Monday Mourning

I jotted a note asking her to phone when she woke. I didn’t expect a call before noon.

Exiting the garage, I was almost blinded. The sky was immaculate, the sun brilliant off the weekend’s snow.

Once again the city’s armada of plows had prevailed. All roads were clear in Centre-ville. Farther east, most side streets were passable, though bordered by vehicles buried to their roofs. The cars looked like hippos frozen in rivers of milk.

Here and there I passed frustrated commuters, shovels pumping, breath mimicking the exhaust from their half-hidden vehicles.

The lesser streets surrounding the lab were impossible, so I parked in Wilfrid-Derome’s pay lot. Crossing to the building’s back entrance, I wove between snowbanks and circled a small sidewalk plow, its amber light pulsing in the crystalline air.

My footfalls sounded sharp and crunchy. In the distance, tow trucks jolted residents awake with their brain-piercing two-toned whrrps. Out of bed! Move your ass! Move your car!

The day’s first surprise ambled in as I was reaching to check my voice mail.

Michel Charbonneau is a large man whose size isn’t diminishing any with age. His bull neck, beefy face, and spiky hair give him the look of an electrified football tackle.

Unlike Claudel, who favors designer silks and wools, Charbonneau has taste that runs to polyesters and markdowns. Today he wore a burnt-orange shirt, black pants, and a tie that looked like a street fight at the south end of a color wheel. His jacket was an unfortunate brown and tan plaid.

Dropping into a chair, Charbonneau draped his overcoat across his lap. I noticed an abrasion on his left cheek.

Charbonneau noticed me noticing.

“You should see the other guy.”

He grinned.

I didn’t.

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you. Claudel and I were last-minute loan-overs to narco, and the bust came down on Friday. I suppose you read about it?”

“No. I haven’t gotten to the news.” Anne and I had dispensed with all forms of journalism over the weekend, opting for videos and oldies on the Movie Channel.

“Task force had been backgrounding the thing for months.”

I let him go on."

"“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.