I am Luc of the Street

I Am An Idiot

“You are completely in your own way,” my chief said to me today. I butt heads with the divisional commissioner, my boss’s boss. And yes, it’s as bad as it sounds—not a punishable offense or anything, I mean, I’m not on probation (yet)—it’s more a sort of career hari kari, which is probably worse, especially now I have those stupid evidence tampering charges hanging over my head. Yes, I know—je suis un idiot.

The thing is, the commissaire divisionnaire was wrong—calling me out in front of my team like he did. I’m sure it was just because I was not his choice for the job. If the team isn’t performing up to standard that is the fault of my predecessor, not me, and I told him so. C’est pas ma faute. Well, actually, what I said was that if he wants my team to be effective, he should get out of my way and let me do my job. I know, I know—I am an idiot. But am I supposed to stand there and let him humiliate me like that?

I guess I do feel bad about it, but only because my chief is disappointed with me now, and I really respect the man. We have a long history. He told me he spends too much energy defending me to his superiors, that I need to at least try to play the game. Play the game? Kiss ass is what he really means. How is that being a leader?

There is at least one person who was impressed by my little coup d’etat. Haddad. He was so pleased he kissed me hard on both cheeks. Then he said the words I’ve been wanting to hear: “I’m your man. All the way.”

What’s more important? To live honestly and earn the respect and devotion of your team, or to be the commissioner’s lap dog and leave no trace of having lived at all? Putain, that’s not even a question worth asking. I have my team at last. On y va !

Une Journée Parfaite

Sunday, I woke up around 8:30 A.M. to Jean-Paul’s smiling face. Okay, so I only had about four hours of sleep but still, what could be better? With his bright smile and blond curls, he’s like the sun himself. The morning light was streaming into my bedroom and I could see a clear blue sky beyond JP’s shining face. “Wake up, Papa,” he said, softly, “it’s a perfect day.”

Any day JP calls me “papa” is a perfect day.

I’d taken the late shift purposefully to have the next day free to spend with JP. I’ve been worried that he might disappear again if I keep leaving him on his own for long periods. I made sure to give him some quality time and I let him know this would be our day. Obviously, he took it to heart because I was being pushed into the shower before I was even fully awake. “Get moving,” he said. “I want the whole day. You promised.”

We didn’t have real plans; we wandered aimlessly around Montmartre, mostly, taking in the beautiful day. Just the two of us, arms around each other—Rue des Saules to Rue St. Vincent then working our way south toward Sacré Coeur (where JP took the beautiful photo posted here. He’s got an eye, that kid). By late afternoon, we had made a huge loop, ending up at Girard’s bar tabac where we finished out the day with Henri, and shared a dinner of roast chicken.

It was a rare and precious thing to have that kind of time with JP; it gave me a chance to feel like a real father to him, to get closer to him, hopefully. And JP seemed to feel it, too, I think. He was so happy and full of energy; everything was a wonder to him. He’s a funny one because even though he’s been on the street, he’s still wide-eyed and naïve in many ways (nothing like I was at his age). And seeing the old neighborhood through his young, wide eyes helped clear away some of my old ghosts. That made me love him even more, but now I feel even more desperate to get him off the streets for good.

The perfect day will be the day he tells me that he’s finally ready to stay.

On Being A Father

First, let me say, I'm terrible at it. Being a father. What do I know about it? I never had a father, a real father. And my mom died when I was still very small. I suppose the closest thing I had to a parent was Bruno de Lappe, that old cop who took me in, and Henri's father. But if I were to say there was one man who was the truest thing to a papa, I'd have to give that to Bruno. I miss him so much every day. He was still sort of young when he died, about 57. I barely had 15 years with him, but his impact on my life—and my work—is immeasurable. I hear him talking to me all the time, calling me "kid" like he used to. "Take your time, kid." "Do the work, kid."

Now that Jean-Paul is back with me, and I'm searching for the right words to turn that boy around, Bruno is in my head more than ever—especially, our first conversation on that fateful day we met. The day he arrested me. The day that changed my life.

At that time I'd been on the street nearly eight or nine years but I was still only 17 or so. “What do you want for your life, kid?" I remember he asked as he typed up my arrest report. "Don't you have any dreams beyond life on the street?" I honestly had no idea what he was talking about. I lived purely in the moment then; I had no sense of the future. My brain was wired for survival not planning or hoping. And dreaming—was this guy nuts?

Back then I thought he was just mocking me, torturing me; I remember how the click-clack of the old typewriter was driving me mad. Now, of course, I understand he was reaching out, and during the hours that followed, he would work my mind over and eventually break me down. Like only a good cop can.

Bruno was better at it than me. I still haven't found the tipping point with JP. How do I get him off the streets for good? When I talk to him he just stares blankly. Even when I try some of the same lines Bruno used on me. Maybe JP isn't as smart as I was. Or maybe, because he knows I'm always here like a stupid safety net, he doesn't feel compelled to make up his mind. Me, I had no choice, really. Bruno phrased it like a choice, made it seem like it was completely up to me, but honestly, if you had to choose between apprenticing as a cop or being locked up, which would you pick?

“Listen, kid,” Bruno said, “I’m offering you a chance to change your life.” Those words run over and over in my head as I look at JP, sitting right now on the balcony off the living room. A chance to change your life. How do you get a kid to understand that his life needs changing when he's happy with it just as it is? How do you convince a 17-year-old that he should be concerned about a future that doesn't exist?

Bruno, I wish you could whisper the words in my ear because I'm about to walk out onto that balcony and give it another shot.

Return of the Prodigal

Jean-Paul is home again. I don’t know for how long but I didn’t press him. I’m just content to see him safe. He sleeps now, curled up on his futon in his room.

I found him sitting in the doorway of my building, waiting for me to come home from my shift. I was so relieved to see him that I felt I might almost break down. Yet, he was casual about it, as if it was just another day, as if he hadn't gone missing for nearly two weeks. I wanted to shake him, shake sense into him, but I embraced him instead. I wanted to ask him where he’d been, what he’d been doing, why he ran off again, but I just said, “Hey, kid. I missed you.” I learned long ago not to push JP. He’ll only run farther. The frustration of loving that kid is unbearable sometimes.

I wonder if Bruno went through this kind of anxiety over me when I first came to live with him. I ran back to the street, too, and he had to track me down more than once. I have a whole new respect for that old cop, I can tell you. Loving a wild kid like me had to be hell. I understand it now; it can be a thankless job. It tests your courage, your commitment, your ability to trust. But what can you do? You can’t walk away. You just have to keep standing there with your hand out and your heart open. Like a fool.

The Truth About Moudie

Another shift with Haddad. It turned out to be very revealing, in fact. Moudie was much warmer to me than a few days ago, and we even took lunch together. I used it as an opportunity to ask him why he was so hostile to me when I first came to the department. The reason he gave blew my mind.

 “You humiliated me in front of my friends,” he said.

I did what?

It was a long time ago, this incident. I was in the BRI then, still a kid. Moudie was just a cadet. He told me that he and his friends used to hang around HQ and wait for me to come out. “We looked up to you,” he admitted, a little embarrassed. “You had a reputation. Plucked early in your career and put in an elite division. We thought you were cool. But I found out you were an asshole.”

Asshole?

I felt like Moudie had just punched me with one of his meaty paws. I still had no idea what he was talking about. When was this? What did I do? “One day," he explained, "you were with this big guy from your squad, and I heard him say to you, ‘Hey, look. It’s your little girlfriend. Go give him a kiss.’ “

At this point, I admit, I started to chuckle—even though I could see how hard it was for Moudie to tell his story—because I was beginning to remember. I could picture them: a small group of cadets who always seemed to trail me. I didn’t know they admired me. I thought the exact opposite, in fact. If I had known, would I have acted differently?

“You walked right up to me,” Moudie continued, “and looked me up and down, real cool. Then you said, ‘What are you? Algerian?’ I think I started to nod or say my name but you put your hand over my mouth and pulled me in close. ‘I don’t care who you are,’ you said. ‘Piss off. You and your friends.’ I was almost shitting my pants.”

I still had only a vague memory of this, but to Moudie it seemed as clear and raw as that day. I asked him why he was hanging onto such a little incident from so long ago. “Don’t you remember?” Moudie asked, angry. “You licked me. LICKED me. You grabbed my head with both hands and ran your tongue like that—” He traced his finger along his cheek, from the corner of his mouth to his ear. “Real slow. Putain, the whole tongue, too, not just the tip! Then you said, ‘There. Let that hold you for a while.’ “

I remembered. And I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. Moudie was furious at first then he started to laugh, too. I explained that I was just a dumb kid, and I was mostly trying to impress my friend. Luc Caret was his name. They called us, “Les Deux Lucs,” and I adored him. Poor Moudie paid the price for that. I asked him to forgive me but couldn't resist adding that he tasted sweet. He responded with a swat to my arm and an “asshole.” He was way out of line, of course, considering I’m his chief, but I suppose it was a long time coming.

It’s funny what we hold onto and what we choose to forget. I never gave that day a second thought, but Moudie was scarred enough to want to transfer out of the department, away from me. I don't know—it was just a hazing, nothing more. Me, I have much deeper scars from greater offenses then a little face licking. At least he didn’t bleed. I can’t say the same.

Finding Old Ghosts in the Cemetery

Jean-Paul was seen hanging around Montmartre Cemetery today. I headed over there as fast as I could, but I knew he would be gone before I was anywhere near the place. Still, the father’s heart in me held out hope.

It’s not a really big cemetery, not like Père Lachaise, so it didn’t take long for me to make a full search. The only living people I found were the man at the guard station and a pretty woman taking photos. She smiled at me. At least I think she did. If I had been in a better mood, I might have chatted her up. Yeah, maybe.

Instead, I wandered silently around the old sepulchres. Soon, ghosts from my past started to take shape. I didn’t want to see them; they just came—the boys I lived with, the little tribe. This cemetery was one of our places back then; we used to sleep inside the sepulchres to keep warm. Well, the ones with doors we could open. There was one in particular that was mine and his. He was the chief of our tribe and my whole world. He looked out for me, taught me how to survive the streets. We were inseparable. Fiercely devoted comrades. I haven’t felt a bond like that since then, except maybe when I was in the BRI. One day he disappeared just like that, and then I was the chief. Just like that. I didn’t like being chief then, either.

Being in the cemetery today brought it all back—the good and the bad. The loss. I imagine they’re all dead now, those boys I lived with. Ghosts for real. I had Bruno to save my ass; who did they have? Nobody. Not even me because I got arrested and Bruno pulled me off the street for good. Some chief I was. I let them down.

But I won’t let Jean-Paul down. I can't. Can't let him die in the street like a dog. If he would just come home to stay, let me take care of him like Bruno did for me, he would see how much better it could be. I have to find him. I have to. T ou, mon fils ? Don’t you disappear on me, too!

Taking Leave (of My Senses)

I just had two days leave. It was the Bastille Day weekend so I should have been pleased that I didn't have to do patrol, but the timing is bad; I just started my new position. My chief insisted I take it. Said I looked tired. Maybe they just wanted time to reconsider my promotion.

I don’t know, maybe I was tired. I slept straight through the night, which is unlike me, so yeah, I suppose I was. It was a heavy sleep filled with tedious dreams. In one, I was trying to get to my new department but kept losing my way over and over. It grinded on endlessly, and I woke up wanting to scream.

So I got in my car and drove.

I don’t know where I was going but I just headed south—through the city, then out of the city, then out of the area. I got on the Autoroute du Soleil and kept on driving. It was like a crazy itch. Get me out! Out of what or where exactly, I don’t know, but I kept on. I drove nearly three hours then somewhere near Beaune, I finally stopped myself. Where was I going anyway?

Back in Paris, my insides quiet again, it's clear now where I was headed: Marseille.

Marseille was the place I ran last time I was at a crossroads. That was a long time ago; I was maybe 25. It was a bad time, much worse than now. There was an ambush on my squad, but I don’t want to talk about that now. The point is, I got three weeks mandatory leave. My mentor, Bruno, arranged a place in Marseille through a friend, said the sea would do me good. I had never seen the sea before; never been out of Paris. I didn’t want to go, in fact. It felt strange, like I was being shunned. The mandatory leave, maybe.

I was miserable at first, but then I met a guy—a tattoo artist named Emile—and everything changed. He was a wild spirit like me and we fell into an immediate friendship. I have happy memories of those weeks, and a tattoo across my back as a permanent memento. It took four straight days for Emile to complete it—that needle digging in over and over. I didn’t mind the pain; it was physical and focused, and I could wrap myself around it, work out the deeper pain in my heart. After the tattoo was finished, I felt myself healed. I was all torn up inside and Emile sewed me back together with that needle.

I don’t know why I’m writing about this now, or why I needed Marseille again after all these years. Do I feel torn up? I don’t know. I don’t feel like myself, that much I know. Maybe I need to feel the needle again. The pain. Just so I know I’m still me. I’m still Luc de la Rue.

Henri Says I Smoke Too Much

My friend Henri says I smoke too much. His dad just died from lung cancer, so now Henri is on my case. It's a little hypocritical when you figure he owns a bar tabac. He keeps me in Gitanes and whisky, my two vices. I love him for that.

I miss Henri's dad, too. Papa Girard. Especially now, because I could use his advice. He was a great guy. When I was a kid on the street, he used to feed me for free at the bar tabac. Imagine? A filthy gutter rat like I was? Let me sit as long as I liked and treated me like a human being. Asked me questions like he cared. Called me, "son." He was a great, great man. His son is the same and he's my best friend for nearly 25 years. He loves me in spite of my many flaws. That's real unconditional love, believe me.

I probably spend way too much time at Henri's bar, but it's like my other home. Henri is as good as my brother. When you're an orphan you learn to borrow family. Like Jean-Paul. He's not my real son, sure, but I love him just the same and we need each other. Since he's been gone I suppose I have been drinking and smoking too much. Between Jean-Paul's latest disappearance and the political games playing out at work, all I got is my hangout and my little vices. And so what? Henri says it's dangerous for me to be idle with whisky in my belly, but somehow he keeps pouring, and stocking up on my brand of cigarettes.

Jean-Paul is Gone Again

Jean-Paul is gone again. Suddenly, my problems at work don't seem so important. This time he only stayed three days. It’s always worse in the summer. He can stay gone for two weeks or more if the weather is good. It makes me sick to think what he’s up to because that kid has more looks than brains—and a self-destructive nature. It's a bad combination. There's something out there that keeps drawing him back, but it's not drugs, so what is it?

It's not that I don't understand the pull of the street. I do. It's hard to take the street out of the kid. The freedom is addictive, but you pay a high price for that kind of freedom. You have to have balls of steel to survive. JP isn't like that. He's soft and vulnerable, easily lead. That's why I worry. It's just a matter of time now. I could go mad thinking about it.

Still, how many times can I say the same thing over and over? I don’t know how to get through to him. How do you talk to a teenager? I don’t know. I was nothing like him when I was 17. I could take care of myself—but then again, I was never really a kid. My childhood ended the minute I was born.

I Was Not the Favorite

It turns out, my strange and sudden promotion was ordered by someone very high up (I won’t name him here) who felt I had been held back too long. He’s right, I suppose, and I thank him. Nice to know I have friends in high places.

Still, other than this man, I wasn’t the favorite for the job by any stretch. More popular guys had been passed over for me, guys with cleaner records. Seems I’ll have to prove myself all over again. Bon. Bring it on.

I spent my first full day in my new position stuck on a double shift, largely covering for the two assholes who transferred out. Mahmoud Haddad, the lieutenant who has been leading the movement to oust me, shared the shift with me. He's such a scrappy bulldog. Didn't even try to hide his hostility toward me. I should dislike him, but the more he barks, the more I want to scratch him behind the ears. Our long shift together gave us time to size each other up. The icebreaker was football. We like the same team so that’s a good start (PSG).

About eight hours into our twelve-hour shift, Haddad, or "Moudie" as they call him, started to open up a little—his life in Marseille, his hobbies, his many lovers (he's a handsome man, lucky bastard). I like him very much; he's an honest guy, the sort who is as he seems. We weren't great friends by the end of the shift, but he stopped growling at me, and we even laughed a little. The best part: he told me he would stay on the team.

I may not be the favorite, but now at least I got my number-two guy. All you need is a good right hand man, no?

Capitaine du Cirque

Day two of my new job. It's a circus already. Guys putting in for transfer, confusion over what my role is meant to be, a strange resentment I can't understand. Most guys would be excited about being promoted to captain but I didn’t ask for it; I was happy where I was. I had friends. My life had a nice rhythm. Now, it's a mess.

It was strange how they promoted me. Quickly, quietly. Putain, almost secretly. I don't understand it and it gets stranger all the time. My boss didn't support the move even though he'd always been a strong force behind my success in the past. Why was he against it? And if he didn't put in for it, who did?

My new department is small—only eight of us, I think, but I'm still getting to know everyone. Supposedly, we oversee the more high-level murders: serial killings, gang murders, and the like. It sounds good on paper but I have a bad feeling my ass is going to be stuck behind a desk most of the time. Are they tucking me away here on purpose? Is it because of the thing with the evidence? If so, why promote me?

My new team has formed an opinion about me already and it's not pretty. I don't know where this is coming from. One guy in particular, named Haddad, seems to be the ringleader in this little circus. I know this guy vaguely; he's from Marseille, from a tough Algerian slum. Thing is, I liked him right away; he's my kind of man. I can tell he would make a great number two and I want him to stay. He's the sort who would give it to me straight, tell me if my ideas are for shit or not. Give me a read on the team's morale. I don't want to be surrounded by ass-kissers. I need a guy like Haddad to challenge me.

Today I asked him to give me one month before he transfers and he said he would think it over. I hope he decides to give me a chance. I feel that if I can sway Haddad, the others will follow. It won't look good if I lose half the team before I've even begun.

Promoted. Why Doesn't It Feel Good?

I've been promoted to captain and put over a specialized unit. It came as a great surprise.  Strangely, it didn't feel like a promotion. There was no ceremony, no fêtes, no felicitations. My captain came to me and said, "You are moving to a new division of the murder squad. Effective immediately." That was that. Not a word about being promoted. Then he added, "I'm not happy about losing you. I was not for this." How was I supposed to take that? They made me leave the same day, and because we were slow, very few of my friends and colleagues were around for me to say goodbye.

It felt like a punishment not a reward.

It seems I was the last to know about my promotion and reassignment. My new team knew in enough time for a few of them to put in for transfer. They didn't want to work with Luc de la Rue. Apparently, I'm arrogant and difficult. Funny, no one in my old squad seemed to think so. Dommage. It's their loss.

Now I'm captain. Why doesn't it feel like a good thing?

Je Suis Flic

I am a cop. I work in La Brigade Criminelle in Paris. "La Crim' " we call it sometimes, or "La BC." There's a picture of our building at the top of this blog, in fact. The celebrated 36 Quai des Orfèvres. We're part of the DRPJ, the regional direction of the judiciary police, which means I'm not the guy who checks your passport at the airport, I'm the one they call if you end up mysteriously dead. I love what I do. I love solving the puzzle more than anything else and I'm good at it. I have an impressive case record. No matter what they're saying about me now, they can't take that from me.

It's not true about the evidence. I don't tamper with it. It's a shit charge. That's what I wanted to say here today. I'm a good cop, one of the best. You don't need to mess with evidence when you have skill. I'm innocent. That's all.