Monday Mourning

“May I ask what was on the ground floor at the time of your purchase?”

Cyr answered without hesitation.

“Bakery. Le Boulangerie Lugano. Cleared out before I took possession.”

“What replaced the bakery?”

“I subdivided. Put four businesses in the same space. More cost-effective.”

“One of those businesses is a pizza parlor?”

“Le Pizza Paradis Express.”

“How long has that been there?”

“Since 2001.” Cyr puffed air out through his lips. “Better it should be called ‘rat hairs and cockroaches by the slice.’ Damn ethnics wouldn’t know hygiene if it punched ’em in the face.” Like a former prime minister, Cyr pronounced the word et-nicks. “But I got no gripe with Matoub. Pays his rent right on time.”

“Said Matoub is the current tenant?” I’d learned that from Claudel on the day of the recovery.

Cyr twisted a finger in his ear and inspected it absently.

“Do you remember any tenants previous to Mr. Matoub?” I went on.

“Course I remember the previous tenants. Remember every damn one of ’em. I look like I’m short-listed for assisted living?”

Expectations often grow from stereotypes, and, though loath to admit it, I’m as guilty as the next. Because Cyr was old, I’d assumed his memory would be less than spot-on. I was quickly revising that view. Though eccentric, ole Hopalong was nobody’s fool.

“No, sir—”

“Had more tenants than Blondie’s got hairs on that pretty head.”

Cyr gave Anne an eyebrow flash.

Anne tipped her pretty head and Groucho-ed back.

“Before the pizza parlor, place was a nail salon,” Cyr said to me. “Vietnamese named Truong had a half dozen little ladies painting nails in there. Didn’t make a go, I guess. Only lasted a year or two.”

“And before that?”

“Liked the nail ladies. Looked like little china dolls. Covered their teeth when they laughed.”

“Before the nail salon?”

“Before the nail salon place was a pawnshop. Guy named Ménard.” Cyr pointed one gnarled finger. “Stéphane. Sébastien. Sylvain. Something like that. Bought and sold junk. Must have been pretty good at it, ’cause he hung in nine years. Eighty-nine to ninety-eight.”

I did some quick math. “Did the place sit empty awhile between the pawnshop and the nail salon?”

“Couple of months.”

“And before the pawnshop?”

“Let’s see. Eighty to eighty-nine there was a luggage store, a butcher shop, and some kind of travel agency. I’d have to go to my records for names and dates.”

“Please do that, sir.”

Cyr’s eyes narrowed behind their greasy lenses. “Would you mind my asking why you’re asking all this, young lady?”

I was expecting the question, was surprised Cyr hadn’t posed it sooner. What to tell him? What to hold back?

“Something has been found in the basement of your building which is being investigated.”

If I wanted a reaction, I didn’t get one, nor did he ask who was investigating.

“May I ask about access to the pizza parlor basement?” I went on.

“Used to have a stairway leading up to a street-level door. Lost that entrance with the renovation.”

“Is access possible from elsewhere in the building?”

Cyr shook his head. “Basement hasn’t been used in years. The only way down is through a trapdoor in the crapper.” He turned to Anne. “Pardon my rowdy tongue.”

“A perfectly acceptable historic reference.”

“Eh?”

“Thomas Crapper.”

Blank stares from Cyr and me.

“Inventor of the silent, valveless water-waste preventer.”

Blank.

“Someone else got the patent, but Crapper invented the toilet.”

Where did she come up with this stuff?

Cyr gave a laugh that sounded like one of Crapper’s brainchildren. “Sacrifice. You are a pip. That husband of yours loses playground privileges, you give old Richard Cyr a call.”

“You’re as good as on my speed dial.”

Cyr pushed to his feet using both hands.

“May take me a few minutes to dig through my files. Want some scotch that’ll curl your toenails?”

Again, Anne and I declined.

A half hour later Cyr shuffled back clutching a sheet from a spiral tablet.

Anne and I stood.

“How ’bout you ladies stay for dinner? We could order out, maybe knock back some enchiladas and margaritas?”

“That’s very kind,” I said. “But I’m working right now, not socializing.”

“You know where to find me.”

I zipped into my jacket and Cyr led us to the foyer.

At the door, I handed him my card.

“Please phone if you think of anything.”

Cyr held out his paper. “As I recall, these folks was about as sinister as mushroom soup.”

“Merci, Monsieur Cyr.”

“Someone got killed, I had nothing to do with it.” Low and without a trace of humor.

“What makes you think someone was killed?” Since Cyr hadn’t mentioned Le Journal, I assumed he hadn’t seen the article.

“That detective told me what was down in that cellar.”

So Claudel had interviewed Cyr. Damn him. Again, he’d left me out of the loop.

“Is that a fact?”

“Pompous little shitass.”

“Detective Claudel?”

“Little prick acted like I wasn’t quite bright. I didn’t tell him shit.”

“Tell me, Mr. Cyr. How do you think three people ended up buried in your basement?”

“Something bad went down, it was before my time.”

“How can you be so certain?”