Putain de nuit (Fucking night)

>chap 1 — Pascale Fonteneau • Norton was pacing up and down along the canal. The darkness kept him from seeing the rat corpses drifting in the water, but he knew they were there. Across the way, the royal palace wall stretched endlessly. Tonight, Norton was in the mood of an old noir series. The day had been rough, the night promised to be worse—Suzy had stood him up. She hadn’t sent a friend in her place, nor had she left her car, whose keys he had. Norton had no trouble admitting he was in deep shit. Annoyed, he hoisted the money-stuffed bag over his left shoulder so it covered his sleeve soaked in blood. All that was missing was the rain to complete the cliché. >chap 2 — Barbara Abel • As he moved away from the meeting point, Norton couldn’t help cursing under his breath. The bag weighed on his aching shoulder, it reeked of sewers and vermin, and there was no backup plan… In the distance, a car’s headlights suddenly flashed straight at him. Instinctively, he threw himself to the side. Heart pounding, he stayed motionless, concealed in the night’s darkness, barely a meter from the beam. He waited a few moments, hesitated, then, just as he was about to approach the vehicle, he heard a muffled gunshot. Almost instantly, the passenger door slammed open, a figure was thrown out and bolted into the distance. Norton froze. When silence returned, he slowly approached the car, circled it, but could see nothing inside due to the night and tinted windows. Then he opened the driver’s door—and screamed in horror. >chap 3 — Joelle Baumerder • That smell. That vile, most hated scent. He slapped a hand over his mouth, overcome with uncontrollable nausea, and took a step back. Someone must’ve really hated him to stash, just for him, this bouquet of dark roses. He doubled over and let the bile drip down his chin before straightening up and leaning into the car. Legs in black stockings, endlessly long, endlessly sexy. His gaze froze. Refused to follow the line of the thighs, refused to rise to the hitched-up skirt. No one in the world had legs like Suzy’s. Don’t move your eyes. Don’t look up. Don’t know. >chap 4 — Carmelo Virone • Not Suzy. A lookalike. Just as sexy as Suzy. No doubt about it: the same legs, the same breasts—dream pillows, twins to Suzy’s—but the face was wrong. Not just because of the bloody hole in one eye that extended out the other side of the skull, but because of the skin. Plastic skin. Rubber and silicone. A clone, a dummy. A fake. And in Norton’s mouth, that bitter taste. That bastard Teddy Bear had outsmarted him again. Message received. No need to scan the bills under UV to know the wad he’d been sweating over for two hours was fake, monkey money—and once again, he, Norton, was the fool. >chap 5 — Sylvie Granotier • This time would be the last. A turkey can be the joke. In a flash, he understood the scheme. And the betrayal. But when everything’s fake, you might as well say everything’s real. Reality only needs to imitate fiction. First, kill Suzy. Then screw over Teddy Bear. In his own lair. The pain made him hiss between cracked lips. His blood had the beauty of truth. That’s what he clung to. One glance was enough to confirm the exquisite cold had emptied the street. He pulled on the slim ankles dangling toward the gutter and managed to slide the surprisingly heavy rubber body out of the car. He tossed the bag of cash onto the front seat and lay down on a version of Suzy far more compliant than the real one. He rubbed his chest against the stiff breasts, rising and falling in a parody of ecstatic desire until the fur absorbed every crimson drop, then savored the subtle pleasure of abandoning to her tragic fate the creature who’d played him for months. He started the engine. Heading to the club. That’s when his phone rang. >chap 6 — Marc Villard • In Tijuana, on one of the rain-ravaged hills, Suzy reconnected with reality. She leaned toward the nightstand and loaded her Smith & Wesson .357 Parabellum. She thought: I’m alive, Norton you son of a bitch, Teddy Bear my love. Then she downed half a glass of tequila left by the bed. She admired her silhouette in the wall mirror: 36-24-36—if you mess up the numbers, move along, nothing to see. In the bathroom shower, the Vuitton bag holding two million in fake dollars hadn’t budged all night. She made a call to Diego, the bellboy. – Tell me about Norton. – That cabrón found the dummy. – And? Does he know someone at the Rio Grande? – No, ma’am. Oh yeah, the smuggler wants a thousand dollars! – You’re a pain, Diego. It’s not your money! Give him what he wants. We’ll head out at night through the beach and tell Teddy to come with the 4x4 with Montana plates. – Got it. The lackey turned on his heel while the violet-eyed brunette strapped a combat knife to her calf. She turned on the TV and saw Diego Maradona, on Channel 2, promoting a slimming cream. >chap 7 — Patrick Pécherot • Swollen by the rains, the Rio Grande roared like a pulp novel reader when Suzy found the ford. Diego hadn’t been so lucky. His body, tossed by the furious river, was drifting toward the border post. – Dead dog downstream, mistress around the bend… Norton’s voice had cut through the noise. Suzy spun around, her makeup, washed by rain, ran like bloody tears: – That old bastard played us! The cash is faker than my Mexican Vuitton… Her overturned bag spewed two million dollars into the Rio. – Don’t you get it, Norton? Teddy’s fortune is bullshit! Just like the crap you dragged all the way here. Right now, that bastard Ted is living it up in Bezons with the real bills. Norton’s Magnum fixed on Suzy with its one eye. – Norton, what are you—? Her brains spilled into the river. Norton stared at the swirling current where she vanished. – Real or fake, it’s all appearances, thought Norton, who had read the greatest stories of the Dalai Lama in Reader’s Digest. A coyote howled. Norton melted into the night.