Markov yelled, “Stop,” but Vanier continued, colliding with the table, and sending the maquette crashing to the floor where it broke into pieces. Vanier looked up from the pile of rubble.
“So sorry. Accident.”
Markov was angry and doing his best to contain it. He walked over to Vanier and said quietly, “Hey, policeman, chill. I’ll have Ayida show you out.”
“No need, we know the way.”
St. Jacques joined Vanier as he walked to the exit. Vanier wondered how long it would be before the complaint reached Bedard.
8 PM
The city was half way through the job of clearing the snow from the last storm when another rolled in, promising to drop 25 to 39 centimetres. It had started around 5.30 p.m., and the snow was inches deep. Despite the storm, rue St. Denis was still crowded with bar-hoppers. At every corner, teenagers, refugees from small towns in the country and crap neighbourhoods in Montreal mumbled to anyone who would listen, “Hash, coke, Ex?” The market was open, and business was brisk.
Vanier was walking north, amusing himself by swerving into the pushers and their customers while he scanned the perimeter of the crowd. The pushers and their clients always scattered, looking at him like he was drunk, but not sure enough to do anything about it. He spotted Degrange standing in the entrance to a rooming house five steps up from the street, keeping an eye on his vendors. After years of loyal service, Degrange had been promoted. It wasn’t much of a promotion, but enough so that he didn’t touch the drugs or the money anymore. His job was to make sure that the pipeline kept flowing in both directions, drugs to the street and money to his boss, with no leaks in either direction. He was wearing a red lumberjack coat with a Montreal Canadiens toque pulled tight over his ears. When he spotted Vanier bumping his way up the street, he pulled back into the shadow of the doorway. He had nowhere to go when Vanier climbed the steps.
“Inspector Vanier, great to see you again,” he lied. “What can I do for you?”
“Let’s take a walk”
“I can’t, Inspector. I can’t be seen walking down the street with someone like you. You understand”.
“Shut up shop. Right now. I’ll be in Harvey’s, up the street. You better be there. Ten minutes.”
Vanier walked down the steps and turned in the direction of Harvey’s, continuing to weave through the pedestrian traffic, bumping into the vendors and disturbing the market.
He ordered two coffees at the counter and found a quiet table, glaring at anyone who approached to keep the surrounding tables remaining empty. Some customers recognized him and left without ordering. The coffee was getting cold when Degrange sat down and reached for the paper cup. He pulled four sachets of sugar out of his pocket and tore them open, two at a time, before tipping them into the coffee.
“You shouldn’t do that, Inspector, scaring away the customers. It’s bad for business.”
In the heat of the restaurant, Degrange stank of mildew, sweat and cigarette smoke.
“You owe me, Michel. Don’t forget.”
“Did I say no? I’m just saying, I have to keep my credibility. I won’t be any use to you if I lose my credibility, will I?”
“I want to know about Marcel Audet. He used to be with the Rock Machine. What do you hear about him now?”
Degrange’s eyes lit up. “Audet? I remember him. Bad fucker, like all of them Rock Machine bastards. Don’t know why they wanted to go up against the Hell. Never made sense. I don’t hear of him these days. Wasn’t he sent up for assault?”
“He’s been out for four months. Did three years.”
“He’s not a player. I didn’t even know he was around. Know what I mean?”
“Well, there’s $50 for good information, not bullshit. Who’s he working for? What’s he doing? And an address. An address would be very useful.”
“Well, Inspector, I can ask around. See what I can find out. But $50, that’s minimum wage.”
A couple was about to sit down, and Vanier gave them a look that sent them looking elsewhere.
“I want to know who he’s working for. See what you can find out.” Vanier dropped a twenty on the table and left. Degrange reached for it quickly, like it might disappear.
9 PM
Beaudoin clicked the lights off in the children’s rooms, slowly closing the doors, one after the other, and walked down the carpeted stairs. Caroline was sitting on the couch watching the hockey game on a muted television. Beaudoin sat on the chair opposite the couch. She didn’t look up, feigning interest in the game while she used the remote to raise the volume just enough to discourage conversation without disturbing the children. She didn’t react when the phone rang. Beaudoin got up.
“Hello.”
…
“Yes, sir, I know.”
…
“Mr. Henderson, the regulations say that the notice has to give a clear explanation of the business to be conducted at the meeting. If it’s not clear, anything done at the meeting can be challenged later on the basis of an invalid notice.” Beaudoin walked into the kitchen with the cordless phone pressed to his ear.
“I know that, sir. It’s a delicate balance. But you have to protect yourself from future challenges. There’s no point of winning a vote if it’s overturned by the courts.”
…
“Yes, sir. I’ll do what I can. Obtuse, I’ll aim for obtuse, as you say.”
…
“Tomorrow. I’ll have a redraft ready for you tomorrow.”
He walked back into the living room, dropped the phone into its cradle, and sat down heavily on the chair.
“Caroline. We need to talk.”
The most feared words of any relationship. She didn’t say anything.
“This is not where I wanted to be. I thought I could do something, achieve something.”
She continued watching the screen.
“I’m ashamed of who I am, Caroline. I don’t like me. I don’t like what I’ve become.”
She pushed the mute button. “And you think it’s my fault?” she replied, looking at him for the first time.
“No, I don’t think it’s your fault. But you’ve noticed?”
“Pascal, I love you, but you weren’t made for this. You weren’t made for compromise. And that seems to be all you do these days. And the compromises are killing you. You used to believe in things, and now it’s just about earning money.”
“I don’t have the luxury to be an idealist, Caroline. We have two kids. They need a good home.”
“They need a father more. They need a father they can look up to. I married you because of what you were, a caring person with principles. Pascal, look at you. Any time Henderson calls, you jump. You’d do anything he asks.”
“That’s what I mean, Caroline. I think I’ve reached the end.”
Beaudoin explained the whole story. And his wife listened to the boy she had married years ago and hadn’t seen in years. Was the person she married really coming back? She didn’t know what to think, but she knew that if he was, she didn’t want to lose him again. They made plans. How life would be. How life didn’t have to be a series of compromises. She told him she didn’t need the big house, didn’t need the chalet up north, she needed him. And the kids needed him.
9.30 PM
Vanier poured the amber liquid over two ice cubes and swirled it around before sitting down in front of the pile of Prayer Cards that weren’t even cards, but recycled scraps cut from sheets that had been used to print the Cathedral’s newsletter, a sign of Mother Church’s schizophrenia. The Church wallows in opulence one moment and is as parsimonious as a Scottish pauper the next. No expense is spared on costumes and props for the theatrics, and the trust funds are nurtured with a mother’s concern, but messages to the saints must be scribbled on used scraps of paper, and the pious must pay for the candles burned in offerings.
Each rectangle of paper was dated in the top left-hand corner and had a hand-written note on one side. Printed scraps of unintelligible information from the newsletter filled the other. Most started with a variant of Dear St. Jude, and were signed, some with full names and others with abbreviated signatures: Mme. H, JP, or M. D. Each card was a postcard monument to the human spirit’s inability to accept the brutal unfairness of life.