River City Read Online Free PDF

through who had done what to whom and drag a few bad guys in.
    Between bursts of information and the doling out of orders from his vehicle, Armand Touton kept tabs on the efforts of his colleague Réal LeClerc. The man was in charge of the uniforms, and had managed, despite the evening hour, to cobble together a small army. This proved fortunate, given that his actions had already helped the riot to escalate into all-out war.
    A man of thirty-five, thin, agile, in jeans and a short leather coat, standing farther east along Ste. Catherine Street, anticipated the mob’s approach. Although of average height, his features were exceptionally striking, distinguished by a prominent, serrated nose and cheekbones like plump pears. The overall effect was a sculpted, even cunning look that barely masked a cherub’s propensity for mischief. Continents appeared to come together in his face, as though his ancestry combined native Indian with Asian, and the French of Normandy with a smattering of English aristocracy. A wealthy man’s son, he had studied law and been called to the bar, yet had taken no interest in a conventional career.Pierre Elliott Trudeau preferred the work he did these days editing a small intellectual magazine, Cité Libre, and had recently stepped away from a job as a legal advisor to a government agency. Hearing radio reports of the havoc, he left the comforts of his mother’s home, where he was visiting, to hail a taxi that dropped him off as close to downtown as the driver dared.
    Cabs, the radio reported, were being overturned whenever cop cars weren’t handy. “That’s all right, what they’re doing,” the cabbie broadcast. “Me, I don’t mind. Burn the city, burn downtown. Go to Westmount, burn the English to the ground—know what I mean? But don’t burn my cab.”
    “That’s where you draw the line?” Trudeau asked.
    “That’s my line. I can’t go no closer than this.”
    “Sure you can. Go a little closer.”
    “My cab is my life to me!”
    “That’s probably not as true as you think. Don’t worry, nobody’s burning cabs for a few more blocks.”
    “You never know!”
    “A little farther.”
    Trudeau got out eventually and walked the last couple of blocks to a public square that appeared to be peaceful and quiet, although an unusual number of people were milling around, waiting. The anticipation in the air felt akin to the charge before an electrical storm. He was sitting up high on the backrest of a bench when he heard a dulcet male voice address him from behind.
    “Pierre? I thought that might be you.”
    In no mood to welcome company, he turned to see who had identified him. A step behind his left shoulder stood a soft-looking man in casual attire, his hands crossed over his tummy in the pose of a child waiting for an elder’s sanction to step forward. He wore large, floppy rubber boots, the tongues hanging out, jeans, a heavy wool sweater and a dusky jacket open down the front. He had on a small, black wool cap. Of similar height to Trudeau, the second man possessed a much bulkier build. Only twenty-eight, he appeared likely to become hefty in later years. Already his belly had to be cinched by his belt, and when he exerted himself he’d soon pant. Trudeau had first met him during the Asbestos miners’ strike a few years back—the skinny intellectual got into afistfight, now a legendary battle, while the robust youth cheered him on—then later through the milieu of intellectuals around Cité Libre, where the corpulent fellow demonstrated a tenacious, if not a particularly original, intellect. In some circles, he became a formidable proponent of decisive political change as envisioned by the far left. Trudeau held reservations about the man—the two of them were incompatible politically—but on first impression conceded that he liked him. He’d detected a knack for astutely assessing personalities, and an ability to understand how others were likely to think. When the two