Lady Jail

by John Farrow

  ‘Sticking with the theme of body parts,’ Borde continued, ‘the SQ wants to slice your balls off.’

  ‘With a rusty blade, I imagine.’

  Borde considered, only for a moment, continuing with the imagery, but he had arrived on a serious mission and wanted to get to it. ‘Some will say you’ve tracked down the money. Some say you’re clever enough to keep a slice of that pie for yourself. Some say you’ve thrown in with the inmates to run your own scheme. They’ve concluded that that’s what’s really behind the reforms you want to impose on the prison system, on the chain-of-command. Some say under suspicion and since the brain trust is as dumb as ducks that opinion might fly.’

  ‘They have nothing on me.’

  ‘They don’t need anything on you to wreck you. You might still get support in your department but if the SQ sets out to wreck you, they’ll just wreck you. They want the money. They want something out of this. We have a dead comrade, and this flag you’re flying that Isaure Dabrezil was gang-compromised does absolutely nothing for our public relations. You get me?’

  ‘If I’m hearing you correctly, Gabs, we’re not talking about the truth or about what’s right.’

  ‘That offends the priest in you, I know. We’re not talking about justice. We’re talking about power and we’re talking about politics and we’re talking about the one whose head will land upright on a pointy stick. Ah, that will be your head I’m talking about.’

  ‘I thought my neck was in a noose?’

  ‘Whatever works best.’

  Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars of the Montreal Police Service placed his right forearm on the table between them and gently tapped his palm against it. The incessant tapping annoyed Inspector Borde of the provincial police but he let it go. He waited, hoping that his friend, with all his plans, had also figured a way out for himself. He’d upset the prison bureaucracy in revealing how the gangs could influence the movement of prisoners, and upset the SQ echelon by suggesting that their undercover cop posing as a prison guard was also undercover for the mob. As the gangs splintered into warring factions, Isaure Dabrezil was not quick enough on her feet, knowing too much to suit one side and doing too little to suit the other and probably still a cop, too. She may have thought herself immune from retribution due to her police and prison status. A lesson you don’t get a second chance to learn. She had to go, and gone, the SQ was pissed. Meanwhile, his own city police department had been hoping he’d unearth a treasure trove of cash they could announce to the media, then request a bump to their budget in the new year. That these imaginary monies would be returned to previous owners – not rightful owners – was neither here nor there. They wanted and had expected that announcement and that it be theirs, and neither the Mounties’ nor the SQs. The mucky-mucks had their private agendas and he was not cooperating.

  He finally stopped tapping and looked his friend in the eye.

  They needed to pull strings. He explained it. ‘First, this is what I need.’ He wanted Abigail released. Her sentence had been rigged from the get-go, and their connections in the Mounties could sneak through an early ‘conditional’ parole. ‘Let people think she’s being paroled early to give up the money. Any judge will sign off on that. Our friends will know better, but others won’t object if they think it’s the money.’

  ‘Émile, come on, they’ll turn rancid if it isn’t. No noose for your neck. You’ll be flattened by a freight train. I’m talking a hundred cars long.’

  ‘I love your illustrations, Gabs.’

  ‘Get serious.’

  ‘I’m dead serious.’

  ‘Then get this. I haven’t told you, but they’re thinking to let Malka Hayer walk on the murder rap. What might come out in trial is too risky, and anyway, they don’t think they can convict on the word of a fragile teenaged killer. This is no time to be making demands, Émile.’

  ‘I have more.’ He blocked his pal’s objection. ‘Hear me out.’ Cinq-Mars explained that they had to call on their friends in the Mounties for another favor, to force a retrial for Rozlynn, and to spring her on bail in the interim.

  ‘Émile, when does this madness end? Give me something, for God’s sake.’

  ‘How about I give you more than something? How about I give you the mother lode.’

  ‘Listening.’

  ‘A biker war is coming.’

  ‘Rumors are rampant, Émile.’

  ‘Horse’s mouth, from my side. How would you like to take down their financial money-laundering system, complete with international banks, enablers and subordinates? The prison bureaucrats will be happy because they go undisturbed as long as Abi and Roz are released. Your SQ has an orgasm because they totally rock the bikers’ fiscal world. They might pull in some excess cash, too, maybe. The Mounties are delirious because they participate on an international level. They uncloak and reveal. Even my department is happy enough although I will remain a perpetual disappointment to them. But my head stays on my shoulders.’

  Borde gazed back at him. While there was admiration in his gaze, another element mixed with that. One that feared for the man’s well-being and safety. Not for this time around, perhaps, but over the course of their lives this priestly cop might receive his comeuppance. As though the world of cops and bad guys was too treacherous a path for one of his inclinations.

  ‘Your nose is huge. You do stick it in where it does not belong.’

  ‘Again with the body parts. What else do I get?’

  ‘We’re on. Of course. By the way, I’ve delayed mentioning that two people are waiting for you outside these walls. One a biker I know. The other a rather attractive woman, Émile. The biker introduced me to her. They were talking amicably outside. Both waiting for you to emerge. Is this your life now?’

  Borde noticed his friend pale. Cinq-Mars asked, ‘Was she packed?’

  Borde adapted his tone to convey sympathy. ‘Looked like it,’ he said.

  iii

  Rozlynn slumped into the room, her usual recalcitrant self. Cinq-Mars expected to get no reaction out of her and didn’t but proceeded to detail his plan anyway. He told her that she deserved a new trial. He had talked to the Mounties on her home reservation and they agreed. She’d been a good kid. They didn’t understand why she had killed her dad without ever saying a word in her own defense. They could understand now that mistaken identity might have played a part; they knew the character and record of her intended victim, which brought up the notion of self-defense given the nature of her uncle, and with it the possibility of early parole pending a retrial. The Mounties were willing to take it up with the public prosecutor. They’d present a compelling argument. Given time served, the circumstances, with any luck Roz could be freed, pending that new trial.

  Roz listened. Implacable.

  He wasn’t sure what freedom meant to her. He assumed that it might be complicated. They had once discussed whom she might kill if freed.

  Then she said, ‘OK.’ A woman of few words.

  Cinq-Mars said, ‘OK.’ They both waited in silence. Then he said, ‘You didn’t give Malka extra time on how to use a strangulation wire, did you?’

  Roz didn’t respond at first and stared at the tabletop. After a while she adjusting her posterior, and answered, ‘Why would I?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he responded. ‘But I think I have my answer.’

  He had no clue how things might work out with her, but he figured she had the patience to see the matter through. For the time being, she would have to wait without getting her hopes up and she was good at both those things. He kept his own hopes for her high. He was naturally optimistic that way, but at the same time he accepted that challenges lay ahead for her.

  iv

  Sandra was leaning on the front hood of her two-tone green pickup, an old and dented Ford Ranger, alongside the battered biker, Paul Lagarde. He grinned upon spotting Cinq-Mars emerge from the penitentiary. A grin so broad he looked like a kid again who’d been nabbed playing hooky. Cinq-Mars strol
led over. Sandra remained in place, immaculately alluring to him in her jeans and cowgirl boots, leather vest with fringe over a mauve shirt. By comparison, Lagarde resembled a hirsute mannequin dressed in debris rejected by a garbage dump. A look that possessed its own peculiar charm, he had to admit, although Cinq-Mars could do without his Iron Cross that always dangled from an earlobe. He presumed that the accessory was meant to offend, and so, as always, he did his best to ignore it as the man stepped forward to greet him. He focused on his smile.

  ‘Paul.’

  ‘Émile.’

  A first name basis with your foe. Merit to that over the long haul.

  ‘In for a visit. Saw your girl waiting for you. Thought I’d hang around to say so long.’

  ‘I’m glad we’re on different turf, Paul. May we never meet again.’

  ‘I hear you. But I enjoyed it. Anyway, before we go down different roads, Émile, tell me, what do I need to know?’

  ‘Are we trading?’

  ‘Everything’s negotiable, right?’

  ‘Your work here is done, Paul. Airtight and absolute. Nothing for you to see or know or do.’

  ‘That so? Maybe I don’t agree. But I’ll keep it in mind.’

  ‘You have a war to fight. Stay safe. What’s here disappears from view.’ He wasn’t going to mention names.

  Paul Lagarde put his hands on his ample hips to consider the news. ‘Could come a time,’ he mused, ‘middle of a war, when a tip might help us both out. Maybe one less body on the ground.’

  ‘If you expect me to arrest an enemy of yours the info needs to be golden. Nothing fabricated. Otherwise, you become the target yourself.’

  ‘Sure. That’s fair. I leave you to your girl. Her, I asked for a favor, Émile. Take her up on it.’

  He had no clue what that might mean. Considering the source, he was unnerved. ‘OK. I guess. Stay safe.’

  Lagarde tilted his head as though to suggest that that was not likely, raised an eyebrow, and moved across to his Harley. By the time Cinq-Mars walked over to where Sandra was standing by her Ford Ranger, the man was on his way. Loudly.

  ‘Lovely fellow,’ Sandra said.

  ‘I hope he behaved himself.’

  ‘A perfect gentleman.’

  ‘You’re packed,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. Well, you know. Time to get back. You’re wrapping up here anyway.’

  ‘That’s true. You could, you know, stay awhile. Come back to Montreal for a bit. I could show you around the city. Lots to see.’

  ‘Ah, I dunno. From what you tell me, your apartment is the size of a phone booth. I’ll pass.’

  He put a hand to the back of his neck, trying to think of something to alter the course of history. She was packed. She was leaving. Nothing he could do about that. He was dying on the pavement of a parking lot. He wanted to marry her.

  Sandra placed a hand on his forearm, forcing him to look up, and she smiled. ‘I’m not going to move to Montreal, Émile. Nor to any city.’

  ‘I understand. Of course not,’ he acknowledged. Breath felt difficult.

  ‘On the other hand, the local paper is advertising a couple of horse farms for sale. Not that I want to live around this neck of the woods. I don’t.’

  She had his attention now. He remained mute, waiting.

  ‘Other parts of Quebec though, ones I’ve visited in the past for horse shows, they might hold out possibilities.’

  At the same moment that his heart clogged his throat, despair sullied his disposition. ‘I can’t afford to buy a horse farm,’ he told her. His life atilt, as if he was a kid at the top of a teeter-totter about to be slammed down hard on his butt.

  She was trying to get his attention with her eyes. ‘I can,’ she told him. ‘I can make it pay, too. As long as you’re willing to drive into the city to do your silly policing, I’ll deal with the horses all day. I’ve been thinking about it. I can’t imagine a better life. Can you?’

  He honestly couldn’t. Obstacles and challenges presented themselves, but none that were persuasive.

  ‘Most men in your situation, Émile, are asked if they’re willing to commit. You’re only being asked if you’re willing to commute.’

  How could he not love a woman who could turn a phrase that way? How could he resist the sparkle in her eyes? He didn’t know how it happened, but her hips were resting against his, his hands encircling the small of her back.

  He finally found his voice, and a blithe buoyancy of his own. ‘You know, San, I am Roman Catholic, and in my own way, practicing. Pretty conservatively, too.’

  She quizzed him with her expression. Commented, ‘I’m not coming off the pill, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Not at all what I mean.’

  ‘Then why bring it up?’ A light dawned. How could she not love a man who posited these neat little riddles? He was bringing up his religion because he knew she feared the connotations. ‘Émile,’ she said, ‘did you just propose to me?’

  ‘Could be. I do believe in the sanctity of marriage. I’m not into living in sin.’ Serious words, although his tone was decidedly tongue-in-cheek.

  ‘Good, because I already invited Paul Lagarde to the wedding. I promised him a dance.’

  His eyes scrunched. He looked away. She had the upper hand again. They could make their lives a game of this. He looked at her again, held her gaze, and they were both smiling giddily. ‘Wait. Wait. Wait one minute. Are you saying that you told Paul Lagarde about our wedding before you told me?’

  ‘Hey, he was here. You were late.’

  She could so easily make him laugh. ‘My fellow cops won’t know what to think,’ he surmised. ‘If he’s still alive, which will be in doubt, Lagarde can come. You can dance with him, but only if he takes off that damn ornament, or whatever you call it, the one on his ear. If so, I can make that work.’

  ‘Always scheming. So we’re on?’

  ‘I’m definitely willing to commute,’ he said, to confirm their vow.

  She laughed. ‘I’ll just commit,’ she said.

  They laughed together. The kiss they both knew was coming was purposefully delayed, a moment too rare to be hurried. Cinq-Mars turned her, and held her with his gaze, and for just that moment it was as though they were dancing by the walls of the Joliette Institution for Women, which some call Lady Jail, by any name a penitentiary.

  AFTERWORD

  The turf war between the Hells Angels and the Rock Machine arrived as full-blown in 1994 and lasted until 2002. The death toll, primarily among bikers but including innocent victims, would number 162. Scores more were wounded.