GETTING THERE WAS NO SMALL TASK. AS CHARBONNEAU FOUGHT his way west along De Maisonneuve, I sat in the back, gazing out the window and ignoring the bursts of static that erupted from the radio. The afternoon was sweltering. As we inched along, I watched heat rise from the pavement in undulating waves.

Montreal was preening itself with patriotic fervor. The fleur-de-lis was everywhere, hung from windows and balconies, worn on T-shirts, hats, and boxer shorts, painted on faces, and waved on flags and placards. From Centre-ville eastward to the Main, sweaty revelers clogged the streets, choking off traffic like plaque in an artery. Thousands of people filled the streets, ebbing and flowing in streams of blue and white. Though seemingly without orientation, the throng oozed generally northward, toward Sherbrooke and the parade, punks moving next to mothers with strollers. The marchers and floats had left St. Urbain at 2 P.M., twirling and high-stepping eastward along Sherbrooke. At that moment they were just above us.

Over the hum of the air conditioner I could hear a lot of laughter and sporadic bursts of song. Already there was some fighting. As we waited out the light at Amherst, I watched a lummox push his girlfriend against a wall. He had hair the color of unbrushed teeth, burred on top and long in the back. His chicken-white skin was moving toward grenadine. We pulled away before the scene could play itself out, leaving me with an image of the girl’s startled face superimposed on the breasts of a naked woman. Eyes squinting and mouth in an O, she was framed by a poster for a Tamara de Lempicka exposition at the Musée des Beaux Arts. “Une femme libre,” it whooped. “A free woman.” Another of life’s ironies. I took some satisfaction in knowing the oaf wouldn’t have a good night. He might even blister.

Charbonneau turned to Claudel. “Lemme see that picture a minute.”

Claudel pulled it from his pocket. Charbonneau studied it, shifting his eyes from the traffic to the photo in his hand.

“He sure don’t look like much, does he?” he said to no one in particular. Wordlessly he extended the picture to me over the seat back.

What I held was a black-and-white print, a blowup of a single frame taken from high up and to the subject’s right. It showed a blurred male figure with face averted, concentrating on the task of inserting or retracting a card at an automatic teller machine.

His hair was short and wispy in front, splayed downward into a fringe on his forehead. The top of his head was almost bare, and he had combed as many long strands as possible from left to right in an attempt to hide his baldness. My favorite male “do.” About as attractive as a Speedo bathing suit.

His eyes were shielded by bushy brows, and his ears flared out like petals on a pansy. His skin looked deathly pale. He wore a plaid shirt and what looked like work pants. The graininess and poor angle obscured any other details. I had to agree with Charbonneau. He didn’t look like much. It could have been anyone. Silently, I handed the photo back.

Dépanneurs are the convenience stores of Quebec. They are found anywhere shelves and a refrigerator can be packed into a covered space. Scattered throughout the city, dépanneurs survive by providing grocery, dairy, and alcohol essentials. They dot every neighborhood, forming a capillary bed that feeds the needs of locals and foot travelers. They can be counted on for milk, cigarettes, beer, and cheap wine, the remainder of their inventory determined by neighborhood preferences. They provide no glitz and no parking. The upscale version may have a bank machine. It was to one such that we were heading.

“Rue Berger?” Charbonneau asked Claudel.

“Oui. It runs south from Ste. Catherine. Take René Lévesque to St. Dominique then go back north. That’s a snakepit of one-ways in there.”

Charbonneau turned left and began creeping south. In his impatience he kept goosing the gas then tapping the brake, causing the Chevy to lurch like a Ferris wheel seat. Feeling a bit seasick, I focused on the action at the boutiques, bistros, and modern brick buildings of L’Université du Québec, which lined St. Denis.

“Sacré bleu!”

“Ca-lice!” said Charbonneau as a dark green Toyota station wagon cut him off.

“Bastard,” he added as he hit the brake then shot up to its bumper. “Look at that oily little freak.”

Claudel ignored him, apparently used to his partner’s erratic driving. I thought of Dramamine, but held my tongue.

Eventually we reached René Lévesque and turned west, then cut north onto St. Dominique. We doubled back at Ste. Catherine and, once again, I found myself in the Main, less than one block from Gabby’s girls. Berger is one of a small checkerboard of side streets sandwiched between St. Laurent and St. Denis. It lay directly ahead.

Charbonneau turned the corner and slid to the curb in front of the Dépanneur Berger. A dingy sign above its door promised “bière et vin.” Sun-bleached ads for Molson and Labatt covered the windows, the tape yellowed and peeling with age. Rows of dead flies lined the sill below, their bodies stratified according to season of death. Iron bars safeguarded the glass. Two geezers sat on kitchen chairs outside the door.

“Guy’s name is Halevi,” said Charbonneau, consulting his notebook. “He probably won’t have much to say.”

“They never do. His memory may improve if we sweat him a little,” said Claudel, slamming the car door.

The geezers watched us silently.

A string of brass bells jangled as we entered. The interior was hot and smelled of dust and spices and old cardboard. Two rows of back-to-back shelves ran the length of the store, forming one center and two side aisles. The dusty shelves held an assortment of aging canned and packaged goods.

On the far right a horizontal refrigerator case held vats of nuts, dal, dried peas, and flour. An assembly of limp vegetables lay in its far end. Something from another era, the case no longer refrigerated.

Upright coolers with wine and beer lined the left wall. In the rear, a small, open case, draped with plastic to conserve the cold, held milk, olives, and feta cheese. To its right, in the far corner, was the bank machine. Except for this, the place looked as if it hadn’t been renovated since Alaska applied for U.S. statehood.

The counter was directly to the left of the front door. Mr. Halevi sat behind it, speaking heatedly into a cellular phone. He kept running his hand over his naked head, the maneuver a holdover from a hairier youth. A sign on the cash register read SMILE. GOD LOVES YOU. Halevi was not taking his own advice. His face was red, and he was clearly piqued. I stood back and watched.

Claudel positioned himself directly in front of the counter and cleared his throat. Halevi showed him a palm and nodded his head in a “hold on” gesture. Claudel flashed his badge and shook his head. Halevi looked momentarily confused, said something in rapid Hindi, and clicked off. His eyes, huge behind thick lenses, moved from Claudel to Charbonneau and back.

“Yes,” he said.

“You Bipin Halevi?” asked Charbonneau in English.

“Yes.”

Charbonneau placed the photo face up on the counter. “Take a look. You know this guy?”

Halevi rotated the picture and leaned over it, his jittery fingers holding down the edges. He was nervous and trying hard to please, or at least to give the impression of cooperation. Many dépanneur operators sell smuggled cigarettes or other black market goodies, and police visits are as popular as tax audits.

“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 dépanneur. 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.