Friday night I stood in Thornton Park, across from Pacific Central Station. I was reading a placard dedicated to the memory of the women murdered during the 1989 shooting at L’Ecole Polytechnique. Strange to be in a city known for its missing and murdered women, and see reminders of an atrocity in Montreal. But you go numb assigning priority to the dead.
The work van turned off Terminal onto Main. It parked in front of the station. I walked over to it and pushed my credit card into the meter, buying us four very expensive hours.
Kay opened the driver’s side door and dropped to the pavement. She’d gone all out. Black lipstick, peroxide streaks in her hair, sequined dress and exposed bra straps. Heavy eye makeup and press-on nails. The getup was garish, almost comical. I watched her teeter on the stems of her stiletto heels.
Larry Tranh emerged from the back. He was wearing yesterday’s clothes, but under a new leather jacket with an oversized collar. He’d gelled his hair into something like a pompadour.
I told them the route and went over the instructions again. Down Main to Hastings, then to Cordova, then to the Waterfront. I had them memorize the names of the bars. The Waverley, the Cobalt, Grand Union, the Irish Heather, moving down to Steamworks and then to Docherty’s. One drink each, pay up front, and have it at the bar. When you speak to each other, speak loud but not too loud, and make sure people can hear.
At Docherty’s you stay at the bar and wait.
I told them not to look around for me. Text if anything goes wrong. And don’t feel you have to finish every drink.
“Get sangria,” I told Kay, “or something else low-alcohol.”
“I can hold my liquor.”
“I know you can, Hemingway. But not while you’re working.”
When they were out of sight, I locked up the van and took the Skytrain down to Waterfront.
Larry had been under wraps the entire day. He’d phoned in sick to work that morning, pissing off his brother. That alone probably sold him on the plan. The rest would be less enjoyable.
Docherty’s was a dark, sparsely furnished bar with grimy tables and little in the way of décor. A video projector shone grainy, desaturated footage onto a wall beside the DJ booth and dance floor. The bar was owned and tended by a middle-aged couple, Rick and Steve, who rented it out to whoever would hustle to draw a crowd. Including Miles Irigary.
I’d explained to them what I wanted and why. I dropped the dead man’s name. When I did, Rick paused from scraping frost off the inside of the ice machine to remark that, while Miles was a prick and a chiseler, he was their prick and chiseler, and they’d be happy to do something to honor the bastard. They acquiesced to all my camera placements, except the washroom.
“The alley, too,” I said. “At the Crossroads Inn, that’s where he dragged Miles.”
“How many of these cameras will you have?”
“As many as it takes.”
Rick thwacked his partner’s arm. “Get a load of Stanley Kubrick over here.”
Without looking up Steve said, “Ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.”
“That’s Billy Wilder, you fucking philistine.”
“Pretty sure it was Gloria Swanson.”
Rick rolled his eyes. Turning to me he said, “How bad do you think it’ll be?”
“I’d count on blood.”