Monday Mourning

Flakes were obliterating the cobblestones, the street signs, the pillar memorializing Admiral Nelson, the Englishman who spanked the French at the battle of Trafalgar. Never a favorite with the separatists. Beyond the square, I could see the gauzy blur of the silver-domed Bonsecours Market, City Hall until mothballed by the mansarded Parisian at my back.

Quebec. The Twin Solitudes. One French and Catholic, the other English and Calvinist. The two languages and cultures have butted heads in the province since the Brits seized Montreal in 1760. Place Jacques-Cartier is a microcosm in stone of the linguistic tribalism.

Le Jardin Nelson is located halfway down the west side of the square. The restaurant is squat and solid, with plaza-side terraces under bright blue awnings. A parasoled courtyard with infrared heaters keeps the eatery Montréal chic many months of the year.

This was not one of them. When I entered, Anne looked up over her menu and tracked me across the room.

“It’s really coming down,” I said, removing my parka, then shaking flakes.

“Will it stick?”

“Snow always sticks in Montreal.”

“Excellent.”

“Hm.” I placed my cellular on the tabletop.

A young woman filled water glasses. Anne ordered Crêpes Forestiers and a glass of chardonnay. I went for Crêpes Argenteuil and a Diet Coke.

“Find any treasures?” I asked when the waitress had gone.

Even in a state of apathy, Anne is a commando shopper. She showed me her purchases.

Tangerine wool sweater. Hand-painted Provençal bowl. Six pewter frogs on red satin ribbons.

“Odd choice for the unfettered life,” I said, gesturing at the ornaments.

“I can use them as gifts,” Anne said, rewrapping the tissue.

The waitress delivered drinks. I sipped my Coke, unwound my napkin, positioned my utensils. Adjusted the fork. Aligned the spoon and knife. Repositioned the fork. Checked my cell phone to be sure it was on.

More Coke.

Then I flattened the edges of my place mat with both palms. Straightened the fringe. Picked up the phone. Laid it back down.

Anne raised one analytical brow.

“Expecting a call?”

“I left messages for Claudel and his partner.”

“Are you going to tell me what you discovered?”

I pulled the photocopies and printouts from my purse and stacked them on the side of my mat.

“I’ll spare you a Michener saga on the land. The building went up in 1901 and was owned by a man named Yves Sauriol. At that time it was all residential. Sauriol’s son, Jacques, inherited in twenty-eight, then his son, Yves, got the place in thirty-nine.

“In 1947, Yves Sauriol, Jr., sold the property to Éric-Emmanuel Gratton. That’s when the first floor went commercial. A small printing company occupied the space until 1970.

“Éric-Emmanuel Gratton died in 1958, and his wife, Marie, inherited. Marie went to her reward in sixty-three, and the place transferred to their son, Gille. Gille Gratton sold the property in 1970.”

“Is this going to have a punch line?”

“To Nicolò Cataneo.”

Anne’s expression indicated the name meant nothing.

“Nick ‘the Knife’ Cataneo.”

The green eyes went wide. “Mafia?”

I nodded.

“The Knife?”

I nodded again.

“That explains the manic moves with your flatware.”

“I don’t know much about the mob, but Nicolò Cataneo is a name I’ve heard over the years.”

“The Mafia operates here?”

“Since the turn of the century.”

“I thought you had bikers.”

“We do. And right now they’re the biggest game in town. But the biker boys are just one element in the wonderful world of organized crime in Montreal. The Mafia, the West End Gang, and the Hells Angels make up what’s known as the ‘Consortium.’”

“Like New York’s ‘Commission’?”

“Exactly.”

“Do the sunny peninsula folk here get along with the sunny peninsula folk south of the border? Or are they island folk?”

“As in Italy versus Sicily? I’m not privy to the details of ancestral geography. I do know that at one time Montreal was virtually a branch office for New York City.”

“The Bonanno family? I read a book on that.”

I nodded. “The Montreal organization was led by a fellow named Vic ‘the Egg’ Cotroni. I think Cotroni died in the mideighties.”

I checked my cell. Still on. Still no messages.

“What’s the West End Gang?” Anne asked.

“Predominantly Irish.”

“Your people.”

“We Irish are but foot soldiers in the Army of the Lord.”

“More like poets and barflies, in reverse order of diligence.”

“Careful.”

“What’s this Consortium into?”

“Prostitution. Gambling. Illegal substances. The Consortium determines things like drug prices, quantities to be imported, the names of lucky buyers. Cotroni’s network is thought to have smuggled millions of dollars’ worth of narcotics into the American market over the years. The profits from illicit activities are then laundered through legitimate businesses.”

“Typical pattern, from what I read.”

“Same one the biker gangs have adopted. They must teach it in the business schools.”

At that moment the waitress arrived with our food. Another phone check. Still humming. Still no messages.