 |
| Firmin. |
Louis Shalako
Upon their return to the Quai, Pelletier went off to
return the vehicle, also, to tell his sergeant, Simard, that he was required in
the room of the Special Homicide Unit in order to go over reports, new and old,
with Maintenon. With the day almost over, this would likely include tomorrow
morning as well.
Maintenon knew Simard well enough, yet he would rather
let Pelletier speak on his own behalf, rather than pull rank on an old friend.
It was also a test of sorts.
“Gilles. Did you seriously let that young man conduct
interviews all on his own?’
“Yes. For one thing, there were a hell of a lot of
servants, then the kids all came home from school, and then the old man showed
up—I reckon Louise or someone dropped him a quick call and it’s only a few
blocks across town.” Also, all of those interviews had been conducted before,
by more experienced officers. “What if he gets something they didn’t.”
“Er…but why? Surely he’s not that good, he’s been a
driver, nothing more—”
“Well, he’s got a pretty good mind. He’s not exactly a
child, and he has all the same training as any other officer.” He nodded,
thoughtfully. “Actually, I’m thinking of bringing him into the Unit…”
“Are you kidding? You have to be a sergeant, and have
sufficient seniority, in order to even write the exam for detective. Assuming
you pass the exam, you’re basically still just a sergeant until you get an
assignment. Men have waited for years to get that assignment. I don’t know, he
just seems a little brash to me.”
Firmin himself had waited for an assignment, and
having succeeded to some degree in the Homicide Division, had been tapped, by
Maintenon himself, to come into the Unit. Also, they’d known each other for
years, going back to just after the War, when they were both downy-cheeked lads
on the beat. To be fair, Maintenon was the older one, Gilles had done the
entire four years of the War. Firmin had only been drafted in late 1917. He
hadn’t exactly volunteered—not like that first mad rush of youthful idiots and
patriotic as all hell when the patrie,
the very nation itself was threatened. By that time, they knew what war was, what it was actually like. They’d
also come pretty damned close to losing that war. No one was in any great hurry
to get killed, at least not before they had to.
Truth was, France had been bled dry, or pretty near
it. Simply adding one’s own blood to that puddle had been seen as increasingly
pointless, especially with the Americans and their unlimited resources coming
into the War.
“Ah, brash. But we phoned down for a car and it was
Simard who detailed him in particular. Perhaps it was just the luck of draw, I
don’t know. I have a question for you, old friend. Where does confidence come
from?”
“Huh? How in the hell would I know—success, I
suppose.”
“Ah. Yes—success, but there is so much more to it than
that.”
“Okay.” Firmin, at his desk, had work to do, but so
had they all.
And this thing with Pelletier was just a little
unusual.
“Confidence comes from success, but it also comes from
failure. We fail, and we somehow survive. A little time goes by, and with the
benefit of a little hindsight, we realize that maybe it wasn’t so important to
us after all. Whatever it was that we wanted, whatever outcome that we desired
most, or even feared the most, just doesn’t seem so important anymore. We have
moved on—” He sought the words, without finding the exact ones. “Pelletier has
an awful lot of confidence, and I’m just wondering if he can back it up.”
And he was also wondering, just where he’d gotten it
in the first place.
“Okay.” Firmin nodded.
“You know. When the War was over, and we had survived.
When knew we were going to live. We were just so fucking God-damned grateful to
have our lives ahead of us, when so many others did not. We still had our arms,
and our legs, and our eyes—and our lungs, when you think of the gas. We had
survived, and with our honour mostly intact. Our dignity, maybe not so much.
The fear of failure, hardly entered
into the equation, and no; no one wants to be a failure or to go hungry and
homeless because of it. No one wants to get their guts ripped out by a bayonet,
either. But. We were going to do what
we needed to do, whatever the hell was best for us, and no one else, and to
hell with what other people thought—just for example. Joining this department.
After that Hell, and after military life, no one was ever going to tell us what
to do again…”
Firmin nodded again.
“Yeah, I get you, and it’s your decision. You are the
Boss, after all.”
“There is more to it.”
“Oh?”
“I’m going to get us that room. I’m going to get us
those nice, new desks and chairs. I’m going to get us some new people, and
quite frankly, qualified detectives are worth their weight in gold, and their
present bosses might not be all that happy about giving them up…right?” They
might even be damned hard to find. “And rather than having them handed off to
us, at their choice, for unknown
reasons, sometimes not very good reasons, we get to pick them and choose them
and maybe even train them…fresh meat and fresh brains, right from scratch, as
it were.” He grinned. “At my age, and at my rank, quite frankly, I think I rate
the driver of my choice, and also, this Unit could use a few dedicated
vehicles, rather than just riding along with someone else.”
Or, relying on availability down in the motor pool.
They exchanged a long look.
“Yes, Gilles.” Firmin stubbed out his cigarette and
uttered a deep sigh. “Well, I guess I’d better do some work…”
He squirmed experimentally in his seat…
“New chairs, eh. Can’t come a moment too soon, at
least that’s my opinion.”
Maintenon grinned at that one.
Firmin had a thought.
“Gilles. I was planning on leaving about five o’clock,
and there’s no telling when or if anyone else will be back. Er—”
“Don’t worry. I will give Édouard a key, and a stiff little talk on security, and personal
responsibility; his duties as an officer and a representative of the human
race, and if he wants to sit up typing reports half the night, that’s fine with
me. But, assuming he gets back up here in any kind of time, I will basically
tell him to quit at five and go home—and come back tomorrow morning, nice and
early.”
“And you’re really
going to talk to Roger?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s your
funeral.”
“Let us hope not, mon ami.”
Firmin grunted at that
one.
Gilles eyed the clock. He could hang on a little
longer, if need be. Among other things, he needed to stop by LeBref’s place and
pick up Sylvestre—assuming the family would even let him go.
Other than all of that, it was his first day back at
work. They were telling him to take it easy and he had been hoping to get out
of there by four-thirty at the latest.
END
Louis has books and stories available from Amazon.
For those who prefer audiobooks, every title on Google Play has its corresponding audiobook.
See his works on ArtPal.
Thank you for reading.
No comments:
Post a Comment