Vigilante Season

by Peter Kirby

  “You were at one of the desks,” said Vanier.

  “Yeah. I’ve worked there for six months, about.”

  “What do you do at the Patriotes?” asked Saint-Jacques.

  “A little bit of everything, but, mostly, I write grant proposals. And I supervise a bunch of programs, you know, hire the staff, get the location, that sort of thing. Oh, and I write the reports on the programs.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Vanier. “Like you ask for the money and then you report how it was spent.”

  “More or less. Writing a grant application is a skill, and I’m good at it. The way it works is that a Department will get a budget to, say, promote early childcare. They don’t have the people to actually do it, so they give it to someone else to do. Usually, you have to develop a proposal and ask for funding. If they accept the proposal, you get some of the money. When it’s finished, you report how great the program was and then you get the rest of the money.”

  “That’s a full time job?”

  “Almost. There’s a lot of money in the charity sector. It’s how organizations survive. Say there’s a need for after-school programs. We put together a proposal and ask for $100,000. If it’s approved, we hire someone to do it for $25,000 and pocket the rest. At the end, I write a report showing how the $100,000 was well spent and what the results were.”

  “But you didn’t spend $100,000?” asked Saint-Jacques.

  “Not even close. But that’s how the community charity sector works.”

  “Not just the Patriotes?”

  “Hell, no.” She laughed at their ignorance. “You can always find people who will do the actual work. They get a fixed rate, doesn’t matter how many hours they put in, that’s all they get. But you need administration, that’s where the money is. It happens all the time. In the charities, the only areas making money are the administration. The people who actually deliver the services get screwed. It’s a scam.”

  “If everyone’s doing it, why did you want to talk to us about the Patriotes?” asked Saint-Jacques.

  “I’m worried I might be involved in something illegal. There’s so many strange things going on there. Something’s not right.”

  “Like what, Melissa?”

  She pulled back from the table and lost the slouch. She was thinking. Then she leaned forward.

  “Well, the big thing is the money.”

  “Money?”

  “I have to pay tons of people in my work. And it’s always cash. The contract workers, church halls for meetings, cafés for sandwiches, printing, that sort of thing. It’s all small stuff, but it adds up. It’s always cash. And everyone else has to do it too. We fill out requisition forms and we always get cash back. Never a cheque. Even though the form says to fill in who to make the cheque payable to. It always comes back as cash and we have to get a receipt.”

  “But it’s just petty cash,” said Saint-Jacques.

  “It adds up. And they have an accountant. They could use cheques.”

  “But it’s not a lot.”

  “Not for me. It’s not a lot for me. Maybe four or five thousand a month. But it’s the same for all the programs. After I called you,” she looked at Saint-Jacques, “I tried to figure out how much it might be, if all those kinds of payments were in cash. It’s $50,000 to $60,000 a month. And that got me thinking about how much money was coming in. I went back over all the grant applications I filled in, and so for this year, I’ve applied for one and a half million dollars. And it’s only April.”

  “Melissa, there’s nothing illegal about getting government grants to do programs,” said Saint-Jacques. “And, I suppose, if the actual programs cost less than the grant, they soak up the rest in administration charges. That’s okay too. As for the cash, it’s strange, but, again, nothing illegal.”

  Vanier put down his teacup. “What about the security? I heard the Patriotes have a public security contract. What do you know about that?”

  “Not much. It’s run from upstairs. I think it’s just for the zone. They have guys there all the time. We don’t get involved with that. The charity is called Société des Patriotes de Montréal. Security is a separate company, HSS – Hochelaga Security Services. They’re both run from upstairs.”

  Lavigeur looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go. I have to pick up my kids.”

  “Thanks, Melissa,” said Saint-Jacques.

  “But you don’t think …,” she said, as though she was looking for confirmation that there was a problem.

  “We’re still looking at things,” said Vanier. “Maybe things will begin to make sense when we know more. But like Sylvie said, thanks for talking to us.”

  She looked at Vanier. “And that incident with the kid. I believe you. And what you’re doing, it’s important. There’s something bad happening here.”

  Vanier got up as she left and shook her hand again. He slipped into her spot and pulled his cup across the table.

  “So what do you think, Sylvie?”

  “It’s strange. But we don’t have a clue what’s going on. And we aren’t supposed to be doing anything.”

  “It stinks, Sylvie. And I’m not letting these bastards get away with screwing with us.”

  It was Wednesday night, and traffic was slow in the zone. Vanier was in his Volvo, cruising slowly along Sainte-Catherine Street like a john. He was also getting the same hand-waving invitations. He pulled over and nodded to a green woolly top and black pants that were tighter than paint. She leaned in the window and smiled.

  “Hi. You looking for something?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “How much?”

  “Depends what you want, honey, and where you want it.” She was all smiles, but her eyes were alert, taking in Vanier and everything in the car. She was cautious, but eager. Business was slow.

  “BJ. In the car?”

  She opened the car and got in, reaching across to put her hand on his thigh. He enjoyed it.

  “Sixty.” She held her hand out. “We can drive into the alley off Moreau.”

  “I could arrest you right now.”

  “Shit. A fucking cop. You’ve no right, you know. There’s no arrests, not anymore. What’s the matter with you?”

  “I didn’t get the memo.”

  “Well you’d better look it up. We don’t work up on Ontario. And you stay away from us down here. That’s the deal.”

  “Who made the deal?”

  “Prime Minister Harper. How the fuck should I know. I just know that’s the deal.”

  “I’m looking for someone. She may be working here.”

  She was interested again. “You’ve got a crush? It’s good to play the field. For you, I’ll do an introductory special. Fifty bucks. And you’ll be smiling all night.” She put her hand back on his thigh.

  He let her hand stay where it was. “You help me find her, and you can go back to work.”

  She removed her hand. “Who is she?”

  “Maude. Maude Roberge. Émile Legault’s girlfriend, till he got killed. I heard she’s back working.”

  “She never gave up working. Just now, she’s back on the street.”

  “So you know her?”

  “It’s not a big place.” She pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He pushed the button for the window. “Suppose I know her. How much if I help you?”

  “I told you. You don’t get arrested.”

  “Come on, I’m supposed to be earning money. What’s it to you?”

  Vanier knew she’d take what she could get. The sixty for a blow job was her opening offer, she’d dropped to fifty in a heartbeat.

  “Twenty.”

  “Forty.” She gave him a smile and put her hand back on his thigh. “For forty, I’ll show you where she is, and give you a hand job.”

  “Thirty. Without the hand job.” He pulled out a t
en and a twenty and handed it to her.

  “Drive three blocks down. That’s where she usually works.”

  Vanier followed the instructions.

  “That’s her,” she said. “In the red coat.” She was pointing to a woman standing at the curb on the next block. The red coat was Little Red Riding Hood loud. She had a huge white shoulder bag in case you missed the red.

  “I’ll get out here,” she said, taking the thirty dollars.

  He stopped the car and the woman got out, struggling on her heels. She closed the door and leaned in the window. “Don’t tell her it was me.”

  “Sure.”

  Vanier drove to the next block and stopped in front of Maude, sliding the window down. Maude leaned in. She looked wrecked. Her make-up was heavy, looked like it was put on in the dark. Some of it was almost in the right place.

  “Hey darling. What you thinking about?”

  “What’s on offer?”

  At the sound of a serious customer, she pulled open the door and climbed in.

  “Whatever you want, Mister. Anything special in mind?” For the second time in minutes he felt the hand on his thigh. He pushed the door lock and removed her hand.

  “Just some information, Maude.”

  At the sound of her name, she looked at his face. She hadn’t bothered before. She was trying to remember.

  “Sometimes, I’m so bad with faces. We’ve been together before?”

  He returned her gaze. Up close, she looked worse than wrecked. “You don’t recognize me?”

  “It doesn’t matter, love. What do you want me to call you?”

  Then finally she got it. Almost. “You’re a cop. Oh, shit.”

  She sat back in her seat, resigned.

  “Maude, we’ve met. I’m investigating Émile’s murder.”

  Her hand went for the door handle, but the door was locked. Vanier pulled away from the curb.

  “I want to leave … Right now.”

  “Just a chat, Maude. You and me. It won’t take long.”

  She sat back. She was used to doing what she was told. “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  Maude lit a cigarette, and Vanier punched the window down again. He drove her to a Tim Hortons, its thousand-watt interior looking bright but not warm. She wanted a coffee, a chicken sandwich, and a muffin. When they sat down, she put the chicken sandwich in her bag and began picking at the muffin. She looked at him across the plastic table.

  “I’ve got to get back.”

  “Émile’s father said you know a lot more than you told me.”

  “I told you. I don’t know who it was. Émile pissed off so many people, it could have been anyone.”

  “Was Émile having trouble?”

  She looked up at him like it was a stupid question.

  “Émile was always in trouble. His whole life was a bag of shit. He was paranoid. With reason.”

  “How so?”

  “Payments. He was always behind. He was his own best customer, and when he did sell stuff, he’d piss it off gambling or buying guns or some shit. He didn’t pay the suppliers. Then he got crazy when guys would come around to collect. Like they were disrespecting him.”

  “Who was he buying drugs from?”

  “He went through different guys. Mostly unaffiliated. He thought it didn’t matter if he stiffed them because they didn’t have enough muscle to collect. He was an idiot.”

  “And?”

  “It’s just like any other business. My dad used to have an import business.”

  Vanier raised an eyebrow

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. It was legitimate. He used to import food. If someone stiffed him, he’d sell the debt to people who were better at collecting. Same thing. The Hells started showing up to collect debts he owed to other dealers. I figured they bought the debts.”

  “And Émile couldn’t pay?”

  She gave him the look again. Another stupid question. “There’s no can’t pay with the Hells. He found money, but never enough. And he was getting worse every day. He was smoking heroine all day and walking around with a gun stuffed in his pants. Fucking wind would blow and he’d pull out the gun. He was always looking out the window.”

  “So you think the Hells took him?”

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah, it must have been the Hells.”

  “Why would they kill him if he owed them money?”

  “How do I know? Maybe as an example, to show people what happens if you don’t pay.” She turned to look at the clock on the wall, studying it carefully, like she was counting. “I have to go. I told you.”

  “So who are you working for now?”

  “No one. I work for myself.”

  “Émile’s father said you used to take notes, you used to write everything down.”

  She brightened up.

  “Yeah. You know like in that film. You know, where the guy, like can’t remember anything, so he writes everything down.”

  “Memento?”

  “Maybe, I’m not sure. I loved that film.”

  She drifted away, maybe remembering the film.

  “So where are the notes?”

  “I lost them. They gave me a green garbage bag with my clothes and put me in the car. That was it. Nothing else in the bag. I looked.”

  Vanier knew he was wasting his time. He drove her back to her spot. She turned to him. “I need money. I’ve been gone too long and I need something to show for it.”

  “I thought you said you worked for yourself.”

  “Sixty bucks. For this long, I need sixty.”

  He reached into his pocket. “Here’s forty.”

  She reached out for the two bills, but Vanier pulled back. “Who do you work for, Maude?

  “Same as everyone else around here.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Ask around, it’s not a big secret.” She grabbed the money, got out of the car, spun around to get her bearings, and then took up her post at the curb.

  Vanier drove off, parked at the next block, and adjusted the rear-view mirror. There were more women than cars, and every time a car stopped the women jockeyed for position at the passenger window. Even so, within minutes Maude got into another car and was gone.

  He continued watching the street and thinking, until a truck pulled up behind him and lit up the inside of the Volvo with its high-beams. Then the beams flashed, and Vanier was again aware of his lack of status. He could still get out and act like a cop, but he didn’t have a badge or a gun to protect him. He thought about leaving, but the high-beams flashed again. Fuck you, he thought, and decided to stay.

  In the side mirror he watched a buzz-cut guy in his twenties get out of the truck and walk towards the Volvo. Vanier slid the window down and shifted his weight to be ready to smash the door into the guy’s knees.

  “You’re going to have to move along, sir.”

  “Says who?”

  “Don’t make things difficult, just move on.”

  “Why don’t you call the police?”

  “Sir, I’m public security. And I have the right to ask you to move on. You don’t really want me to call the police, do you?”

  “A Patriote?”

  “Everyone’s a patriot. I love this country. Now move on.”

  Vanier started the car and drove slowly away.

  At 3:45 a.m., the third car pulled into the parking lot at LaFleur’s and joined the other two. Garguet was leaning into an SUV, giving last-minute instructions. Five minutes later, the three-car motorcade pulled out for the short drive along Notre-Dame to the warehouse. They turned right, up Jeanne d’Arc, then left into the parking lot. They shut the engines and cruised silently to a stop.
The parking lot was empty, and the building looked deserted.

  Nick and Tony were cradling sawn-off shotguns and disappeared around to the back. Rico had served his apprenticeship making pipe bombs, and he was looking after the explosives. It didn’t take him long to fix small charges to each door. The others sheltered along the walls and watched while Rico pushed some numbers on a cell phone. The first door blew off its hinges and fell to the floor with a crash. The second door didn’t move until Garguet kicked it. Then it swung open. They went inside quickly, through the smoke that filled the doorways. Garguet flicked the light switch as he passed, and everyone was screaming at once: Police. On your feet. Hands in the air. Now.

  All of them had all been on the receiving end of enough police raids to know how it was done and how it sounded. And they knew that if it really was a police raid, you shouldn’t be reaching for a gun unless you had a death wish. But there was no response. The place was silent except for their own screaming. The truck, with the container sitting on its bed, was in the centre of the long room.

  “Jesus. Looks like they left it alone, boss. Fucking idiots,” said Pierre, smiling.

  “Better search the place, spread out,” Garguet said.

  Before they could move, they heard the door on the other side of the truck scraping on the stone floor. Garguet leaned down to look under the truck and saw feet running out the door. The shots came seconds later; two blasts in quick succession.

  “Rico, go outside by this door,” said Garguet, gesturing to the one he had just came through. “See what’s happening.”

  Rico disappeared out the door. “Okay, the rest of you spread out and search the place.”

  On the other side of the truck, Tony and Nick were dragging the body of Serge Barbeau into the building, his blood making skid marks on the floor.

  “He’s dead. He was trying to escape,” said Nick.

  “Too bad, he should have stayed here.”

  “The place is empty,” said Pierre. “Christ, you’re brilliant, Louis. They must all be up at the zone.”

  “Damn right,” said Garguet. Then he turned to Nick in the truck. “Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

  Nick jumped up into the cab and started fiddling with the wiring under the dashboard. The motor started in seconds, and Nick gave a wave. Eddie pushed the button at the side of the garage door, and it opened slowly. They stood there watching as Nick drove out and turned down to Notre-Dame. In ten minutes he’d be on the highway, heading for Ontario.