I am Luc of the Street

Damage Control

Back in Paris after a few months in Marseille. Henri is pretty ticked at me for taking off for so long. Pas grave. I’ve seen it before, and I will again. But Jean-Paul isn’t angry at all. He's past anger, and has moved into apathy. Not good.

I got my work cut out for me.

What did I expect from the kid? I’ve been pulling away from everyone close to me because I’ve been in pain. At some point, JP had to protect himself from his own pain. The sting of rejection. What else could he do? He had to shut down.

One consolation: he didn’t run back to the streets. He stayed with Henri and his family, and hasn’t missed a day of work at the bar tabac. I owe Henri a debt of gratitude for that. He did what I could not; he domesticated my kid. Of course, he's better equipped to do it; he can teach by example. For me, all I had was the old “do as I say, not as I do” argument. JP saw through all that.

I guess I handed my kid over to Henri to rear. I didn’t mean to; it just happened. JP’s probably better off. I’m not jealous.

Yeah right.

Henri and JP are tight now, and I’m on the outside. Never mind I put myself there, I want back in. I gotta get JP to trust me again, before he's lost to me for good.

 

Being Useful

Henri and I got into a bit of a tiff today. He thinks since I’m suspended I should spend time with Jean-Paul instead of "running off" after the killer. But he doesn’t understand what it’s like to be out of work. He runs his own business; easy for him to say.

“What drives you?” he shouted at me. “Ego?”

Fear of being useless, but I didn’t tell him that. "I want the kid to have someone to look up to," I said. Henri shook his head at me like I was a lost cause. “JP looks up to you because of who you are, Luc, not what you do.” Then he asked me what I was really afraid of. “Is the devil gonna claim your soul without that piece of metal?"

He pegged me pretty good, didn't he? So, of course, I had to tell him to fuck off. Loudly. Yeah, I know...but I hate when he lectures me. He doesn't know what it's like to come from nothing, and I told him so. "You don't get it!" I barked. "Without the badge, I’m nothing! A bum!”

Henri’s eyes bugged out; he jerked back as if I’d called him the bum. Yeah, “holy shit” is right. Do I really feel like a bum?

I watched Henri’s face morph from shock to sadness. Before it could shift into pity, I was outta there. I know he's right; I should invest in JP, but right now, I have to save myself.

When Bruno took me off the streets, he told me being a cop would make me somebody. A man who is useful can never be cast aside. His words keep ringing in my head. Well, Bruno, I'm going to make myself useful.  

One More Reason to Go to My Bar

It's been a little over a week since JP started working at Henri's place. By day two, he was already getting himself to work on his own—and on time. I knew that was a sign of promise. Henri tells me the kid's got a real knack for the job and is a huge help. I have to say, I'm amazed, and pleased. I just wanted to keep him occupied, but it looks like he's got himself a bona fide career.

The added bonus: because he works where I hang out, we're spending more time together. He's happy and settling into his new life. I must say, I'm a genius.

Now I have a new routine: when I show up after work, it's JP who greets me with a whisky and a fresh pack of smokes (and none of the lectures about quitting like I get from Henri). We have dinner together every night and walk home together after the café closes. What more could I want?

JP is like a different kid now; he has a real sense of pride and purpose. Girard's bar tabac saved my life once. Maybe it can save his, too.

Putting the Kid to Work

I've been thinking of ways to keep JP from running off while I'm busy on my new case. What he needs is a job, to apprentice somewhere. I want to set him up in a trade, like Bruno did for me, but I can't see him as a cop. He's too delicate, too timid. And I don't mean to sound like a horrible father, but he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer. I asked him what he'd like to do, but he just stared, as he does, and shrugged. I understand. When Bruno asked me what I wanted to do with my life, I thought he was nuts. We street kids live day to day.

But this morning, when we were having coffee at Girard's, I was struck by a brilliant idea to keep JP close—right under my nose, in fact. I asked Henri to give him a job at the café.

Henri wasn't on board at first. He stuttered and hesitated. "I don't really need someone right now." I told him I could help pay JP's wages, if it was about money; I just needed JP occupied and safe when I wasn't around. "Oh, so you want me to look after your kid now?" he asked. Yeah, actually, I could use a hand. Isn't that what friends are for?

In the end, he relented. I didn't have to twist his arm too hard; Henri has a heart of gold. He put JP to work right away and when I left for work, JP was setting up the outside tables. He looked so proud of himself. It felt good, like I'd finally done something right for him. Girard's saved me when I was on the street. Now, it can give JP a new life.

What could be better than my boy at my bar tabac, working for my best friend? That, and the ripping good case I have now? I'm in heaven.

Ripping Good Times

I got a feeling about this case. I think it’s going to be the case of my career—the one I’ve been waiting for, the one I was born for. Oh, Bruno, I wish you were alive to see this!

I can’t say much, but I think this killer may strike again. It’s no more than a hunch based on a tiny piece of evidence, but my gut tells me he’s just getting started.

I know what you’re thinking: I sound too excited about that. Henri said the same thing. He got all red-faced as he does when he scolds me. “People are going to die, Luc! Do you care about that?” Okay, sure. But hey, I’m not the one killing them. Why yell at me? I’m just saying—if it’s going to happen, better I'm the guy on the case. I’ll catch the killer faster than anyone, which means fewer victims. And that’s good, right? Right? Come on, you have to be a little happy for me.

I'm dedicating this case to Bruno. The last time Paris had a serial killer was in the ‘80s—in Montmartre, which was Bruno’s turf. Sadly, he’d just retired and missed out on the action. He did some investigating on his own, tried to share his insights, but they dismissed him. It broke his heart. “My time is over,” he said. “But you, kid—your day will come.”

Bruno was right. The "kid" finally has his day.

Don't Touch Me

I'm too physical. That's what I was told by a guy who owns a club in the Bastille. He took offense to my touch. All I did was pat his cheek, just to let him know he was okay by me—a sign of affection, affirmation. What's the problem?

"You use touch to control," he said. "To dominate."

According to him, I'd been "touchy" during our entire conversation—squeezed his arm, patted his back, and like that. I didn't realize; I suppose I do it unconsciously. No one has complained before, but this guy puffed up his chest and told me to back off. "Ne me touches pas," he said. "I know you're supposed to be some tough guy, and you think I should be intimidated, but here, in my club, I'm the king."

Okay. But maybe, if you're feeling dominated by me, you're not the "king" you think you are.

I thought he was just some insecure oddball, but when I told Henri about it, he agreed. "It's just part of your makeup. You keep people in check." Then he compared me to his dog. "He uses his body to signal to the other dogs he's boss of the courtyard."

So, it's primal?

"You do it with Moudie a lot," he said. Then he laughed and added, "but he does it right back."

And I thought we were just being affectionate.

At work, guys are physical all the time—embracing hello, smacking each other on the back, clapping one another on the shoulder. Are we merely Alpha males vying for the kingdom? That's ridiculous. Right?

If I dominate, so be it. But it bothers me it's happening when I'm trying to make a connection. At least I think I'm trying to connect. What if I don't know the difference between affection and manipulation? What if my need to dominate is pathological?

Can I ever again caress a person without wondering if I'm mentally punching them? 

Same Like Always

I've settled back into my department now that the move to anti-terrorism is definitely off the table. It took me a week to resign to the idea I'd be stuck in the same boring job. Henri was surprised I took it so hard. "I didn't think a creature of habit like you would want that kind of change."

A creature of habit?

I told Henri he was dead wrong. I'm the guy who grew up on the streets where nothing was predictable. I can adapt to any situation, flow in any direction I need. But Henri looked me square in the face and laughed his ass off. Then he pointed out, in great detail, what a slave to routine I am.

"I could set the clock by you," he said. "If you have the day shift, I can expect you just after four o'clock. You'll head straight for the tabac for a pack of cigarettes then sit at your usual table outside. At precisely 21:45, you'll go home by way of Rue des Saules. But if you have the night shift, I'll see you at 10:15, at which time I must have the morning paper and your coffee waiting.

"You will only eat ham and cheese sandwiches or roast chicken. You only shower in the morning. You have a cigarette every night on the balcony off your bedroom and every morning on the balcony off your living room."

He made me sound so pathetic. I protested. Henri said I shouldn't feel bad, that we're all creatures of habit. "Although for you," he added, "routine does seem to be a life line."

A life line?

I wasn't even aware until Henri laid it out, but it's true, I do stick to certain habits. Do I need them to survive? I suppose I do like things a certain way, but would I fall apart without routine?

Where Henri sees mindless habit, I see meaning and ritual. I go to his café every day because it's more like home than my apartment. It was home before I had a home. Henri and his dad were my touchstones when I was homeless, and Henri is still my anchor. I walk the same route home because it reminds me of the few bright moments of my dark youth.

It was Bruno who gave me my first ham sandwich the day he arrested me, and I ate roast chicken with his family the day he took me home to live with him. So yes, these are my favorite foods. As to starting my day with a warm shower and smoking on my balcony looking out at the Eiffel Tower, these are great luxuries to someone who grew up in the filthy streets and had nothing for so long.

Maybe routine does give me security, I don't know. After the unstable childhood I had, who could blame me? These small rituals make me feel like a rich man. Some people see power and money as marks of success, but to me, it's the things you can count on. The things that most people take for granted. I cherish these things. They remind me how fortunate I am.

The Gift

Every year, Henri and his wife give me the same thing for Christmas: a big bottle of a fine single malt. He knows what I want and what I like. That’s the hallmark of a great friend.

I’m a simple guy; I think you know that, by now. I don’t have much in the way of material riches, and I don’t care. I measure wealth by a warm shower and a smoke on my balcony looking out at the city. Friendship; love; a good case to chew on—these are the treasures I seek.

A gift, to me, is anything I didn’t expect or something I wouldn’t dare hope for—being exonerated of the evidence tampering charges; finding my old friend from the street who disappeared when I was fourteen. Jean-Paul telling me he's ready to get off the streets.

If I had to choose between getting rid of the charges against me, or getting JP off the streets, I’d pick the latter. If I were a praying man, I’d be on my knees asking for that, right now. Or whispering into Papa Noël’s ear, like Henri's children do.

Petit papa Noël
Quand tu descendras du ciel
Avec des jouets par milliers
N'oublie pas mon petit fils. Translate this.

Click here for the proper words to this French carol.

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!

The Dead of August

Henri reminded me that he was taking off for the seaside with his wife and kids, and that Girard’s Bar Tabac will be shut until the end of the month. I was not happy about it. I hate August when all of Paris goes on vacation. Life stops. What about those who have to stay behind? What happens to us? How are we supposed to live?

August to me is like a kind of death. When I was on the street, August was the worst time. Everything slowed down and the usual human activity that sustained us gutter rats would dwindle to nothing. Like Lagache’s Grocerette—a place I frequented with my sticky fingers—would close for the whole month. We lived on the food I used to swipe from that old guy, but no shop meant no food. It would get worse and worse as the month wore on and we would be forced to move further down into the city—into the 8th and the Champs-Elysées—where there were at least some tourists. The problem was, that area was also crawling with cops. And unlike the cops in Montmartre who knew us and would often look the other way, these guys loved to round us up in their little wagons. You had to be really desperate and hungry to take chances in that neighborhood, and by the end of August, we were.

Salvation only came with the rentrée in September, when everyone returned to Paris for the new school year. Our lives would improve immediately. Girard’s Bar Tabac would open up again and Henri’s papa would feed me regular. The hunger of August would be gone at last.

Yeah, I suppose I know why I hate August. All these years later, a part of me still feels the dread, the abandonment. Still feels hungry.

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.