NORTH Somewhere in Montreal, Peter Wayne got lost. First, the jerkoff at the border-crossing booth gave him the wrong directions, probably for fun (Peter had sensed his leg was being pulled—”You go about eighty miles west, hey?” the idiot had said, saying it in such a way, by going back to the paperback book he was reading, that Peter knew he wasn't going to get anything else out of him), and then when he finally got into Montreal and needed directions to Ottawa, the fog had rolled in so thick that he could barely see all the new construction going on around him (What is it with these Canadians—they made of money?), and the proprietors of the two 7-Elevens he'd stopped in had pretended they didn't know a word of English (Bilingual bastard country.). And by now he was lost good, and asked the last person he felt like asking anywhere, anytime, about anything, especially with an open cooler of beer on the floor behind the driver's seat, with empties scattered around it, a cop. But, to and behold, the cop had smiled and said, “Sure, what you want to do is ...”
