?No one could recognize a man from this. Is this from the video? Men were here earlier. What did this man do??

He spoke English with the singsong cadence of northern India.

?Any idea who he is?? said Charbonneau, ignoring the questions.

Halevi shrugged. ?With my customers, you don?t ask. Besides, this is too fuzzy. And his face is turned away.?

He shifted on his stool. He was relaxing somewhat, realizing that he wasn?t the object of the inquiry, that it had to do with the security video the police had confiscated.

?He a local?? asked Claudel.

?I tell you, I don?t know.?

?Does this even remotely remind you of anyone comes in here??

Halevi stared at the picture.

?Maybe. Maybe, yes. But it?s just not clear. I wish I could help. I . . . Maybe this could be a man I?ve seen.?

Charbonneau looked at him hard, probably thinking what I was. Was Halevi trying to please, or did he really see something familiar in the photo?

?Who??

?I-I don?t know him. Just a customer.?

?Any pattern to what he does??

Halevi looked blank.

?Does the guy come at the same time of day? Does he come from the same direction? Does he buy the same stuff? Does he wear a goddamn tutu?? Claudel was becoming annoyed.

?I told you. I don?t ask. I don?t notice. I sell my stuff. At night I go home. This face is like many others. They come and they go.?

?How late is this place open??

?Till two.?

?He come in at night??

?Maybe.?

Charbonneau was taking notes in a leather-bound pad. So far he?d written little.

?You work yesterday afternoon??

Halevi nodded. ?It was busy, the day before the holiday, eh? Maybe people think I won?t be open today.?

?You see this guy come in??

Halevi studied the picture again, ran both hands to the back of his head, then scratched his halo of hair vigorously. He blew out a puff of air and raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

Charbonneau slipped the photo into his notebook and snapped it shut. He placed his card on the counter.

?If you think of anything else, Mr. Halevi, give us a call. We thank you for your time.?

?Sure, sure,? he said, his face brightening for the first time since seeing the badge. ?I will call.?

?Sure, sure,? said Claudel when we were outside. ?That toad?ll call when Mother Teresa screws Saddam Hussein.?

?He works a d #233;panneur. He?s got chili for brains,? Charbonneau responded.

As we crossed to the car I looked back over my shoulder. The two geezers were still flanking the door. They seemed a permanent fixture, like stone dogs at the entrance to a Buddhist temple.

?Let me have the picture a minute,? I told Charbonneau.

He looked surprised but dug it out. Claudel opened the car door, and baked air rolled out like heat from a smelter. He draped one arm over the door, propped a foot on the frame, and watched me. As I recrossed the street, he said something to Charbonneau. Fortunately, I didn?t hear.

I walked over to the old man on the right. He wore faded red running shorts, a tank top, dress socks, and leather oxfords. His bony legs were cobwebbed by varicose veins, and looked as if the pasty, white skin had been stretched over knots of spaghetti. His mouth had the collapsed look of toothlessness. A cigarette jutted from one corner at a downward angle. He watched me approach with unmasked curiosity.

?Bonjour,? I said.

?Hey,? he said, leaning forward to peel his sweat-slicked back from the cracked vinyl of the chair. He?d either heard us talking or picked up on my accent.

?Hot day.?

?I seen hotter.? The cigarette jumped as he spoke.

?You live near here??

He flapped a scrawny arm in the direction of St. Laurent.

?Could I ask you something??

He recrossed his legs and nodded.

I handed him the photo.

?Have you ever seen this man??

He held the picture at arm?s length in his left hand, and shaded it from the sun with his right. Smoke floated across his face. He studied the image for so long, I thought perhaps he?d drifted off. I watched a gray-and-white cat covered with raw, red patches slither behind his chair, skirt the building, and disappear around the corner.

The second old man placed both hands on his knees and raised himself with a low grunt. His skin had once been fair, but now looked as if he?d been sitting in that chair a hundred and twenty years. Adjusting first the suspenders and then the belt that held his gray work pants, he shuffled over to us. He brought the rim of his Mets cap to the level of his companion?s shoulder, and squinted at the photo. Finally, spaghetti legs handed it back.

?A man?s own mother wouldn?t know him from this. Picture?s shit.?

The second geezer was more positive.

?He lives over there somewhere,? he said, aiming a yellowed finger down the block at a seedy brick three-flat, and speaking in a joual so thick I could barely understand him. He, too, was without teeth or dentures, and, as he spoke, his chin seemed to reach for his nose. When he paused, I pointed to the photo and then to the building. He nodded his head.

?Souvent?? Often? I asked.

?Mmm, oui,? he responded, raising his eyebrows and shoulders, thrusting forward his lower lip, and giving the palm up, palm down gesture with his hands. Often. Sort of.

The other geezer shook his head and snorted in disgust.

I signaled to Charbonneau and Claudel to join me, and explained what the old man had said. Claudel looked at me as he might a buzzing wasp, an annoyance that must be dealt with. I met his eyes, daring him to say something. He knew they should have questioned the men.

Without comment, Charbonneau turned his back and focused on the pair. Claudel and I stood and listened. The joual was rapid as gunfire, the vowels so stretched and the endings so truncated, I caught little of the exchange. But the gestures and signals were clear as a headline. Suspenders said he lived down the block. Spaghetti legs disagreed.

At length Charbonneau turned back to us. He tipped his head in the direction of the car, gesturing Claudel and me to follow. As we crossed the street, I could feel two sets of rheumy eyes burning the back of my neck.

LEANING ON THE CHEVY, CHARBONNEAU SHOOK FREE A CIGARETTE and lit it. His body looked as tense as an unsprung trap. For a moment he was quiet, seeming to sort through what the old men had said. Finally he spoke, his mouth a straight line, his lips hardly moving.

?What do you think?? he asked.

?Click and clack look like they spend a lot of time here,? I offered. Inside my T-shirt, a rivulet of sweat ran down my back.

?Could be a pair of real head cases,? said Claudel.

?Or it could be they?ve actually seen the prick-ass,? said Charbonneau. He inhaled deeply then flicked at the cigarette with his middle finger.

?They weren?t exactly star witnesses on details,? said Claudel.

?Yeah,? said Charbonneau, ?but we all agreed. The guy ain?t much to remember. And mutants like him usually keep a pretty low profile.?

?And grandpa number two seemed pretty sure,? I added.

Claudel snorted. ?Those two may not be sure of anything but the wine shop and the blood bank. Probably the only two landmarks they can map.?

Charbonneau took one last drag, dropped the butt, and ground it with his toe. ?It could be nothing, or it could be he?s in there. Me, I don?t want to guess wrong. I say we take a look, bust his ass if we find him.?

I observed yet another of Claudel?s shrugs. ?Okay. But I?m not about to get my bacon fried. I?ll call for backup.?

He flicked his eyes to me and back to Charbonneau, brows raised.

?She don?t bother me,? Charbonneau said.

Shaking his head, Claudel rounded the car and slid in on the passenger side. Through the windshield I could see him reach for his handset.