I cal ed Claudel again, this time leaving my cel number. Ditto Charbonneau. Then I grabbed my purse and bolted, unable to bear the waiting.

When I stepped outside I was blinded for a moment. Sunlight bathed the day and sparrows twittered in the branches overhead. Lab and SQ staff chatted along the drive and relaxed at picnic tables on the lawn, enjoying a midmorning smoke or coffee.

I inhaled deeply, and started up Parthenais, wondering how I could have lost track of spring. For a moment I had an odd fantasy. The Dorsey funeral would take place in less than twenty-four hours. If I could freeze time I could hold it at bay, keep the birds singing, the sun shining, and the ladies on the lawn with their shoes kicked off.

But I couldn't, and the tension was making me jumpier than a proton in a particle accelerator.

Jesus, Brennan. Upstairs you wanted things to move faster. Now you want a freeze-frame. Clear your neurons.

The situation cal ed for a hot dog and fries.

I hung a left on Ontario, walked east a block, and pushed open the door to Lafleur At 11 A.M. there was no line, and I stepped directly to the counter.

Lafleur is Quebec's version of the fast-food joint, offering hot dogs, burgers, and poutine. The decor is chrome and plastic, the clientele largely blue col ar

"Chien chaud, frites, et Coke Diète, s'il vous plait," I told the man at the cash register. Why did the literal translation of hot dog in French stil sound strange to me?

"Steamed ou gril e?"

I chose steamed, and in seconds a cardboard container was slapped in front of me. Grease from the fries already stained the left side.

I paid and carried my food to a table with an excel ent view of the parking lot.

As I ate my eyes roved over the other patrons. To my left were four young women in nurse s white, students from the technical school across the street.

Tags identified them as Manon, Lise, Brigitte, and Marie-José.

Two painters ate in silence beyond the students. They wore coveral s, and their arms, hair, and faces were speckled like the wal s of Gilbert's spatter lab. The men worked on platters of fries topped with curd cheese and brown gravy. In a city renowned for its fine cuisine, I have never understood the appeal of poutine.

Across from the painters sat a young man trying his best to grow a goatee. His glasses were round and he was overweight.

I finished my fries and checked my cel . The phone was on, the signal strong, but there were no messages. Damn! Why wasn't anyone returning my cal ?

I needed release. Physical release.