by John Farrow
He was pleased. She’d need that layer of armor in this world, especially with how she contended with society. ‘Fair point. If anyone tries something with you, tell your dad. He’ll defend you like a mother bear defends a cub. I’ve seen it in him.’
She conceded that that was true.
Which left an open question. ‘What am I supposed to cooperate about?’
He laid out the simplest plan. ‘Yesterday, I brought up the matter of your previous boyfriends and Dietmar’s former girlfriends. You know nothing about the latter, you said. I want you to find out. Talk to his old friends. Draw out that kind of information. As well, check what your ex-boyfriends have been up to. Make sure they’re acting normally, not covering up any big grievance. While you’re at it, keep your ears to the ground. You and Dietmar weren’t together long. He agreed to be your getaway driver a little too easily, I think. I’m sure you possess powers of persuasion, but still. We might find out he wasn’t squeaky clean. Or not. Nothing’s certain yet. Also, he may have had friends who are less than law-abiding. He may have had a few nefarious contacts. Follow me so far?’
‘I’m supposed to, like, what? Do your job for you?’
‘Yes. Help out. Police work. Can you dig it?’
Put that way, she seemed both reluctant and pleased. ‘I’m cool with it.’
‘Keep your head up and your eyes open. Why were you firebombed? Anything you learn about that, even a suspicion, tell me. Your dad has enough on his plate. He doesn’t need to see his house burned down.’
She agreed.
‘I’m going to give you a name. Tell me if you know it, or if you’ve heard it before. Doesn’t matter what context. OK?’
Secretly, she was curious. She nodded.
‘Arturo Maletti.’
Judging by her reaction, she didn’t know the man.
‘Probably, he was in the house the night of the robbery.’
‘My naked guy?’ She was excited. ‘You figured that out already?’
‘He has his hands in a few tills. When you’re asking around about Dietmar, let me know if his name surfaces. Keep your distance. He may have a score to settle with you. You saw him where he was not supposed to be.’
‘I didn’t see him. Only his – you know – privates, and his pistol.’
‘I’m not saying it definitely was him, either. But likely. If him, he doesn’t know what you saw or didn’t see. He’s not going to take your word if you try to explain. So don’t. Are you hearing this? Stay clear if he ever comes around. Anything you hear, pass it onto me. That helps me, it helps us find justice for Dietmar, and it helps you stay out of more trouble than you can handle.’
Cinq-Mars counted on the assumption that to build trust meant keeping her involved. She was the type to break chains, bound over walls if confined, and dismiss anyone trying to help her if she felt belittled.
His pager went off. He gave it a glance.
‘Where do you hang out?’ he asked.
‘Hang out?’ She’d heard the question. He didn’t repeat it and waited patiently. ‘I don’t know. Hill’s. That’s a snack-bar-type place.’
‘I know it.’
‘Friday and Saturday nights, sometimes I go to a dance hall on Jean Talon.’
‘Where else? I won’t follow you around. I just want to know.’
‘Why?’
He stood and moved toward the telephone sitting on a small cabinet.
‘Where you hang out tells me who you’re hanging out with. A boy is dead, Quinn. If you didn’t kill him, who did? We have a lead, but no stone can go unturned. You agree with that, right?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t want you hassling my friends.’
‘What I do is my business. If it’s police business, it’s warranted. A boy is dead, Quinn. Where do you hang out in the daytime? In the evenings?’
A defensive shrug preceded her reply. ‘In the summer, Ball Park. Know it?’
‘Very close to where I live.’
‘Really? You live in Park Ex?’
‘Everybody has to live somewhere. Why not Park Ex?’
‘Mostly its immigrants here.’
‘You’re not an immigrant.’
‘True.’ When in trouble in a talk, he noticed, she quickly dove into a different topic. ‘Do you have a girlfriend? A wife? I see no ring.’
‘Nope. Recent breakup.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Me, too. Do you mind if I make a phone call? I was paged.’
‘Go for it.’
He said very little during the call. When he turned back to face her, he maintained a nonchalant voice. ‘I’ll be in touch. Call the station if you need me. They can page me if it’s urgent. Do you have the number?’
She’d kept it, and his partner’s card. A good sign.
Cinq-Mars fell into thought. He had more questions yet wanted to avoid an overload. His approach was two-pronged – put her on the spot while giving her sufficient room to come around on her own. A variation of the carrot-and-stick. He’d just learned, during his call, that Giroux’s suspicion about having previously encountered the father held merit. Jim Tanner had a record. Cinq-Mars needed to check the man’s background himself, to see what that divulged.
Quinn was the first to turn restless. ‘Don’t let me keep you,’ she said.
‘Just waiting.’
‘For what?’
‘Are you worried?’
‘I’m good. Checking that you weren’t having a stroke or nothing.’
‘I’m waiting on my team, Quinn. Uniforms. They’ll be piling in here shortly.’
She went as still as stone.
‘Don’t be alarmed. Everything will be put back in place. They’re only looking for stolen property. Is there anything you want to show me before they arrive? Save us the trouble?’
He could tell that she was thinking. ‘What,’ she asked, ‘would I show you?’
‘You tell me.’ He hoped she might suggest a baseball. She didn’t, and when his officers arrived, they did not find one that was signed. She was more professional than he gave her credit for, and Cinq-Mars realized that she might be a more difficult nut to crack than expected. As he departed her home, it occurred to him that she might have help, someone to teach her how to deal with loot, and to guide her. Such as how to deal with the police. The father? He had experience. If not the father – and based on his observations, he doubted it was him – then who?
Jars of Honey and the Lurid Carcasses
(Trunk boy)
Partially open-air and considered the largest farmers’ market on the continent, the Jean Talon Market stood brash with summer bounty – cut flowers and potted plants, jars of honey and jam, the lurid carcasses of lambs and pigs, slabs of beef, sausages, and swarming fragrances of spices on the wing that intoxicated the two cops. Detective Marcel Caron’s eye fell upon the fruit. The berries, especially. He wanted to plant his face in every basket at once, and not resurface. His partner was enchanted by an idiosyncratic choice – root vegetables.
They’d nearly forgotten their purpose in being there when the legitimate object of their desire crossed their field of vision. Arturo Maletti, known to frequent the market daily to contact a crew of riffraff drug dealers there, tossed an orange in the air. His carefree insouciance vanished the instant Caron nudged Frigault and nodded towards him. Maletti knew the look if not the men. Understood that he was their prey. The orange landed magically back into his palm, like a high pop-up to short. He looked around – a pitcher checking baserunners. The contraband in his pockets vexed him. He figured he might walk away, then quickened the pace and, since they followed, ran.
They charged, and the chase was on.
The market was perpetually populated by the aged and the young, the married, the gay, housewives, bachelors, and an astonishing array of ethnicities. Arturo Maletti ran in his patent-leather shoes ahead of the two older men, one spry and tall with an Einstein-like hairdo, the other less fit for the chase than a hippo lu
mbering behind a gazelle. The man with the Mediterranean complexion was identified by his attire and the bling around his neck as a Mafioso, escaping police. Some cheered him on, others scolded the cops, while others begged both sides to take care. A merchant put forward a request that a rule be considered sacrosanct: ‘Don’t nobody shoot!’ He spoke under his breath. Nevertheless, several patrons ducked.
The general bedlam of the place, the congestion, the welcome hordes, blessed Maletti’s flight to safety, as did his youth and the cops’ poor athleticism. He felt impeded by his pointy shoes, which had slippery soles, yet exhibited power in his stride. He ran beyond the customary limits of his endurance, limits that greatly exceeded those of Caron and Frigault. After four minutes, Sergeant-Detective Frigault had been left a block behind, bent over, hands on knees. Caron returned to make sure he wasn’t having a heart attack.
‘Did you get him?’ Frigault asked, sucking air.
‘No. You?’
Both questions were ridiculous. They shared a laugh even as they heaved.
‘Do you want to sit down, or should I call an ambulance?’
‘Either,’ Frigault said. ‘Neither.’ He was beyond caring.
Caron waited beside him while his partner caught his breath. He didn’t want to admit that he felt like Jell-O. If an ambulance did show up, he might ask to borrow the defibrillator for his personal use.
Having exerted himself less, Frigault recovered sooner. ‘The gym membership? Not worth it. I want my money back.’
‘You have to actually go to the gym, Paul. You can’t just carry the card in your wallet.’
‘Never thought of that. Look, this one we keep to ourselves. We did not encounter Maletti today.’
‘That’s right. He never saw us, either.’
‘If we ever do see him again—’
‘Not again. We never saw him in the first place.’
‘Correct. If we come across him in the future—’
‘Shoot the bastard before he hurts himself running away like that,’ Caron stipulated with a straight face.
‘A mercy killing. What court would not uphold?’
‘Agreed. But, Paul, seriously, did you see him? He ran like hell.’
‘My thought. The guy’s afraid. We have to find him. Next time, we stay in the car. Speaking of the car, I wouldn’t mind sitting inside with the air on.’
They stumbled back the way they came, amused by their own ineptitude.
‘Next time, we set a trap.’
‘As long as we don’t have to run.’
‘He better not tell nobody, that guy. I’ll arrest him for it.’
Arturo Maletti could not afford new automobiles, nor could he turn down the right look for himself. Consequently, he owned a third-hand Cadillac. As big as a barge and as black as midnight. Returning for it, he caught sight of the two cops who had pursued him clambering into their lowly squad car, a junk Ford. He watched them leave. He started up his Caddy and followed behind at a safe distance until he could break away in a different direction. Pathetic, those guys. They’d chased him as if they were in a sack race. He took only limited solace in that. Cops were looking for him. Not welcome news. He would work his sources to find out what itch they were scratching, and what it might take for them to bug off.
Cops today. Some did not understand who ruled the roost. He should be able to figure their angle. If not, another strategy needed to be devised.
Good advice was warranted on various matters. Going to his boss could invite the wrong sort of attention from the wrong quarter, advice that might prove detrimental to his enjoyment of life. He headed instead to the Knightsbridge pawnshop for a chat with Ezra. His mentor from years ago usually gave him the straight dope. Along the way, he stopped to punch a guy in the gut, partly because the bum still owed him one large, but mostly because he felt like hitting somebody. To restore his energy after all that exertion and the run from the cops, he stopped for a beer. What happened while quenching his thirst evolved from pure accident. Never his intention for the day.
Arturo Maletti was on a barstool when he noticed a guy in the mirror behind a shelf of liquor bottles. Even before he recognized him, he detected what the guy was doing. The squirmy sap was edging toward an exit sign. Toilets were down that hallway, and beyond them a back-alley door. The sap might be going for a leak; from the look on his face, Maletti knew better. Shit-for-brains was trying to elude him.
Maletti spun on his barstool and crooked his middle finger at the lad. The young man had a choice: make a run for it or come over. He crossed the floor to chat with his handler.
‘No kidding, I was gonna come see you,’ the young fellow said. Long-haired, with a scruffy beard. Black T-shirt. Patches on his pants. Trotsky glasses that he habitually adjusted higher on his nose. Short, bony, sickly pale, despite his youth he resembled a patient escaped from a palliative care ward, as though he trailed an IV in his wake. He hung out with students but was not enrolled. His street-urchin status gave him cachet with the higher-IQ boys and girls, which he used to handle a piece of Maletti’s marijuana action. Both men were aware of a problem. A story had made the rounds. The young pusher was reportedly selling hashish from a foreign supplier. ‘Foreign’ included any person who was not Arturo Maletti, an entrepreneurial independence that required discouragement.
‘Your lies – try them out on some chick,’ Maletti replied. A bartender set his beer down before him. He took an extended, thirsty gulp, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Selling hash? After what I do for you?’
The young man had brought over his own beer and raised it to his lips.
‘You don’t want to do that, Lenny.’
‘Leonard,’ the boy corrected him. He adjusted his wire-rim frames again.
‘Yeah, right, like that singer with the croaky voice. You think it gets you some. You’re Piss-Puke to me, Lenny-boy, from now on. You’re not no fucking Leonard.’
The boy shrugged.
‘Piss-Puke, like I said, you don’t want to drink that.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’ll need to take a leak. Riding in the trunk of my car, you don’t want to take a leak. The less you’re holding in, the more you will appreciate my advice.’
Leonard turned paler than his usual alabaster glow.
‘Arturo—’
‘You don’t call me that,’ Maletti warned him.
‘What do I call you?’
‘Mr Maletti from now on. Try it. You’ll like it.’
‘Mr Maletti—’
‘This is what happens when you fall in the world. You get to call me Mr Maletti. I call you Piss-Puke. You get to pay for my beer. I drive you in the trunk of my car. Around and around we go. Where I let you out, nobody knows.’
‘I can explain,’ Leonard said.
‘If you think it’s me who’s interested, you’re wrong. An explanation, that’s not something I want to hear in my life. College boys, you think you’re so smart.’
‘I’m not a college boy.’
‘Shut up. I’m talking now. You’re not a college boy but you read books. Admit it to me, you’re that way. It’s the same thing because there’s no difference. You think you learn so much? You’re smart? You don’t know squat. College boy. Bookworm. For that, you get to ride around town in the trunk of my car.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, all right?’
‘That’s good, Piss-Pot. At least you’re not denying it. That’s worse. But I don’t want explanations. And here’s what else, no apologies. You don’t want to cross me.’
‘I wasn’t crossing you—’
Maletti silenced him by holding up his right hand.
‘Explanations. Apologies. Excuses. These things. Promises. These things that I’m hearing, I don’t want to hear. Not me. Let me drink my beer in peace. And hey, pay the man, Puke-Face. Why should I pay for my beer in a dive like this?’
Leonard agreed, though he couldn’t hide his reluctance. He wished he could chug his beer whil
e waiting for Maletti to finish his. He wanted to ask if it would be all right if he had a leak before he climbed into the car, so he’d be less likely to soil the trunk. He figured that, like promises, explanations, excuses and apologies, Maletti didn’t want to field any requests, either.
He paid for the man’s beer and settled his own tab. When Maletti was ready, he went out to Park Avenue, then around the corner to Milton. The area known as the McGill Student Ghetto remained chockful of young people in their summer lives. Maletti opened the lid of his trunk and invited Leonard to climb in. Then stopped him. ‘Piss-Puke, wait. So nobody’s looking.’ They waited. When the coast was clear, the young man climbed in. Maletti slammed the hood down, tidied his hair in the reflection of the side window, shot his cuffs, and slid in behind the wheel. The Caddy drove off with the young dealer curled up in the expansive trunk. The fetal position, he found, provided the most protection as they swayed and bumped along for what seemed like a weekend.
He guessed that Maletti was taking roads that were under construction and those still stubborn with potholes.
Russian Rabbit
(Speaking Swahili)
Quinn did as Ezra Knightsbridge had instructed her to do when paying a visit. She observed the street before entering his store.
She checked the down on her forearms. She was uncertain what windows she should peer into, what vehicles required her attention. She had no clue what face might be suspicious. The light hair on her forearms was not standing on end. Still, she felt uneasy. Hard to determine whether a foreboding had insinuated itself into her bloodstream and she was now perpetually on edge, or if someone had staked out Ezra’s place and covertly observed her.
Something was off. She felt eyes on her back. Which meant she was supposed to take a hike. Was she only being paranoid? She desperately wanted to talk to Ezra. Twice she walked the length of his block to work the gel out of her kneecaps. On her third pass, he invited her inside.
‘Swing by,’ he declared, holding the door open. ‘Nobody here to arrest you.’