Feeney nodded three times, more to himself than to us. Behind him, the boys watched with expressions ranging from curiosity to hostility.
Two girls appeared in a doorway across the hall. Both had fried blonde hair and looked like they ate a lot of potatoes. One wore jeans and a UBC sweatshirt, the other a peasant skirt that hung low on her hips. Given her poundage, it was a bad choice.
Feeney struggled to rise. As one, Metallica reached out to help him. He crossed to us, walking with feet widely spaced, as though bothered by hemorrhoids.
“How may I help you, Detective?”
“We’re looking for a young woman named Chantale Specter.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Is Chantale here?” Ryan said.
“Why?”
“It’s a simple question, Father.”
Feeney bristled slightly. Out of the corner of my eye I saw peasant skirt disappear. Moments later, the front door opened, then closed.
I slipped from the kitchen and hurried to the parlor. Through the window I could see that only Mr. T and the statue remained on the steps. Peasant skirt was talking to them. After a brief exchange, Mr. T flicked his cigarette, and the three headed west on de Maisonneuve. I waited to allow a safety zone, then set off after them.
The Montreal Canadiens had lousy luck with their early accommodations. From the 1909 to the 1910 season, the hockey team was headquartered in Westmount Arena at the intersection of Ste-Catherine and Atwater. When that rink burned to the ground, the Habs returned to their roots on the east side of town. Following another fire, the Mont-Royal Arena was thrown together, and the boys slapped pucks there for the next four years. In 1924, the Forum was built directly across from the old home ice. Construction took just one hundred and fifty-nine days and cost $1.2 million dollars. In their opener, the Canadiens trounced the Toronto St. Pats 7–1.
Hockey is sacred in Canada. Over the years the Forum acquired the aura of a holy place. The more Stanley Cups, the holier it grew. Nevertheless, the day came. Management needed more seats. The Habs needed better locker rooms.
The team played its last game in the Forum on March 11, 1996. Four days later, fifty thousand Montrealers turned out for the “moving day” parade. On March 15, the Habs hosted their opener in the new Molson Centre, defeating the New York Rangers 4–2.
It may have been the last game the bums won, I thought as I hurried along de Maisonneuve.
The old Forum sat empty for a while, forlorn, abandoned, an eyesore on the western edge of the city. In 1998, Canderel Management bought the project, brought Pepsi on board as title sponsor, and began a massive face-lift. Three years later, the building reopened as the Centre de divertissement du Forum Pepsi, the metaphor changed from spectator sport to food and entertainment.
Where scalpers once hawked rinkside seats, and stockbrokers and truckers jockeyed for beer, under-thirties now sip Smirnoff Ice and bowl on sonic alleys. The Pepsi Forum Entertainment Centre contains a twenty-two- screen movie megaplex, an upscale wine store, restaurants, an indoor climbing wall, and a big-screen altar paying homage to the good old days.
Mr. T, the statue, and peasant skirt turned left on rue Lambert-Closse and entered the Forum on the Ste- Catherine side. I trailed them ten yards back.
Sighting on the statue’s hair spikes, I dogged the trio through a handful of bowlers and moviegoers milling about the lobby. I watched the spikes ascend the escalator to the second floor and disappear into Jillian’s. I followed.
Tables and booths filled the right half of the restaurant, a bar occupied the left. Though there were few diners, every bar stool was filled, and a dozen drinkers stood in twos and threes.
When I entered, the Clemence trio was making its way toward a young woman at the far end of the bar. She wore a black lace blouse, long black beads, and fingerless black gloves. The lace securing her topknot looked like an enormous black butterfly perched on her head.
It was Chantale Specter.
On seeing her friends, Chantale smiled, jerked a thumb at a man on her left, and rolled her eyes.
I looked at the object of her disdain.
It couldn’t be.
It was.
I reached for my cell phone.
21
RYAN ARRIVED WITHIN MINUTES.
“Who’s the goof with the hair gel?”
“A reporter from Chicago named Ollie Nordstern.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Having a beer.”
“What’s he doing in Montreal?”
