Black Rock by John McFetridge Page A

both turned and looked at Dougherty. “They look so much alike.”
    Herbie said no, he didn’t get them mixed up, and Dougherty said, “Not even when they come in here and buy a case of beer?” and he motioned to the walk-in cooler at the back of the small, cramped store.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBrenda Webber never bought any beer? What about cigarettes?”
    â€œThere’s no age limit on smokes.”
    â€œBut you do need to be eighteen to buy beer, right?”
    Herbie looked at Carpentier and then back to Dougherty and said, “Okay, a six-pack, Eddie, big deal. You used to come in here for a two-four when you were twelve.”
    â€œYeah, for my father.”
    â€œSo,” Carpentier said, “Brenda Webber bought six bottles of beer?”
    Herbie said, “Yeah, Black Label.”
    Dougherty said, “And?”
    Herbie shrugged and Dougherty said, “This is important. Stop fucking around and tell the man everything Brenda Webber bought.”
    Carpentier never took his eyes off Herbie, who shook his head a little. “They ram the nightstick up your ass when they give you the uniform, Eddie?”
    Then Herbie jumped back and knocked over a rack of chips as Dougherty made a move like he was going to start swinging that nightstick.
    â€œA pack of Export ‘A’ and rolling papers — you happy?”
    â€œNo one’s happy,” Dougherty said, “a girl’s dead. But that wasn’t too hard, was it?” and he turned and walked out.
    Outside the store, Dougherty realized he was shaking. He walked to Carpentier’s car and took a deep breath and tried to relax. He hadn’t been taught anything about intimidating people in his training, now he was thinking maybe it came more naturally for most recruits. And then he was thinking maybe it would’ve come more naturally for him in some other neighbourhood, maybe a little further away from where he’d been terrorized as a kid.
    Carpentier came out of the store then and said, “You would think they’d want to help us.”
    â€œGoes against everything around here, helping cops.”
    â€œSo,” Carpentier said, “what do we know now?”
    â€œShe had bad taste in beer?”
    â€œAnything else?”
    â€œShe bought cigarettes and rolling papers,” Dougherty said, “to smoke hashish with her friends, but she never made it to the park.”
    â€œSo they said. We’ll have to talk to her friends again.”
    â€œDo you have any names?”
    Carpentier got out his notebook and said, “Donna Fergus and Gail Murphy; do you know them?”
    â€œI know a couple of Gail Murphy’s brothers.”
    â€œDo you know where the Murphys live?”
    Dougherty pointed right across the street from where they were standing and said, “Second floor.”
    â€œIt’s like a small town,” Carpentier said, “everybody know everybody.”
    â€œIs that good?”
    â€œWe’ll find out.”
    He started across the street and Dougherty said, “But she’ll be in school now,” and Carpentier looked at his watch and said, “Yes.” Then he said, “We might as well have lunch.”
    Dougherty said, “There’s a steamie place on Wellington, Nick’s.”
    â€œHot dogs? You’re in CIB now — let’s go to Magnan’s.”
    Patrolmen might go to Magnan’s on payday or some special occasion, take over a couple of tables and order pitchers of beer and the roast beef, but Dougherty would never have just stopped in for lunch on a workday. It might be a Point St. Charles tavern, but it was on St. Patrick at Charlevoix by the bridge and attracted businessmen from across the canal, as far into the Point as most of them had ever been.
    Carpentier sat down at a corner table and ordered roast beef and a Labatt 50 from the waiter in the black vest, white shirt and bow tie, and Dougherty