“The father’s a writer, with a private income, from the family pharmaceutical company somewhere near Lyon. He brought the kid up on his own, with the grandmother being around a lot. The mother took off when Valentine was two years old, doesn’t see her, and nobody seems to know at the moment where she is.”
I open my backpack and bring out a photo of the kid. The Hyena hesitates to take it.
“I don’t really see how I can help you . . .” She glances down at the picture, and seems to think for a while as she observes it. She hesitates. I feel reassured.
“And how much will you give me if I work with you?”
“The
