The Last Witness

particularly how important this whole change in the business was after Pascal’s death; and how even Art Giacomelli had shown a keen interest because of his own son.’ Georges saw Simone’s brow furrow slightly. He filled in the details.

As he finished, Simone eased out her breath and sat back. ‘I thought you said “subtle”. He tells you that America’s leading mobster is keen too that you perform well. But don’t feel the pressure any?’ She forced a trite smile, but heavier shadows shifted behind her eyes. She paused for a second, as if deciding whether to reveal them. ‘But with Pascal’s death, my father’s not pulling any punches. It ripped the family apart. You know that my grandma is very religious?’

‘Yes… I do.’ Georges decided finally to crack a fresh claw.

‘Well, she always kept a statue of St Antoine in her room: he’s the one you pray to when you want things made right. Things that have already gone wrong, or you fear they might do. But as kids, every now and then we’d see St Antoine turn up in the fridge. And we then discovered that when things went wrong and St Antoine hadn’t answered her prayers — she’d stick him in the fridge. So we always knew when things weren’t going right in the family, because there was St Antoine — out in the cold alongside the milk and butter.’ She smiled briefly, but the shadows were quickly back. ‘With Pascal, she prayed and prayed — you know, there was this period of three days when he clung on in a coma and there was slim hope — and when he finally died, we expected to see St Antoine back in the fridge. But he wasn’t there, nor in her room. She’d smashed him, given up all faith in him, or God for that matter. At least for a while.’ She pulled a stray strand of hair back behind one ear. ‘St Antoine didn’t show up in the house again until fifteen months later, and she didn’t even go to church for nine months after Pascal’s death.’

Georges looked to one side for a moment as the bustle of the restaurant imposed, a waiter showing a party of three to a table close by. Miguel, their usual waiter, smiled over from the bar. It was strange: all the other times they’d come here, their conversation had been so light, carefree. Two young socialites high on the city’s grace list among the throng of yuppies that regularly crowded Thursday’s restaurant, three bars and basement disco, with Miguel invariably leading them straight from their table and past the usual disco queue at weekends. On occasion some of her friends from the agency would be there, or they’d meet up with his old friend Mike Landry and his latest date, but most of the time they’d be alone. They would talk about the week’s triumph’s: her about new agency accounts at the agency, him about fresh business ground broken for her father, or where they might vacation that summer or ski that winter; or, more recently, wedding plans. Now he was concerned not just for his status in the Lacaille family, but also, if Chenouda was right, for his life — and he was dumping on her twenty-three year old shoulders the pressure of bailing him out. It was no light burden, far removed from her normal concerns of what colour to choose for the next sports car her father was buying her, and she was rising to it by filling in all the heartfelt family mosaics that might have led to this problem now.

‘Is that why your father chose Santoine International for the company name?’ he asked.

‘Yes. It seemed to sit right for him: new hope despite the odds he saw stacked against.’ She took a fresh mouthful and waved her fork. ‘But certainly my father wasn’t just playing on your emotions by mentioning Pascal. So much else changed in the family then, like a house of cards tumbling down: grandpa dying soon after, grandma turning her back on religion for a while… and my father finally deciding to move away from the old ways.’

Pascal. Despite the odds. It gripped Georges all the harder just what a heartfelt quest this had been for Jean-Paul, and how much he’d let him down; it felt almost a cheek, a final insult, that now he was getting his own daughter to bail him out, make good. Now he had her tip-toeing through the same minefield, using terms like ‘old ways’ instead of crime in case someone was listening in.

Georges shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t be asking you to do this.’

‘No, no… it’s okay. I want to help.’ She smiled and shrugged. ‘Besides, I don’t know if there’s anyone else who can help you with this. So looks like I’m stuck with it.’

He knew she was making light of it mainly for his sake, to make him feel that he wasn’t burdening her too much. He reached out and clasped her hand across the table, closing his eyes for a second as if in final penance. ‘Thanks.’

She leant across and planted a warm and lingering kiss on his lips, as if she somehow sensed that he needed an extra touch of comfort, re-assurance. But it brought a few glances from nearby tables. God, how he loved her. Both sides of her: fun, flippant Simone with hardly a care in the world, which was all that most people saw; or the little girl who’d grown up before her time under the shroud of a crime family, seeing St Antoine in the fridge next to her milk-shake and flapjacks each time her father or grandfather came out the wrong side of a gang or turf war. The first, Georges was sure, was just a camouflage for the second.

He clung onto her hand a second longer, telling himself that his depth of feeling in that moment had little to do with dependency; even though throughout his life — from his mother dying and the years of abandonment in the orphanage, and even the times his stepfather let the family down financially, his concept of love had often been forged through dependency. He couldn’t face being left out in the cold again: it would be almost as bad as the more ominous threats Chenouda was warning of with Roman. A tingling chill washed through his shoulder blades and the nape of his neck, and as it showed in a faint trembling in his hand, he let go of Simone’s. Almost.

But little doubt remained now that he was dependent on Simone — and as she began to talk about how best to tackle the subject with her father, he realized just how much so. She stressed that it was important she didn’t come across just as the concerned girlfriend doing her duty: she had to sell herself as the right and only person to cover the problem, given the circumstances.

And it struck Georges that for her father to take her seriously and her pull it off, heartfelt, old-before-her- time Simone was needed; yet he didn’t know, nor had ever troubled to find out, how Jean-Paul viewed his daughter. If like most people he saw her simply as a carefree, happy-go-lucky twenty-three year old, then he was sunk.

Roman was in heaven. Having watched Viana writhe in the club half the night, now she was writhing on top of him.

He held his hands by her waist as if to guide her, but her body had a rhythm and purpose all of its own. He tried to match his thrusts to it, but more often than not he’d be a beat out, so would just relax and let her do it all. It was as if she mimed all evening to screwing, just building up to the real thing so that she could let it all go with one final, virtuoso performance.

That’s why he liked to show up half an hour early for the take when he was planning to head home with her. He could look at her dancing and gloat: you guys are just getting the play-acting, I’ll be getting the real thing. The anticipation added to his excitement: that was his build-up.

She’d already had one orgasm, and the second was even more tumultuous, bringing him to a finish at the same time — quicker than he’d have liked. He was trying to draw it out, savour the experience longer. She shuddered with a last few strangled gasps and then lay on top of him, her breath hot in his ear, her chest rising and falling hard as she clawed back to normality.

Her gasps and screams had been loud enough to make neighbours think she was being murdered — except that his nearest Mount Royal neighbours were at least a Cadillac length away behind thick brownstone walls.

Her breathing gradually settled, but he could still feel her heart racing hard. Her body poured out heat like a steam blanket against him, and he could feel her still moist and pressing against his thigh. Another moment to savour — but there was no point in delaying longer. He’d not wanted to broach the topic before sex; he would have spoilt the mood. Now that was over, and time was tight: he still had to get back to the club later with Funicelli. He rolled her off gently, but the jolt in the mood still registered faintly in her eyes. He touched her face with the back of one hand: re-assurance.

‘Babe, I’ve got this little problem… but I think you might just be ideal to help me out with it.’

‘What sort of problem?’ Curiosity rather than suspicion: he’d never before asked anything of her outside of sex.

Roman ran through the story he’d constructed: Georges was fooling around, it was threatening all sorts of problems with Simone and the rest of the family, but the problem was he didn’t have proof. So his only choice left was to set him up and take a few photos, and that was where Viana and an escort agency girl he’d arranged came