Free The Extinction Club by Jeffrey Moore Page B

drawer and standing. He seemed to rise indefinitely; like the snowplower, he was tall, very tall, practically a furlong.Something in the water up here? « To the bank. We can jeep it or walk it. » He inserted earphones into his ears before I could express a preference, and fiddled with his iPod.
    « Jeep? I thought we’d take your skateboard. »
    He pulled out his right bud. « Come again? »
    « We’ll take my van. »
    The Banque Laurentienne, the agent explained as we drove four and a half blocks, owned the church. « The bank impounded it and shit, eh? »
    « Foreclosed. »
    « What I said. »
    I looked in my rear-view, trying to locate the cat. Put my hand under the seat and felt fur.
    « Never been in one of these before, » said the agent, looking up, down, around. « Pretty beat up, eh? »
    I nodded. Like its owner, falling apart and hard to start. « It runs. »
    « A shag wagon from the eighties, am I right? »
    « You are. So the foreclosure— »
    « You wouldn’t want to a move up a notch, would you? Or two. I can sell you a Ford Bronco, full-size, mint, ten thousand klicks, ten thousand bucks. »
    « No thanks. »
    He looked at me through the overhanging hairs of the brow, as do some breeds of dog. « But … I mean, if you can afford the church, why are you drivin’ this shitheap? »
    A good question, that. Which might need Freud to answer it. Sentimental reasons was the short answer. I went out on my first date in a van like this. But I’d driven wrecks my entire life, maybe because I felt sorry for them, maybe to confuse and confound my father. « So the foreclosure was one of those subprime loans? »
    « Nah. The guy who bought it ended up in Ste-Anne-des-Plaines. »
    I turned, gave my passenger a quizzical look.
    « Penitentiary, » he explained.
    We passed by an Esso sign, which I hadn’t seen in the States for thirty years. And two Catholic churches, both boarded up. « Lots of boarded-up churches in this province, » I remarked as we drove into the bank parking lot.
    « You been to Montreal? It’s worse there, eh? »
    A chance to display my knowledge of Quebec, a morsel gained from the Internet. « Mark Twain said Montreal was the first city he’d been to where you couldn’t throw a brick without hitting a church window. »
    The agent paused, scratched his head. « You couldn’t take a dump without hitting a church window? »
    Something lost in translation. Before I could clarify, the agent was shouting a greeting to someone outside the bank: a panhandling punkette sitting on the pavement with a geriatric dog shivering in a blanket at her feet. As we approached I saw that she wasn’t a panhandler; she was a native Indian vendor whose wares were spread out on one side of the entrance. On the other side was a male, her companion presumably, asleep in a coffin of cardboard.
    “The Quebec government is illegitimate,” she said softly to me in English as I examined the items for sale. “As long as there are whites living on Native lands.”
    “Which lands would those be?” I asked.
    « Don’t bother with— » the agent began.
    “The whole province,” she replied. “I studied law. I’m going to enter the system and ruin it from the inside. Plant a time bomb under Western capitalism.”
    As I examined a turquoise necklace that I thought Célestemight like, turning it over in my hands, the agent whispered into my ear, « I wouldn’t go north of a hundred large on that property. In fact, if I was you I wouldn’t go there at all. It ain’t worth the back taxes. »
    Unusual advice from a real estate agent. I gave the woman what she asked for, along with a twenty-dollar tip.
    A look of disbelief, of befuddlement, warped the agent’s features. « What the hell did you just— »
    « Why isn’t it worth the back taxes? »
    « Did you tip her, for God’s sake? Are you from the bozo farm? »
    « It’s freezing out here, » I said by way of explanation. « So why wouldn’t you buy the church?