River City

by John Farrow

  “You were going to say nuts. And that’s only the half of it,” Carole agreed.

  “How’s Anik?” Touton asked.

  “She’s fine. She has the same complaints. It’s too hot, she tells me, about twenty-five times a day. Does that mean she plays in the shade, or has a nap when the sun is highest? Nope. Turns out it’s a plea for more ice cream.”

  Detective Andrew Sloan grew impatient with the drift in the conversation. Just about the last thing he could tolerate was someone chatting about their kids. “You said, Madame Clément, that you knew the man who got killed last night?”

  Touton put his coffee down and explained. “Detective Sloan is assigned to the case. He was on the scene last night. He told me that the dead man, this Michel Vimont, has been working as a chauffeur. Is he the man you know?”

  “Michel? Yeah, he drives mob bosses around. Roger got him the job.”

  “So they were friends.”

  “Roger thought he was a lonely guy. He looked out for him.”

  Nodding, Sloan took out his notebook. Her answer had given him hope. She seemed to be a knowledgeable witness, someone with an insider’s view. “They knew each other as associates, then, would you say?”

  Madame Clément looked at the captain, wondering why he was not asking the questions. Resigned, she looked back at the detective. “They were pals.”

  “You knew him as well.”

  She curled a ringlet at the back of her neck over a finger. “Michel’s been here a few times, maybe two dozen times over the years. He wasn’t exactly sociable. Not like a lot of hoods. Roger’s friends—his ‘associates,’ if you want to call them that—they lived to drink and tell stories. Michel would rather go home after his work was done. Roger was one of the few guys who knew him away from work. He invited him over to listen to a game, shoot the breeze, have a beer.”

  “So you liked him?” Touton assumed.

  “Not so much. I could tolerate him. He never caused me any trouble and I can’t say that about all of Roger’s pals. Michel was too quiet for me. Spooky quiet. Maybe he was shy, maybe he had nothing to say, but all that silence, along with what I think he did for a living—I found him too scary. Sinister, in a way. I wasn’t afraid of him, but I always felt … I don’t know … as though he might not be a guy who could set limits. He could break out of that silence one day and go nuts, I had that feeling. If somebody wanted somebody rubbed out, he was the kind of guy who might get asked to do it.”

  “Was he the kind of guy who’d agree to do it?”

  “That I can’t say. Roger’s loud friends talked tough, they could act up, lose their temper in the blink of an eye. Among those guys, I always knew who had their limits, who would walk away if they were asked to do something they didn’t like. Michel … I don’t know how he’d respond.”

  The officers nodded. Everything she said amounted to very little, a flurry of hearsay and unsubstantiated opinion, yet it was always good to know what people close to a murder victim thought about him.

  “Do you know who he worked for yet?” Carole Clément put to the cops.

  Touton looked across at Sloan, who said, “I’ve got my feelers on the street.”

  “I’ll tell you right now if you want,” she said.

  “Who?” Touton asked.

  Sloan leaned forward, notebook in hand.

  The woman looked from one cop to the other. “It’s a good thing you’re both sitting down,” she said.

  “Who was it?” Sloan asked.

  “The mayor.”

  “Drapeau?” Touton was too startled to believe it.

  “No … sorry. The old mayor. Camillien Houde.”

  Now this was news. Mussolini’s champion in North America, and Roger Clément’s old bunkmate at the wartime internment camp in New Brunswick, had been the dead man’s employer.

  “Roger got him the job,” she added. “It wasn’t full time. A job with some big hood, but anytime the old mayor needed a driver for a special occasion, Michel got sent. I guess the old mayor and the hood had a deal going, or the hood was doing it for old time’s sake, some old payoff.”

  “I don’t recall the old mayor speaking up today,” Sloan mentioned, “to express his regrets.”

  Touton smiled slightly. “When’s the funeral? He might show up there.”

  “Monday morning,” Carole Clément said. “I’m going. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that men like Michel were my husband’s cronies, but I should believe it—get it fixed in my head. It’s a way to keep his memory in perspective. I’m a mother. I want to honour my husband’s memory, for myself, for my daughter, and that means being honest. The bad and the good both. So it’s important to go, for me.”

  The police captain put his coffee aside and rubbed his hands together, leaning forward, both elbows on his knees. He seemed to be chewing something over. “Carole—” he began, then stopped. With his right hand, he scratched his left jaw, as if digging out a thought long buried in his subconscious. His brow was furled in concentration.

  She offered a slight nod. She didn’t want to say it, but to hear another person speak her name helped wash away long days of loneliness.

  “The funeral for this man is bound to be small. A man like that … a few old friends, that’s it. If I go, or Detective Sloan here, or any police officer, we’ll stick out like Rudolph’s red nose on Christmas Eve. No matter how we dress, we won’t be able to hide ourselves in that small crowd.” He paused, and felt Sloan’s eyes on him, for his partner had already caught the drift of this suggestion and probably had conceived of the longer-range impact. Perhaps Carole Clément also had an inkling of the chance about to be presented to her, for she was looking down at the carpet, as though afraid to look up. “If, on the other hand, you were to go—as you say, you’re going anyway—excuse me, Carole, but if you go to the funeral and be our eyes and ears, tell us who’s there, repeat what might get said—”

  “You’re recruiting me? To be a stoolie?” she asked. Her tone was not friendly. “Just like you recruited my husband?” she accused.

  Wringing his hands again, Touton thought about her question, then nodded affirmatively and without regret. “One of the good things your husband did in his life,” he declared, “was his work with the police department, doing what was right—”

  “You forced him to work for you!” the widow objected.

  “He was a stubborn man, your husband. A man of honour. That’s a tough combination for someone in my position to crack. Eventually, I cracked him by reminding him that he had a family to look after.”

  The woman was staring at the floor again, which Captain Touton did not consider to be an outright rejection of his proposal.

  “Carole, I’d say that my purpose is the same as yours when you invited us here tonight. We’re pursuing your husband’s killers. Our purpose is the same as yours when you take on the bosses on behalf of seamstresses. We’re pursuing the bosses, calling their decisions into question, you and me, and when they act as criminals, we’re hunting them down. That’s all.”

  He gave her time to process his remarks, to make an informed decision. She stood before answering, and crossed the floor, then came back to her chair and sat again. When she spoke, she pulled her shoulders back. She lifted her chin. If she was going to do this work, she would do it as her husband had, with pride.

  “One time,” she began, “Roger wanted to know where the phrase came from—stool pigeon. I helped him look it up. Turns out, somewhere, people would tie a pigeon to a stool, which would attract other pigeons, and then people would be able to either poison them all or shoot most of them.” She paused. When Touton and Sloan followed her glance, they saw that she was gazing upon a photograph of her husband. He was a young man in the snapshot, wearing his Chicago Blackhawks sweater. “He said that that was what he used to do when he was a hockey player. He’d step on the ice and the other team’s bad guy would be sent out to fight him. That way, the star players, the skilled players, they’d b
e left alone, because the bad guys were too busy fighting each other. ‘That’s why they kept me around,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t fight on skates very well, but I was willing to get the shit kicked out of me.’ He was using his body as a decoy, so the good players on his teams would be left alone. He knew it was a hell of a way to earn a living, but he was proud of it.”

  “He had a right to be proud,” Sloan put in.

  “Detective Sloan’s a fan,” Touton explained. “He loves his hockey.”

  Carole Clément smiled slightly. “Like Roger. My husband, he took note that the pigeon they tied to the stool would also get blown away once the shotguns started firing. Or if they’d spread poisoned corn, he’d eat it and suffer and die, too. But in the end, he said that some poor bird had to do it if the people wanted the pigeons dead. I’ll be your poor bird, Captain Touton. Why not?”

  Given her description, thanking her was difficult, but he got the words out. “Thanks,” the policeman said. “Sincerely.”

  “I’m a unionist, don’t forget.”

  The captain was confused. “Ah … I won’t forget that.”

  “Being a unionist means I don’t work for nothing. Five dollars an hour, from when I leave home until I return. I get paid whether you approve of my work or not.”

  Touton smiled. “What union worker makes five bucks an hour? I’ll pay you three, which is fair.”

  “Hazard pay,” she argued back. “Plus, you’re not offering benefits. No pension, no unemployment insurance, no security, no vacation pay, no regular hours. Five’ll do, thanks.”

  “Five it is,” Touton consented. He glanced over at Sloan, who was grinning to see his boss beaten down in a negotiation. “What’re you looking at?” he said. “Do you want to bargain with her?”

  The three of them laughed, and the cops returned to the warm night air, hopeful that their expensive new recruit might prove invaluable.

  The few who showed up for the funeral blamed the threat of a thunderstorm, a harbinger of cooler, drier air, for keeping people away. They were speaking well of the dead. Only six men, in addition to Carole Clément and her daughter, Anik, attended Michel Vimont’s funeral.

  The service in the chapel of the funeral home was over in less than ten minutes, so that two of the men arriving late only had time to genuflect before the coffin was wheeled down the aisle and to cross themselves a second time as the body went by. So quick that, when invited to go out to the gravesite with the others, Carole accepted.

  No one knew who she was, and could not believe that Vimont had had a secret girlfriend. “Are you his sister? His cousin? From his family?” No other option made sense. When she explained in the car that she was Roger Clément’s widow, the men welcomed her and made a fuss over Anik. Roger they had known, and liked. They had attended his funeral also, but that one had drawn a crowd, and she had been hidden behind sunglasses, her face a wreck. What a shame about Roger, they said. Michel? Well, nobody knew him. The quiet guys were the ones you had to worry about. Always, sooner or later, something goes wrong with those guys.

  “He had enemies?”

  Two men shrugged. The third in their vehicle nodded.

  “Did Roger have enemies?”

  None, they agreed. “Roger, he was a great guy, you know? The best.”

  “And Michel? Roger used to bring him home for dinner, once in a while.”

  “That’s Roger. You see? Looking after the lost souls.”

  “That’s Michel,” the man in the front seat said. “A lost soul.”

  The other men did the sign of the cross.

  “I hope he had a good time at your house,” the man beside her said. He was English, and just finished playing an English rhyme game with Anik, which made her giggle: Paddy-cake, paddy-cake, baker’s man! “Because I never knew him to relax no place else.”

  By the time they reached the cemetery, Carole confirmed that it was right for her to attend the funeral. She had not taken to the deceased, but she and her husband had probably spent as much social time with him as anyone alive.

  As the thunderstorm was rapidly approaching, the priest had no plans to dawdle here, either. This one would be shipped to heaven—or environs—posthaste. The wind was kicking up his cloak and Carole’s and Anik’s dresses, and men kept their hats in their hands to keep them from blowing off. That allowed her a good look at the others. They all possessed the fake sobriety of hoods. No bosses stood here.

  A man who had arrived at the site in the second car whispered with the English guy, and he came over. “Madame Clément,” he said. He looked Italian. He spoke French well, with an accent. “My name is Roméro. Me, I was a really good friend of your husband’s, may he rest in peace.”

  She was thinking that when Roger was alive he’d be pleased to discover so many good friends.

  “Me, I’m the bartender at the Copacabana. Been there for years. Roger, he used to come by sometimes. I remember, you came with him once or twice.”

  She was impressed that he remembered. Roger had taken her there for a night out exactly twice.

  “We’re going back to the club now. It’s not open daytimes, but we’ll go today, have a little wake. He didn’t have so many friends, but he deserves a send-off. Respectful like. Something better than what I seen so far. That priest, I can’t believe that guy. You’d think he had to get to the track before the first race, like he couldn’t wait to lose his money on that first bet.”

  The priest had vanished, whisked away in the funeral director’s hearse.

  “So I’m asking, would you like to come by? At night, it’s no place for your daughter, but in the daytime, she could run around—it’d be like a treat for her. She can break anything she wants, I don’t mind. We’ll have a drink, say goodbye to one of our own, proper like. Maybe some guys will get out of bed finally and come down.”

  The man was around fifty, with thin hair that he slicked flat to his scalp. He hadn’t shaved, probably because he’d had to wake up earlier than usual. He had a broad chest, big neck and jowls, and for funerals he dressed well. His black suit might be typical of his day-to-day wear, Carole was guessing, but that was all right. She knew she didn’t make much of a fashion statement herself. She wanted to ask, “How can a girl on a spy mission refuse?” But instead, she said, “Maybe for an hour or so. It might be fun for Anik. I can’t afford to take her many places.”

  “That’s good. I’m pleased to make the acquaintance of Roger’s wife. He has my respect. Did he ever mention me? Roméro?”

  “To be honest, Roméro, I’m sorry, I don’t believe he did.”

  “There you go! You see? That’s my man! That’s Roger! Very discreet, Roger was, you could trust that guy. He’s been dead, God rest his soul, all this time, and he still won’t rat a man out. They don’t make them like that anymore, you know, not like Roger. But why am I telling you? You know!”

  Nodding, Carole felt happy and sad at the same moment. She collected Anik and started on the walk back to the cars. This time, she would travel in Roméro’s vehicle, which she thought was a nice enough car, which he drove himself, and all the way he chatted to Anik, and Carole liked that—she liked the way she was trusted here and aroused no suspicion.

  The fun part was that Anik really did have a good time. Once she overcame her shyness and understood that she really could run around anywhere, except behind the bar, she had fun at the Copacabana. One hood or another was always pleased to try to catch her—failing always, her mother noted—and the little girl particularly enjoyed romping on the stage. Roméro put the stage lights on for her and plugged in the mike, and while she refused to sing a song as the men requested, she loved running by, stopping suddenly and making silly sounds. She then ran off, as if trying to hear the sounds she’d made.

  The hoods each spoke to Carole in turn, and she accepted a beer despite the early-afternoon hour, and in a way the wake became one in honour of Roger, one that she had missed due to her shattered condition at the time. No one really wante
d to talk about Michel Vimont, but they were glad to tell stories about Roger, and she was on her second beer before she noticed that the place had become more populated than the funeral home had been.

  With the party in full swing, three well-dressed men entered and removed their hats and cast their eyes around. Each nodded to the other and one went outside, and when he returned, he stood in the company of a huge individual whom Carole and even Anik recognized immediately. Camillien Houde proved to be more imposing in real life than he had been in the newspaper photos or on the movie newsreels, and the legendary way in which he commanded the attention of a room held true in this company. Men lined up to shake his hand, and soon they were ordering more drinks for him than he could possibly consume in a day. Apparently, he was ailing somewhat. He was working his way through the well-wishers to a seat, where, huffing, he mopped his brow and accepted his first gin and tonic gladly. The rapidity with which he downed the glass had Carole changing her mind. Perhaps he really could make it through the alcohol ordered on his behalf. When he saw the woman in the room, then the little girl, he made discreet inquiries. Carole knew that he was asking about her, and out of a feigned politeness, she turned her head away.

  In a moment, she felt a tap on the shoulder, and she was asked by Roméro if she’d like to bring her daughter to meet the mayor.

  Houde bounced the wee one on his knee while Anik seemed mesmerized to be in the grasp of a man so vast. He was a giant, and terribly ugly, and Carole laughed to see her daughter look baby-sized again. She seemed so shy and sweet, as if being introduced to a mythical beast. They’d met once before, after the war, and Houde reminded her that he’d been a roommate of her husband’s in the internment camp, which she well knew, and together they told stories back and forth, Carole reciting her husband’s memories and Houde providing his own version of events. He shook his finger at her one time.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You mailed him his opinions! You gave him his politics! You’re the one!”

  She nodded. “I was supposed to be imprisoned, did you know that? Roger went instead of me.”