One less hit man to deal with

Blaireau left me holed up for 3 days while he arranged safe passage for me to the countryside. Paris was too hot for me, he said, there was a hundred thousand Euro open contract on me. Fine, I says, the least you can do is let me have my ammo back so I can protect myself since no one else is. "Au contraire, mon ami" says Blaireau,"We have seven detectives assigned to the case. It is bigger than you, this matter of Russian Blues."
The words hit me like a bucket of cold water. All this time I thought I was in the driver's seat, taking care of my own business. I was just the sacrificial goat, the lead magnet.
"So you're just keeping me alive so you can trap Roy Tuxedo. Is that it?"
Blaireau arched his eyebrows. "Roy Tuxedo is, comment dit-on en anglais, chump change, mon ami, the tip of the ice. This is bigger than you think."
"Big like what?..." I says, pausing to think,"...the mob, the mafia, the Russians, the Albanians?"
Blaireau just nodded. "Yes, but what does it matter to you? You are here for this Roy Tuxedo and if you work with us you will have him, but you must do as I say."
"Okay", I says,"I'll do what you say. You want me to lay low for 3 days, fine, but at least leave me with 4 rounds - 4 lousy rounds."
Blaireau hesitated for a long moment, nervously grooming his fur, then surprised me by giving me all 20 rounds. "If you get into trouble you are on your own,mon ami. This meeting never happened. We have never met. We have never heard of you."
"Tant mieux" I offered, testing my French.
Blaireau smiled at the effort. "Very good! Bien! I come back in three days and we leave for the Southwest, my hometown, where we will be safe. There I show you the real France."
Blaireau slipped out the door and I turned on the TV and cleaned my gun. I caught the news. The lead story, as best I could tell, was about a gunman who decided to shoot it out rather than be taken alive. He got his wish. Then they put his picture on the tube and I nearly fainted - it was the same dude who had shot at me twice. I poured myself a generous glass of pastis and toasted the poor guy. Now that he was dead, an unidentified gunman shot down by the cops in the middle of Paris, I couldn't help but feel a bit for the dude. OK, he probably clipped some guys, but it's a dirty game and you gotta pity the losers. I tossed down the pastis and poured another, turned the TV off and looked out the window at the canal. There was a barge docked close by. "Pop Music" was its name. That made me smile. It seemed Blaireau was indeed looking out for me; I just didn't know it. That made me smile, too.My late unknown assailant