Bones to Ashes

The Vieux-Québec, the old quarter, is the only fortified town in North America up latitude from Mexico. The same zip code boasts the Château Frontenac, the Assemblée nationale, and the Musée national des beaux-arts. Hotel, parliament, and fine arts museum to us Anglophones. Quaint and cobbled, the Vieux-Québec is a world heritage site.

Bastarache’s small corner of the ville definitely was not.

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 Québec 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 C. Deschênes, SPVQ.

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.

A pair of women smoked and talked at one of a dozen tables facing the stage. Both wore shocking pink polyester kimonos.

A third woman sat apart from the others, smoking alone. Unlike her colleagues, she was dressed in street clothes. Shorts. Sequined tank. Roman sandals laced to her knees.

Otherwise, the place was empty.

While Ryan spoke to Deschênes, I scoped out the ladies.

The youngest was tall, maybe eighteen, with dull brown hair and tired blue eyes. Her companion was a thirty-something redhead who’d definitely put part of her salary into a boob job.

The lone smoker had fried platinum hair that wisped down past her ears. I put her age at somewhere around forty.

Hearing voices, or perhaps sensing my interest, the blonde flicked her eyes sideways in my direction. I smiled. She glanced away. The other women continued their conversation, uncurious.

“Bastarache has an office in back. Hippo’s there.” Ryan was speaking in hushed tones at my shoulder. “His digs are on the second floor. CSU’s working that.”

“Has the staff been questioned?” My gesture took in the women and the bartender.

“Bastarache is the boss. They’re employees and know nothing. Oh. And the bartender says kiss his hairy French ass.”

Again, the blonde’s gaze slid to us, darted off.

“Mind if I speak to the talent?” I asked.

“Looking for new dance moves?”

“Can we lose the bartender and the kimono sisters?”

Ryan gave me a questioning look.

“I’ve got a feeling the blonde might be a talker if company’s not present.”

“I’ll ask Deschênes to bring the others to me.”

“OK. Now play along.”

Before Ryan could respond, I stepped back and snapped, “Stop telling me what to do. I’m not stupid, you know.”

Ryan got it. “Hard to tell most of the time,” he said, loud and very condescending.

“May I at least have my pictures?” I held out a haughty palm.

“Suit yourself.” Disgusted.

Ryan produced the envelope containing the prints, facial repros, and autopsy photos. Snatching it, I stomped across the room, yanked a chair, and threw myself down at a table.

The blonde had watched our “spat” with interest. Now her eyes were on the jar lid she was using as an ashtray.

After a brief exchange with Deschênes, Ryan disappeared through a rear door marked with a red electric sortie sign.

Deschênes collected the bartender, then crossed to the kimono twins. “Let’s go, girls.”

“Where?”

“I hear the joint’s got a lovely green room.”

“What about her?”

“Her turn’s coming.”

“Can we at least get dressed?” the redhead whined. “I’m freezing my ass.”

“Occupational hazard,” Deschênes said. “Let’s go.”

Reluctantly, the women followed Deschênes and the bartender through the same exit Ryan had used.

While appearing to act in a huff, I’d chosen a table near enough to allow conversation with the blonde, but far enough away that my move wouldn’t look like an approach.

“Ass wipe,” I muttered under my breath.

“The male sex is one long parade of ass wipes,” the woman said, jamming her cigarette into the jar lid.

“That one is the grand marshall.”

The woman made a chuckling noise in her throat.