“I don’t know much about the mob, but Nicolo Cataneo is a name I’ve heard over the years.”
“The Mafia operates here?”
“Since the turn of the century.”
“I thought you had bikers.”
“We do. And right now they’re the biggest game in town. But the biker boys are just one element in the wonderful world of organized crime in Montreal. The Mafia, the West End Gang, and the Hells Angels make up what’s known as the ‘Consortium.’”
“Like New York’s ‘Commission’?”
“Exactly.”
“Do the sunny peninsula folk here get along with the sunny peninsula folk south of the border? Or are they island folk?”
“As in Italy versus Sicily? I’m not privy to the details of ancestral geography. I do know that at one time Montreal was virtually a branch office for New York City.”
“The Bonanno family? I read a book on that.”
I nodded. “The Montreal organization was led by a fellow named Vic ‘the Egg’ Cotroni. I think Cotroni died in the mideighties.”
I checked my cell. Still on. Still no messages.
“What’s the West End Gang?” Anne asked.
“Predominantly Irish.”
“Your people.”
“We Irish are but foot soldiers in the Army of the Lord.”
“More like poets and barflies, in reverse order of diligence.”
“Careful.”
“What’s this Consortium into?”
“Prostitution. Gambling. Illegal substances. The Consortium determines things like drug prices, quantities to be imported, the names of lucky buyers. Cotroni’s network is thought to have smuggled millions of dollars’ worth of narcotics into the American market over the years. The profits from illicit activities are then laundered through legitimate businesses.”
“Typical pattern, from what I read.”
“Same one the biker gangs have adopted. They must teach it in the business schools.”
At that moment the waitress arrived with our food. Another phone check. Still humming. Still no messages.
“Getting back to the building,” I said, after a few crepe moments. “Nick the Knife bought the place in 1970, and held on to it for ten years.”
“How is all this relevant to your skeletons?”
“I’m talking wiseguys, not choirboys, Anne. Anyone could have been buried in that basement.”
“Aren’t we being a bit melodramatic?”
“People were whacked left and right in those days.”
“Teenaged girls?”
“Strip clubs? Prostitution? Life’s pretty cheap to these thugs.”
Especially female life, I thought, flashing on the gutted hooker now at the Notre-Dame Hospital.
Anne focused on her crepes until their completion. Then, “What was on the ground floor when this Knife guy owned the building?”
“That information wasn’t available.”
“Who bought the property?”
I checked my printout.
“In 1980 the building was purchased by Richard Cyr. According to records, Cyr still owns it.”
“What does Cyr have on the ground floor?”
“There are four separate businesses.”
“Including a pizza parlor.”
“Yes.”
“Where does Monsieur Cyr live?”
Back to the printout.
“Notre-Dame-de-Grace.”
“How far is that from Montreal?”
