Canducci dabs at his eyes once more, then folds his mauve handkerchief carefully into his breast pocket and pats it into place. “It’s a crying goddamned shame, you know that?”

“What is?”

“That way this kid gets me into trouble. That’s what you get for trying to help a relative.”

After LaPointe and Guttmann leave the bar, Canducci sits for a time, thinking about how he will play it. He takes several bills from his wallet. As he saunters into the poolroom where his boys are standing around sheepishly, working their hands to restore circulation, he tucks the money back into the wallet with a flourish. “Sorry about that, boys. My fault. I got a little behind in my payments. These penny-and-nickel cops don’t like it when they don’t get their payoff on time. Okay, rack ‘em up.”

They are the only customers in the A-One Café. After serving them the one-plate lunch, the old Chinese has returned to his station by the window where, his eyes empty, he looks out on the sooty brick warehouses across the street.

“Well?” LaPointe asks. “How do you like it?”

Guttmann pushes his plate aside and shakes his head. “What was it called?”

“I don’t think it has a name.”

“I’m not surprised.”

There is a certain pride in the Lieutenant’s voice when he says, “It’s the worst food in Montreal, maybe in all of Canada. That’s why you can always come here to talk. There’s never anyone else here to disturb you.”

“Hm-m!” Guttmann notices that his grunt sounded just like the Lieutenant’s grumpy responses.

During the meal, LaPointe has filled him in on what he learned from Candy Al, together with a description of the operation known as laundering.

“And you think this Canducci might have killed Green, or had him killed?”

“It’s possible.”

Guttmann shakes his head. “With every lead, we turn another suspect. It’s worse than not having any suspects. We’ve got that tramp, the Vet. Then we’ve got that guy Arnaud, the concierge’s friend. Now Canducci, or one of his punks. And it seems that it might have been almost any woman on the Main who isn’t under ten or over ninety. And what about the woman you talked to alone? The lesbian who runs a café. Is she a viable?”

Is she a viable? Precisely the kind of space-age jargon that LaPointe detests. But he answers. “I suppose. She had reason, and opportunity. And she’s capable of it.”

“What does that give us now? Four possibles?”

“Don’t forget your Mr. W–. You came close to wringing a confession out of him.”

Guttmann feels a flush at the nape of his neck. “Yes, sir. That’s right.”

LaPointe chuckles. “I’m not ragging you, kid.”

“Oh? Is that so, sir?”

“No, you’re thinking all right. You’re thinking like a good cop. But don’t forget that this Green was a turd. Just about everybody he touched would have some reason for wanting him dead. It’s not all that surprising that we find a suspect behind every door. But pretty soon it will be over.”

“Over? In what way over?”

“The leads are starting to thin out. The talk with Canducci didn’t turn another name or address.”

“The leads could be thinning out because we’ve already touched the killer. And passed him by.”

“I haven’t passed anybody by yet. And there’s still the possibility that Carrot will come up with a name or two, maybe a bar he used to go to.”

“Carrot?”

“The lesbian.”

“But she’s a suspect herself.”

“All the more reason for her to help us… if she’s innocent, that is. But I wouldn’t bet on closing this case. I have a feeling that pretty soon we’re going to open the last door, and find that blank wall.”

“And you don’t particularly care?”

“Not particularly. Not now that we know the sort of kid the victim was.”

Guttmann shakes his head. “I can’t buy that.”

“I know you can’t But I’ve got other things to do besides chase around after shadows. I’ve got the whole neighborhood to look after.”

“Tell me something, Lieutenant. If this Green were a nice kid, say a kid who grew up on the Main, wouldn’t you try harder?”

“Probably. But a case like this is hard to sort out. When you’re tracking a kid like this Green, you meet nothing but dirty types. Almost everyone you meet is guilty. The question is, what are they guilty of?”

“Guilty until proven innocent?”

“Lawyers being what they are, probably guilty even then.”

“I hope I never think like that”

“Stay on the street for a few years. You will. By the way, you didn’t do too badly back in Canducci’s bar. We walked in without a warrant, slapped people around, and you handled yourself like a cop. What happened to all this business about civil rights and going by the book?”

Guttmann lifts his hands and lets them drop back onto the table. You can’t discuss things with LaPointe. He always cuts both ways. But Guttmann realizes that he has a point. When he handled that tight moment when the boys were resisting the order to sit on their hands, he had felt… competent. There is a danger in being around LaPointe too long. Things get less clear; right and wrong start to blend in at the edges.

When he looks up, Guttmann sees a crinkling around LaPointe’s eyes. “What is it?”

“I was just thinking about your Mr. W–.”

“Honest to God, I’d give a lot if you’d get off that, sir.”

“No, I wasn’t going to rag you. It just occurred to me that if Mr. W–ever did kill somebody, all he’d have to do would be to wait until it got into the papers, then come to us with a confession involving Jewish plots and Cream of Wheat We’d toss him right out”

“That’s a comforting thought.”

“Oh. By the way, didn’t you say something the other night about playing pinochle?”

“Sir?”

“Didn’t you tell me you used to play pinochle with your grandfather?”

“Ah… yes, sir.”

“Want to play tonight?”

“Pinochle?”

“That’s what we’re talking about.”

“Wait a minute. I’m sorry, but this just came out of nowhere, sir. You’re asking me to play pinochle with you tonight?”

“With me and a couple of friends. The man who usually plays with us is sick. And cutthroat isn’t much fun.”

Guttmann senses that this offer is a gesture of acceptance. He can’t remember anyone in the department having bragged about spending off time with the Lieutenant. And he is free tonight. The girl in his building takes classes on Monday nights and doesn’t get back until eleven.

“Yes, sir. I’d like to play. But it’s been a while, you know.”

“Don’t worry about it. Nothing but three old farts. But just in case you’re a little rusty, I’ll arrange for you to be partners with a very gentle and understanding man. A man named David Mogolevski.”

11

The evening of pinochle has gone well—for David.

As usual he dominated play, and as usual he overbid his hand, but the luck of the cards allowed Guttmann to bail him out more times than not, and as partners they won devastatingly.

After a particularly good—and lucky—hand, David asked the young man, “Tell me, have you ever thought of becoming a priest?”

Guttmann admitted that the idea seldom crossed his mind.

“That’s good. It would ruin your game.”

On one occasion, when not even luck was enough to save David from his wild overbidding, he treated Guttmann to one of his grousing tirades about how difficult it was, even for a pinochle maven like himself, to schlep a partner who couldn’t pull his own weight. Unlike Father Martin, Guttmann did not permit himself to be martyred to David’s peculiar and personal view of sportsmanship. He countered with broad sarcasm, mentioning that the Lieutenant had rightly described David as a gentle and understanding partner.

But David’s thick skin is impervious to such attacks. He thrust out his lower lip and nodded absently, accepting that as an accurate enough description of his character.