The Main

“Yes, sir. There’s also the possibility that we’ve already touched the killer. I mean, it could be the Vet. You don’t seem to suspect him, but he did take the wallet, and he’s not the most stable type in the world. Or, if Green was playing around with that concierge, her boyfriend Arnaud might have put him away. I mean, we have reason to suspect he’s no confirmed pacifist.” Guttmann finishes his sandwich and pushes aside the plate with its last few greasy patates frites.

“You know, you’re right there,” LaPointe says. “At some point or other in this business, the chances are we’ll touch the killer. But we probably won’t know it. We’ll probably touch him, pass over him, maybe come back and touch him again. Or her. That doesn’t mean we’ll ever get evidence in hand. But you never know. If we keep pressing, we might get him, even blind. He might get jumpy and do something dumb. Or we might flush out an informer. That’s why we have to go through the motions. Right up until we hit the blank wall.”

“What do we do now?”

“Well, you go home and see if you can make up with that girl of yours. I’m going to have a talk with someone. I’ll see you Monday at the office.”

“You’re going to question that woman who runs a restaurant? The lesbian the concierge mentioned?”

LaPointe nods.

“I’d like to come along. Who knows, I might learn something.”

“You think that’s possible? No. I know her. I’ve known her since she was a kid on the street. She’ll talk to me.”

“But not if I was around?”

“Not as openly.”

“Because I’m a callow and inexperienced youth?”

“Probably. Whatever callow means.”

As LaPointe turns off the Main, he passes a brownstone that has been converted into a shul by members of one of the more rigid Jewish sects—the ones with side-locks—he can never remember its name. A voice calls to him, and he turns to see a familiar figure on the Main, walking slowly and with dignity, his shtreimel perfectly level on his head. LaPointe walks back and asks what the matter is. Their janitor is home sick with a cold, and they need a Shabbes goy to turn on the lights. LaPointe is glad to be of help, and the old Chasidic gentleman thanks him politely, but not excessively, because after all the Lieutenant is a public servant and everyone pays taxes. Too much thanks would give the appearance of artificial humility, and too humble is half proud.

He turns the corner of a side street to face a stream of damp wind as he walks toward La Jolie France Bar-B-Q, the cafe nearest the Italian boy’s rooming house. It is the kind of place that does all its business at mealtimes, mostly from single workingmen who take their meals there at a weekly rate. So the place is empty when he enters, meeting a wall of pleasant heat after the penetrating cold. Almost immediately, the steamy windows and the thick smell of hot grease from patates frites make him open his overcoat and tug it off. He has his pick of tables, all of which are still littered with dishes and crumbs and slops. He sits instead at the counter, which is clean, if wet with recent wiping. Behind the counter a plump young girl with vacant eyes rinses out a glass in a sink of water that is not perfectly clear. She looks up and smiles, but her voice is vague, as though she is thinking of something else. “You want?” she asks absently.

Just then a short, sinewy woman with her hair dyed orange-red and a Gauloise dangling from the corner of her mouth bursts through the back swinging door, hefting a ten-gallon can of milk on her hip. “I’ll take care of the Lieutenant, honey. You get the dishes off the tables.” With a grunt and a deft swing, she hoists the heavy can into place in the milk dispenser, then she threads its white umbilical cord down through the hole in the bottom. “What can I do for you, LaPointe?” she asks, not stopping her work, nor taking the cigarette from her mouth.

“Just a cup of coffee, Carrot.”

“A cup of coffee it is.” She takes up a butcher knife and with a quick slice cuts off the end of the white tube. It bleeds a few drops of milk onto the stainless-steel tray. “Aren’t you glad that wasn’t your bizoune?” she asks, tossing the knife into the oily water and taking down a coffee mug from the stack. “Not that you’d really miss it all that much at your age. Black with sugar, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“There you go.” The mug slides easily over the wet counter. “Come to think of it, even if you don’t chase the buns anymore, you were probably a pretty good botte in your day. God knows you’re coldblooded enough.” She leans against the counter as she speaks, one fist on a flat hip, the smoke of her fat French cigarette curling up into her eyes, which are habitually squinted against the sting of it. She is one of the few people who tutoyer LaPointe. She tutoyers all men.

“She’s new, isn’t she?” LaPointe asks, nodding toward the plump girl who is lymphatically stacking dishes while gazing out the window.

“No, she’s used. Goddamned well used!” Carrot laughs, then a stream of raw smoke gets into her lungs and she coughs—a dry wheezing cough, but she does not take the cigarette from her lips. “New to you, maybe. She’s been around for about a year. But then, I haven’t seen you around here since I had that last bit of trouble. That makes a fellow wonder if your coming around means she’s in trouble.” She watches him, one eye squinted more than the other.

He stirs the unwanted coffee. “Are you in trouble, Carrot?”

“Trouble? Me? No-o-o. A middle-aged lesbian with rotten lungs, a bad business, a heavy mortgage, two shots in prison on her record, and the laziest bitch in North America working for her? In trouble? No way. I won’t be in trouble until they stop making henna. Then I’m in trouble. That’s the problem with being nothing but a pretty face!” She laughs hoarsely, then her dry cough breaks up the rising thread of gray cigarette smoke and puffs it toward LaPointe.

He doesn’t look up from his coffee. “There was a good-looking Italian boy named Verdini, or Green. You went to his place.”

“So?”

“You had a fight.”

“Just words. I didn’t hit him.”

“No threats?”

She shrugs. “Who remembers, when you’re mad. I probably told him I’d cut off his hose if he didn’t stop sniffing around my girl. I don’t remember exactly. You mean the son of a bitch reported me?”

“No. He didn’t report you.”

“Well, that’s a good thing for him. Whatever I said, it must have scared him good. He hasn’t been back here since. Do you know what that son of a bitch wanted? He used to come in here once in a while. He sized up the situation. I mean… just look at her. Look at me. You don’t have to be a genius to size up the situation. So, while I’m waiting on the counter, this asshole is singing the apple to my girl. Well, he’s a pretty boy, and she owns all the patents on stupid, so pretty soon she’s ga-ga. But it isn’t just her he wants. He thought it would be a kick to have us both at the same time! Sort of a round robin! He talked the dumb bitch into asking me if I’d be interested. Can you believe that? He gave her his address and told her we could drop in anytime. I dropped in, all right! I went over there and dropped on him like a ton of shit off a rooftop! Hey, what’s all this about? If he didn’t report me, why are you asking about him?”

“He’s dead. Cut.”

She reaches up slowly and takes the cigarette from the corner of her mouth. It sticks to the lower lip and tugs off a bit of skin. She touches the bleeding spot with the tip of her tongue, then daubs at it with the knuckle of her forefinger. Her eyes never leave LaPointe’s. After a silence, she says simply, “Not me.”

He shrugs. “It’s happened before, Carrot. Twice. And both times because someone was after one of your girls.”

“Yeah, but Jesus Christ, I only beat them up! I didn’t kill them! And I did my time for it, didn’t I?”

“Carrot, you have to realize that with your record…”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. But I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t shit you, LaPointe. I didn’t shit you either of those other times, did I?”

“But it wasn’t a matter of murder then. And there were witnesses, so it wouldn’t have done you any good