Bones to Ashes

“She. Isabelle Francoeur. According to Francoeur, Bastarache is about to be short-listed for the Order of Canada.”

“Did he walk?”

“Francoeur’s working on it. QC cops say they can hold him for twenty-four. Then it’s charge him or kick him.”

“What happens now?”

“Hippo paws through Bastarache’s shorts while I engage him in verbal discourse.”

“You’re going to Quebec City?”

“Hippo’s pulling the car around now.”

“I want to go with you.”

Ryan looked at me for a very long time, undoubtedly sensing my hidden agenda.

“If your friends are mentioned it’s because I bring them up.”

I started to protest, thought better of it. “It’s your bust.”

“What are their names?”

“Évangéline and Obéline.”

“You are strictly an observer.”

“I’ll observe my ass off.”

Ten minutes later we were motoring northeast on Highway 40, paralleling the shore of the St. Lawrence River. Hippo was at the wheel. Ryan was riding shotgun. I was in back, lurching and bouncing and trying not to barf.

On the way, Ryan explained the plan. I could barely hear him over the sputtering static from the radio. At my request, Hippo turned it off.

The strategy. Ryan and I would go to la prison d’Orsainville, where Bastarache was being held. Hippo would continue on into the city to oversee the tossing of Bastarache’s bar.

The drive from Montreal normally takes three hours. Hippo made it in a little over two. Throughout, I checked my phone. No Harry. I told myself she was always going AWOL. Nevertheless, my apprehension was growing. Why didn’t she phone?

Ryan called ahead as we approached the city’s outskirts. Hippo dropped us at the prison then gunned off. By the time we cleared security, Bastarache was already in an interrogation room. A guard stood by the door, looking like his feet hurt.

Perhaps I’d seen too many Sopranos episodes. I was expecting mode de mobster. Oiled hair. Gold chains. Steroid-swollen muscles. I got a beluga in polyester with small piggy eyes.

The room held the usual four chairs and a table. Ryan and I took seats on one side. Bastarache filled the other. I was surprised not to see Francoeur.

Ryan introduced himself, explained that he was SQ and that he’d come from Montreal.

The piggy eyes slid my way.

“Would you prefer to wait for your attorney?” Ryan asked, refusing to assuage Bastarache’s curiosity. Good. Let him wonder about me.

“Frippe-moi l’chu.” Roughly translated from chiac, “kiss my ass.” “I own lounges. I run ’em clean. When will you assholes figure that out?”

“You own strip bars.”

“Last I checked, exotic dancing’s still legal in this country. Every one of my girls is over eighteen.” Bastarache spoke with a cadence similar to Hippo’s.

“You sure of that?”

“I check ID’s.”

“One or two manage to slip under your radar?”

Bastarache crimped his lips tightly and breathed through his nose. It made a wheezing sound.

“Way under. Sweet sixteen. I wonder. She have the braces off yet?”

A flush crept north from Bastarache’s collar. “The kid lied.”

Ryan clucked and gave a short wag of his head. “Kids today.”

“She wasn’t complaining.”

“You like the young stuff, Dave?”

“The kid swore she was twenty-three.”

“Age-appropriate for a guy like you.”

“Look, there’s two kinds of women in this world. Those you slip it to and those you take home to Sunday dinner. This chick wasn’t going to Grand-mère’s for pot roast, know what I’m saying?”

“You nailed the third type.”

Bastarache tipped his head.

“Jail bait.”

The flush spread upward to Bastarache’s face. “Same old recycled bullshit. She said she was legal. What you want me to do, check her teeth?”

“How about hooking? That legal?”

“A girl leaves the bar, we got no control over her personal life.”

Ryan responded with silence, knowing most interviewees feel compelled to fill it. Bastarache wasn’t one of them.

“We’ve got some girls missing down our way,” Ryan continued. “Some dead ones. You know anything about that?”

“Got no ties to Montreal.”

Ryan used another interrogation trick I’d seen him employ. Sudden switch of topic.

“You like movies, Dave?”

“What?”

“Lights! Camera! Action!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Let me guess. You decided to branch out. Go Hollywood.”

Bastarache’s hands were resting on the table, fingers interlaced like short, fat sausages. At Ryan’s question, the sausages tightened.

“Bare tit on a pole. That’s pretty low-rent action.”

Bastarache glowered mutely.

“Motion pictures. That’s the big time.”

“You’re goddamn crazy.”

“Let’s just say, for argument’s sake, you got a kid eager to earn a few bucks. You propose a little poontang on camera. She goes along.”

“What?”

“Am I going too fast for you, Dave?”

“What are we talking about here?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Porn flicks?”

“Of a very special genre.”

“You lost me, pal.”

Ryan’s voice turned glacial. “I’m talking kiddie porn, Dave. Children.”

Bastarache disengaged his hands and slapped them down on the table. “I. Don’t. Mess. With. Kids.”

The guard poked his head into the room. “We good here?”

“Jim dandy,” Ryan said.