Monday Mourning

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.

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.

“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.