Monday Mourning читать онлайн

A man peered out through the aluminum and glass storm door.

The man did not look happy, but his expression was not what alarmed us.

Anne and I started easing back off the porch.

14

THE MAN WATCHING US WAS SHORT AND WIRY, WITH YELLOWED white hair and an elaborate gray mustache. He wore grease-smeared glasses and gold chains around his neck.

Nothing else. Just glasses and chains.

The man’s scowl turned to self-satisfaction at the sight of Anne and me backpedaling unsteadily across his porch. Then the expression went fierce again.

“Je suis Catholique!”

My boots slithered and angled on the uneven ice.

Cyr grabbed his penis and waggled it at us.

Beside me, Anne grabbed the railing and made a one-eighty toward the steps.

“Catholique!” the man shouted.

Catholic?

I stopped. I’d seen Harry use the same ploy. Dressed.

“We’re not missionaries, Monsieur Cyr.”

The scowl wavered, then reaffixed itself.

“And I’m not Pee-wee Herman.” The name sounded strange in joual French.

I reached into my purse.

Cyr made a feint at the door.

“Get lost!”

I pulled out one of my cards.

“And don’t leave none of your damn pamphlets, tabernouche!!”

“We’re not with any church.”

Realizing what was happening, Anne used the handrail to turn herself back toward the house.

Cyr repeated his penile threat, this time in Anne’s direction.

“Oh, horror,” Anne said, sotto voce. “Assault with a dead weapon.”

The grimy lenses froze on my companion. A smile did a slow crawl across the wrinkled lips.

Cyr waggled again.

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"Anne replied with the old standard. “What do you think, Tempe? Looks like a penis, only smaller.”

Cyr waggled.

Anne opened her mouth to counter.

I truncated the exchange. “Monsieur Cyr, I’m part of an investigation concerning property you own and I need to ask some questions about your building.”

Cyr reoriented to me, fingers of one hand still wrapping his merchandise.

“You girls ain’t storm trooping to save my damn soul?”

“Sir, we’re here to discuss the property you own.”

“You with the city?”

I hesitated.

“Yes.” After all, I was with the province, and Cyr hadn’t asked to see identification.

“Some pissant tenant lodge a complaint?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“She with the city?” Cyr tipped his head at Anne.

“She’s with me.”

“She’s a looker, that one.”

“Yes. Sir, we really need to ask you some questions.”

Cyr opened the storm door. Anne and I picked our way forward and stepped inside. When Cyr closed the inner door, the small foyer dimmed.