“And the point of all this?”
I shrugged. “Simple strategy. Divide and conquer. We are aiming for the ballot question; the last question asked by the voters before they cast their vote.”
“You seem to know a lot about this. How is that?”
“Is it important?”
“Yes.”
“In prison I had lots of time to read. I read a lot of political biographies—Huey Long, Stephen Harper, Vladimir Putin, Sarkozy, Nixon, Elizabeth the First of England, Kissinger, Reagan, Bush one and two, Philip the Second of Spain, Ivan of Russia and so on.”
“Ivan the Terrible?”
“He wasn’t that terrible. Anyhow, all the data’s there. You just have to see it.” Politics and crime, crime and politics, lines blurred. Both were about manipulation, and the borders blurred all the time. In Japan members of the Yakuza sat in the Diet, in Russia the Senate held its fair share of Mafiya, in England a convicted perjurer and a white-collar thief sat in the House of Lords, in the United States a senator had to be pried out of power like a limpet after accepting bribes.
Reese absorbed this information and then took my arm and leaned in close. “Did you hear about what happened to Reynolds?”
“No. What?” I thought about being curious and hoped it showed on my face.
“He snapped and sent out cease and desist orders to about a hundred people to stop talking about Devanter and Illyanovitch. In my business it’s followed with an injunction or restraining order.”
“So?”
Reese shook my arm. “He sent it to people who had nothing to do with Devanter or Illyanovitch. He sent it to lawyers and judges and cops and millionaires and businessmen. He snapped.”
I was curious. “So what’s happening?”
“He’s in serious damage control mode now and practically paralyzed. He’s had to delay two cases I know of from going to court and reschedule at least ten meetings. Devanter is furious with the dumb shit. And, to top it all off, there have been dozens of complaints with the Law Society of Manitoba and even a couple to the police for harassment.”
I pulled my arm free and kept walking. Reese followed and went on, “And that’s just what I know about.”
A duck flew over our heads and Reese paused and then asked, very casually, “You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?”
“Me?” I thought innocent thoughts and hoped they showed.
He held up his hand. “Before you answer, you should know, anything you tell me is privileged.”
My criminal mind was very doubtful about the necessity of telling him the truth and I really could think of no reason to risk it. “Sure. But me? Never.”
He looked doubtful. “Okay.”
“Now, would it be all right if I went and visited Mr. Goodson?”
“Sure. You should call him first. Do you want me to come?”
I stooped for a stone and flipped it out to pop a plastic bag floating in the river. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I want to ask him a question you don’t want to hear. And you really don’t want to hear the answer.”
“Ah. I’ll call and get you permission. Tomorrow?”
“Or the day after.”
When I got home Claire was drinking straight from a bottle of Benedictine liqueur. In front of her was a fancy sheet of thick paper with tiny words written in beautiful script. Holding it flat to the table was the Beretta pistol and the unsheathed Mauser bayonet.
I wanted to reach for the bottle but took the paper instead. It said,
Dearest Clarice!
I’m so sorry you couldn’t make it for coffee but I hope you enjoyed the chocolate and flowers.
Shall we have dinner? We have so much to discuss and so much to plan.
I hope your husband will have the dignity to step aside in respect of our love.
I long for your embrace and look forward to the continuation of our beautiful relationship.
Signed,
A Wretched Englishman! (You will forgive the pun, my one true love!)
I sheathed the bayonet and carried it with me to check the doors and windows and set the alarms. I wondered how the Shy Man had found out Claire’s full name was Clarice, which she never used and which she hated. I wondered where he was.
When I got back Claire had corked the bottle and had pulled the magazine from the gun and the bullets from the magazine and was reloading. She stared into the distance while pressing firmly down on each brass cartridge against the resistance of the spring. I had taught her to do that every night to double check that the magazine was still working.
She saw me and smiled brightly. “I think it’s time for a change.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
#40
I called Devanter the next morning at 6:00 from a pay phone up on Main to cancel our appointment. I got his answering machine but I told the machine that there was a family emergency and it seemed to understand—or at least it didn’t argue with me. Then I took a brisk jog to Salter Street where I caught a bus downtown. From there I hit the hamster trails that connected most of the city buildings until I found the parking garage under the Millennium Library. I used the rear entrance to the park and then crossed two more streets to a big hotel.
If anyone was following me they were really good.
In the hotel I used a pay phone to call Sandra Robillard, a gangster who ran her deceased husband’s crime organization. She was smart and fairly honest and she owed me. Or I owed her. Something like that. In any case we knew each other.
She answered and swore at me for about three minutes for calling her that early before I could say, “This is a friend.”
She kept swearing for four more minutes.
“Are you done?”
“Yes. You can reach me at …”
She gave me a number and I dialled. In the south end of the city, right near the edge, I knew she would be rummaging for a new cell phone, one still in its packaging. When she’d used it once she’d sell it on eBay or destroy it. These days it was the only way to avoid police surveillance and it was almost foolproof as long as you could also avoid having your rooms tapped.
She answered on the first ring. “Who are you?”
“Monty.”
“Thought so. What do you need?”
“A meeting. A job.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Five large.”
“Where are you?”
I told her and she was there thirty-seven minutes later on a battered old English Triumph motorcycle. She was wearing lavender silk pyjamas and a huge black helmet and she handed me one of my own when I came forward.
“Get on, bitch.”
A reference to the seat I took behind her with my hands around her waist. At least I hoped so. I got on and she floored it and soon we were on the Perimeter Highway near the bridge north of the city. That’s where she pulled to the side and stripped her helmet off to let the wind run through her shoulder-length black hair. She was slim, in her mid-to-late twenties, with a dark tan, big green eyes and no ability to feel fear.
“Five thousand? For what?”
I leaned against the bike and ran my eyes idly over its smooth, clean lines, so much nicer than any Harley I’d ever stolen.
“For taking my son Fred to Banff and delivering him to his grandparents.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. But I don’t want the cops to know and there may be a guy who wants to get Fred.”
She wrinkled her nose. “A three-year-old?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Different reasons. Francis Bacon said that those who had children were hostages to fortune.”
“Fuck anyone who steals kids. And fuck Francis Bacon. Anything else?”
“Yep. There’s a bonus for you if you agree. The bonus comes up front. Will you help?”
“Of course.”
“The cops have got about twenty detectives a
nd uniforms watching my house.”
Sandra smiled slowly. “They do? Me oh me oh my. Isn’t that interesting.”
I knew what she was thinking. It had suddenly become a great time to run loads of cigarettes, booze, dope, guns, stolen cars, counterfeit electronics, displaced hookers, hot building material, just about whatever into or out of the city. Since she was a serious smuggler, knowing where twenty cops were at any time was a very nice thing indeed.
She nodded abruptly. “Deal. When?”
“Tonight?”
“Sure. What kind of stroller does Fred use?”
“Mostly he uses a wagon.”
“We need a stroller. Do you still have it?”
“Yes.” We still had it and I hated it, a luxury model Claire’s parents had given her when Fred was born. It had some collapsing panels and flaps, so that Fred could still fit in it, if uncomfortably. I described it to Sandra.
“Well, dig it out and use it.”
I agreed and described the device. She nodded and I handed her five thousand in fifties as we hashed out a plan. Finally she said, “Okay. Let’s go. Any more planning and this’ll turn to shit. My husband used to say that crime ain’t a symphony by Beethoven, it’s free-form jazz by a drunk guy with a sax.”
“Who said that?”
“My husband. Before he died. Let’s go.”
“Umm. Can I drive?”
She looked at me suspiciously. “Why?”
“I want to. Also holding you when you’re wearing silk pyjamas is worse than holding you naked. And I don’t think our relationship is ready for the thoughts such activities engender.”
She smothered a smile and I drove myself within ten blocks of home and got off. At a convenience store I bought another cell phone and an hour’s worth of minutes and brought it with me to Claire. She took it without question and walked to work, making the call to her parents as she went, about the only time we could be sure the cops didn’t have a shotgun microphone on her.
That evening she told me the discussion went something like, Mom and Dad, please take my son on a three-week tour of the States and don’t tell anyone about what you’re doing. And Dad said, okay, it’s Monty, isn’t it? What did that dumb sonofafuckingbitch do this time? Nothing Dad, it’s not Monty, it’s me, just do it. And then Mom got on the phone and shut Dad up and he wandered off to check the Winnebago and sharpen his knives. And Mom said, how bad, and Claire said, bad. No one should know where Fred is, including me, so leave for three weeks and come back and call Monty’s lawyer. And Mom said, deal.
I felt considerable relief. Claire’s dad didn’t like me but he really liked his daughter and he really, really liked his grandson and I felt he would have no compunction gutting anyone who tried to touch him. Claire’s mother was even tougher than her dad and I was pretty sure she carried a pistol when I was around. Just in case.
Around noon Devanter called, pissed off at me, and I rescheduled for the next morning.
That night Claire and Fred and I went to the Globe Theatre in Portage Place with his stroller packed with clothes for him. We had explained he would be taking a trip to visit his grandparents and he nodded as though he understood. He didn’t, but he was a good kid and he tried.
When we arrived at the theatre Claire went into the bathroom and I stood outside immobile while Sandra came down the hall with a smiling young girl, maybe sixteen, pushing exactly the same kind of stroller as the one Claire and I used for Fred.
The girl went into the bathroom and Sandra stepped beside me and talked out of the corner of her mouth. “No worries—1,447 klicks to Banff and I’ll run it in twelve hours. Fred will be in his grandparents’ arms by noon at the latest. Susie’s the girl making the transfer, she’s bringing her baby girl as cover, and she’s one and a half, so she’ll be company for Fred. The baby’s waiting downstairs with Long Tom.”
Long Tom was Sandra’s lieutenant, reliable and vicious with a strong sense of loyalty. “Great. Is the car clean?” I meant was she running dope or guns. If she was, I would be pissed.
“Yes. It won’t be on the way back though.”
“That’s fine.”
A large African woman walked past us, swathed in fabrics of unbelievable colours. When she was gone Sandra said, “Is it bad?”
“Yes.”
“You need back-up?”
“Just what you’re doing.”
“All right. There’s a Browning Hi-Power in the men’s bathroom. Fourteen rounds of 9mm military surplus full metal jackets. It’s in a plastic bag on top of the toilet paper dispenser of the second stall from the end. It’s clean and I’ve run a few rounds through it myself. It works fine.”
I stared at her and exhaled. “Thanks.”
“Least I could do. You need anything else just call. I’ll hold onto the number you’ve got for a bit.”
When Claire came out of the bathroom I had the gun under my light summer jacket tucked into the back of my belt where no one could see it.
And Fred was on his way to see his grandparents.
Claire and I walked home silently. Because the cops were listening I turned the Muppets on full blast when we were inside and watched Claire cry. When she was empty I walked upstairs and told a bedtime story to Fred’s empty bed.
I did Dr. Seuss’s Oh The Places You’ll Go.
And by the end I was crying too.
#41
The next day I went to my meeting with Devanter at 7:00. When I got to the building his secretary was waiting outside the front doors, wrapped in an expensive lamb leather coat against the morning chill.
“Mr. Haaviko.”
“Ma’am.”
Her mouth twisted unhappily when I said it. Then she led me up and through her office and into Devanter’s suite. The place looked the same and I glanced around idly while waiting for Cornelius to arrive. I didn’t have long to wait before he came slamming down from his loft wearing an impeccable dove grey suit with a lavender silk shirt and the same tie as before.
“Mr. Haaviko. What the fuck is happening?
“Just what you paid for. By the way, you owe me $5,000. That would help right now. I’ve got expenses.”
He snorted. “You get sweet fuck all.” He stomped to the desk and pressed a button. “Honey? Coffee for two.”
I walked over to the wall with its displays of planes and such and stared at a streamlined blimp rendered in exquisite detail. It was on the lowest level, even with my eyes, stuffed onto the same glass shelf as something that looked like a shark with wings. Stencilled on its side was the word PELIGROSO. There was nothing on the blimp though, just clean lines, huge engines and a tiny cockpit hung from the bottom.
I glanced around and saw an empty shelf about five feet up between two other blimps.
“Nice. It looks smaller than the others.”
Something hit me in the back and I turned to find an elastic-
wrapped bundle of twenties on the floor. I knelt down and picked it up and started to count as Devanter gestured me towards a chair.
“Now what the fuck does that buy me?”
“What you wanted. A loss on the part of Goodson.”
Devanter sat down across from me and his eyes flickered over my shoulder and then back to me. I wondered what was over my shoulder as the coffee arrived and I helped myself. As I stirred in my sugar and cream I turned to check the wall and saw that Devanter’s eyes had been somewhere near where I’d been standing.
Interesting.
Also, flipping the money at me wasn’t something I’d thought Devanter would do.
Devanter cleared his throat. “Here.” I turned and he was offering me a little metal vial with a tiny spoon sticking out.“It’s good Peruvian flake. One of my pilots brings it up for me from the Panama free zone. Help yourself.”
“Thank you, no. I’m straight, remember?”
“Right.” He dug in and snorted a tiny mound of crystal and I saw his eyes sparkle. “Ah … firstest with the mostest.”
Interesting quote. It rang bells—I remembered reading up on cowboys and gunslingers and finding that same quote. I watched the cocaine slam into Devanter and then the quote’s origins came to me. Nathan Bedford Forrest, a Confederate Civil War general in the States, an illiterate autodidact who went on to found the Klu Klux Klan and the namesake of the Republican wet dream Forrest Gump. Someone had asked him about the secret to his success and that had been his response.
I drank some fantastic coffee and wondered what was going on in Devanter’s little mind.
He put away the cocaine and drank some coffee and sneered at the taste. My body remembered what was happening in his mouth and nose—the coke took away your sense of taste. Devanter shrugged and said, “Distinguish the superficial from the substantial.”
That sounded familiar as well. “What do you mean?”
“Well, tell me what you know about Daniel McDonald.”
“Mr. McDonald is the latest man to throw his hat into the ring for the police commission job. He’s right of right wing, a little flaky, pretty, young, and impassioned. My handlers Dean and Brenda have checked him out and claim he’s a student and an actor. Brenda goes on to claim he’s a much better actor than student.”
Devanter nodded and poured more coffee. “And what are you going to do?”
“Stay the course. McDonald and Illyanovitch are in exactly the same place so all I have to do is keep hitting the same point and it’s all good. Then I fade out at the last minute.”
“What about Illyanovitch?”
“What about him? You telling me he’s worried about some wannabe? I’ve debated the man, he has nothing to fear. Tell you what though, McDonald took a swing at me and it’s on camera. I can press charges, which might take him out of the running.”
He digested that while I waited and finally asked, “Where’s Reynolds?”
Devanter’s face tightened and got red. “He no longer works for me. Call me if he tries to reach you.”
“Certainly.”
“As for McDonald, you do that. Fuck him up.”
“Sure.” I got up. “Anything else?”
“No. Nothing.”
I walked out. Two blocks away I bought a handful of change from a vegetarian restaurant and drank coffee. At nine I used a pay phone to call the biggest Indigo bookstore in the city and got hold of the ordering desk.
A Criminal to Remember (A Monty Haaviko Thriller) Page 18