Monday Mourning

“Couple of pharmaceutical pinstripes were pipelining pseudo-ephedrine under the counter. Stuff’s used in the production of methamphetamines. Product was warehoused in Quebec and Ontario, then trucked all over Canada and the lower forty-eight.”

Charbonneau hunched forward, rested elbows on thighs, and let his hands dangle.

“These bozos were supplying cookers from Halifax to Houston. Dragged forty-three to the bag on Friday, eleven more on Saturday. A lot of lawyers will be banking retainers.”

“Was Andrew Ryan involved in the sting?”

Charbonneau smiled and wagged his head.

“Even if he is SQ, that guy’s the stuff of legend.”

To say some rivalry exists between the SQ and the CUM would be like saying the Palestinians have some issues with the Israelis.

“Why is that?” I picked up a pen and began drawing squares inside squares.

“Saturday morning Ryan almost gets his lights blown out, right? That night I see him cool as an ice slick, squiring a number half his age.” Charbonneau leaned back and curved a figure eight in the air with his hands. “Very little spandex, acres of skin. Ryan’s what, forty-five? Forty-seven? Chick’s barely out of braces.”

I subdivided a square. Disinterested.

“The señorita’s hanging in, so I guess the guy’s still got what it takes.”

Ryan and I had been discreet. Beyond discreet. Charbonneau had no way of knowing we’d been lovers.

“Hanging in?” Casual.

Charbonneau shrugged. “I’ve seen them together before.”

“Really.”

“Let’s see, when was that?” Charbonneau sailed on, unaware of the reaction his words were having. “August? Yeah. August. It was hotter than a friggin’ banana boat.”

A meaty finger pointed in my direction.

“I came by here to ask about a case. You were down South. I had to testify, and the preliminary took place in early August. I spotted Ryan and the prom queen as I was leaving the courthouse. Yep. It was the first week of August.”

The first week of August. Ryan in Charlotte. An urgent phone call. Trouble with his niece. An unscheduled return to Canada.

I tossed the pen and buckled down my face.

“Monsieur Charbonneau, I called Friday because I’ve found information relevant to the pizza basement skeletons.”

Charbonneau slumped back and thrust out both feet. “I’m listening.”

“I got a second opinion on the buttons found by Said Matoub.”

Charabonneau looked blank.

“The owner of the pizza parlor.”

“The guy who found the skeletons.”

“Actually that was the plumber, but close enough. Matoub admitted to having pocketed three silver buttons while collecting the bones.”

“Right.”

“Your partner took the buttons to the McCord for evaluation.”

“Lady there said they were old.”

“Antoinette Legault. She was only partially correct.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“According to Monique Mousseau at Pointe-à-Callière, only two of the buttons are nineteenth century in age. The third is a forgery.”

“Meaning what?”

“She didn’t know.”

“How old is the fake?”

“She couldn’t assign an age, but doubted it was of much antiquity.”

“OK. So maybe the buttons don’t go with the bones. That ain’t exactly a smoking gun.”

“Have you heard of a man named Nicolò Cataneo?”

“Nick the Knife? Who hasn’t?”

“The building housing Matoub’s pizzeria currently belongs to Richard Cyr. Cyr purchased the property from Nicolò Cataneo.”

“Yeah? When?”

“In 1980.”

Charbonneau retracted his feet and sat up.

“How long did Cataneo own the place?”

“Ten years.”

Charbonneau frowned.

“Does that mean something, Detective?”

“Might.”

“I know Cataneo was connected.”

Charbonneau began picking at the cuticle on his right thumb.

“What is it you’re not telling me?”

Charbonneau looked undecided a moment, then slumped back.

“Things exploded here in the late seventies. The Calabrian and Sicilian factions went at each other big-time. Power struggle ended with the assassination of a boss named Paolo Violi.”

“And?”

“A new boss took over.”

Down the hall I heard one phone ring, then another, and another. LaManche was gathering his troops for the morning meeting.

“And?”

“New boss broke with the Bonannos in New York and established ties between the Montreal family and the Caruana/Cuntrera family.”

“Your point?” I made a show of checking my watch.

“It was a wild ride.” Charbonneau shrugged. “Bunch of guys got killed.”

“And maybe some girls?”

Charbonneau shrugged again. “You didn’t say anything about trauma to those bones.”

“I didn’t find any. You’ll speak to your partner?”

Charbonneau tugged an earlobe, rolled his eyes sideways, then back to me. He hesitated a moment, then seemed to arrive at some private decision.

“Luc’s spoken to Cyr.”

“I know.”

“Guess he didn’t tell you.”

“No.”

“We probably should have.”

“That would have been nice.”

“The old geezer never mentioned Cataneo.”

“Perhaps that has to do with your partner’s social skills.”

“You learn anything else?”

I told him about Cyr’s list of tenants, and about the phone calls I’d made.

“So who do you like? The drag queen or the guy in the side curls and hat?”

“Chabad-Lubavitch men don’t wear the payot or the streimel.”

“Just having some fun with you, Doc. You think either could be a player?”