Grave Secrets

Where scalpers once hawked rinkside seats, and stockbrokers and truckers jockeyed for beer, under-thirties now sip Smirnoff Ice and bowl on sonic alleys. The Pepsi Forum Entertainment Centre contains a twenty-two-screen movie megaplex, an upscale wine store, restaurants, an indoor climbing wall, and a big-screen altar paying homage to the good old days.

Mr. T, the statue, and peasant skirt turned left on rue Lambert-Closse and entered the Forum on the Ste-Catherine side. I trailed them ten yards back.

Sighting on the statue’s hair spikes, I dogged the trio through a handful of bowlers and moviegoers milling about the lobby. I watched the spikes ascend the escalator to the second floor and disappear into Jillian’s. I followed.

Tables and booths filled the right half of the restaurant, a bar occupied the left. Though there were few diners, every bar stool was filled, and a dozen drinkers stood in twos and threes.

When I entered, the Clémence trio was making its way toward a young woman at the far end of the bar. She wore a black lace blouse, long black beads, and fingerless black gloves. The lace securing her topknot looked like an enormous black butterfly perched on her head.

It was Chantale Specter.

On seeing her friends, Chantale smiled, jerked a thumb at a man on her left, and rolled her eyes.

I looked at the object of her disdain.

It couldn’t be.

It was.

I reached for my cell phone.

21

RYAN ARRIVED WITHIN MINUTES.

“Who’s the goof with the hair gel?”

“A reporter from Chicago named Ollie Nordstern.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Having a beer.”

“What’s he doing in Montreal?”

“Possibly trying to find me. Nordstern’s researching a piece on human rights work. I talked to him in Guatemala City, and he’s been dogging me ever since.”

“Dogging you?”

“Calling my cell, leaving messages at the lab down there.”

Ryan was staring at Chantale.

“Is something dripping from her eye?”

“Probably a tattoo.”

“What’s Nordstern’s interest in the Specter kid?”

“Maybe Chantale’s his quarry, not me.”

“Wayward ambassador’s daughter.” Ryan snapped his fingers.

“Ticket to a Pulitzer.”

We both looked at Chantale. She was huddled with her friends now, back to Nordstern.

“Ready?”

“Let’s do it.”

Mr. T was in vigilante mode, thumbs belt-looped, incisors working a wad of gum. He spotted us at ten feet and tracked us like a serpent hunting a kill. The others remained focused on their conversation. Nordstern remained focused on Chantale.

Ryan circled, picked up Chantale’s mug from behind, and sniffed the contents.

Everyone fell silent.

“I’m sure we all have proof of age.” Ryan bestowed a fatherly smile. Officer Friendly looking out for the kids.

“Fuck off,” said Mr. T. In the light he looked older than I’d estimated on the porch, probably in his early twenties.

“Metalass?” I asked.

His eyes crawled to me.

“Tempered steel. How ’bout yours?” He rapid-fire drummed on the bar with his palms. Chantale jumped slightly.

“Do you use the screen name Metalass?”

“Nice tits.”

“I know you mean that in a caring way.”

“Maybe we could have a cappuccino some time.” Mr. T scratched his chest, and a smirk lifted one side of his mouth.

“Sure,” I said. “Once you’re allowed visitors, I could do it as community service.”

A nervous giggle.

“The fuck you laughing at?” Mr. T swiveled toward peasant skirt.

Ryan slid behind Mr. T and levered one arm behind his back.

“What the f—”

“Let’s not forget our manners.” Officer Friendly’s voice had chilled.

“This is fucking police harassment.” A vein throbbed in Mr. T’s neck. When he tried to pull free, Ryan applied upward pressure.

Chantale made a move to rise. Placing one hand on each shoulder, I eased her back onto the bar stool. Up close I could see that the tattooed tears were fake. The uppermost was curling outward along one edge.

Nordstern regarded the moment expressionless.

“My colleague asked a legitimate question,” Ryan said into Mr. T’s ear. “We’ve been calling you Mr. T, but we find it embarrassing. Makes us feel old.”

No response.

Ryan tweaked Mr. T’s arm.

“Fuckin’ police brutality.” Through clenched teeth.

“You’re handling it well.”

Nordstern began folding a napkin into smaller and smaller triangles.

Another tweak.

“Metalass.” It was almost a yelp.

The couple beside Nordstern bailed with their beers.

“I doubt your mama put Metalass on your birth certificate.” Ryan.

“I doubt your mama could read and write.”

Another tweak.

“Fuck!”

“I’m getting impatient.”

“Take a Prozac.”

Ryan tweaked harder.

“Leon Hochmeister. Get the fuck off me.”

Ryan released Hochmeister’s arm.

Hochmeister bent and spit his gum on the floor. Then he jerked backward, rolling his shoulder and rubbing his biceps.

“You need to learn some new adjectives, Leon. Maybe try one of those thesaurus software programs.”

Hochmeister placed upper incisors on lower lip, began the F word, changed his mind. His eyes simmered, Rasputin in a Mohawk.

Ryan turned to the statue.

“And you are?”

“Presley Iverson.” Iverson had a look of bemused curiosity on his face.

Peasant skirt.

“Antoinette Gaudreau.”