The Main

enough room for his typewriter. He has finally made some order and sense out of the mess LaPointe dumped on him; there is a stack for this week’s reports, one for last week’s, one for the week before, and so on. But largest of all is the pile he mentally calls the Whatever-the-Hell-This —Is bunch.

The hissing roar of sandblasting across the street vibrates the cheap ripply glass of the window, causing Guttmann to look up. His eyes meet LaPointe’s, which are fixed on him with a frown. Guttmann smiles and nods automatically and returns to his work. But a couple of minutes later he can still feel the Lieutenant’s eyes on him, so he looks up again.

“Sir?”

“Is that all you know of that song?”

“What song, sir?”

“The song you keep humming over and over! You keep humming the same little bit!”

“I didn’t realize I was humming.”

“Well, I realize it. And it’s sending me up the goddamned wall!”

“Sorry, sir.”

LaPointe’s grunt suggests that “Sorry” isn’t enough. Ever since he came in this morning, he has been emitting dark vibrations and making little murmurs and growls of short temper each time he loses his place in the routine work on his desk. He stands up abruptly, pushing back his swivel chair with the backs of his knees. There is an indented line of white in the plaster from years of the chair banging against it. His thumbs hooked in the back of his belt, he looks out over the Hotel de Ville, its facade latticed with scaffolding. This morning the noise of the stone-cleaning grates directly upon his nerve ends, like cold air on a bad tooth. And those monotonous zinc clouds!

Guttmann’s typewriter clacks on in the rapid, one-word bursts of the experienced bad typist. His memory touches the two nights and a day he has just spent with the girl who lives in his apartment building. He passed Saturday evening in her flat, helping her doctor a head cold. She wore a thick terrycloth robe that did nothing good for her appearance, and she had bouts of sneezing that left her limp and miserable, her face pale and her eyes brimming with tears. But her sense of humor held up, and she found this to be a ridiculous way for them to pass their first date. She got a little high on the hot toddies he made for her, and so did he, because he insisted on keeping her company by drinking one for each of hers. When he looked over her books and records, he discovered that their tastes were absolutely opposite, but their levels of appreciation about the same.

Around midnight, she kicked him out, telling him that she wanted to get a good night’s sleep to fight off the cold. He suggested some light exercise might do her a world of good. She laughed and told him she didn’t want him to catch her cold. He said he was willing to pay that price, but she said no.

Next morning, he telephoned her from bed. Her cold had broken and she felt well enough to go out. They passed the day visiting galleries and making jokes about the modern junk-art on display. He spent more than he could afford on dinner, and later, in his apartment, they talked about all sorts of things. They seldom agreed on details, but they found similar things funny and the same things important. After they had made love, they lay on their right sides, she coiled in against him, her bottom in his lap. She slept, breathing softly, while he lay awake for a time, sensing the subtle thrill of waves of gentleness emitting from him and enveloping her. A remarkable girl. Not only fun to talk with and great in bed, but really… remarkable…

LaPointe turns from the window and looks flatly at Guttmann, who catches the movement and glances up with his habitual smile, which fades as he realizes he has been humming again.

“Sorry.”

LaPointe nods curtly.

“By the way, sir, I ran the name Antonio Verdini and the alias Tony Green through ID. They haven’t called back yet.”

“They won’t have anything.”

“Maybe not, but I thought I should run it through anyway.”

LaPointe sits again before his paper work. “Just like it says in the book,” he mutters.

“Yes, sir,” Guttmann says, more than a little tired of LaPointe’s cafard this morning, “just like it says in the book.” The book also says that reports of investigations must be turned in within forty-eight hours, and some of this crap on Guttmann’s desk is weeks late, and almost all of it is incomplete, a couple of scribbled notes that are almost indecipherable. But Guttmann decides against mentioning that.

LaPointe makes a guttural sound and pushes aside a departmental form packet: green copy, yellow copy, blue copy, pink fucking copy…

“I’m going down to Bouvier’s shop for a cup of coffee, if anyone wants me. You keep up the good work.” He dumps all his unfinished work into Guttmann’s in-box.

“Thank you, sir.”

The telephone rings, catching LaPointe at the door. Guttmann answers, rather hoping it is something that will annoy the Lieutenant. He listens awhile, then puts his palm over the mouthpiece. “It’s the desk. There’s a guy down there asking to speak to you. It’s about the Green stabbing.”

“What’s his name?”

Guttmann takes his hand away and repeats the question. “It’s someone who knows you. A Mr. W—.”

He mentions the name of the wealthiest of the old Anglo families in Montreal. “Is that the Mr. W—?”

LaPointe nods.

Guttmann raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I didn’t know you had Connections in Important Places, sir.”

“Yes, well… Tell you what. While I’m down with Bouvier, you interview Mr. W—. Tell him you’re my assistant and I have every confidence in you. He won’t know you’re lying.”

“But, sir…”

“You’re here to get experience, aren’t you? No better way to learn to swim than by jumping off the dock.”

LaPointe leaves, closing the door behind him.

Guttmann clears his throat before saying into the phone, “Send Mr. W—up, will you?”

“Another cup, Claude?” Dr. Bouvier asks, catching a folder that is slipping from the tip of his high-heaped desk, holding it close to his clear lens to read the title, then tucking it back in toward the bottom.

“No, I don’t think I could handle another.” Bouvier laughs ritually and pushes his glasses back up to the bridge of his stubby nose. But they slip down immediately because the dirty adhesive tape with which they are repaired is loose again. He must get them fixed someday. “Did you see the report I sent up on your stabbing? We ran his clothes through the lab and the result was zero.”

“I didn’t see the report. But I’m not surprised.”

“If you didn’t come down here to talk about the report, then what? You just come down to improve your mind? Or is the weather getting you down? One of my young men was complaining about the weather this morning, grousing about the way it keeps threatening snow without delivering. He said he wished it would either shit or get off the pot. Now, there’s a daunting image for the bareheaded pedestrian. I warned the lad about the dangers of indiscriminate personification, but I doubt that he took it to heart. All right, let’s talk then. I suppose you’re pissed about that stabbing of yours getting into the papers so soon. I’m sorry about that; but the leak didn’t come from this office. Someone up in the Commissioner’s shop released it.”

“Those assholes.”

“Penetrating evaluation, if something of an anatomic synecdoche. But come on, it’s not so grave. Just a couple of column inches. No photograph. No details. You still have the advantage of surprise as you walk your way through the case. By the way, how’s that stroll coming along?”

LaPointe shrugs. “Nothing much. The victim’s turning out to be a real turd, the kind anyone might have wanted to kill.”

“I see. You have assholes for bosses and a turd for a victim. There’s a certain consistency in that. I hear your Joan ran a name and an alias through ID this morning. Your victim?” Bouvier points his face toward LaPointe, one eye hidden behind the nicotine lens, the other huge and distorted. He is showing off a bit, proving he knows everything that goes on.