doubt that Venegas was involved with Savard, now it had gone.
Two minutes later Christine came through with Venegas’s current address, and Michel noted it down — ‘… Rue Messier, one block south of St Joseph’ — while still scanning through the final salient details of the Fortin case: two shots to the chest, one to the head. But the head shot had deflected off Fortin’s cheekbone and through the front of his face just below his right eye. Fortin had been lucky. He lasted six years before another bullet, probably summoned by Cacchione, succeeded where the other had failed and removed half of his skull. This time, case unproven.
Roman was with Frank Massenat at Santoriello’s, his favourite cafe just off of Rue St Catherine. For his money they served the best espresso in town, and had fourteen choices of pancake toppings.
He was diving into a stack of five with maple syrup, crushed walnuts and cream with a sprinkling of nutmeg for his breakfast when Carlo Funicelli walked in. A half-drunk cup of espresso was at his right hand in a cup almost large enough to be a soup bowl, his second refill. Massenat was making good progress of demolishing a large French stick sandwich of pastrami and brie.
All these two seemed to do was eat, thought Funicelli; or was it just that their meeting places were inevitably cafe’s and restaurants.
Funicelli passed the cassette tape across. ‘Last night’s offering.’
Roman dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘No. She came over again last night, but it was pretty much as usual. Cook. Eat. Talk. Screw.’
‘So, no signs of trouble between them? No complaints from him that his goody-two shoes suburban family might not be too keen on him marrying into a high-profile crime family. Or from her that his dick’s too small and she’s concerned about them having a long-lasting satisfying relationship.’ Roman smiled and nudged Massenat. It was like Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon, except that Massenat was a beat slow in responding with a laugh.
Roman’s style of humour was brash and gauche, but sometimes it hit the mark because in part it became self-parody and also a welcome relief from the other side of his character: the stormy mood swings and violent temper.
Funicelli risked only a tentative smile — you never knew when that mood might change — as he shook his head. ‘No such luck.’
Roman’s smile slowly subsided to a quizzical frown. ‘And no calls to or from any other girls?’
‘No.’
Roman looked between Funicelli and Massenat. ‘You know, this guy ain’t human.’ He thought of his own hectic love-life: Marie, his main girlfriend, a thirty-two year old from the right side of Outremont whose husband had died in a car smash four years ago, he dated primarily to keep up appearances and please his mother. Marie was classy, well-bred and, most importantly for his mother, her family were deeply religious and hailed from the Corsican village only thirty miles from that of his mother’s family. Marie he took to all family engagements and high-profile functions. But for sex, excitement and wild nights, he had two club girls in tow, one of them, Viana, from their Rue Sherbrooke club partly due to him feeding her increasingly expensive cocaine habit. And then there was that beautiful Malaysian girl with a body like a fourteen-year old Russian gymnast at a Lavalle massage parlour he visited now and then.
‘Not of this world, not of this world.’ Roman took a scoop of pancakes and washed it down with a slurp of coffee. ‘He’s got tossed salad instead of testosterone. I don’t believe in all this perfect nineties-man shit. He’s gotta have a dark secret somewhere.’ The words were slightly muffled and slurred with his mouthful of food. He dabbed again with his napkin and pointed at Funicelli. ‘You’ll see, you’ll see. Mark my words. It’s just…’
His mobile started ringing in his inside pocket. He took it out, looking down at some invisible object just beyond his plate, as if Funicelli and Massenat had suddenly ceased to be present. ‘… a matter of time. Yeah?’
Roman recognized the voice at the other end straightaway, but he caught only brief bursts from the garbled, breathless sentences: ‘…in the van that night… they’re moving in now… you should warn him…’
‘Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Which van?
‘I don’t want to use names on a mobile line. All I can say is the guy in the front passenger seat that night. They picked him up from a security camera and ID’d him. They’re moving in on him any minute.’
‘They’re checking for his current address right now. They could be on his doorstep in anything from fifteen to twenty minutes. Less, if they trust it to a local squad car.’
Roman doubted that they would, but he’d still have to step lively. ‘Okay. Thanks.’ He picked up his napkin and threw it over his half-finished plate in disgust. It was also a signal that he’d finished. He waved and called out to the waitress. ‘Hey, hey.
The waitress came over and flicked back through her pad. Roman’s face became a study in battling muscle contortions as she summarised what they had. ‘…And did your friend have anything?’ She looked at Funicelli.
‘No, he didn’t.’ Roman slapped down a $20 note and stood up in the same motion. ‘Keep the change.’ Which raised only a meek smile from the waitress, unsure whether the $5 tip compensated for the attitude.
Massenat looked at the third of a stick roll in his hand, then decided finally to take it with him. Funicelli too lagged a few paces behind as Roman hustled quickly towards his BMW parked down the street, a sleek, black series 7. The air outside was fresh, but for one of the first times that year it was above zero. The first hint that Spring might not be far away. At eight paces from the car, Roman pressed the remote key and the BMW briefly beeped and flashed its accord.
The rush and panic of Roman’s departure reminded Funicelli that there was one thing he’d forgotten to mention. ‘About the tape. There’s one thing on it…’
Roman wheeled around on him impatiently. ‘What?’
‘…There’s one point where Donatiens mentions that night with Leduc.’
Roman looked agitated, his eyes darting uncomfortably; though Funicelli wasn’t sure how much of that was due to the call just past. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘I was about to… but then you had that call…’ Funicelli swallowed hard. Roman’s eyes burnt straight through him. He wished now he hadn’t mentioned anything, just let Roman hear it for himself. ‘But it was nothing… just a stupid dream from Donatiens and him mentioning how the incident still troubled him sometimes. But apart from that, nothing.’ Funicelli reached out to put a re-assuring hand on Roman’s shoulder, then decided against it. Roman’s powder-keg eyes warned that one touch might set him off. ‘There was nothing beyond what you already told me. Believe me. Nothing to worry about.’
Roman’s eyes continued to dart frantically and search his, and looked finally about to settle when another voice came from behind: ‘Got some change?’
Roman turned sharply. Confronting him was a tramp with wild hair and a Grizzly Adams beard; though it was difficult to tell if the beard was white streaked from frost and sun-bleaching, or from dried food and vomit. Roman sneered and leaned back from the tramp, catching the first mingled stench of cheap wine, stale body odour and vomit.
He felt suddenly as if his brains were frying, too many random signals hitting him at once. Maybe only minutes to save Venegas from the clutches of the police, Donatiens mentioning Leduc and Funicelli trying to tell him it was
‘A dime or a dollar, it don’t matter. Whatever you can spare.’
Roman suddenly saw red, a fireburst burning through the back of his skull. ‘Get away from me, you fuckin’ bum.’ He swung out hard against the tramp’s left shoulder, a half-push, half rabbit punch.
The tramp flew back and hit the building wall behind solidly, his head flung back and connecting with a thud. He looked dazed, startled, and his knees started crumpling.
Roman moved in and cocked his right arm to hit him again. Massenat was quickly behind Roman, grappling one arm firmly around his chest.
‘Come on, Roman. Come on.’
An elderly couple who’d just come out of the
Roman’s chest rose and fell heavily against Massenat’s restraining arm, his eyes still glaring at the tramp.
