La Pute

2

It was year 1971 and the French underworld was thriving like never before - and most likely, never again. But this assumption wasn't due to changes in the structure of the law enforcement or a public response, it was more of a pessimistic expression. "Things can only go downhill from here", as one would say. If the road was easy to walk on, it would surely get rougher up ahead.

So, it would be not wisest, but most convenient, to enjoy the golden days while they still lasted. And the average petty criminals, even the ones that weren't part of the beating heart of the country's organized crime, but just lone veins, took this wisdom very seriously. They were loud, proud, petty mobsters that took to the streets and to the pubs, they claimed everything that pleased the eye or the soul.

One of these gangsters was a woman in her mid-20's, they called her Florence Lapointe. Not blessed with the most lucrative of appearances, but a bony form and wheat-colored hair, she was one of the notorious names in underground Marseille. But even then, she was only an underdog. For the beating heart. Le Cœur.

"Fold", An elder man proclaimed behind the table. In front of him was a pile of chips and a deck of cards that he kept eyeing from time to time, hiding his nervousness with dry jokes.

Florence watched, but she wasn't the one he was up against, not at all. The person across from him was a name that held the city of Marseille on its palm. His name was Vauquelin, the eyes and ears that were always peering at you from the dark. Of course, he called himself just a middleman, that he was only there because Marseille was there. To keep it together, and that he did well.

The game ended when the man with the greasy hair eventually ran out of chips and, with a downbeat smile, surrendered. Florence had already long forgotten his name from the moment he first said it. But it was irrelevant information, by the end of the day he would be at the bottom of the sea. Tied to a stone.

"Another one bites the dust", Vauquelin spoke, his eyes gazing lazily out of the window. Florence  replied nothing, not that she was expected to, just a scoff or a grunt at best. She wasn't one to make small talk like Vauquelin, who knew exactly how to dress his words.

"Go", He then issued, nudging his head in the direction the man had gone. Florence heeded his words and turned to leave, not really in a rush, just a little restless.

The sun was high up in the sky at that time and the temperatures were soaring, it was noon after all. As Florence walked the nearly empty streets, she could feel the heat of the paving on her exposed ankles. The air was unbearably hot, but she bore it.

Following the man, she turned towards the district leading to the river. A cooler breeze was blowing from that direction and it smelled of rotten fish, seaweed and something else, most likely tar. She couldn't see the man, in fact, she had not caught a glimpse of him the entire time. But she knew she was on the right path, he would have gone this way, there was no doubt about it. A bit further and he would approach the river, looking both ways in agony but choosing to go south. South, where the ocean was. The ocean that he would think of and feel relieved, because the ocean meant freedom, the ocean was a wall, behind which he believed he was safe.

But the ocean was just a very deep grave.

Even though a time of glory for all fellowmen and those that were not affiliated with them but coincidentally enough flourished at the same time, it was all at the expense of great unrest. But that didn't make killing a person any easier, it wasn't a common occurrence, Vauquelin made sure of it. Anyone that was to disappear would disappear quietly into the night and never be missed. This was the way of the underworld, and it served as a convenient alternative for law and order. Idealistic were the people, their ideals set in stone.

When Florence made it past the bridge that connected the eastern part of the city to the less colorful slums, across from the canal, she spotted two fishing boats docked at the harbor. But as she studied the one on the left more carefully, she understood it was no ordinary fishing boat. A small merchant ship, Italian probably, they had a habit of using the empty docks as they pleased.

Next to the boat Florence finally spotted the man, scratching his sweaty forehead and pleading with one of the crew members. A dark-haired woman with sharp, expressive eyes. She stood before the man with her arms crossed, but only when he took out a handful of cash from his pocket did he pique her interest.

Florence's lips curved into a slight smile, then she took a step forward.