‘No.’
Roman looked between Funicelli and Massenat. ‘You know, this guy ain’t human.’ He thought of his own hectic love-life: Marie, his main girlfriend, a thirty-two year old from the right side of Outremont whose husband had died in a car smash four years ago, he dated primarily to keep up appearances and please his mother. Marie was classy, well-bred and, most importantly for his mother, her family were deeply religious and hailed from the Corsican village only thirty miles from that of his mother’s family. Marie he took to all family engagements and high-profile functions. But for sex, excitement and wild nights, he had two club girls in tow, one of them, Viana, from their Rue Sherbrooke club partly due to him feeding her increasingly expensive cocaine habit. And then there was that beautiful Malaysian girl with a body like a fourteen-year old Russian gymnast at a Lavalle massage parlour he visited now and then.
‘Not of this world, not of this world.’ Roman took a scoop of pancakes and washed it down with a slurp of coffee. ‘He’s got tossed salad instead of testosterone. I don’t believe in all this perfect nineties-man shit. He’s gotta have a dark secret somewhere.’ The words were slightly muffled and slurred with his mouthful of food. He dabbed again with his napkin and pointed at Funicelli. ‘You’ll see, you’ll see. Mark my words. It’s just…’
His mobile started ringing in his inside pocket. He took it out, looking down at some invisible object just beyond his plate, as if Funicelli and Massenat had suddenly ceased to be present. ‘… a matter of time. Yeah?’
Roman recognized the voice at the other end straightaway, but he caught only brief bursts from the garbled, breathless sentences: ‘…in the van that night… they’re moving in now… you should warn him…’
‘Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Which van? Whose moving in?’
‘I don’t want to use names on a mobile line. All I can say is the guy in the front passenger seat that night. They picked him up from a security camera and ID’d him. They’re moving in on him any minute.’
Venegas! An icy claw gripped Roman’s stomach. ‘Any minute? How long has he got exactly?’
‘They’re checking for his current address right now. They could be on his doorstep in anything from fifteen to twenty minutes. Less, if they trust it to a local squad car.’
Roman doubted that they would, but he’d still have to step lively. ‘Okay. Thanks.’ He picked up his napkin and threw it over his half-finished plate in disgust. It was also a signal that he’d finished. He waved and called out to the waitress. ‘Hey, hey. L’addition. Let’s settle here.’
The waitress came over and flicked back through her pad. Roman’s face became a study in battling muscle contortions as she summarised what they had. ‘…And did your friend have anything?’ She looked at Funicelli.
‘No, he didn’t.’ Roman slapped down a $20 note and stood up in the same motion. ‘Keep the change.’ Which raised only a meek smile from the waitress, unsure whether the $5 tip compensated for the attitude.
Massenat looked at the third of a stick roll in his hand, then decided finally to take it with him. Funicelli too lagged a few paces behind as Roman hustled quickly towards his BMW parked down the street, a sleek, black series 7. The air outside was fresh, but for one of the first times that year it was above zero. The first hint that Spring might not be far away. At eight paces from the car, Roman pressed the remote key and the BMW briefly beeped and flashed its accord.
The rush and panic of Roman’s departure reminded Funicelli that there was one thing he’d forgotten to mention. ‘About the tape. There’s one thing on it…’
Roman wheeled around on him impatiently. ‘What?’
‘…There’s one point where Donatiens mentions that night with Leduc.’
Roman looked agitated, his eyes darting uncomfortably; though Funicelli wasn’t sure how much of that was due to the call just past. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘I was about to… but then you had that call…’ Funicelli swallowed hard. Roman’s eyes burnt straight through him. He wished now he hadn’t mentioned anything, just let Roman hear it for himself. ‘But it was nothing… just a stupid dream from Donatiens and him mentioning how the incident still troubled him sometimes. But apart from that, nothing.’ Funicelli reached out to put a re-assuring hand on Roman’s shoulder, then decided against it. Roman’s powder-keg eyes warned that one touch might set him off. ‘There was nothing beyond what you already told me. Believe me. Nothing to worry about.’
Roman’s eyes continued to dart frantically and search his, and looked finally about to settle when another voice came from behind: ‘Got some change?’
Roman turned sharply. Confronting him was a tramp with wild hair and a Grizzly Adams beard; though it was difficult to tell if the beard was white streaked from frost and sun-bleaching, or from dried food and vomit. Roman sneered and leaned back from the tramp, catching the first mingled stench of cheap wine, stale body odour and vomit.
He felt suddenly as if his brains were frying, too many random signals hitting him at once. Maybe only minutes to save Venegas from the clutches of the police, Donatiens mentioning Leduc and Funicelli trying to tell him it was nothing, and now this bum in his face enveloping his best camel hair in street-stench and vomit breath. It was like some fucking conspiracy.
‘A dime or a dollar, it don’t matter. Whatever you can spare.’
Roman suddenly saw red, a fireburst burning through the back of his skull. ‘Get away from me, you fuckin’ bum.’ He swung out hard against the tramp’s left shoulder, a half-push, half rabbit punch.
The tramp flew back and hit the building wall behind solidly, his head flung back and connecting with a thud. He looked dazed, startled, and his knees started crumpling.
Roman moved in and cocked his right arm to hit him again. Massenat was quickly behind Roman, grappling one arm firmly around his chest.
‘Come on, Roman. Come on.’
An elderly couple who’d just come out of the Depanneur across the street were looking over curiously at the commotion.
Roman’s chest rose and fell heavily against Massenat’s restraining arm, his eyes still glaring at the tramp. ‘You fuckin’ asshole. Didn’t nobody tell you it’s still winter.’ In summer they were out in force along Rue St Catherine. They seemed to be hitting the streets earlier each year; perhaps this one had even staked out his car, smelling money. ‘Go back to your fucking cave for another month. It’s too fuckin’ early to be out begging, yer hear.’
Massenat clutched his arm firmer around him. ‘Come on. Come on.’
Roman finally, reluctantly shifted his eyes from the tramp and Massenat lifted his arm free. Massenat was right: the tramp wasn’t the problem, it was the situation now with Donatiens and Venegas. A sense of everything, at the click of a finger, fast closing in on him. Jesus. He probably wouldn’t even have time now to get to Venegas before the RCMP. He’d pull up in his Beamer only to find a police welcoming committee ready to pull him in as well.
Roman glanced towards his car, then at Funicelli. ‘What you driving these days?’
Funicelli shrugged. What was this? Not content with working out his frustrations on the tramp, now it was time for unsubtle put-downs? ‘Chevy Cavalier. Why?’
‘It’s okay, nothing.’ Roman shook his head. ‘Just a thought.’ He just couldn’t risk driving out to Venegas’s house now, regardless. His only hope was to phone Venegas to warn him.
He took his address book from his inside pocket and started looking through. His hands trembled as he turned the pages: aftermath of the run-in with the tramp, or the fact that within minutes his fate could be sealed? If they had Venegas on camera, they had enough to put Venegas away for life; the temptation to do a deal would be intense.