Page 95 of The Instruments of Darkness

Pinette gestured to the empty stools.

“So sit.”

By Louis’s feet, Noah Morin had turned a shade of puce.

“You mind if someone helps Noah?” said Pinette. “Be unfortunate for everyone if he choked to death.”

Louis gave signs of being about to dispute this, before saving his breath.

“If they must,” he conceded.

We stepped back, allowing two men to hoist Morin to his feet and drag him to a chair. He managed to breathe again, which was something; and when he spoke in response to his buddies, he didn’t sound too different, only wheezier. Perhaps Louis had pulled the blow at the last minute to avoid damaging Morin’s carotid artery, since being ignorant shouldn’t carry a death sentence. Eventually, after some consultation, it was decided to take Morin to the ER as a precaution. Given the probable state of his general health, he might have been at risk of a stroke.

“You could just have answered his question,” said Pinette, once Morin had been removed. His voice was very low, and he pronounced with precision every syllable of each word.

“I did,” said Louis.

“Without disabling him, I meant.”

“I doubt it would have been as effective.”

Pinette took in Louis, like one prizefighter sizing up another.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” he said, “but then, introductions are hardly necessary. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know who I was, and I’ve heard all about you from Bobby. You’re Louis, the one who blew up his son’s truck. Bobby thinks that incident might have led to the boy’s death.”

Louis made no comment.

“Between ourselves,” Pinette continued, “I reckon Billy’s stupidity was the main contributary factor, but don’t tell his old man I said that. Can I buy you gentlemen a drink?”

“We won’t be staying,” I said, “so we’ll pass.”

Pinette called for another juice, and settled himself more comfortably. We remained standing. I noticed a pack of cards beside him, and two blackjack hands lying facedown. I took a look at the nearer: a pair of eights. I didn’t see any upcard.

“Your hand?” I asked Pinette.

“Someone else’s. Should I surrender?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You play?”

“Not me. I promised Mother.”

“Pity, I take Social Security checks. Well, what do you want to talk about?”

“Last night’s attack on a house in Rosemont.”

“First I heard of it.”

It was always difficult to determine Antoine Pinette’s thought processes, because that unsettlingly congruous face gave so little away. When confronted with someone of his genus, it was often best to assume he was being dishonest and act accordingly. But Pinette had a curious code of honor, preferring to stay silent rather than lie, which had resulted in prison terms that perjury might have avoided.

“I expected more of you, Antoine,” I said. “It was a step down from beating up trans college kids or young mothers at Black Lives Matter protests, and that’s saying a lot.”

“You’re speaking a foreign tongue,” said Pinette. “Try English.”

“Last night someone tried to firebomb the home of one of my clients.”

“And?”

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