Monday Mourning

The scowl wavered, then reaffixed itself.

“And I’m not Pee-wee Herman.” The name sounded strange in joual French.

I reached into my purse.

Cyr made a feint at the door. “Get lost!”

I pulled out one of my cards.

“And don’t leave none of your damn pamphlets, tabernouche!!”

“We’re not with any church.”

Realizing what was happening, Anne used the handrail to turn herself back toward the house.

Cyr repeated his penile threat, this time in Anne’s direction.

“Oh, horror,” Anne said, sotto voce. “Assault with a dead weapon.”

The grimy lenses froze on my companion. A smile did a slow crawl across the wrinkled lips.

Cyr waggled again.

Anne replied with the old standard. “What do you think, Tempe? Looks like a penis, only smaller.”

Cyr waggled.

Anne opened her mouth to counter.

I truncated the exchange. “Monsieur Cyr, I’m part of an investigation concerning property you own and I need to ask some questions about your building.”

Cyr reoriented to me, fingers of one hand still wrapping his merchandise.

“You girls ain’t storm trooping to save my damn soul?”

“Sir, we’re here to discuss the property you own.”

“You with the city?”

I hesitated. “Yes.” After all, I was with the province, and Cyr hadn’t asked to see identification.

“Some pissant tenant lodge a complaint?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“She with the city?” Cyr tipped his head at Anne.

“She’s with me.”

“She’s a looker, that one.”

“Yes. Sir, we really need to ask you some questions.”

Cyr opened the storm door. Anne and I picked our way forward and stepped inside. When Cyr closed the inner door, the small foyer dimmed. The air felt hot and dry and smelled of smoke and decades of unventilated cooking.

“You’re a looker, all right.” Cyr winked up at Anne, who stood a good foot taller than he. He seemed to have forgotten that he was naked.

“You want to throw a blanket on ole Hopalong?” Anne suggested.

“I thought you was Watchtower,” said Cyr in English. “Those folks ain’t got the common sense God gave a parsnip. But they leave you alone if you’re naked.” It came out nek-kid. “Or tell ’em you’re Catholic.” It came out cat-lick.

Anne pointed at Cyr’s genitalia.

Cyr led us through leaded glass doors and gestured to a living room on the right.

“Gimme a minute.”

Cyr began climbing a central stairway, placing one foot on a riser, then joining it with the other, one blue- veined hand gripping the banister. His body looked frog-belly white against the dark wood paneling covering the stairwell, and his ascending derriere was hairy black.

Plastic crackled as Anne and I settled on opposite ends of a rose brocade sofa. I unzipped and removed my parka. Anne remained fully clothed.

“I never saw this on Cagney and Lacey.”

I grinned in response. My eyes took a visual tour. Opposite the sofa, a La-Z-Boy and a plastic-coated armchair. Stage right, a fireplace, the bricks painted brown. Stage left, a small organ, a large TV with a shabby armchair pulled close to the screen. No plastic.

Everywhere, velvety quiet.

I wondered if the old man had added the vinyl slipcovers, or simply left them in place when the furniture was delivered.

I doubted there was a Mrs. Cyr. There were no figurines, photographs, or souvenirs of holidays past. Ashtrays overflowed. Stacks of Playboy and National Geographic filled the fireplace enclosure.

I noticed Anne was also checking the place out.

“This could all be yours,” I said in a low voice. “I think Cyr’s in love.”