Part 44 (1/2)
”You own strip bars.”
”Last I checked, exotic dancing's still legal in this country. Every one of my girls is over eighteen.” Bastarache spoke with a cadence similar to Hippo's.
”You sure of that?”
”I check ID's.”
”One or two manage to slip under your radar?”
Bastarache crimped his lips tightly and breathed through his nose. It made a wheezing sound.
”Way under. Sweet sixteen. I wonder. She have the braces off yet?”
A flush crept north from Bastarache's collar. ”The kid lied.”
Ryan clucked and gave a short wag of his head. ”Kids today.”
”She wasn't complaining.”
”You like the young stuff, Dave?”
”The kid swore she was twenty-three.”
”Age-appropriate for a guy like you.”
”Look, there's two kinds of women in this world. Those you slip it to and those you take home to Sunday dinner. This chick wasn't going to Grand-mere's for pot roast, know what I'm saying?”
”You nailed the third type.”
Bastarache tipped his head.
”Jail bait.”
The flush spread upward to Bastarache's face. ”Same old recycled bulls.h.i.+t. She said she was legal. What you want me to do, check her teeth?”
”How about hooking? That legal?”
”A girl leaves the bar, we got no control over her personal life.”
Ryan responded with silence, knowing most interviewees feel compelled to fill it. Bastarache wasn't one of them.
”We've got some girls missing down our way,” Ryan continued. ”Some dead ones. You know anything about that?”
”Got no ties to Montreal.”
Ryan used another interrogation trick I'd seen him employ. Sudden switch of topic.
”You like movies, Dave?”
”What?”
”Lights! Camera! Action!”
”What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?”
”Let me guess. You decided to branch out. Go Hollywood.”
Bastarache's hands were resting on the table, fingers interlaced like short, fat sausages. At Ryan's question, the sausages tightened.
”Bare t.i.t on a pole. That's pretty low-rent action.”
Bastarache glowered mutely.
”Motion pictures. That's the big time.”
”You're G.o.dd.a.m.n crazy.”
”Let's just say, for argument's sake, you got a kid eager to earn a few bucks. You propose a little poontang on camera. She goes along.”
”What?”
”Am I going too fast for you, Dave?”
”What are we talking about here?”
”You know what I'm talking about.”
”p.o.r.n flicks?”
”Of a very special genre.”
”You lost me, pal.”
Ryan's voice turned glacial. ”I'm talking kiddie p.o.r.n, Dave. Children.”
Bastarache disengaged his hands and slapped them down on the table. ”I. Don't. Mess. With. Kids.”
The guard poked his head into the room. ”We good here?”
”Jim dandy,” Ryan said.
While Bastarache locked glares with Ryan, I observed him covertly. The rolls in his neck and stomach looked hard and his arms were corded with muscle. The guy wasn't the lardo I'd first taken him for.
Never breaking eye contact with Bastarache, Ryan reached into a pocket and withdrew one of several stills I'd printed from the video in Cormier's Vintage Vintage folder. Wordlessly, he slid the print across the table. folder. Wordlessly, he slid the print across the table.
Bastarache looked down at the girl on the bench. I watched his body language. Saw no tensing.