The Man Named LaRooce. I was asked to write about him and I shall.
I saw his Jaguar parked up near the restaurant. Up on the hood, near the passenger side windshield, sat a pair of black leather driving gloves. LaRooce leaves them as bait. The poor fool who picks them up and tries them on, in public, is doomed.
LaRooce will kill this man. He will take the gloves back and use them to strangle the dope. Probably right there in the restaurant. No one will stop him. He’s got a note from the city council. He’s got a flash white mustache. He smokes Little Charlies. He’s untouchable.
LaRooce is known all over this area. His family came here in the 1700s. French explorers and trappers. Made a fortune in furs. Money trickled down through everything. Today LaRooce has a controlling interest in the factory just outside of town that makes little trees for miniature railroads. He sails a yacht carved from pure silver. He wants you to see him.
Everybody knows he’s got the cancer. Deep in his bones. LaRooce brings down special doctors from Montreal. They curse at school children in French. LaRooce just laughs and throws money at the town’s parade committee. They told him to ease up, slow down. He has them deported.
He makes a big show of eating horse meat in all the fancy lake restaurants.
Eventually he’s going to get somebody with matching organs and the right blood. Surgeons will put his brain in their body. Then LaRooce’ll be done with this glove business.