Free Jacquot and the Waterman by Martin O'Brien Page B

and levelled his gaze on Jacquot. 'A break, that's all I'm looking for, Danny. A word in the right place. I got four more months' parole work and no choice but hanging on to that stinking job.' He held up his hands, whether to show the effect a dishwashing job had on the skin or simply as a gesture. Jacquot couldn't decide. 'Another four months? I can't do it. I'll go nuts.'
But if you don't, thought Jacquot, if you break parole conditions, you're back inside to work out the rest of the sentence. A week to find a job and six months holding it down. Working your way back into the community, they called it, starting you off. That was the deal. That's what they wanted. After that you were on your own. Sometimes it worked, most times it didn't.
'I gotta move on, see, before it's too late,' continued Doisneau. 'My son Rene's down in Spain. Got himself well sorted. Said he might be able to fit me in someplace. Better than this, you know?'
Jacquot took a sip of his beer, pinched his lips from side to side, wiping away the froth. His old friend was looking for a way out and reckoned that Jacquot, the cop, could wangle something for him.
'So what do you need?'
Doisneau smiled, shook his head. 'Not money, don't worry. Just get them to lighten up, is all. I'll do another month, Danny. I just want to know they won't come after me.'
Jacquot nodded. 'I'll try. No promises.'
Doisneau s face lit up. 'I knew you'd help. Jesus, you've got no idea . . .' And then he hunkered down over the table, cast around the bar and leant forward, speaking low. 'And now here's something for you. Up front, if you like. Just to show willing.'
'Okay,' said Jacquot. 'What have you got?'
'You ever hear of a man called Raissac?'
Only the second time that day.
'Raissac?'
'That's the name. Ugliest son of a bitch you ever set eyes on. Real bad pox when he was a kid, a birthmark slapped across half his face. And if that wasn't enough, he's got a burn from a blowtorch across the other half. A war wound, you might call it. Used to live in Toulon but moved out a few years ago. A real big operator back then. A real parrain. Girls. Drugs. You name it, he was into it. But things got tricky and he lives out Cassis way now. Villa someplace. Word is he's started up again. Going for the big time. And very soon.'
'Big-time what?'
Doisneau glanced around. 'Drugs. Coke, you know . . . ? A lot.'
'And how soon?'
'Could be any time. This week. Next week. End of the month, latest.'
'Where?'
'The word is L'Estaque. Or the harbour at Saumaty. One of them for sure.'
'And?'
'He's got someone on the inside. Your lot.'
'Any names?'
Doisneau spread his hands, shook his head.
'So why are you telling me this?'
Doisneau finished his beer and got to his feet.
'It was Raissac got me done. Put me away. And you know the Chats, Danny. Always return a favour. See you around,' he said, and as Jacquot felt in his pocket for the bill Doisneau slid from the booth and slipped away into the night.
By the time Jacquot got back home on the Moulin's hill, Madame Foraque's door was closed, no light coming through the panels of coloured glass.
Monday, he realised. The weekly card game over at her brother's. Which was a relief. He didn't fancy a repeat of
her observations and opinions on the subject of Boni, even if she wasn't far off the truth.
    Up in their apartment - his apartment now - Jacquot pulled the rubber band from his hair, stripped off his clothes and fell onto the bed. Their bed. In a few moments he was sleeping deeply, and alone.
     

17
     
Tuesday
     
R esting the backs of his thighs against the cream leather trim of the skippers chair, Pamuk eased back on the Ferrettis throttles and the seventeen-metre cruiser buried her bow into the inky blue Mediterranean. As he steered her into the wind, a low chop slapped against the hull and the sound of her twin engines dropped to a chesty rumble. Pamuk knew this stretch of coastline like the back of his hand, but he cross-checked their position on the