Guttmann glances at him, confused.
“Look,” the woman says. “Arnaud doesn’t live here anymore. I don’t know where he is. He moved out a month ago, the lazy son of a bitch.”
“That’s your story,” LaPointe says, tossing a pillow out of the only comfortable chair and sitting down.
“It’s the truth! Do you think I’d lie for him?” She touches her split lip. “The bastard gave me this!”
LaPointe glances at the fresh bruise. “A month ago?”
“Yes… no. I met him on the street yesterday.”
“And he said good morning, and hit you in the mouth?”
The woman shrugs and turns away.
LaPointe watches her in silence.
She glances quickly toward the window, but does not dare to go and look out.
LaPointe sighs aloud. “Come on. I don’t have all day.”
For another minute, she remains tight-lipped. Then she gives in, shrugging, then letting her shoulders drop heavily. “Look, officer. The TV was a present. It doesn’t even work good. He gave it to me, like he gave me this fat lip, and once the clap, the no-good bastard!”
So that’s it. LaPointe turns to Guttmann, who is still hovering near the door. “Take down the serial number of the TV.”
The young man squats behind the set and tries to find the number. He doesn’t know why in hell he is doing this, and he feels like an ass.
“You know what it means if the set turns out to be stolen?” LaPointe asks the woman.
“If Arnaud stole it, that’s his ass. I don’t know anything about it”
LaPointe laughs. “Oh, the judge is sure to believe that.” That’s enough, LaPointe thinks. She’s scared and ready to cooperate now. “Sit down. Let’s forget the TV for now. I want to know about one of your roomers. Tony Green.”
Confused by the change of topic, but relieved to have the questioning veer away from herself, the concierge instantly becomes confidential and friendly. ‘Tony Green? Honest, officer—”
“Lieutenant.” It always surprises LaPointe to find people on the Main who don’t know of him.
“Honest, Lieutenant, there’s no one by that name staying here. Of course, they don’t always give their right names.”
“Good-looking kid. Young. Mid-twenties. Probably Italian. Stayed out all night last night.”
“Oh! Verdini!” She makes a wide gesture and her lips flap with a puff of breath. “It’s nothing when he stays out all night! It’s women with him. He’s all the time after it. Chases every plotte and guidoune on the street. Sometimes they even come here looking for him. Sometimes he has them in his room, even though it’s against the rules. Once there were two of them up there at the same time! The neighbors complained about all the grunting and groaning.” She laughs and winks. “His thing is always up. He wears those tight pants, and I can always see it bulging there. What’s wrong? What’s he done? Is he in trouble?”
“Give me the names of the women who came here.”
She shrugs contemptuously and tucks down the corners of her mouth. The gesture opens the crack in her lip, and she licks it to keep it from stinging. “I couldn’t be bothered trying to remember them. They were all sorts. Young, old, fat, skinny. A couple no more than kids. He’s a real sauteux de clôtures. He puts it into all kinds.”
“And you?”
“Oh, a couple of times we passed on the stairs and he ran his hand up under my dress. But it never went further. I think he was afraid of—”
“Afraid of this Arnaud you haven’t seen in a month?”
She shrugs, annoyed with herself at her slip.
“All right. How long has this Verdini lived here?”
“Two months maybe. I can look at the rent book if you want.”
“Not now. Give me the names of the women who came here.”
“Like I told you, I don’t know most of them. Just stuff dragged in off the street.”
“But you recognized some of them.”
She looks away uncomfortably. “I don’t want to get anybody into trouble.”
“I see.” LaPointe sits back and makes himself comfortable. “You know, I have a feeling that if I wait here for half an hour, I may be lucky enough to meet your Arnaud. It’ll be a touching scene, you two getting together after a month. He’ll think I waited around because you told me about the TV. That will make him angry, but I’m sure he’s the understanding type.” LaPointe’s expressionless eyes settle on the concierge.
For a time she is silent as she meditatively torments her cracked lip with the tip of her finger. At last she says, “I think I recognized three of them.”
LaPointe nods to Guttmann, who opens his notebook.
The concierge gives the name of a French Canadian chippy whom LaPointe knows. She doesn’t know the name of the second woman, but she gives the address of a Portuguese family that lives around the corner.
“And the third?” LaPointe asks.
“I don’t know her name either. It’s that woman who runs the cheap restaurant just past Rue de Bullion. The place that—”
“I know the place. You’re telling me that she came here?”
“Once, yes. Not to get herself stuffed, of course. After all, she’s a butch.”
Yes, LaPointe knows that. That is why he was surprised.
“They had a fight,” the concierge continues. “You could hear her bellowing all the way down here. Then she slammed out of the place.”
“And you don’t know any of the other people who visited this Verdini?”
“No. Just plottes. Oh… and his cousin, of course.”
“His cousin?”
“Yes. The guy who rented the room in the first place. Verdini didn’t speak much English and almost no French at all. His cousin rented the room for him.”
“Let’s hear about this cousin.”
“I don’t remember his name. I think he mentioned it, but I don’t remember. He gave me an address too, in case there were any problems. Like I said, this Verdini didn’t speak much English.” She is growing more tense. Time is running out against Arnaud’s return.
“What was the address?”
“I didn’t pay any attention. I got other things to do with my time than worry about the bums who live here.”
“You didn’t write it down?”
“I couldn’t be bothered. I remember it was somewhere over the hill, if that’s any help.”
By “over the hill” she means the Italian stretch of the Main, between the drab little park in Carré Vallières at the top of the rise and the railroad bridge past Van Horne.
“How often did you see this cousin?”
“Only once. When he rented the room. Oh, and another time, about a week ago. They had a row and—hey! Chocolate!”
“What?”
“No… not chocolate. That’s not it. For a second there I thought I remembered the cousin’s name. It was right on the tip of my tongue. Something to do with chocolate.”
“Chocolate?”
“No, not that. But something like it. Cocoa? No, that’s not it. It’s gone now. Something to do with chocolate.” She cannot help drifting to the window and peeking through the curtains.
LaPointe rises. “All right. That’s all for now. If that ‘chocolate’ name comes back to you, telephone me.” He gives her his card. “And if I don’t hear from you, I’ll be back. And I’ll talk to Arnaud about it.”
She takes the card without looking at it. “What’s the wop kid done? Some girl knocked up?”
“That’s not your affair. You just worry about the TV set.”
“Honest to God, Lieutenant—”
“I don’t want to hear about it.”
They sit in the yellow sports car. LaPointe appears to be deep in thought, and Guttmann doesn’t know where to go first.
“Sir?”
“Hm-m?”
“What’s a plotte?” Guttmann’s school French does not cover Joual street terms.
“Sort of a whore.”
“And a guidoune?”
“Same kind of thing. Only amateur. Goes for drinks.”