behind their hands when you walked by. They’d whistle at you from across the street.” Every touch is calculated to make the proud Italian wince.
His mind racing, Canducci glares at LaPointe for a full minute. Yes. A rumor like that would spread like clap in a nunnery. They’d love it, those shitheads over on Marconi Street. His jaw tightens and he looks down at the floor. “You’d do that? You’d spread a rumor like that about a man?”
LaPointe snaps his fingers softly. “Like that.”
Candy Al glances toward the poolroom and lowers his voice. He speaks quickly to get it over with. “All right. This Verdini? A friend asked me to find a room for him because his English ain’t too good. I found the room. And that’s it. That’s all I know. If he got himself killed, that’s tough shit. I got nothing to do with it.”
“What’s this friend’s name?”
“I don’t remember. I got lots of friends.”
“Just a minute ago you told me you didn’t have any friends.”
“Agh!”
LaPointe lets the silence sit on Canducci.
“Look! I’m giving it to you straight, Lieutenant!”
“Lieutenant? What happened to Canuck?”
Canducci shrugs, lifting his hands and dipping his head. “Agh, I was just pissed. People say things when they’re pissed.”
“I see. I want you to say the word ‘wop’ for me.”
“Ah, come on!”
“Say it.”
Canducci turns his head and stares at the wall. “Wop,” he says softly.
“Good. Now keep talking about this kid.”
“I already told you everything I know!”
After a moment of silence, LaPointe sighs and rises. “Have it your way, Canducci. But tell me one thing. Those boys back there? Which one’s best?”
“That ain’t funny!”
“Your friends will think so.” LaPointe slaps his hand on the bar to summon the barmaid, who disappeared when she heard how things were going in the poolroom. She has been around enough to know that it is not wise to witness Candy Al’s defeats. She comes from the back room, tugging down her skirt, which is so tight across the hips that it continually rides up.
“What do I owe you?” LaPointe asks.
“Just a minute,” Canducci says, raising his hand. “What’s your rush? Sit down, why don’t you?”
The barmaid looks from one to the other, then returns to the back room.
LaPointe sits down. “That’s better. But let’s cut the bullshit. I don’t have the time. I’ll start the story for you. This Green was brought into the country illegally. You were laundering him. You found him a room on the lower Main, away from this district where the immigration authorities might look for him if the Italian officials had sent out a want bulletin. You kept him in walking-around money. You probably arranged for him to learn a little English, because that’s part of the laundering process. Now you take it from there.”
Canducci looks at LaPointe for a moment. “I’m not admitting any of that, you know.”
“Of course not. But let’s pretend it’s true.”
“Okay. Just pretending what you say is true… This kid was a sort of distant cousin to me. The same village in Calabria. He was supposed to be a smart kid, and tough. But he gets into a little trouble back in the old country. So next thing you know he’s here, and I’ve promised to find some kind of work for him. As a favor.”
LaPointe smiles at the obliquity.
“Okay. So I get him a room, and I get him started learning some English. But I don’t see him often. That wouldn’t be smart, you dig? But all the time this bastard’s needing money. I give him a lot, but he always needs more. He blows it on the holes. I never seen such a crotch hound. I warn him that he’s beginning to get a reputation about all the squack he’s stabbing, and what the super don’t need right now is a reputation. He goes after all kinds. Even old women. He’s sort of weird that way, you know? So the only time I visit him is to tell him he shouldn’t draw attention to himself. I tell him to take it easy with the holes. But he don’t listen, and he asks me for more money. Five will get nine it was a woman that put the knife into him.”
“Go on.”
“Go on to what? That’s all! I warn him, but he don’t listen. And you walk in here this morning and tell me he’s got himself reamed. He should of listened.”
“You don’t sound too sorry for your cousin.”
“I should be sorry for myself! I’m out a lot of scratch! And for what?”
“Call it a business risk. Okay, give me the names of some of his women.”
“Who knows names? Shit, he was on the make day and night. Drag a net down the Main and you’ll come up with half a dozen he’s rammed. But I can tell you this. He went for weird action. Two at a time. Old women. Gimps. Kids. That sort of thing.”
“You said something about his taking English lessons? Who was he taking them from?”
“No idea. I give him a list of ads from the papers. I let him pick for himself. The less I know about what these guys are doing, the better for me.”
“What else do you want to tell me?”
“There’s nothing else to tell. And listen—” Canducci points a chubby white finger at LaPointe—”there ain’t no witnesses here. Anything I might have said, I would deny in court. Right?”
LaPointe nods, his eyes never leaving Candy Al’s as he weighs and evaluates the story he just heard. “It could be the way you say. It could also be that the kid got too dangerous for you, drawing attention to himself and always asking you for money. It could be you decided to cut your losses.”
“My word of honor!”
LaPointe’s lower eyelids droop. “Well, if I have your word of honor… what else could I want?” He rises and begins to tug on his overcoat. “If I decide I need more from you, I’ll be by. And if you try to leave town, I’ll take that as a confession.”
Canducci dabs at his eyes once more, then folds his mauve handkerchief carefully into his breast pocket and pats it into place. “It’s a crying goddamned shame, you know that?”
“What is?”
“That way this kid gets me into trouble. That’s what you get for trying to help a relative.”
After LaPointe and Guttmann leave the bar, Canducci sits for a time, thinking about how he will play it. He takes several bills from his wallet. As he saunters into the poolroom where his boys are standing around sheepishly, working their hands to restore circulation, he tucks the money back into the wallet with a flourish. “Sorry about that, boys. My fault. I got a little behind in my payments. These penny-and-nickel cops don’t like it when they don’t get their payoff on time. Okay, rack ‘em up.”
They are the only customers in the A-One Cafe. After serving them the one-plate lunch, the old Chinese has returned to his station by the window where, his eyes empty, he looks out on the sooty brick warehouses across the street.
“Well?” LaPointe asks. “How do you like it?”
Guttmann pushes his plate aside and shakes his head. “What was it called?”
“I don’t think it has a name.”
“I’m not surprised.”
There is a certain pride in the Lieutenant’s voice when he says, “It’s the worst food in Montreal, maybe in all of Canada. That’s why you can always come here to talk. There’s never anyone else here to disturb you.”
“Hm-m!” Guttmann notices that his grunt sounded just like the Lieutenant’s grumpy responses.
During the meal, LaPointe has filled him in on what he learned from Candy Al, together with a description of the operation known as laundering.
“And you think this Canducci might have killed Green, or had him killed?”
“It’s possible.”
Guttmann shakes his head. “With every lead, we turn another suspect. It’s worse than not having any
