Anger is a bad weapon, but a great tool.

LaPointe looks at Resnais with the expression of bored patience he assumes when questioning suspects. When the Commissioner has calmed down, he says, “If Scheer didn’t lodge a complaint, how do you know about this?”

“That’s not your affair.”

“Some of his friends got to you, right? Ward bosses?”

It is Resnais’ habit to play it straight with his men. “All right. That’s correct. A man in municipal politics brought it to my attention. He knows how I’ve worked to maintain good press for the force. And he didn’t want to make this public if he didn’t have to.”

“Bullshit.”

“I don’t need insubordination from you.”

“Tell me something. Why do you imagine your friend interfered on this pimp’s behalf?”

“The man is not my friend. I know him only at the athletic club. But he’s a politically potent man who can help the force… or hurt it.” Resnais smiles bitterly. “I suppose that sounds like ass-kissing to you.”

LaPointe shrugs.

Resnais stares at him for a long moment. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“Put it together. Scheer is not the run-of-the-mill pimp. He specializes in very young girls. Either your… friend… is a client, or he’s open to blackmail. Why else would he help a turd like Scheer?”

Resnais considers this for a moment. Then he makes some notes on his pad. Above all, he is a good cop. “You might be right. I’ll have that looked into. But nothing alters the fact that you have exposed the department to bad public opinion with your gangster methods. Have you ever thought of them that way? As gangster methods?”

LaPointe has not. But he doesn’t care about that. “So you intend to tell your political friend that you gave me a sound ass-chewing and everything will be fine from now on?”

“I will tell him that I privately reprimanded you.”

“And he’ll pass the word on to Scheer?”

“I suppose so.”

“And Scheer will come back out onto the street, sassy-assed and ready to start business again.” LaPointe shakes his head slowly. “No, that’s not the way it’s going to happen, Commissioner. Not on my patch.”

“Your patch! LaPointe of the Main! I’m sick up to here of hearing about it. You may think of yourself as the cop of the street, but you’re not the whole force, LaPointe. And that run-down warren of slums is not Montreal!”

LaPointe stares at Resnais. Run-down warren!

For a second, Resnais has the feeling that LaPointe is going to hit him. He knows he went too far, talking about the Main like that. But he has no intention of backing down. “You were telling me that this Scheer wouldn’t be allowed to start up business again. What do you think you’re going to do, Claude?” It’s “Claude” now. Resnais is shifting his forensic line.

LaPointe rises and goes to Resnais’ window. He never noticed that the Commissioner looks out on the Hôtel de Ville too, on the scaffolding and sandblasting. It doesn’t seem right that they should share the same view. “Well, Commissioner. You can go ahead and tell your friend that you gave me a ‘private reprimand.’ But you’d better also tell him that if his pimp sets foot on my patch, I’ll hurt him.”

“I am giving you a direct order to stop your harassment of this citizen.”

There is a long silence, during which LaPointe continues to look out the window as though he has not heard.

Resnais pushes his pencils back and forth with his forefinger. Finally, he speaks with a quiet, flat tone. “Well. This is the attitude I expected from you. You don’t leave me any alternative. Discharging you will make a real gibelotte for me. I won’t bullshit you by pretending it’s going to be easy. The men will put up a hell of a stink. I won’t come out of it smelling like a rose, and the force won’t come out of it without bruises. So I’m going to rely on your loyalty to the force to make it easier. Because, you see, Claude, I’ve come to a decision. One way or another, you’re out.”

LaPointe leans slightly forward as though to see something down in the street that interests him more than the Commissioner’s talk.

“Look at it this way, Claude. You came on the force when you were twenty-one. You’ve got thirty-two years of service. You can retire on full pay. Now, I’m not asking you to retire right now, this morning. I’d be content if you’d send in a letter of resignation effective, say, in six months. That way no one would relate your leaving to any trouble between us. You would save face, and I wouldn’t have the mess of petitions and letters to the papers from the kids. Make up an excuse. Say it’s for reasons of health—whatever you want. For my part, I’ll see to it you’re promoted to captain just before you go. That’ll mean you retire on captain’s pay.”

Resnais swivels in his posture chair to face LaPointe, who is still looking out the window, unmoving. “One way or another, Claude, you’re going. If I have to, I’ll retire you under the ‘good of the department’ clause. I warned you to sort yourself out, but you wouldn’t listen. You just don’t seem to be able to change with the changing times.” Resnais turns back to his desk. “I’m not denying that it would go easier on me if you would turn in your resignation voluntarily, but I don’t expect you to do it for me. There’s never been any love lost between us. You’ve always resented my drive and success. But there’s no point going into that now. I’m asking you to resign quietly for the good of the department, and I honestly believe that you care about the force, in your own way.” There is just the right balance between regret and firmness in his voice. Resnais evaluates the effect of the sound as he speaks, and he is pleased with it.

LaPointe takes a deep breath, like a man coming out of a daydream. “Is that all, Commissioner?”

“Yes. I expect your resignation on my desk within the week.”

LaPointe sniffs and smiles to himself. He would lose nothing by turning in a resignation effective in six months. He doesn’t have six months left.

By the time LaPointe has his hand on the doorknob, Resnais is already looking over his appointment calendar. He is a little behind.

The man who enslaves his minutes liberates his hours.

“Phillipe?” LaPointe says quietly.

Resnais looks up in surprise. This is the first time in the thirty years they have been on the force together that LaPointe has called him by his first name.

LaPointe’s right fist is in the air. Slowly, he extends the middle finger.

When he gets back to his office, LaPointe finds Detective Sergeant Gaspard sitting on the edge of his desk, a half-empty paper cup of coffee in his hand.

“What’s going on?” LaPointe asks, dropping into his swivel chair and turning it so he can look out the window.

“Nothing much. I was just trying to pump the kid here; see if he is learning the gamique under you.”

“And?”

“Well, he’s at least learned enough to keep his mouth shut. When I asked him how you were coming on the Green case, he said you’d tell me what you wanted me to know.”

“Good boy,” LaPointe says.

Guttmann doesn’t look up from his typing for fear of losing his place, but he nods in agreement with the compliment.

“Well?” Gaspard asks. “I don’t want to seem nosy, but it is technically my case, and I haven’t had a word from you for a couple of days. And I want to be ready, if this case is what Resnais le Grand wanted to see you about.”

Already the rumor has been around the department that Resnais was in a furious mood when he called in LaPointe.

“No, it wasn’t about that,” LaPointe says.

Gaspard’s raised eyebrows indicate that he is more than willing to hear what it was all about, but instead LaPointe turns back from the window and gives him a quick rundown of progress so far.

“So you figure the kid was being laundered, eh?”