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tonic?”
    Dougherty was pretty sure he’d seen a bottle of Jameson behind the bar, but he was getting tired of explaining the difference between English and Irish so he said, “Thanks.”
    Caron had a new bottle of Canadian Club for himself. “Don’t mention it.” He laughed then and said, “I mean, really, don’t mention it.”
    Dougherty nodded, taking up the rear of the convoy.

CHAPTER
FOUR
    They were getting nowhere. Shaking down every English guy in town who’d ever been anywhere near a bank when it was robbed — and in Montreal that was a lot of guys — but none of them had anything from the Brink’s job. Listening to hours of wiretaps from the pay phones at Molly McGuire’s and the Country Palace and the Cock ’n’ Bull and the Cat’s Den Lounge and the Shack Club got them nothing but a lot of guys cheating on their wives and a lot of women cheating on their husbands.
    Dougherty needed something to justify his being put on this team, in plainclothes, doing detective work. He could see Paquette and some other young guys passing him by, and he knew this was the best chance he’d ever get — a big job by English guys, guys from his old neighbourhood in the Point. If he didn’t score something on this job, he’d be walking a beat the rest of his life.
    Then he ran into Fred Bergman.
    Driving home from the office, the 4.07 in the bank building, two in the morning in his own car, nothing on the wiretaps again, Dougherty pulled up behind a ’75 Monte Carlo on the Bonaventure Expressway. Six lanes and almost no other cars. He followed the Monte Carlo past the Champlain Bridge and Nun’s Island exit and up around the bend towards the Décarie, and when it took the C ôt e St. Luc Road exit Dougherty knew it was Bergman.
    Cavendish was quiet, lined with apartment buildings and two-storey storefronts. When the Monte Carlo stopped at the red light at Cavendish, Dougherty pulled up beside it and rolled down the window of his Mustang.
    It took Bergman a second, but then the power window lowered and he said, “What do you want, Constable?”
    â€œPull over.”
    Bergman shrugged and said, “I’m stopped.” Then he looked more confused and said, “And you’re not even on duty.”
    â€œPull over.” Dougherty pointed to the gas station and when the light changed Bergman cut diagonally through the intersection and stopped in front of the dark garage doors. He cut the engine but didn’t make a move to get out of the car.
    Dougherty pulled up beside the Monte Carlo and got out and walked back to the trunk. He knocked on it like he was knocking on a door.
    Bergman got out of the car then and said, “You look like you want a gold chain. I have some beautiful pieces, just came in.”
    â€œI guess gold doesn’t break falling off the truck.”
    â€œYou want a TV,” Bergman said, “I can get you one, Sony Trinitron, all solid state, fifteen-inch portable, five hundred bucks.”
    Dougherty said, “I can get it at Eaton’s for five-fifty.”
    â€œThree hundred, then, but I don’t make anything.”
    â€œI’m looking for bonds,” Dougherty said. “And Olympic coins. And cash, about two million dollars.”
    Bergman laughed. He was a big man, had a big belly anyway, but he wasn’t as tall as Dougherty. He said, “You think I look like a guy who has two million bucks, Constable?” Then he looked Dougherty up and down and said, “They make you a detective?”
    Dougherty ignored that and said, “I think you’re smart enough not to start throwing a lot of cash around. I think you’d lie low for a while, pretend like nothing changed for you, go about your business.”
    â€œHow can I go about my business,” Bergman said, “if I keep getting pulled over by the cops?” He put the key in the lock and opened