The retired captain of the Night Patrol never referred to himself as a war hero, as his engagement in World War Two was limited to being wounded at Dieppe, then captured and force-marched through Europe to a POW camp in Poland. As war’s end approached, Armand Touton was force-marched back to Germany before rescue by an American brigade. Not a hero, then, in the sense that he had saved no one and put no dent in an enemy’s defenses. Yet his life in the military was decidedly heroic to many, an epic tale of fortitude and endurance.
No man is fearless, yet fear never governed his actions in a crisis, neither in combat nor in his years as a tough, street-smart cop. He was recklessly brave. The tabloids loved to splash his image across their front pages, once with a shotgun cracked open across a forearm, his coat bloodied from hand-to-hand combat that followed a gunfight. Usually, he wasn’t covered in his own blood, except for telling scrapes across his knuckles. Many exceptionally violent men had endeavored to intimidate him. Those who lived, lived to regret it; presumably, those who died also regretted it. In his city and province, no officer of the law was held in such high esteem by the general population. Amidst the proud Québécois people, he was a folk hero, and wore his fame and executed his responsibilities with humility, valor and grace. Not always by the book. He exhibited a working-class, man-of-the-people, nails-tough elegance.
Now, in retirement, he rowed a boat.
Touton tilted the trolling motor out of the water; on a lovely sunny day, opting for the oars. He conned the shoreline toward the far end of the lake’s tongue where the cabin-people lived. He never understood how anyone who lived on a lake did not fish. Many did, of course, but those who did not were happy to accept his excess of perch, frying them up for dinner. Today, he had plenty to go around. Despite his customary grumpy demeanor, the aging captain enjoyed the occasional interruption to his solitude. To their delight, he teased the children. He supposed that he was a peculiar fellow to them, a strange lonesome old guy from down the lake where nobody else lived.
In late afternoon, he motored back down the lake again, this time trading quiet for a bit of speed.
Home in his trailer, he checked his supplies. Bereft of worms. Short on coffee and fruit. Especially bananas. He thought about it, considered a nap first, then chose to head into the local village while he had the energy. A trip now left time for a nap before dinner, induced in part by the cocktail hour.
In town he turned into the dusty parking lot for the General Store, braked, slammed shut the driver’s door of his Ford wagon and mounted the stairs. An old-timer who often lingered on the porch sat there. He lived two miles away and walked in supported by a cane. Together they shared a few pleasantries, talk of the weather and the fishing. Both critical aspects in life were fine, for a change. Inside, although no messages awaited him, he was informed by the bright yet laconic lad that ‘Stuff came for you.’
‘Stuff?’
‘Like mail. Only it’s not mail.’
He was led into the rear supply room. Three large canvas sacks were piled up, each with his name on a tag. They’d not been delivered by the Post Office, nor by any other agency.
‘Some guy in a Pinto.’
The sacks had bulk and rattled when lifted. Not light, but not that heavy, either. He shook a sack violently to make sure it wouldn’t explode. It didn’t. Good thing. He untied the knot in the drawstring and peered inside. Quickly, he opened the other two bags. The contents the same in each.
The sacks contained a variety and multitude of used electric toasters.
‘Help yourself,’ he invited the lad who worked there. ‘What you don’t take home you can sell. It’s stolen property, but who cares? I’m not a cop anymore. Knock yourself out.’
That said, he had a few things to think about. A message had been delivered and, retired or not, he had to figure out what it meant and how in the world this had come to pass.