Read Online The Lost Sailors by Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis - Free Book Online

waiting for an answer.
    â€œYes!” Lalla said. “I’m really thirsty.”
    Nedim collapsed onto one of the seats.
    â€œAnother gin and tonic?” Gisèle asked.
    â€œChampagne will be fine.”
    He was screwed. Completely. More than anything, he felt as if he was without will. His eyes again met Gaby’s. She still had that fucking smile on her lips. He felt like slapping her. Just to see if the bitch kept smiling.
    â€œWill you dance with me?” she said.
    Nedim didn’t hear her. Everything was getting mixed up in his head. The alcohol and the desire. The desire to fuck Lalla and hit Gaby. He was losing his erection again, and he was overcome with sadness. He felt the way he did just after making love. Alone. And sad. And there was no ship waiting for him to help him forget he was just an idiot, lost in life. He looked at his watch.
    â€œShit!” he cried.
    Four-ten. He had fifty minutes to get to the harbor. He stood up. Gaby was already standing. In front of him. She took him in her arms.
    Â 
    Perla marina que en hondos mares
    Vive escondida entre corales . . .
    Â 
    One of Francisco Repilado’s best songs.
    â€œLet go of me. I have to split.”
    â€œYou’ve got a minute, haven’t you? You paid for my bottle, you might as well take advantage.”
    â€œFuck off!” He pushed her away, roughly.
    â€œHey!” she cried. “That’s enough of that!”
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    A big black guy had appeared. He was easily two heads taller than Nedim. A good twenty pounds heavier, too, and all of it muscle.
    â€œNothing,” Nedim said. “I think I’m going.”
    â€œNo problem, pal. No problem.”
    Nedim had sobered up. He had to get out of here as quickly as possible. He mustn’t miss his appointment with Pedrag. He had to leave Marseilles. Suddenly, he felt afraid. He realized he was the only person left in the club. No, there was another customer, leaning on the bar, talking to Lalla. She was sitting on a stool, her back to Nedim. The waiter served the man a glass of water. “A glass of water! The bitch!”
    He went back to the booth to get his cigarettes. The bottle of champagne and the two full glasses seemed to mock him. He turned. Gaby was behind him. She handed him the check.
    â€œCash or credit card?”
    Â 
    Celaje tierno de allá de Oriente
    Fresca violeta del mes de abril
    Â 
    One thousand eight hundred francs! Two bottles, one thousand eight hundred francs. He looked up at Gaby.
    â€œThe gin and tonic’s thrown in,” she said.
    â€œI don’t have enough.”
    He could hardly speak. His head was spinning. He felt groggy. He didn’t even have the strength anymore to wonder how he was going to get out of here without rough stuff. And what about Pedrag? What was he going to do about Pedrag?
    â€œWe don’t give credit.”
    â€œI don’t have enough,” he said again.
    Gaby kept looking at him. He was starting to panic. He should have danced with her, he thought. He’d have sweet-talked her. He should have realized that, of the two of them, she was the one who made the decisions. Lalla had tried to make him see that, hadn’t she? He’d have gotten away with one bottle. No shame. And no rough stuff.
    â€œDoug! Can you come here a minute?”
    The black guy reappeared as quickly as he’d disappeared earlier. “Yeah?”
    â€œThis idiot doesn’t have enough.”
    â€œI’ve got . . . maybe a thousand . . .”
    Nedim collapsed on the seat, took out his money and started counting. Nine hundred and fifty. Doug leaned over and put his broad hands flat on the table. Nedim didn’t dare look up. Keep a low profile, he told himself. Play the idiot, don’t insist. He heard the girls laughing behind him, at the bar. Lalla and Gaby. And the other customer. He was laughing, too.
    â€œWhat are we going to do?”