“I am now going to await the arrival of counsel. Much as I’m enjoying this, it’s time I roll outta here. Got a business to run.”
Ryan leaned back and folded his arms.
“You surprise me, Dave. Sensitive guy like you. I figured you’d still be in mourning for your wife.”
Was it my imagination, or did Bastarache tense at Ryan’s reference to Obeline?
“But then, hell, it’s been almost a week.”
Two beefy palms came up. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the coldhearted bastard you think I am. I feel it. But my wife’s passing was no shocker. The woman’s been suicidal for years.”
“That why you had to tune her up now and then? To reinvigorate her zest for life?”
Bastarache drilled Ryan with a porcine stare. Relaced his fingers. “My lawyer will have me out of here before you hit the on-ramp to the forty.”
I looked at Ryan, willing him to confront Bastarache with the contact sheet of Evangeline. He didn’t.
“Your lawyer has plenty of time.” Ryan held Bastarache’s stare. “CSU’s at your place right now. When I leave here, I’ll be helping them take your life apart, nail by nail.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, Dave.” Ryan spoke with a voice of pure steel. “We find one name, one phone number, one snapshot of a kid in a two-piece swimsuit, you’ll be so fucked you’ll wish your parents had decided on celibacy.”
Shoving back his chair, Ryan rose. I followed. We were at the door when Bastarache barked, “You haven’t a clue what’s going on.”
We both stopped and turned.
“How ’bout you tell me, then,” Ryan said.
“These girls call themselves performance artists. Every single one’s got dreams of being the next Madonna.” Bastarache shook his head. “Artists, my ass. They’re vipers. You block ’em, they’ll take you off at the dick.”
Though I’d promised to remain mute, the man was so repugnant I couldn’t hold myself back.
“How about Evangeline Landry? She ask to appear in one of your dirty little films?”
The sausage fingers went so tight the knuckles bulged yellow-white. Again, the lips crimped. After several wheezy nasal intakes, Bastarache replied to Ryan, “You’re way off base.”
“Really?” Loathing glazed my response
Still Bastarache ignored me. “You’re so far off base you might as well be in Botswana.”
“Where
Finally, the response was directed at me.
“Not in my backyard, baby.” A serpentine vein pumped the midline of Bastarache’s forehead.
Ryan and I both turned our backs.
“Look in your own motherfucking backyard.”
33
Q UEBEC CITY IS SIMPLY QUEBEC TO QUEBECKERS. IT IS THE provincial capital. And oh- so-very-thoroughly
The Vieux-Quebec, the old quarter, is the only fortified town in North America up latitude from Mexico. The same zip code boasts the Chateau Frontenac, the Assemblee nationale, and the Musee national des beaux-arts. Hotel, parliament, and fine arts museum to us Anglophones. Quaint and cobbled, the Vieux-Quebec is a world heritage site.
Bastarache’s small corner of the
Located on a seedy street off Chemin Sainte-Foy, Le Passage Noir was a dive in a row of dives featuring women taking off their clothes. Short on charm, the neighborhood filled a niche in Quebec City’s urban ecosystem. In addition to strippers flaunting T and A on runways, dealers hawked drugs on street corners, and hookers sold sex out of flophouses and taxis.
An SQ cop drove us to the address on Ryan’s warrant. Hippo’s car was at the curb along with a CSU van and a cruiser with Service de police de la Ville de Quebec on its side panel.
When Ryan and I pushed through Le Passage’s heavy wooden door, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer and dried sweat. The place was as small as a bar can be without becoming a kiosk. It was clear Bastarache didn’t spend a lot on lighting.
A bar shot the center of the room. A crude platform spanned its rear wall. At stage right glowed a Rock-Ola jukebox straight out of the for ties. At stage left was a pool table helter-skelter with balls and cues abandoned by hastily departing patrons.
A uniformed cop stood by the entrance, feet spread, thumbs hooking his belt. His badge said
A man slouched on one of the eight stools at the bar, heels catching one rung. He wore a white shirt, razor- creased black pants, and shined black loafers. Gold cuff links. Gold watch. Gold neck chain. No name tag. I assumed Mr. Sharp was the abruptly idled bartender.
