"Chien chawd,frites, et Coke Diète, s'il vows plait," I told the man at the cash register. Why did the literal translation of hot dog in French still sound strange to me?

"Steamd ow grille?"

I chose steamed, and in seconds a cardboard container was slapped in front of me. Grease from the fries already stained the left side.

I paid and carried my food to a table with an excellent view of the parking lot.

As I ate my eyes roved over the other patrons. To my left were four young women in nurse s white, students from the technical school across the street. Tags identified them as Manon, Lise, Brigitte, and Marie-José.

Two painters ate in silence beyond the students. They wore coveralls, and their arms, hair, and faces were speckled like the walls of Gilbert's spatter lab. The men worked on platters of fries topped with curd cheese and brown gravy. In a city renowned for its fine cuisine, I have never understood the appeal of poutine.

Across from the painters sat a young man trying his best to grow a goatee. His glasses were round and he was overweight.

I finished my fries and checked my cell. The phone was on, the signal strong, but there were no messages. Damnl Why wasn't anyone returning my call?

I needed release. Physical release.

I spent two hours running, lifting, rolling around on a large rubber ball, and taking a high-impact aerobics class. By the time I finished I could hardly drag myself to the showers. But the exercise was an effective antivenin. My anger had dissipated along with the toxins from the hot dog and fries.

When I returned to the lab two messages lay on my desk. Charbonneau had called. Morin wanted to talk about LaManche. That didn't sound good. Why hadn't Madame LaManche phoned?

I hurried down the hall, but Morin's door was already closed, indicating he'd left for the day. I went back to my office and dialed Charbonneau.

"There maybe more to this Crease than I thought."

"Such as?"

"Seems he and the Angels go back a ways. Crease is Canadian, but he did his undergraduate studies at South Carolina. Go Cocks."

"You're really hung up on that."

"Hey, beats the Redmen."

"I'll pass on your opinion to the McGill board."

"Politically it's more correct. I waited.

"Newsboy completed a B.A. in journalism in '83 and decided to go on for a master's degree, using outlaw bikers as his thesis topic. By the way, he was calling himseif Robert then."

"Why would anyone choose Lyle over Robert?"

"It's his middle name.

"Anyway, Robby got a hog and a nod from the brothers, and roared off with the pack."

"Did he finish the degree?"

"He completely dropped from sight. He attended classes for a month or two, then his professors never heard from him again."

"There's no record of where he was? Driver's license? Tax return? Credit card application? Blockbuster membership?"

"Nada. Then Crease resurfaced in Saskatchewan in '89, working the crime beat for a local paper and doing some on-air stories for the evening news. Eventually he was offered the job at CTV and relocated to Quebec."

"So Crease was interested in bikers as a student. That was the Ice Age, remember?"

"Apparently Crease left Saskatchewan in a bit of a hurry."

"Oh?"

"Ever hear of Operation CACUS?"

"Wasn't that an FBI sting using informants inside the Hells Angels?"

"Informant. Tony Tait joined the Alaska chapter in the early eighties then rose through the ranks to national prominence. He wore a wire for the bureau the whole time.

"Angels Forever, Forever Angels."

"I guess Tony preferred cash."

"Where is he now?"

"In witness protection if he's smart.

"What does this have to do with Crease?"

"It seems the Mounties had their own investigation going in the eighties."

"Are you telling me Lyle Crease was an RCMP informant?"

"No one will talk and I've found nothing on paper, but I've always heard we had someone inside for a while. When I leaned on a couple of long-timers, they wouldn't confirm, but they didn't deny."

He paused.

'And?" I prodded.

"This is just for us, Brennan." "But I share everything with my hairstylist." He ignored that.

"I run my own sources on the street. Shit, I can't believe I'm telling you this."

I heard rattling as he switched the receiver to his other hand.

"Word is someone was definitely going to church with the Angels back then, and the guy was American. But it was a two-way street."

"The snitch was working both sides?" "That's the story my sources gave up. "Risky."

"As a cerebral hemorrhage." "Do you think the plant was Lyle Crease?"

"How else does a guy completely bury six years of his life?" I thought about that.

"But why would he reappear in such a public line of work?" "Maybe he figures visibility confers protection." For a moment no one spoke.

"Does Claudel know this?"

"I'm about to give him a call."

"Now what?"

"Now I dig deeper."

"You'll question Crease?"

"Not yet. We don't want to spook him. And Roy owns Claudel's ass until this funeral is over. But then I'll get him to help me take a run at the guy."

"Do you think Crease was involved in the Cherokee murder?" "There's no evidence of that, but he may know something."

"That cap didn't belong to Cherokee or Dorsey." "How do you know that?"

"The inside is covered with dandruff." "So?"

"Dorsey shaved his head and Cherokee was bald from chemo."

"Not bad, Brennan."

"Gately and Martineau were killed during the time Crease was underground."

"Tm e."

"And Savannah Osprey."

Silence hummed across the wire.

"What about asking Rinaldi?"

"Frog?"

"Yeah, Frog. He was willing to spill his guts about the Gately and Martineau graves. Why not ask him about Cherokee? He might know something."

"Claudel says they've questioned Frog until they're blue in the face. He was willing to trade the St-Basile-le-Grand bodies because they're old news. He doesn't think the brothers will take him out for that. On anything recent he turns into a potted palm.

"Look, I'll get Claudel to help me flush Crease once the circus is over tomorrow And, by the way, Brennan, keep your head low Bandidos patches have been spotted in town, and there are rumors the Angels may make a move. Don't-"

He hesitated.

"Yes?"

"Well, your nephew might want to check out the action."

My checks burned. Claudel had discussed Kit with his CUM buddies.

"My nephew won't be anywhere near that funeral."

"Good. A Bandidos presence could force a show of strength by the Angels. Might turn hairy."

We'd hardly hung up when I started worrying. How could I keep Kit away if he was intent on going?

What did Morin want to say about LaManche? Had my old friend died?

Could Ryan be in immediate danger? Had helping me compromised his cover? Had I put him in peril as I had George Dorsey?

I laid my head on the fuzzy green surface of my desk blotter and slowly closed my eyes.