I am Luc of the Street

Moudie Makes Me Laugh

Haddad is damn funny. I laugh more with him than anyone else. I laugh until I ache from it. I usually save my laughs for special occasions, the real laughs, I mean—those long belly laughs. It's not that I'm not enjoying the joke but I'm just not the jovial type. It doesn't come naturally. When I was a kid, my best friend on the street taught me how to laugh. Before I met him, I never even smiled, not that I remember, anyway.

My expressions are quiet; you might get a little smirk out of me, a smile, a chuckle even, but that's often the extent of it. Especially lately, with JP gone. But Moudie won't let me rest content in my sullen state; he's at me all the time, as if his sole mission is to break down my dark defenses.

I amuse Haddad; I'm his foil. He pokes fun at my sulkiness, my intensity. He's starting to call me, "Capitaine du Sombre" and Commander of Darkness. My every word seems to be a set-up for a gag. I don't mind it, really. He's not mocking me; he's inviting me to the party. I need a guy like him to teach me how to take myself less seriously.

Moudie and I understand each other—what makes each other tick, where all the buttons are. We are alike in many ways, grew up in hard worlds, but the wear-and-tear shows less on him. He lives big, scraps big, laughs big. He's full of life and I envy that. I need that. Moudie has come along just at the right time. Professionally and personally, he's right there when I need him, even when I don't know I need him. I wanted a number-two guy but I got much more: a great friend. A brother. Un vrai frère.

JP is Still Gone

My boy is nowhere. We're looking for him, we're all looking. Putain, even my informant and some of the drug dealers—anyone with an eye on the street who gives half a damn about me. That kid must be hiding out somewhere. Someone is hiding him. I don't know who it is who's trumping me, or if this is the person JP threw in my face the other day, but I'd like to find whoever it is and beat him senseless. I want my boy back.

Today, I lost my one diversion: my gang killing case. I had to hand it over to the antigang brigade because it involved a gang they've been tracking. It stung, losing my case to the very squad that gave me my start in the DRPJ. They ribbed me hard about it, too, made sure I felt like a traitor and second class citizen. One guy, a real cretin, insinuated that the reason I left the BRI was because I couldn't hack it. He doesn't know crap about why I left the BRI. Normally, I'd tell that guy to go screw himself, that the case was a joke anyway, but losing the only half decent case I've had in months was a real blow, especially because now I have nothing between me and the pain of missing JP.

That boy is becoming an obsession; I can feel it. I hate when I get like this—the worry, the dread. I have to pull it together and move on. Maybe JP will come back and maybe not. What more can I do? I just need get back to where I was before JP came to live with me, before we were a family. I was fine alone before; I'll be fine alone again.

I Am My Job

Right now my work is all. I don't care if I ever go home to the dead emptiness of that apartment. I miss JP. Miss him bad. I'm grateful that I have the gang killing case now to keep my mind occupied. It's good to have work again, real work. It's not much of a case, easy for me to solve, but it's work and I feel like myself again.

It seems the only time I truly feel like myself is when I have a case. I don't know why that is, or when I started to feel that way, but when I'm working, everything falls into sync; everything hums inside. When I'm on the hunt, I let it take me over—my adrenalin kicks in; my heart starts pumping; my senses tweak up. It's an incredible feeling; I'm outside myself, yet deep inside at the same time. My colleagues say it's something to watch, the way I investigate a crime scene. Criminal procedure students have even come to observe me at work. Weird, right? Sure, I have skill; I'll admit it. But most of what I have, what makes me unique in my approach, comes from growing up on the street—my cranked up senses, my intuition, the way I can put myself inside a killer's mind without judgment. Bruno saw all that in me when I was a kid, and told me I was made for cop work. I thought he was crazy at the time, but here I am all these years later.

Bruno was right: it's the street inside me that makes me damn good at my job. Maybe that's why I feel more myself when I'm working; it's the only time I can let the wild boy free. It's the only time I'm allowed to be who I truly am.

Absence

There's a song by a pretty-boy pop singer that's called, "Par Absence." It goes something like, "If I bleed, if I ache, it is no doubt from the absence of love." Sans doubt par absence d'amour. He's always singing about loneliness and longing, that guy. Sure complains a lot for someone with a pretty young wife. He should walk a while in my shoes. Frigging pop stars—what do they know of suffering?

I've bled. I've ached. For real. And I'm no stranger to absence. Since the beginning, I've suffered from it: absence of my mother; absence of a home; absence of my best friend on the street who ditched me after six years together. And now, absence of my boy.

You'd think, by now, I would be used to absence; that it would be no more painful than a dull toothache. But the thing about a hole is that once it's filled, you forget there ever was a hole. When someone fills the hole in your life, you get used to it pretty quick and it's all you know until they leave you. And when they leave, they don't void the old hole; they rip a fresh one. The pain gets somehow sharper each time.

I've got a lot of holes by now. I fill them with work. And drink, I suppose. Sex. Cigarette smoke, for sure. And football. Football always helps. Maybe I should go outside and kick a ball around. Except the problem is, I got used to doing that with Jean-Paul and now he's gone. See there, I just ripped myself a new hole.

My Boy Is Gone

I came home to an empty apartment. I knew it. I knew it couldn't last. The kid took a jacket from my closet and some money from my stash, so I know he means to stay away. Jean-Paul is gone again, only this time the pain is unbearable.

We had a fight. I've been working longer hours now that I have a case and JP was upset when I came home yesterday. I tried to explain but the stupid kid thinks if I stay out late it means I don't care about him. It's craziness to believe that, but I couldn't make him understand no matter what I said.

"You don't love me!" he screamed. I didn't know what to do to make it better. I tried to talk sense to him but he insisted that I didn't love him anymore. Then he said he would find someone else who would, and that's when I lost it. I grabbed him and tried to make him understand. I shook him and told him to stop being an idiot. Putain de merde !  What have I done? I screwed it up. I knew I would.

Now my boy is gone and the emptiness is blinding. Silence stabs at me from every room. It's unbearable. Unbearable!

I'm going to go and find him. Sure, I'll find him, like before. But what then? I can't make him come home with me. He doesn't want to live with me now. That's what hurts so much. We were a family and now it's gone.

On Loan

I've been loaned out. Since there's nothing to do in my new department, they're loaning me out to my old one. Funny, huh? I would have thought they were rethinking my promotion but they let me take Haddad with me. That was the condition I gave. As security. I figure they wouldn't let Moudie go if they were just trying to get rid of me. Anyway, the upside is that now I have a murder case. Three, in fact. You gotta love a good turf war.

It's good to be back in my old squad, like coming home. I didn't even realize how homesick I was until I saw my old colleagues again—or I should say, my brothers. My family. I say "family" because for me, family is anyone who's earned my devotion. Other than a short stint with my ill-fated mother, I never had any blood relatives to speak of, so I've always had to borrow family from others. Like Jean Paul and Henri. Like the boys I lived with on the street. And of course, Bruno. I wouldn't trade in any of them for blood kin. Ever.

When you're an old street kid like me, you're used to things being on loan, and you don't complain. I learned young how to get by with things borrowed—or stolen, if necessary. I take what I need anyway it comes and suck it dry. I'm not greedy; I've gone without and I don't fear going without again. I'm just grateful for whatever I have in my life. For as long as I'm allowed to have it.

Scars

Today, when I was walking around the apartment shirtless, my scarred torso caught Jean-Paul’s eye. “Where did you get that?” he asked, pointing to my belly where a bullet had to be cut out. “And that?” Another bullet from the same day, near my shoulder. “What about THAT?" Jean-Paul saved the best for last: a long, horizontal scar across my neck. I was wondering when he'd get around to asking about it. “Oh, that,” I said as casually as I could. “I just sort of ran into something.” I ran into something, alright. A wire—strung between the hands of an assassin. That was back when I was in vice. Pas grave. No big deal. I survived. Now I have a permanent reminder to watch my back.

There are other scars, too. Like the one between my shoulder blades, long since tattooed over. Three letters: B-R-I, the initials of a special unit I was once in, carved into my skin by my fellow officers. They held me down and did it to me. I thought it was some kind of sick hazing until they each showed me theirs—one guy had it on his chest, another on his arm, and so on. That’s when I knew I was in, I was accepted. Funny how they put mine where I could never see it, could even forget about it. But some scars you never forget, especially the ones you can’t see.

Like the ones carved into JP's screwed up little mind. I have those, too. We’re screwed up together. I guess that’s why we found each other, why we stick together. You might think the street did that to us, but the truth is, we were scarred long before we ran away to the streets, at least on the inside. The physical scars come later when you try to avenge the mental ones.

Betrayed

I spent the first part of my life on the outside of society and as hard as it is for me to relate to people on the whole, one-on-one is even harder. When I finally decide to call one “friend,” it’s a big deal. From my friends I expect what I give: loyalty and honesty. C’est compliqué ça?  It seems to be for some people.

Listen, I know we French have supposedly elevated deception to high art, maybe from centuries of being occupied. We’re charmers, beguilers; we tell you what you want to hear—and we’ll say anything to get you into bed. True. Okay. But me, I’m more of a straight-shooter. If I like you, I tell you. If I don’t—well, let's just say you'll know to walk on the other side of the street when you see me.

I say what I mean and do what I promise. Surely I learned that on the street. Charm is useful in proper society but on the street, intent is what makes people bend to your will. The sharp point of intent. Still, that I am transparent in my intentions and feelings is considered a weakness by many of my peers. I understand that. One should never reveal all. But I am not a weak man and no one should mistake my honesty as an invitation to screw me over.

I have been betrayed exactly five times in my life, each one like a little slit in my soul that still bleeds. One of the first times was by my closest friend on the street who left me without a word. Another time, by a boy in the academy who would not stand by me when I was being humiliated. Betrayal happens in many ways but always comes in the form of a trusted friend, and always takes me by surprise. You'd think I would have learned by now—a guy like me, from the hard streets. You'd think I'd keep my intent sharpened and unsheathed.

This recent betrayal might be considered a little thing. Some might even wonder why I bother to upset myself over it. And to the French way of thinking, I’m the one who is the ass because I let my guard down; I trusted my secrets to another. Maybe that’s true; maybe it’s my mistake, but it’s still your problem. I’ll make it your problem. Because if you find yourself lucky enough to be taken into my confidence, if I decide to share a secret, you better guard that secret as though your life depended on it—because it just might. If you dare to look me in the face and promise to keep mum, you better keep mum.

Betrayal is unforgivable. On this point I am unwavering. I can take a lot of abuse before I lash out, but betrayal gets you right on my list. And once you’re there, you stay there for good, no matter how much you beg and grovel. No mercy for Judases.

You know who you are. I trusted you and let you in close. I won’t make that mistake again. If I were you, I’d move out of town. You’re on my list.

Vive La Rentrée !

Ah, that wonderful time known as the reentry—when the les petits enfants go back to school. Not that I know anything about that. All I know is that Paris is alive again with the noise of everyday life, and I can have a nice whisky in the free open air of my favorite bar again. Praise September! I thought I’d go mad from the quiet of August.

It was good to see Henri again. He was full of stories and photos of his time away. He looked tanned and relaxed, fresh from the seaside. Hey, at least one of us had a good time.

For me, my good time starts now—now that Paris is back from vacation. Soon people will fall back into their busy routines and lives will rub against other lives, creating the kind of heat that can drive a person do something unthinkable. And when that happens—and it will happen soon enough—I’ll be right there.

Come on, September, bring me something to do!