The Prone Gunman by Jean-Patrick Manchette

Author:Jean-Patrick Manchette
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: City Lights Publishers

14

“Well, it was only dislocated,” said the doctor on duty, whose address Terrier had found on a list in the window of a closed pharmacy. “You straightened it out yourself? Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Bravo. You’re a pretty stoic fellow.”

According to the doctor, there was no call to put it in a cast. He showed Terrier how to use an elastic bandage so that the swollen finger would stay completely immobilized.

“I know,” said Terrier.

He left with his X-ray and a prescription for an anti-inflammatory cream and some painkillers; he threw the X-ray into a sewer opening, bought the medicine in an on-duty pharmacy, and returned to the hotel via the metro. Anne was sleeping. She was crying in her sleep. Terrier studied her. He had an anxious, perplexed expression. Since the young woman continued to moan in a miserable, infantile way, he took her by the shoulders. She was naked in the bed. He gently shook her. She opened her eyes and stared at him with a lost look, then she rubbed her eyes with her fists, stared at him again, and smiled mischievously.

“Bedtime,” she said. “Get into bed.”

Terrier spotted a half-empty bottle of Hennessy cognac between the bed and the wall. Anne’s speech was slurred. The man straightened up and turned his back on her.

“Try to listen carefully,” he ordered. “We’re going to have to separate temporarily. By tomorrow afternoon, my employers will know that they can find me here. I would rather keep you out of all this.”

“Keep me out of it?” Anne repeated. “That’s a good one!”

“Seriously.”

“I’m a big girl, you know.”

“Yes, I know. But if they know where you are, that gives them a way to pressure me.”

“Oh,” Anne said disdainfully. “And where am I supposed to go?”

“Near Larchant. It’s south of the Fontainebleau forest. I have a friend who has a house there. I believe I can count on him.”

“You’re well organized.”

“Unfortunately not.” Terrier glanced at Anne over his shoulder. “You’ll have to remain on your own for quite a while. But a friend spends his weekends there. You don’t have anything against blacks?”

“What?”

Anne seemed dumbfounded. Terrier repeated the question.

“Because that’s what he is,” he explained. “My pal is black.”

“But what do you take me for?”

“I don’t know. I know very little about you,” Terrier said softly.

“Come to bed.”

“I don’t know.” Terrier’s tone was indecisive at first, then firmed up. “First, we have to take care of practicalities.”

Anne sat up in bed, exposing her breasts, which were still beautiful, though heavy and just beginning to sag. She grabbed the bottle of cognac.

“How many people have you killed?”

“Don’t drink any more! We have to take care of practicalities! Practicalities!” Terrier repeated nervously. With his hands in his pockets, he was facing Anne and rocking impatiently on his heels. The young woman took a swig from the bottle.

“You’re on the blink,” she declared in a neutral tone. She might as well have been pronouncing a diagnosis concerning a broken clock. “On the blink. Come to bed, then.” She threw herself violently back down, with her eyes hermetically sealed, without letting go of the bottle.

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