The Main

Guttmann is even more out of it at the second girl’s house. Not a girl, really; a Portuguese woman in her thirties with two kids running around the place and a mother in a black dress who doesn’t speak a word of French, but who hovers near the door of an adjoining bedroom, visible only to the standing Guttmann. From time to time, the mother smiles at Guttmann, and he smiles back out of politeness. The timing of the old woman’s smile is uncanny in conjunction with the daughter’s confession. She seems to punctuate each sexual admission with a nod and a grin. Guttmann is put in mind of his deepest secret dread when he was a kid: that his mother could read his thoughts.

The young woman is scared, and she talks to LaPointe in a low, rapid voice, glancing frequently toward her mother’s room, not wanting her to hear, even though she doesn’t have two words of French. Just having her mother listen to the incomprehensible noise that carries this kind of confession is daunting.

Her husband left her two years ago. A person has to have some fun in life. The mother nods and grins. Yes, she met Tony Green at a cabaret where she went with a girlfriend to dance. Yes, she did go to his room. The mother nods. No, not alone. She is embarrassed. Yes, the other woman, her friend, was with them. Yes, all three together in the same bed. The mother grins and nods; Guttmann smiles back. It wasn’t her idea—all three in the same bed—but that’s the way this Tony wanted it. And he was such a good-looking boy. After all, a person has to have some fun in life. It’s rough, being left with two kids to bring up all by yourself, and a mother who is just about useless. The mother nods. It’s rough, working eight hours a day, six days a week. The oldest girl goes to convent school. Uniforms. Books. It all costs money. So you have to work six days a week, eight hours a day. And nobody’s getting any younger. It’s a sin, sure, but a person has to have some fun. The mother smiles and nods.

LaPointe slides into the car beside Guttmann, and for a while sits in silence while he seems to sort through what the women have told him.

Guttmann can’t help being impressed by LaPointe’s manner as he talked to this woman and that girl in the street. At first they were afraid because he was a cop, but soon they seemed to be chatting away, almost enjoying unburdening themselves to someone who understood, like a priest. LaPointe asked very few questions, but he had a way of nodding and rolling his hand that requested them to go on… And what next?… And then? The Lieutenant’s attitude was very different from his tough, bullying manner with the concierge. Guttmann remembers him saying something about using different tactics with different people: some you threaten, some you hit, some you embarrass.

And some you understand? Is understanding a tactic too?

“Let’s go have a cup of coffee,” LaPointe says.

“That’s a wonderful idea, sir.” Guttmann’s stomach is still sour with all the coffee he drank yesterday. “I was hoping we’d have a chance to get some coffee.”

The Le Shalom Restaurant is bustling with customers from the small garment shops of the district: young women with only half an hour off push and crowd to get carry-out orders; boisterous forts from the loading docks push sandwiches into their mouths and ogle the girls; intense young Jewish men in suits lean over their plates, talking business. There are few older Jews because most of them are first generation and still keep Shabbes.

Even though it’s afternoon, most of the orders involve breakfast foods, because many of the people only had time for a quick cup of coffee that morning. And besides, eggs are the best food you can buy for the money. This area of Mont Royal Street is the center of the garment service industry, where labor from undereducated French Canadian girls is cheap. There are no big important companies in the district, but dozens of small, second- story operations that receive specialty orders from the bigger houses.

Worldwide Tucking & Hemstitching

Nathan Z. Pearl, President

Two telephones behind the serving counter ring constantly. While three distraught girls hustle raggedly to clear and serve the tables, most of the real work is done by one middle-aged woman behind the counter. She does all the checks, serves the whole counter, answers all phone orders, keeps short orders rolling, argues and jokes with the customers, and wages a long-running feud with the harassed Greek cook.

To a customer: This your quarter? No? Must be for the coffee. Couldn’t be a tip. Who around here would tip a quarter? To the cook: Two meat sandwiches. And lean for once! Where’s my three orders of eggs? Like hell I didn’t! What use are you? To a customer: Look, darling, keep your shirt on. I got only two hands, right? To the phone: Restaurant? Two Danish? Right. Coffee. One double cream. Right. One no sugar. What’s the matter? Someone getting fat up there? Hold on one second, darling…To a customer: What’s your problem, honey? Here, give me that. Look, it’s added up right. Nine, sixteen, twenty-five and carry the two makes fourteen, carry the one makes two. Check it yourself. And do me a favor, eh? If I ever ask you to help me with my income tax—refuse. Back to the phone: Okay, that was two-Danish two- coffee one-double-cream one-no-sugar… and? One toast, right. One ginger ale? C’est tout? It’ll be right up. What’s that? Look, darling, if I took time to read back all the orders, I’d never get anything done. Trust me. To a customer: Here’s your eggs, honey. Enjoy. To a customer: Just hold your horses, will you? Everyone’s in a hurry. You’re something special? To the cook: Well? You got those grilled cheese? What grilled cheese? Useless! Get out of my way! To the phone: Restaurant? Just give me your order, darling. We’ll exchange cute talk some other time. Yes. Yes. I got it. You want that with the toast or instead of? Right. To a customer: Look, there’s people standing. If you want to talk, go hire a hall. To LaPointe: Here we go, Lieutenant. Lean, like you like it. So who’s the good-looking kid? Don’t tell me he’s a cop too! He looks too nice to be a cop. To a customer: I’m coming already! Take it easy; you’ll live longer—To herself: Not that anybody cares how long you live.

The woman behind the counter is Chinese. She learned her English in Montreal.

The high level of noise and babble in the restaurant insulates any given conversation, so LaPointe and Guttmann are able to talk as they eat their plump hot meat sandwiches and drink their coffee.

“He’s turning out to be a real nice kid,” Guttmann says, “our poor helpless victim in the alley.”

LaPointe shrugs. Whether or not this Tony Green was a type who deserved being stabbed is not the question. What’s more important is that someone was sassy enough to do it on LaPointe’s patch.

“Well, there’s one thing we can rule out,” Guttmann says, sipping his milky coffee after turning the cup so as to avoid the faint lipstick stain on the rim. “We can rule out the possibility of Antonio Verdini being a priest in civilian clothes.”

LaPointe snorts in agreement. Although he remembered a case in which…

“Do you feel we’re getting anywhere, sir?”

“It’s hard to say. Most murders go unsolved, you know. Chances are we’ll learn a lot about this Tony Green. Little by little, each door leading to another. We tipped the Vet because he has a funny hop to his walk. From him we got the wallet. The wallet brought us to the rooming house, where we learned a little about him, got a couple of short leads. From the girls we learned a little more. We’ll keep pushing along, following the leads. Another door will lead us to another door. Then suddenly we’ll probably come up against a wall. The last room will have no door. With a type like that—rubbers with ticklers, two women at a time, ‘blood type: hot!’—anybody might have put him away. Maybe he got rough with some little agace-pissette who decided at the last moment that she didn’t want to lose her josephete after all, and maybe he slapped her around a little, and maybe her brother caught up with him in that alley, maybe… ah, it could be anybody.”