Down with the Underdogs

by Ian Truman

  It was too late for her. Felt like she had had her share with this guy. Once I had my hands on him, he was done. Dead or crippled or broke or working for us on a meager salary and a very tight leash. His options were limited and she didn’t need to know about that world. It wasn’t hers to begin with.

  I tried to stay calm, talk as honestly as I could. “Trust me, I don’t,” I said. Part of me even believed it. She seemed to like that.

  “Trust!” she scoffed. Maybe she knew. Maybe she didn’t. What was done was done, and I had what I came here for. Nothing was going to change that now. “Well, you know what?” she added. “Don’t trust a single word he says.”

  Chapter 14

  I needed everyone on this one. We were looking to barge into a surprisingly trashy triplex that was in stark contrast with the quality of the house I had seen on Nuns’ Island. This was a three-story brown brick from the 1920s, and it didn’t look like anyone had put in any money in it for a few decades. The external staircase was rusted, and some of the planks on the second-floor balcony had holes the size of a fist. Sooner rather than later the rot was gonna claim the whole damn thing, and it felt like that time we were busting in some skinhead apartment down in Hochelaga on the hunt for Cillian’s killer.

  I had sent Ryan and Phil out back and had Karl waiting in the car as a spotter. Truth was I didn’t need him to walk in there and shoot anyone, which was always a possibility with Karl.

  I tried the door, and it was locked. I rang the bell. When no one came I pressed my shoulder against it and when it wouldn’t move so I decided to ram it.

  I stumbled in as the door smacked into the opposite wall and shards of wood flew down the hallways. Someone said, “What the fuck?” and bolted towards the back.

  It wasn’t Emmanuel as far as I could tell. I checked the rooms quickly then heard, “Ah! Jesus! Fuck,” the way you screamed it when it hurt.

  Ryan had opened the door right in the guy’s face. And he had felt it. He lay on the floor holding his nose.

  “Not even locked,” Ryan said to Phil, who stood on the back balcony looking into the alley.

  “All right,” the guy said, trying not to bleed on his pants. “So how much trouble are we talking here?” he asked. He had the Canadian accent, rest-of-Canada kind of Canadian, as Montrealers called them.

  “Is this, like, normal to you?” I asked.

  “People barging in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah? Sure. I mean, why not? Where I’m from it’s not so rare.”

  “Where are you from?” Ryan asked.

  “’Maritimes,” he said.

  “Ah,” I replied. That could actually explain it.

  “Not swearing that much for a Newfie,” Ryan said.

  “Well, that depends on how fucking much fucking trouble I am looking at,” he replied. “Better be fucking polite to start with. You know? Fuck!”

  “All right. Sounds legitimate,” I said. “Where in the Maritimes?”

  “Oromocto.”

  “Where the fuck is that?”

  “Fredericton.”

  “That sounds like a shitty place,” Phil said.

  “Abso-fucking-lutely!”

  Ryan finally got out of the doorway and inside the kitchen. He tripped over a piece of two-by-four as he made his way in, picked it up, and said. “You use this to keep the door open?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You used this to keep the door open?” I looked at him and wondered how exactly that was important.

  “Yes.” The guy hesitated.

  “Oh, well, you shouldn’t do that.” Ryan pointed to the door. “It’s gonna put pressure on your hinges and mess up the frame.”

  “I’m not sure I should care right now,” the guy replied.

  “You really should. A crooked frame, and the breeze is gonna waltz right in next winter. Hydro will fucking kill ya.”

  “It’s a rental.” The guy raised his one free hand in disbelief.

  “I’m not sure I care, either,” I said to the both of them as Karl walked in.

  “Suit yourself.” Ryan dropped the two-by-four in the guy’s crotch.

  “You need me in the car or not?” Karl asked.

  “Nah, this guy ain’t going anywhere,” I said. “Not gonna chase him down a street or an alley.”

  “I was looking forward to something like that,” Karl said. He seemed disappointed. “Who is he?”

  “Some shithead from the Maritimes.”

  “Maritimes?” Karl asked. “Wait, I got a joke about that.” He looked at the guy and asked, “You want to know what happens when you lose your girlfriend in the Maritimes?”

  “Oh, you don’t lose your girlfriend. You just lose your turn,” the guy replied.

  “What?” we said, and then we laughed.

  When things settled down the guy looked at us from the floor and asked, “Are you fucking gonna kill me?”

  “No.” I said. Karl looked at me sideways.

  “Well—” he insisted.

  I couldn’t tell if he was fucking with me or not, so I said, “I mean, it’s not on the table just yet.”

  “All right,” the guy said. “That’s a good place to fucking start. I can live with that. How can I be of service? Then.”

  “You haven’t got much of a spine, have you?” Ryan asked.

  “I’m a fucking slug and will crawl through mud, if you need me to.”

  “This is boring,” Phil said. He was expecting violence, and he wasn’t getting it. He stepped over the guy to the counter and started making himself some coffee.

  “Couldn’t wait for Tim Hortons?” I asked.

  “Bah, tant qu’a etre là!” he replied, frustrated. “While we’re here.”

  “Try not to steal the guy’s computer this time.”

  The guy looked up. “I would really fucking appreciate if you didn’t do that.”

  “Heille, heille, heille.” Phil said in French. Then he looked through the guy’s cupboards and found a mug.

  Phil opened the fridge and poured some milk in the cup. He flipped open his phone, and just like that Phil was gone for a while.

  Ryan crouched next to the guy, looked him in the face, and said, “I think I’m gonna call you Spud. Can I call you Spud? You remind me of Spud.”

  “Who the fuck is Spud?”

  “Never seen Trainspotting?” Ryan asked.

  “No.” The guy hesitated again.

  “We’re getting fucking old,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Ryan replied, “and fat, too.”

  “Well, that was uncalled for.”

  Karl looked at me. “You could hit the gym every once in a while.”

  “Ha!” Phil shouted, still looking at his phone, “Check’ l’é qui s’prend pour un autre!” saying Karl was full of himself in the best snark the Québécois accent could muster.

  Ryan pointed to the chair next to him. The guy sat down, and Ryan handed him some paper towels. The guy rolled them and stuck them in his nostrils for the bleed. What a wonderful moment in the city’s criminal history.

  Like many older Montreal kitchens, the place was too small to fit everything you needed in there. There was a round wooden table pushed against the wall. We had no real room to sit, and we ended up squeezing ourselves in the chairs between the fridge on one end and the washer/dryer in another corner. Karl stood against the edge of the half-wall that separated the kitchen from the living room. Netflix was still on, playing some robot show from the nineties.

  I flipped open my phone and slid it towards the guy to show him the best photo I had of our target.

  “Is this about my roommate?” he said. He seemed relieved.

  “You roommate? Not friends?”

  “Friends would be a fucking overstatement.”

  “Business partners?”

  “Business. No. Absolutely no. Fuck! I’m way too poor for any sort of fuckin
g business.”

  “What is it you do for a living?”

  “Oh. I’m in IT.” That rang shit job to me. If the guy had to use such a general fucking term as “IT,” then he was probably a telemarketer for all I cared.

  “That a good living?” Ryan asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Any idea where he is?” I asked.

  “Can’t help you.”

  “Any time he usually comes in?”

  “Haven’t seen him in weeks.”

  “Haven’t seen him in weeks?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Cash transfers still come in, but he hasn’t been around.”

  I’d buy that. “So not friends in any capacity?”

  “If you need me to tell you we’re friends, you know I’ll fucking tell you we’re friends. Happy to tell you we’re friends.”

  “Are you actually friends?” Ryan insisted.

  “No.”

  “Then?”

  “Well, we go out every now and then. Like roommates would. A beer or two. I don’t really know him. He shows up a few days every now and then, and then he’s gone. I can’t afford his fucking lifestyle. He likes expensive fucking shit, you know? I just needed someone to pay half my bills.”

  “You should get a girlfriend,” Phil said.

  The guy looked at him. “Got someone for me to meet?”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  “How did he contact you?” I asked.

  “Same way everybody finds a roommate. I posted this ad on some shitty website for out-of-towners, and he applied, and he had money. Said he just fucking came in from France and shit.”

  “You have his e-mail.”

  “I can find it.”

  “You have a full name?”

  “Emmanuel Ducas.”

  Karl took a note of the details and then asked, “Do you have proof of this? I mean physical proof we could use?”

  “Of his name?”

  “Has he shown you a card or something? Background check?”

  “Oh, I’m not that thorough. Not at all. He pays his room. I pay the landlord, and that’s all fucking good.”

  “How long has he lived here?”

  “Two years, give or take.”

  Two years means he was living here and at his condo on Nuns’ Island for a while. I didn’t know if this was news to his wife, or if I should care to tell her or care about it or her or any of this at all, but it went on the little note pad just in case.

  This guy was covering his tracks in more than one way, and I was going to have to be thorough with him.

  “Any places you know we could find him? His job?” Karl asked.

  “He’s a businessman or something. I don’t know what he actually does. Consultant work, he’d say sometimes, but I still can’t figure out what the fuck he knows about anything.”

  Phil laughed. I think we all liked the guy.

  “Mesrine ring a bell?”

  “Wasn’t that a movie a few years ago?”

  Mesrine didn’t ring a bell. “Where does he like to get his drink?” I continued.

  “Liquor store?” the guy said.

  “Bars,” I snapped then calmed myself down. “What bars does he go to?”

  “He likes them fancy for sure. Last time he asked if I wanted to go to this new place in Griffintown. I mean, I don’t have the money for that.”

  “Who the fuck does?” I said.

  “Glasshouse?” Karl asked.

  “It has to be,” Phil replied. “What else is out there?”

  “We know anyone who works there?” I asked. “Ryan?”

  “Bouncer or waitress?”

  “Either, or anyone.”

  “I’ll ask around,” he answered. “I could always ask for a shift or two, probably something that’s in the cards.”

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Phil asked. “How much do you make on your shifts?”

  “Looking to work?”

  “I get a few nights when I need to. I just want to know if I’m getting screwed or not.”

  “Well, it depends, really.”

  “Worst and best.”

  “Worst, maybe a hundred and fifty bucks if it’s Tuesday and I’m bored and I like the place and if there’s a waitress I might be looking to hit on.”

  “And best?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I want to know,” I said.

  “So do I,” Phil insisted.

  Ryan thought about it. “I’ve made twenty-four hundred bucks, once,” he said. “Tips included.”

  “Fuck off! Where?” Phil said.

  “Grand Prix weekend on Crescent, big fucking club out near Maisonneuve. Lots of girls, lots of assholes, lots of drugs and drunks. I worked for that motherfucker for that pay, I tell you.”

  “That sounds like a horrible place to work,” Spud said.

  “It really was. I’m Ryan, by the way.” Ryan extended a hand.

  “All right, enough,” Karl snapped. “You want to give him your address and fucking cuddle with the guy while you’re at it?”

  “What’s so wrong about being friendly?” Ryan said. “Who the fuck is this sorry piece of shit going to talk to?”

  “Still,” Karl replied.

  I though Karl was being an ass, so I said to him, “How about you check Ducas’ room?”

  “Have Phil check the room,” Karl snapped.

  “I’m having coffee,” Phil said, and he took a sip.

  “Have it to go!”

  “I’ll check the damn room,” Ryan said, then he stared at Karl and said, “Did you forget to get fucked sometime in the last eighteen months? Anyone? A fucking sheep?”

  Any other times and circumstances, you’d bet twenty bucks they were gonna be at each other’s throats inside of ten seconds. You would never believe they were on the same team. Well, they were working for me at the same place and at the same time, but they weren’t on the same fucking team. How the fuck I managed to keep these assholes in check was still a fucking miracle.

  “Don’t ever hint at my sex life again.”

  “Ah, like you’d have a fighting chance,” Ryan said.

  I couldn’t figure out who would win. Karl was sharp and unforgiving, but Ryan had that deep, lasting rage of a man with nothing to lose. I remembered the blow he took to the ear from that MMA fighter with fucking brass knuckles, and he walked it off and finished the fight. Karl vs. Ryan was straight fifty-fifty as far as I was concerned. Of course, I would never admit that to either of them. I’d lose, but you didn’t admit to something like that.

  “I’m coming with you,” Phil said, closing his phone and holding onto the mug.

  “You two are fucking pussies,” Karl told them.

  “Don’t be jealous.” Ryan smirked. Phil slapped Ryan hard on the ass and said, “Come on and get some balls.”

  “I love it when you’re hard,” Ryan joked as they walked down the corridor.

  “The two of them any sort of a couple?” Spud asked.

  Karl and I turned to him. Looked at him like he had just kicked a sleeping dog.

  “What should we do with him?” I asked Karl. At this point we were just fucking around with the poor sucker. There was nothing more to get from him. A full name and a bar was a good day’s work by any means. We were just gonna have our fun.

  “The canal’s pretty far for a dump,” I said.

  “In broad daylight, too?”

  “We could come back in at night.”

  “He’s watching Robot Wars alone on Netflix on a Saturday afternoon.”

  “I know, right?”

  “We’d be doing him a service?”

  Me and Karl thought we were on a roll, that the guy was gonna sweat it and shit himself or beg or look to sneak his way out. Nada. Nothing. No fun on that one. The guy just asked, “So, which one are you?” out of thin air, not nervous in any way.

  �
�What do you mean?”

  “Mafia?”

  “Ah, You’re no fun,” Karl scoffed.

  “I’m not telling you that,” I replied, almost laughing.

  “Private security?”

  “Don’t try.”

  “Are you Irish? You sound Irish.”

  “I don’t,” Karl replied.

  “Stop trying to figure us out,” I warned him. There was a short silence, and you could hear the compressor of the shitty fridge kick in.

  “Are you looking to hire?” he finally asked.

  I laughed. You had to admire the guts and the maybe the desperation, too.

  “Found a cell phone,” Ryan said from the other room.

  “Locked?” I asked.

  “Well, yeah.”

  They were walking back in the kitchen.

  “Why isn’t he nervous?” Phil said. “Thought we had a whole routine set up. Canal, broad daylight and shit.”

  “He’s not biting,” Karl replied.

  “You’re no fun,” Ryan said to Spud.

  “You were too nice to him,” Phil said. The phone was going around, everyone giving it a shot without any real purpose.

  “This your roommate’s?” I asked.

  “Well. I can only tell you it ain’t mine.”

  “What brand?” I asked Phil.

  “Samsung.” Ryan replied.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” Karl replied. “I know a guy.”

  “Good,” Phil said. “I’m gonna add him and spam the fuck out of him with life requests.”

  “Are you fucking serious?” I asked. It was hard to tell he wasn’t. “That’s your plan for revenge?”

  “Hey, five hearts really isn’t enough. Besides, the guy’s got nothing else to steal.”

  “You need to steal shit every time?” Ryan asked. “Fucking kleptomaniac.”

  “I don’t keep any of it. I don’t give a shit about this guy’s phone or anyone else shit for that matter.”

  “Then why do you take it?”

  “Because fuck them.”

  There was no argument there.

  I looked at Spud, sitting in his chair. He did have some likeness to Spud. Spud, looking like a fucking idiot with the two bloody paper towels sticking out of his nostrils and that look on his face.