“Officer Ass Wipe.”
Now I chuckled. “Officer Ass Wipe. I like that.”
“But not him.”
“Jerk’s supposed to be helping me.”
The blonde didn’t take the bait. I didn’t push it.
Seemingly still fuming, I crossed my legs and began agitating one ankle.
The blonde lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. Her fingers were nicotine yellow below fake pink nails.
We sat without talking for several minutes. She smoked. I tried to remember what I’d learned from Ryan about the art of interrogation.
I was about to take a chance when the blonde broke the silence.
“I been rousted so often I know the first name of every vice cop in town. Never encountered your Officer Ass Wipe.”
“He’s SQ, from Montreal.”
“A bit off his patch.”
“He’s searching for some missing kids. One of them is my niece.”
“These kids missing from here?”
“Maybe.”
“If you’re not on the job, why the tag-along privileges?”
“We’ve known each other a very long time.”
“You doing him?”
“Not anymore,” I said disdainfully.
“He give you that bruise?”
I shrugged.
The woman inhaled then blew smoke toward the ceiling in an inverted cone. I watched it drift and dissolve, backlit by neon over the bar.
“Your niece work here?” the blonde asked.
“She may have hooked up with the owner. Do you know him?”
“Hell, yeah, I know him. Worked for Mr. Bastarache off and on for twenty years. Mostly in Moncton.”
“What’s your take?”
“He pays OK. Doesn’t let customers rough up his girls.” Her lips pooched forward as she shook her head. “But I rarely see him.”
That seemed odd with Bastarache living upstairs. I filed the comment for future consideration.
“My niece may have gotten herself involved in something,” I said.
“Everyone’s involved in something, sunshine.”
“Something more than dancing.”
The blonde didn’t respond.
I lowered my voice. “I think she was doing porn flicks.”
“Gal’s gotta earn a living.”
“She was barely eighteen.”
“What’s this niece’s name?”
“Kelly Sicard.”
“What’s yours?”
“Tempe.”
“Celine.” Again, the chuckling noise. “Not Dion, but not without flair of my own.”
“Nice to meet you, Celine Not Dion.”
“Ain’t we a pair.”
Celine sniffed, then backhanded her nose with a wrist. Reaching into my purse, I moved to her table and handed her a tissue.
“How long you been searching for this Kelly Sicard?”
“Almost ten years.”
Celine looked at me as though I’d said Kelly had marched off to Gallipoli.
“The other kid’s only been missing two weeks.” I didn’t mention Evangeline, who’d been missing over thirty
