It is not very large—a few short blocks of jam-packed restaurants, shops, association headquarters, Mah-Jongg parlors, and apartments, all as covered with colorful posters, signs, and neon advertisements as a newlywed with rice. The street, closed off as a pedestrian walkway, is filled with people, all in movement, and reverberating with the sounds of exotic language and blaring radios. Lacoste parked his unmarked car on St-Laurent, just beyond the ornate, pagoda-style gateway that arched over the street’s entrance, and shoved a few coins into the parking meter that stood guard across the sidewalk, close to the wall. The three of us entered La Gauchetière, walking abreast, looking as out of place as three gunslingers on an urban movie set—except that only our host was actually armed, with an ankle-holstered .38 he’d strapped on before leaving the office. Despite the fact that I was convinced we had police all but stenciled across our backs, Lacoste seemed as upbeat as I imagined he’d be during a stroll in the park.
