The Main

“Why son of a bitch?” he repeats.

She rises slowly and goes to the bar—to get distance, not a drink. She leans her elbows on the polished walnut and stares at the array of bottles in the back bar, shining in the many colors of the glass ball light. Her back to him, she speaks in a drone. “Clifford Davidson was the giddying and grand romance in my life, officer. We were betrothed, each unto each. He came up to Canada to set up some kind of manufacturing operation in Quebec City, and he came here to learn Joual. He already spoke fair French, but he was one of your smarter cookies. He knew it would be a tremendous in for him if he, an American, could speak Joual French. The canadien workers and businessmen would eat it up.”

“And you met him.”

“And I met him. Yes. An exchange of glances, a brush of hands, a comparison of favorite composers, a matching up of plumbing. Love.”

“Go on.”

“Go on? Whither? Quo vadis, pater? Want to know a secret? That Latin I drop every once in a while? That’s just an affection. It’s all I got out of Ste. Catherine’s Academy: a little Latin I no longer remember, and the grooming injunction that all proper girls keep their knees together, which advice I have long ignored. My knees have become absolute strangers. There’s always some man coming between them. And how is that for an earthy little pun?”

“You and this Davidson fell in love. Go on.”

“Ah, yes! Back to the interrogation. Right you go, Lieutenant! Well, let’s see. Cliff and I had a glorious month together in gay, cosmopolitan Montreal. As I recall, marriage was mentioned. Then one day… poof! He disappeared like that fabled poofbird that flies in ever-smaller circles until it disappears up its own anus… poof!”

“Can you tell me the last time you saw him?”

“For that we shall need the trusty diary.” She descends from the bar stool uncertainly and crosses to her desk, not unsteadily, but much too steadily. “Voila. My gallery of rogues.” She brandishes the diary for LaPointe to see. “Ah-ha. I see you have been nipping at the Armagnac, Lieutenant. You’re having a little trouble staying in focus, aren’t you, you sly old dog.” With large gestures she pages through the book. “No, not him. No, not him either… although he wasn’t bad. My, my, that was a night to set the waterbed a-sloshing! Come out of that book, Cliff Davidson. I know you’re in there! Ah! Now let’s see. The last night. Hm-m-m. I see it was a night of plans. And of love. And also… the night of September the eighteenth.”

LaPointe glances at his notebook and closes it.

“That was the night he was stabbed?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Fancy that. Three men make love to me and end up stabbed. And to think that some guys worry about VD! I assume he was married? This MacHenry-Davidson?”

“Yes.”

“A little wifey tucked away in Albany or somewhere. How quaint. You’ve got to hand it to these Americans. They’re fantastic businessmen.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, yes! Fantastic. Naturally, I never charged him for his language lessons.”

LaPointe is silent for a time before asking, “May I take the diary with me?”

“Take the goddamned thing!” she screams, and she hurls it across the room at him.

It flutters open in the air and falls to the rug not halfway to him. Feckless display.

He leaves it lying on the rug. He’ll get it as he goes.

When she has calmed down, she says dully, “That was a stupid thing to do.”

“True.”

“I’m sorry. Come on, have a nightcap with me. Proof of paternal forgiveness?”

“All right.”

They sit side by side at the bar, sipping their drinks in silence, both looking ahead at the back bar. She sighs and asks, “Tell me truthfully. Aren’t you a little sorry for me?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Yeah. Me too. And I’m sorry for Tony. And I’m sorry for Mike. I’m even sorry for poor old Yo-Yo.”

“Do you always call her that?”

“Didn’t everybody?”

“I never did.”

“You wouldn’t,” she says bitterly.

“You never call her Mother?”

She lays her hand on his shoulder and rests her cheek against her knuckles, letting him support her. “Never out loud. Never when I’m sober. You want to know something, Lieutenant? I hate you. I really hate you for not being… there.”

She feels him nod.

“Now, you’re sure…” She yawns deeply. “…you’re absolutely sure you don’t want to screw me?”

His eyes crinkle. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“That’s good. Because I’m really sleepy.” She takes her cheek from his shoulder and stands up. “I think I’ll go to bed. If you’ve finished with your questions, that is.”

LaPointe rises and collects his overcoat. “If I have more questions, I’ll come back.” He picks up the diary from the floor of the “conversation island,” and she accompanies him to the door.

“This memory trip back to the Main has been heavy, Lieutenant. Heavy and rough. I sure hope I never see you again.”

“For your sake, I hope it works out that way.”

“You still think I might have killed those men?”

He shrugs as he tugs on his overcoat.

“LaPointe? Will you kiss me good night? You don’t have to tuck me in.”

He kisses her on the forehead, their only contact his hands on her shoulders.

“Very chaste indeed,” she says. “And now you’re off. Quo vadis, pater?”

“What does that mean?”

“Just some of that phony Latin I told you about.”

“I see. Well, good night, Mlle. Montjean.”

“Good night, Lieutenant LaPointe.”

14

From horizon to horizon the sky is streaming southward over the city. The membrane of layer-inversion has ruptured, and the pig weather is rushing through the gap, wisps and flags of torn cloud scudding beneath the higher roiling mass, all swept before a persistent north wind down off the Laurentians. Children look up at the tide of yeasty froth and have the giddying sensation that the sky is still, and the earth is rushing north.

The wind has held through the night, and by evening there will be snow. Tomorrow, taut skies of ardent blue will scintillate over snow drifts in the parks. At last it is over, this pig weather.

LaPointe stands at the window of his office, watching the sky flee south. The door opens behind him and Guttmann’s head appears. “I got it, sir.”

“Good. Come in. What are you carrying there?”

“Sir? Oh, just a cup of coffee.”

“For me?”

“Ah… yes?”

“Good. Pass it over. Aren’t you having any?”

“I guess not, sir. I’ve been drinking too much coffee lately.”