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If he had, youd be dead. |
So why didnt he? |
What do you think, huh? |
I think youd rather not know what I think. |
Huh. Maybe he figured the news our London bureau got a visit from a hitman on behalf of a pissed off client wouldnt go down too well. He only shared his guilty secret last night. And then only cause he was so fucking edgy after calling his hotel we persuaded him to talk. |
So you killed him and went to clean out his hotel room... How did Friedman say he got to know where to find me? |
Thats the beauty. An anonymous call. Makes you wonder how many people know what youre up to, eh, Frenchfuck? |
Try again, and this time be polite. |
I can only tell you what he told us... |
Not even scum like Friedman would go to the trouble of killing a stranger on the strength of one anonymous call. |
Some guy called to let him know the Frenchman whod called the night before he left London was in L.A. looking to kill him. He did his sums and decided to take the call seriously. |
What sums? |
Two stiffs and a missing kid followed your visit to one of the London hotels. He didnt need your confession... |
Youre sure he said his caller was a man? |
Thats what he said... |
When they realise Im missing... |
Shut up and walk... |
What you gonna do? Kill me? |
Dont tempt me. The last scumbag who thought I might kill him died soon afterwards. |
Huh. Im a businessman. What are you, eh? |
Questce que tu veux? |
Un Autrichien. Negociant en pr pubescents. |
Whats an hour of your time worth these days, Nathalie? Combien, Nathalie! |
Cinq cents. |
Viens. |
Jai bien peur quil te faudra attendre. Pas avant la matine. |
Tu sais o me trouver. |
Bye. And thanks... Nathalie gently closes the door, eyes Lombard who shakes himself awake... rolls her eyes and surveys the room... |
O est pass ton salon? |
Mon bureau cotait trop cher. |
Eh bien... Tes sr que tas besoin de moi? La petite ma lair assez bien foutue, non? |
Alors? |
Alors quoi? |
Le montage, lemballage. Not your regular street muck, is it? This is collectors stuff. How much would it cost me? |
A lachat, trois ou quatre mille. En location, cinq cent. Mais a pourrait faire plus. Je ne sais pas. Cest pas vraiment mon truc. I dont know any Austrian, Xavier. |
But maybe you know someone who does. An Austrian, in London, dealing in kids and snuff videos. How many can there be? These people supply to order. He has to be known, reachable. |
Then why dont you reach him? |
I dont have your credentials, Nathalie. |
We are so alike, Xavier. Still, sometimes I wonder which one of us is the ugliest. |
If you can, send me a receipt. |
Welcome to the club. |
Excuse me? |
I hear youre looking for Leon. That makes me, his oldlady, and now you, looking for the little bastard. Leons gone, man. Vanished. You interested in his photographs? |
Uhhuh. |
No shit... Well, Im afraid I cant help you. |
I take it you dont know where he is, then? |
Huh! You could always try Suicide Bridge. You dont know Leon, do you? |
I know his work better than I know him. |
Let me put it this way then; the photographs and the man? One and the same, man, one and the same. At best fucking weird, at worst fuckedup fucking weird. Maybe you should think yourself lucky. Some folks just aint worth getting involved with. And Leon sure is one of em. |
What about his girlfriend? |
What about which girlfriend? |
Small, blond, goodlooking. She was with him when we met. She had a funny English accent. |
Oh. Thatd be Rhian, a Welsh chick he used to lay at weekends. She got wise and dumped him months ago... |
Would you know where I might reach her? |
Yeah! Somewhere in Wales. I dont really know her. Used to turn up in a Transit van on weekends, sell old furniture at Camden. Thats how come he only laid her at weekends, ha ha... |
Could that be Camden Market? |
Yeah. Why? Youre going to look for her... Shit! You really think his pictures are that good? |
Fuckedup fucking weird. |
And you aint neither one of those damned Mexicans who end up littering the landscape after getting rippedoff by their friendly cross border guides, are you, mister? |
No... |
I didnt think so. The rags on their sorry backs are the only wordly possessions those wretched creatures are ever found with... I dont wanna know who you are or how come you ended up roasting in Owl Canyon. But you might as well know Id have let you fry to a buzzard meal if not for this... |
Now, can you stand up? Can you use your legs and stand up? |
I... How long have I been here? |
Three days and thats three days too many.Come on. Get your ass up. |
Huh... I guess you aint quite ready for civilisation yet... Ill give you one more day, a meal, and then youre on your way. |
Los Angeles? |
Los Angeles is 100 miles away. |
Id appreciate it if I could use your phone. |
Im sure you would. But if I had one, I wouldnt let you near it. Now you tuck back in and rest until youre told otherwise. And for what its worth, I wouldnt try anything that might be construed as unappreciative of my hospitality. Id sooner shoot you than have you upset me... |
Barstows 30 miles to the left. Los Angeles a hundred to the right. Wherever youre heading, I reckon somebodyll pick you up. |
Huh... I suppose the idea of a one day trip to Los Angeles doesnt appeal to you... |
Is that where lawyers toil for an industry that turns serial killers into heroes who give thrills to young women who write erotic novels about psychopaths and rapists? You go to your world, Ill stay in mine. So long, Mister. |
This is private property. The public footpath is back to the left of the bridge. |
How are you, Rhian? |
Its wet. Will this do? |
Wheres your wallet? Have you got a wallet? |
Is this some kind of mugging? Because... |
Shut up! Wheres your wallet? |
In my jacket. Left inside pocket. |
Reach for it and throw it to me. And... My fingers on the trigger, you hear! |
A private investigator... Youre not Austrian? |
Should I be? |
Whats a French private investigator doing here? |
Can I get up now? |
No! What do you want here? How do you know me? |
As you know from speaking to Phil, your friend Leon has disappeared, Rhian. His family have hired me to find him. |
...Leons not here. How did you get here? Phil doesnt know where I live. |
Well, I obviously do. And I also know that Leons not here, Rhian. But I thought that you might know where I should look for him. |
You thought wrong. I havent seen Leon for months. |
Havent you? Then why the worried messages on his answering machine, Rhian? Id have sworn you expect him to be in trouble. |
Youyoure wrong. I just called to ask if I could stay with him next time Im in London. Thats all. |
What are you going to do now? Call the police? Take him away? I must warn you hes terrified of men, so... |
Shut up! |
We didnt quite make it as lovers... Leon is a good man, though... |
Did Leon tell you why he didnt want the police involved, Rhian? |
He just said he had good reasons. |
Good reasons? |
Thats what he said. I tried to dissuade him... Told him I couldnt take on another child, that hed get into trouble... I mean, people who sell children... But he wasnt listening... I guess he finally found himself a crusade... His family think hes back on drugs, eh? Huh... Leon did drugs. A lot of drugs. Went through his selfdestruct phase, you know? Things to come to terms with. Demons to fight... Some peoples minds are gloriously uncomplicated. Not Leons. He did beat the drug, though. He did. |
His mother would be pleased to hear that. |
Yeah... But he didnt beat the demons... A quarter of all the shoes sold in Europe are made by or retailed through his parents leather empire. All started from a small shop in the East End of London and war reparation money for holocaust victims. |
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