They came at him on his third day while he was in the yard. There was nothing hostile in their approach. Five prisoners casually walking his way. They knew his name. They knew what he was in for. They said they wanted nothing more than to introduce themselves. They were his “brothers.” Simon knew better.
The yard, like the entire prison, was segregated by race and religion. The natives, “les blancs”—comprising? French, Corsican, and any other Europeans with white skin who had run afoul of French law—had the southern side. The southern side had benches, a handball court, a bocce pit, and, most importantly, abundant shade from the coastal pine trees that grew on the steep hills surrounding the prison. The Muslims, referred to as “les barbus”—the bearded ones—and by far the largest group in the prison, had the east side of the yard, hardly more than a fifty-square-meter patch of concrete. The blacks had what was left, a patch of dirt as hard as rock during the blistering summer, damp and muddy in the winter.
At first they made small talk. “Everything okay?” “You get a room with a bed?” “Need any weed or anything else, for that matter?”
Simon replied that he was fine. He required no favors. He’d known what to expect coming in. In Les Baums, you found your own space. Cells stood open twenty-four hours a day. The assignment given on arrival didn’t count for anything. Built in the 1930s to house a population of six hundred, the prison held three times that number. On the day he arrived, Simon became inmate 1801.
He’d fashioned a shank during his time in the city jail and concealed it the only way he could. He knew how to spot the weaker man. The fight, when it occurred, was brief and bloody. Simon had his bed.
Situated in the suburbs of Marseille, the prison anchored a leafy neighborhood of lower-middle-class homes and businesses, separated from its civilian neighbors by no more than a street and a twenty-foot stone-and-mortar wall. There were no watchtowers. No barbed-wire fences. Just the wall with statues of the seven deadly sins built into its side and the towering steel door that served as the prison’s sole entry and egress.
Inside, conditions were hellish. Few renovations had been made since its construction. Even fewer repairs. The interior was bare concrete, same as the beds. There were no bars on the cells, just doors that closed no differently than ones in your home. Each cell had a bed and a hole in the ground and whatever furniture you could bribe a guard to allow you to smuggle in. Some even had windows. In the summer, temperatures inside the housing unit rose to over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The air, rank with the shit and piss and stench of nearly two thousand sweaty men, was insufferable.
Simon’s sentence was six years with the opportunity to reduce his time with good behavior. It was a light penalty as far as armed robbery with aggravated circumstances (firing with deadly intent at police) went. The judge, a woman of forty and a new mother, had been weak. She had taken into account his age, his father’s suicide, his difficult family environment. When Simon had addressed the court with his new haircut and pressed shirt, and said with a halting voice that his days as a criminal were behind him, she had believed him.
“Someone wants to meet you,” one of the men said.
“I’m not hiding.”
“Signor Bonfanti doesn’t like it outside.”
Simon followed the men without further protest. Bonfanti was “Il Padrone,” the boss, and was the de facto ruler of La Brise de Mer. His son, Theo Bonfanti, had been killed in the course of the aborted robbery. Bonfanti’s room was on the fourth floor and had windows that opened wide enough to crawl out of. The room had a real bed and a Moroccan carpet and every other amenity of civilized life, including an independent supply of electricity. In theory, he could have engineered his escape any time he chose. For the past five years, it had been safer for him inside.
“You’re Ledoux?”
Simon nodded.
Bonfanti was a short, toad-like man with gray hair and an ample belly, his voice as rough as asphalt. “You got my son killed.”
“The police killed him.”
“It was your job.”
“It was.”
“And the police were waiting.”
Simon nodded again.
“So who talked?”
Simon said nothing. From the corner of his eye, he noted the other men drawing closer. They were no longer either casual or friendly.
“Who talked?” Bonfanti asked a second time.
Simon maintained his silence. The men pressed against him, ready to kill him if given the word. He could smell their eager sweat. Simon suddenly felt his age, a nineteen-year-old in far over his head.
Bonfanti gestured at a wooden chair. “Sit.”
Simon did as he was told.
“Here’s how things stand between us. It was your crew. Your plan. You were in charge. Whatever happened that day, you’re responsible. Agreed?”
Simon said yes.
“First, you owe me for my son’s share, then you owe me for his life. Still with me?”
Simon met Bonfanti’s eyes. The answer had already been made for him. To say no, to ask a question, was to sign his death warrant.
Bonfanti extended a callused hand. Simon shook it.
“There’s a man here who wishes me harm,” said Bonfanti. “You don’t need to know why. You only need to know his name. It is Nasser-Al-Faris. He’s a barbu.”
He explained that Al-Faris ran drugs inside for the barbus and the North Africans. Like Bonfanti, he was a powerful man. He was protected at all times. He never ventured into the yard without a bodyguard of five soldiers. He lived in the far corner of the housing unit, separated from les blancs. The only time he was unprotected was when he showered. Guards on his payroll cleared out the bathing unit. Every day at nine a.m. Al-Faris had fifteen minutes and all the hot water he desired for himself.
“Al-Faris has one weakness,” Bonfanti said, leaning close. “He is homosexual. He prefers young partners. Like you.”
“I’m not that way.”
“You don’t have to fuck him. You just have to kill him.”
The plan was put into motion the next day.
Bonfanti’s men set upon Simon in the yard as punishment for an unseen infraction. In plain sight of the population, Simon allowed himself to be beaten. He cowered. He ran. For the next week, he walked the yard alone, careful to keep his distance from everyone. He was a pariah, not welcomed by any group. He found a stretch of wall and made it his own. Each day, returning to his room, he passed les barbus. One day, he saw Al-Faris. He looked at him. He met his eyes. He allowed his gaze to linger. The next day, he did the same.
A week later, he received a note. A meeting was set. Nine a.m. The bathing unit.
Simon arrived at the designated time. He stripped naked. A guard checked his hands, felt beneath his balls, then looked away as Simon entered the shower.
Al-Faris was alone. He beckoned Simon forward. The bargain was made without words. In exchange for his body, Simon would receive protection. He would no longer be alone. He would be welcome among les barbus.
Al-Faris was Egyptian, a tall, muscular man with tattoos covering his back and his arms. He put his hand on Simon’s chest. He rubbed his back. He came closer so their bodies touched.
Simon looked into his eyes, playing his part.
Al-Faris cupped Simon’s buttock in his hand. He opened his mouth to kiss him.
Simon turned his head. In his mouth, he clenched a razor between his teeth. For the past ten days he had practiced the violent motion required to puncture a man’s neck and sever his carotid artery. He must bring his jaw high, grasp the man by his shoulders, hold him tight, then propel the blade powerfully downward, entering the neck just below the ear, slicing diagonally, viciously, and without hesitation.
He did this now.
Al-Faris opened his mouth to cry out but could make no sound. Blood erupted from his ruined throat in a panoramic geyser, pulsing with the last powerful beats of his heart. He grasped madly at Simon, but Simon held him in his grip, looking into his eyes as the life dimmed. Al-Faris slid to the floor. In seconds, he was dead.
Simon spat out the razor.