One or the Other (6 page)

“Sure thing.” The guy moved away to get a paper cup.

Paquette said, “At Molly McGuire's.”

“They went there by themselves?”

“They were looking for a guy, some guy Levine says he knows. Place was crowded.”

“That's the one upstairs, right?”

Paquette drank some coffee, nodding, and said, “Yeah, that narrow stairway, so steep.”

“Yeah.” Dougherty was thinking how much it reminded him of the staircase at the Wagon Wheel, upstairs from the Blue Bird where there'd been a fire a few years back, a lot of people died, thirty-seven. Dougherty was there that night.

“So they don't find the guy, but then they're leaving, they're by the door, and some guy says to them, ‘Leave it alone,' you know.”

The guy behind the counter put a paper cup with a plastic lid on it in front of Dougherty and said, “On the house, Detective.”

“There was another guy at the table and a woman, too, and Levine says to them, ‘Leave what alone?' you know, like he doesn't know. And the guy says to him, ‘The Brink's thing, leave it alone.'”

“Are the two guys brothers?” Dougherty said.

“Yeah, you know them?”

“O'Donnells, I bet. The woman is Sharon McClusky.”

“It's O-something,” Paquette said. “A couple of other guys shoved Gagnon out the door, knocked him down the stairs, and then they jumped Levine.”

“Shit.”

“Busted a couple of beer bottles over his head, slashed his face with the broken pieces.”

“Fuck.”

“By the time the backup got there they were all gone. But Levine knew them.”

“He's okay?”

“Lot of stitches on his face, fractured skull, concussion. They took him to the General.”

“Not the Jewish General?”

“I guess they saw he was a cop, they didn't think.”

Dougherty had really been kidding but, of course, it wasn't a situation to be kidding about. “He still there?”

“Oh yeah,” Paquette said, “he'll be there for a while.”

“And now we're going to go get the O'Donnell brothers and Sharon McClusky.”

“If that's who it was.”

“Well, if they didn't do it they'll know who did by now,” Dougherty said. He picked up his coffee and started out of the restaurant, saying, “Thanks, boss,” to the guy behind the counter.

Outside on St. Jacques, walking past the big bank buildings with their big pillars and stone walls, Paquette said, “Hey, did you hear about the Brink's car?”

“What now?”

“No, it was a couple weeks ago. Brink's have an unmarked car they use for patrols in the neighbourhood but it was in an accident, a fender-bender.”

“So?”

“They never got it fixed, said it would cost too much.”

“Yeah,” Dougherty said. “Would it have cost two and a half million dollars?”

Paquette laughed.

Dougherty was thinking if they didn't get the money back it was another piece of evidence they'd use to try to claim it was a well-planned job pulled off by professionals brought in from out of town.

“Anyone talk to the driver again?”

“Ste. Marie, every day. Guy isn't changing his story.”

Dougherty was thinking they all thought it was a story, no one really believed the guy, and then he was thinking how much more plugged in Paquette was, how much closer he seemed to the top guys on the special squad.

They walked without saying anything for a block, and then Dougherty said, “You married?”

“Why,” Paquette said, “you asking me on a date?”

Dougherty didn't want to say, No, I'm just trying to figure out how such a useless brown-noser like you gets promoted, but then he thought he was being too hard on the guy — Paquette wasn't doing anything wrong, he was just in the right place at the right time. And maybe he had the right kind of last name.

“Yeah, I'm married,” Paquette said. “We have a baby on the way, another month or so.”

“Congratulations.”

They were in front of the bank building then and Paquette said, “It's going to mess up my summer vacation.”

“That's okay,” Dougherty said, “the Olympics are going to do that anyway.”

“Overtime, baby,” Paquette said. “I need it now.”

He held the door for Dougherty, who walked in thinking, Yeah, and you'll get plenty of overtime, for sure.

Rozovsky said, “Did you see that TV movie about the Brink's robbery?”

Dougherty said, “Already?”

“No, it was on TV a couple days before this one, with Leslie Nielsen. It was about the Boston robbery twenty years ago.”

Dougherty was standing in the doorway to the evidence room and he said, “No, I didn't see it.”

“And there was an episode of
Police Story
, did you see that one? They had a bazooka in the back of a van, backed up to a Brink's truck in a lane.”

“They get caught at the end of the episode?”

Rozovsky said, “Yeah, they did.”

“Maybe these crooks are smarter than TV writers.”

“Who isn't?”

Dougherty came the rest of the way into the room and looked over the desk where Rozovsky had spread out a bunch of pictures and said, “This thing was probably being planned long before those shows were on TV.”

“The experts coming into town from all over.”

Dougherty said, “Are they sticking to that?”

“I don't know,” Rozovsky said. “But if you don't catch somebody soon it's hard to imagine what they'll claim it was. Martians maybe.”

“They don't care who did it,” Dougherty said. “They just want the money back.” He looked at one of the pictures and said, “Who's that?”

“Howard Hughes. He just died, didn't you hear?”

“No.” Dougherty leaned closer and said, “That looks like a surveillance picture.”

“It is.”

In the picture a tall man wearing a hat low over his eyes, Hughes, Dougherty figured, was getting out of a limo parked in the shadows of the loading doors of a hotel. Dougherty said, “That's a while ago, look at that Cadillac. Is that the Queen E?”

“Ritz Carlton. Queen E wasn't built till '58. Hughes was here for two months in '57, stayed the whole time at the Ritz. Even then hardly anyone saw him and no one knows why he was here.”

“He never left the hotel?”

“Oh yeah, there are other pictures in the file, but not much. He flew his own plane here, something called a Constellation. People figured he was here to see something special Vickers was doing with one of their planes, the Viscount.”

Dougherty said, “Never heard of it.”

“Hughes ordered meals in the middle of the night, always the same thing, a couple of minute steaks done medium rare, string beans and carrots and Cr
ê
pe Suzette. But not really cr
ê
pes, he wanted them thick, like pancakes.”

“How do you know all this?”

Rozovsky held up the folder and said, “It's all in the file.”

“Why was he under surveillance?”

“Who knows.” Rozovsky held up another picture, this one of Hughes at the tarmac at the airport, just about to walk up the stairs to the door of a plane. “What do you think of this one?”

“What are you doing with it?”

“Selling it,” Rozovsky said. “The tabloid, the
Globe
. ‘Hughes Holes Up in Hotel Harem.' Part of a retrospective.”

“It's not the
Midnight
anymore.”

“I miss it,” Rozovsky said. “But the
Globe
's money is just as good.”

“How much shit will you get in for selling a surveillance picture?”

“To give me shit someone would have to admit that they had Howard Hughes under surveillance.” Rozovsky slid a couple of photos into a plain manila envelope and said, “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Carpentier.”

“Still trying for the transfer?”

“Have you seen him?”

A loud beeping sounded and Rozovsky said, “Oh man, they got you?”

Dougherty took the pager from the clip on his belt and turned it off. “I gotta go, see you around.”

“Not if I see you first.”

Dougherty took a quick look around the homicide offices but didn't see Carpentier.

Caron was in the lobby and he said, “Come on, we got a tip.”

“Number seven hundred.”

“But this one is worth checking out,” Caron said.

Outside on Bonsecours, Dougherty headed for the parking lot across the street but Caron stood on the sidewalk and said, “We can walk from here.” Then he changed his mind and said, “No, let's take the car.”

They drove about six blocks farther into Old Montreal, to Rue LeRoyer, and Caron said, “There, with the neon sign.”

“The strip joint?”

“Yeah,” Caron said. “See what I mean, a good tip.”

Dougherty parked in front of the hydrant near the corner of St. Laurent. “
Danseuses nues
, not exactly burlesque.”

“You've never seen Lili St. Cyr,” Caron said. “You're too young.”

“So are you.”

They got out of the car and Caron said, “Yeah, but I remember when this went all the way up,” motioning to St. Laurent Boulevard, “before they did that,” looking at the Ville-Marie Expressway that was like a six-lane wall separating Old Montreal from the eastern end of downtown.

“My father told me about the old days,” Dougherty said, trying to get in a dig at Caron, “he was in the navy during the war, said the sailors all walked up the hill for the hookers that cost an extra buck.”

“Made a big difference, that buck. Down here, well,” Caron looked at the building they were standing in front of, the cheap neon sign that said
Disco-Salon Louis XIV
and said, “It might look different but it really hasn't changed much.”

Dougherty was still looking towards the hill and when he turned to walk the half block to the strip joint he saw the building on the corner had a stone carving on the wall, a nun and a young child holding a book. The inscription was in French and English:
Close to this site stood the first school in Montreal established in 1637 by Marguerite Bourgeoys. Founder of the Congregation of Notre Dame.

Dougherty said, “It's not a school anymore.”

“But we can still learn a lot inside,” Caron said. “Come on.”

Dougherty followed him down the concrete steps.

Inside the music was loud, a heavy disco beat and Caron said, “Is this ‘Mon Pays'?”

“Yeah,” Dougherty said, “but in English it's ‘From New York to L.A.,' Patsy Gallant.”

“Mon Dieu.”

A big guy stopped them at the door and started to lead them into the club, saying, “
Bienvenue, juste les deux?
”

Caron said, “We can find our own table,” and walked past the guy.

Dougherty followed but the guy stepped in the way with his hand out looking for a tip and Dougherty said, “Police business.”

“I don't care.”

Dougherty said, “Neither do I,” and kept walking.

There was a woman onstage, swaying from side to side, no pasties on her small breasts and her denim shorts cut and torn so much she might as well have been bottomless, too. Dougherty thought she looked stoned. There were a few guys sitting on chairs right up against the stage, as if it were a bar.

Caron led the way through the room. It had been a restaurant, though not a fancy one, but still the coloured lights and mirrors and the disco ball looked garish and out of place. Across from the stage was the bar, no one sitting on the stools there, and there were a few small tables scattered around the rest of the smoke-filled room.

The song ended and another started with no break between them. “Love Is Alive” — Dougherty recognized the synthesizer opening from every disco and strip club he'd been in the last month. The woman onstage turned around, and with her back to the few guys sitting by the stage she bent over at the waist and slid the denim shorts down her long legs. She stood back up, still with her back to the men, and was swaying to the music, moving her hips a lot more now and stepping away from the shorts, barely lifting her stilettos off the stage.

Caron had stopped by the bar and was talking to a waitress who was wearing a see-through nightie and nothing underneath. She was carrying a round tray with a highball glass on it and motioning to a table in the back corner of the bar and saying, “
Peut-être une heure
.”

Caron said, “
Tout seul?
” He was looking at a piece of paper the waitress had handed him, turning it over, looking at both sides.

“Juste lui et Melodi et Tom Collins
.
”
She looked up at Dougherty and winked and said, “
Je ne suis pas occupée.
”

“
Tant pis pour moi
,” Dougherty said. “I'm working.”

“You don't work all night, come back.”

“You'll still be here?”

“Si tu reviens.”
Then as Dougherty followed Caron she said, “See you later.”

As Caron led the way into the back corner of the room, even darker than the area by the stage, he handed the piece of paper to Dougherty. It was the band from a pile of bills, the words
Royal Bank
printed on it in blue.

In the corner a man was sitting with his back to the wall staring up at a young woman who was dancing — or at least moving a little — her naked crotch inches from his face.

“Okay,” Caron said, “
la danse est finie
.”

Dougherty put his hand on Melodi's arm and they were eye to eye. She said, “No touching.”

“Time for a break.”

She got off the little stand and picked it up, grabbing a folded-over bundle of bills from under one of the legs and her high-heeled shoes and shrugged at the guy as she walked away saying, “See you later.”

Caron said, “Come with us.”

The guy hadn't moved. Dougherty figured he was drunk and expected him to come up swinging, but the guy just said, “Come back, Melodi,” and smiled a dopey smile.

The bouncer was beside them then, with another guy, a little shorter but wearing a nicer suit, who said, “Okay, boys, take it outside.”

Dougherty got himself between the bouncer and Caron, looking at the bouncer and hoping that would be all it took but ready to go if he had to.

Caron said, “Yeah, Maurice, we're going.” He had a hand on the drunk's shoulder and said to him, “Come on, buddy, let's go.”

The guy in the nice suit, Maurice, said, “Let go of him and get out of my club.”

“Didn't you call us,” Caron said. “You don't want the reward?”

Then Dougherty recognized Maurice: he'd been a detective at Station Four a few years before, when Dougherty was working there.

“No one called you.”

“Then I'll keep the reward.” Caron had the drunk on his feet and Dougherty cleared the path for them to get out.

Outside on the sidewalk, the drunk started to come around and get pissed off, saying, “Hands off me,” waving his arms around, but Caron shoved him up against the wall of the building.

“You know what this is?” Holding the Royal Bank band in his face.

The drunk started patting the pockets in his sports coat and he said, “That's mine.”

“No, it's the bank's,” Caron said. “You stole it out of the truck. Come on,” he shoved him towards the car, “you're going to tell us who else was with you.”

Dougherty opened the back door of the car and Caron shoved the guy inside and said, “Don't puke.” He slammed the door shut and said to Dougherty, “You know him?”

“No, you?”

“No. I'm surprised, I thought I would.” Caron leaned against the car and got his smokes out of his pocket and lit one.

Dougherty said, “He might have sold them something.”

“Can you see the guys who pulled this job paying someone with a stack of bills, the band still on it?” He was holding the paper band in his hand.

“No.”

Caron took a deep drag and blew out smoke. “Okay, let's get his story before we take him in.”

Dougherty looked past Caron into the car and said, “You want to let him sleep it off?”

The guy was spread out over the back seat asleep.

“Let's wake him up,” Caron said. “But not here.”

They drove to the waterfront, along Mill Street until they were in the parking lot under the Bonaventure Expressway by the Lachine Canal. Dougherty pulled the drunk out of the back seat and propped him up against the hood of the car.

The guy was awake and trying to focus. He said, “What the hell?”

Caron stood beside the open passenger door and said, “We're going to give you a chance to walk away from this.”

“Where the hell am I?”

“Deep shit,” Caron said. “You're in deep shit.”

He walked around the car and stood beside Dougherty, the two of them staring at the drunk, and Caron said, “But we can get you out. All you have to do is tell us who else was in it with you.”

The guy said, “Who else?” like he really had no idea what they were talking about.

Caron said, “Just one name.”

He wasn't getting it and he started to look scared.

Caron spoke softly, like he was talking to a friend, saying, “It's not too late for you, we know it wasn't your idea, we know you're just a small part of it.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Caron leaned back and Dougherty leaned in and slapped the hood of the car hard.

The guy jumped and closed his eyes, ready to get hit.

Dougherty said, “Tell him what he wants to know.”

“I don't know anything.”

Dougherty slapped him. He grabbed the guy's face in one hand and shook it till he opened his eyes and then Dougherty showed his other hand now in a fist. “Tell him.”

“It was me, it was just me.”

Dougherty pulled his fist back to punch but Caron grabbed his arm.

“Just one name, that's all we need. One other guy who was in this with you.”

The guy was crying, now, shaking all over. He managed to say, “J-just me,” with Dougherty's big hand squeezing his face.