Marseille Noir (Akashic Noir) by Cedric Fabre

Marseille Noir (Akashic Noir) by Cedric Fabre

Author:Cedric Fabre
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: Akashic Books
Published: 2015-11-08T16:00:00+00:00


THE PROBLEM WITH THE ROTARY

by PHILIPPE CARRESE

La Cayolle

Kevin’s problem was the seven times table. Math in general but more specifically multiplication. The seven times table in particular. That’s what his real problem was. He did okay with subtraction. For instance, lifting three doses on the sly from a dealer in the Paternelle housing projects and getting a return four times higher than the market price when he delivered the merchandise to his client on boulevard du Docteur Rodocanachi was math he could do more or less correctly. In that specific case, the four times table was no problem. Adding the price of the lines he sold during the day and counting the number of bills he had in his pocket, no problem either . . . But the seven times table was his current problem. The cops had dismantled his network of wholesalers in Castellane, at the other end of town. Kevin was forced to borrow great quantities of prime-quality coke from seven different retailers, and now he needed to repay them. Seven times. The figure was overwhelming and so was the situation. Kevin’s other problem was his cowardliness. And also his limited vocabulary, but he was not aware of that.

Djawad’s problem was the wheelie. He just couldn’t do it. He’d hit the ground twice already and didn’t dare accelerate too quickly on his super-powerful Booster. That drove him nuts. All his buddies in the Lauriers projects could do it: ride a whole street, a whole bus lane on the Prado from the first to the last stop, the whole width of the Grand Littoral parking lot, the whole length of rue Tapis Vert. No problem. And on the very same stolen scooters pumped up by the same guy who specialized in motorizing his neighborhood. Not him. Djawad’s other problem was the exorbitant price of his smuggled Booster. More specifically how to repay it. But that problem was about to be settled. His ride to the South End of the Phocaean city was supposed to allow him to get rid of his debt, and even fill up a few times so he could practice his wheelies.

Richard’s problem was his mother. As is often the case with Mediterranean adult males, Richard’s problem was more material than psychological. He’d gotten rid of a large portion of his Oedipus complex when he dumped his out-of-order progenitor in a discreet retirement home, a chic place in the South End. But that was precisely the problem with it: the glitzy die-in was all too chic and was costing him a fortune. Richard’s other problem was his new BMW: flashy gray metallic—too flashy; a hands-free rig with voice recognition optional, a ridiculous built-in refrigerator, memory leather seats (Alzheimer’s brand), and golden hubcaps—way too golden. His bedridden mother was costing him, per year, the price of a Porsche Cayenne, an ideal vehicle with all the indispensable accessories. Now Richard was riding a BMW that was new, right, big, yes, metallic gray, right again, but he raged at not being able to show off at the wheel.



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