Monday Mourning

“Find any treasures?” I asked when the waitress had gone.

Even in a state of apathy, Anne is a commando shopper. She showed me her purchases.

Tangerine wool sweater. Hand-painted Provençal bowl. Six pewter frogs on red satin ribbons.

“Odd choice for the unfettered life,” I said, gesturing at the ornaments.

“I can use them as gifts,” Anne said, rewrapping the tissue.

The waitress delivered drinks. I sipped my Coke, unwound my napkin, positioned my utensils. Adjusted the fork. Aligned the spoon and knife.

More Coke.

Then I flattened the edges of my place mat with both palms. Straightened the fringe. Picked up the phone. Laid it back down.

Anne raised one analytical brow.

“Expecting a call?”

“I left messages for Claudel and his partner.”

“Are you going to tell me what you discovered?”

I pulled the photocopies and printouts from my purse and stacked them on the side of my mat.

“I’ll spare you a Michener saga on the land. The building went up in 1901 and was owned by a man named Yves Sauriol. At that time it was all residential. Sauriol’s son, Jacques, inherited in twenty-eight, then his son, Yves, got the place in thirty-nine.

“In 1947, Yves Sauriol, Jr., sold the property to Éric-Emmanuel Gratton. That’s when the first floor went commercial. A small printing company occupied the space until 1970.

“Éric-Emmanuel Gratton died in 1958, and his wife, Marie, inherited.

“Is this going to have a punch line?”

“To Nicolò Cataneo.”

Anne’s expression indicated the name meant nothing.

“Nick ‘the Knife’ Cataneo.”

The green eyes went wide. “Mafia?”

I nodded.

“The Knife?”

I nodded again.

“That explains the manic moves with your flatware.”

“I don’t know much about the mob, but Nicolò Cataneo is a name I’ve heard over the years.

“The Mafia operates here?”

“Since the turn of the century.”

“I thought you had bikers.”

“We do. And right now they’re the biggest game in town. But the biker boys are just one element in the wonderful world of organized crime in Montreal. The Mafia, the West End Gang, and the Hells Angels make up what’s known as the ‘Consortium.’”

“Like New York’s ‘Commission’?”

“Exactly.