The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery

by Richard Cain

“It would make a hell of a read.”

  “Yeah. I’ll devote an entire chapter to him when I write my memoirs.”

  Nastos remembered back to the first time he met Viktor, in Carscadden’s office shortly after he had been released on bail. He seemed humble and caring, nothing like the man portrayed in the news as a multiple gangland killer. “You know I always wondered what the truth is about Viktor. Did he do half the stuff they said in the news? How did he make all of his money?”

  “Confidentially, I can’t tell you much. What I can’t say is whether he committed crimes in Canada, but in his own country he’s known as a Robin Hood. He took on and, in some cases, took down some bad dudes. He dispersed the money to the people and eventually had to take off. He came to Canada, became a success and has been sending money home ever since. He was tracked down, and he took care of it. That’s all I can say.”

  Despite knowing Viktor for almost three years, Nastos found him a mystery. Nastos had no reason to disbelieve Carscadden but still could not trust Viktor. He balled up the cellophane wrap from his sandwich and tossed it in Carscadden’s lunch bucket. He felt a nudge on his shoulder and followed Carscadden’s extended finger. It pointed to the cops in their pickup truck. “Check out our heroes.”

  Morrison was pulling a ski mask over his face. Radix, in the driver’s seat, started the truck.

  Nastos shook his head. “This is not happening right now.”

  “It’s like they want to get caught.”

  Nastos pulled out his binos and zoomed in on the truck. “The driver has a police radio with him. He knows the cops aren’t nearby. That’s what they’ve been waiting for.” He checked his watch. “The afternoon shift hasn’t started yet and the day-shift guys could all be tied up with radio calls.” Nastos glanced sideways at Carscadden. “What do you say you get the camera out?”

  Carscadden rummaged in the back of the van, turning back as he took the camera from the pouch.

  They watched as Morrison hit the gas aggressively, screeching to a halt in front of the tattoo parlour. Radix bolted from the passenger side and raced for the business brandishing a shotgun. He kicked the door open and charged in. Nastos checked his watch. He timed it that Radix was in the shop for less than two minutes. When Radix came out he had a bag in one hand, the shotgun in the other. Morrison kicked open the passenger-side door, Radix banged into it and scrambled inside. Then they peeled away, fishtailing around the corner.

  Nastos and Carscadden exchanged shocked glances then turned back to the now-vacant parking place.

  Nastos asked, “I don’t suppose you got much of that?”

  “Nope. They moved pretty fast. I should have put it on video. I took a few shots with my cellphone. I think it worked better.”

  Nastos pointed to a black SUV parked ahead of them on the same side of the street. “Did you see anyone get in or out of there in the last half hour?”

  “No. It’s right in my line of fire here. I would have noticed.” Carscadden scrolled back a few photos. “It’s in the background of a few of the pictures here. I think I got the plate.”

  The windows were tinted but Nastos caught a glimpse into the front passenger seat as the SUV pulled away and made a right turn. Nastos did a quick check for traffic then sped out onto the road to follow. He took the corner slowly then floored the engine. The black SUV had gone straight and was still in front of them. “Did you see a cellphone in there?”

  “Yeah.” He picked up his phone and scrolled through its pictures. He held the phone over to Nastos. “Check that out. I got the plate with my phone too.”

  Nastos took the phone into his hands and flipped through a few pictures. “We’ll run the plate. It’s a rental, I can tell you that right now.”

  “Run the plate through Jacques?”

  “It would be faster but no. If it turns out to belong to a police surveillance team he wouldn’t be able to explain why he checked the plate. Call Hopkins and get her to do it through the Ministry on our PI licence.” Nastos checked the time. “We might not get the reply today.”

  “And how do you know that it’s a rental car? There’s no sticker, no marking.”

  Nastos knew from various drug interdiction courses that he had taken. “It’s a new vehicle, within this year, with no dealership decals on the back, nor any licence plate borders from where it was bought. No modifications like tint. It’s a rental or a company fleet vehicle.”

  Carscadden shrugged. “I’ll send Hopkins a text. If she faxes it over we might get lucky.”

  Nastos kept his eyes on the SUV ahead of them. “I wonder if it’s a police spin team following our guys. Let’s see where this takes us.”

  They maintained some space, allowing three random cars between them and the SUV. South on Dufferin to King Street, to Bathurst to Lakeshore Boulevard, traffic was active with cars jostling around in a way that gave good cover. Nastos fell back a few lengths then drew closer at times, riding out the ebbs and flows of traffic.

  When it was obvious that the SUV was going to BMO Field, Nastos drove north on Nunavut toward the Ricoh Coliseum, parked and took out the binoculars. He said to Carscadden, “Professional Standards wouldn’t drive here. They’d go right to work and show the video to their bosses. They’d all high five then start planning their promotional parties.”

  Carscadden tried peering over Nastos. “See anything?”

  “Yeah, I do. Morrison is walking into a bathroom along the outside of the building. He’s carrying the bag with him.”

  “No shotgun?”

  “Not unless he can hide it up his ass.”

  Nastos shoved Carscadden back with his elbow. “Do you mind, your schlong is pressing into my back.”

  “You wish.” Carscadden moved back.

  “Umm, yeah, no.” He scanned left and right, concerned that he missed something. Then Morrison walked out of the bathroom. “Morrison came out without the bag.”

  Carscadden popped open the door. “Call me on my cell if you see anything. I’ll go get the bag.”

  “Wait! Wait!”

  “What?”

  “Some guy’s walking into the washroom. Wearing a suit. Tall, maybe late forties, salt and pepper hair. And black gloves. Who the hell wears those when they’re out walking?”

  “No one.”

  12

  The most expensive thing in the world to preserve was a reputation, and Vince Druer had at least two of them in the palms of his hands. Once the cop had left, Vince opened the stall door and picked up the bag of money. He dropped it on the counter and unzipped it, revealing fifty thousand dollars. Over the years he had done deals where millions had exchanged hands and never given it a second thought. He shook his head. Back then he had thought that making money for the club and for himself were practically the same thing. Looking back, he saw that they had used him.

  The bikers created wealth in a few mainstay industries: auto theft, drug and weapon trafficking, extortion and contract killing. Vince had run dozens of extortion jobs. It was always the same. The target always paid the first instalment to buy time, then they’d pay more, throwing good money after bad until they were bankrupt. Both of these cops were as young and ambitious as he had been. They both had property they could sell, they both had vehicles and, most important, they both had secrets. More money would come, hopefully faster than his partner, Christian, could spend it.

  Vince appraised himself in the mirror and did a rare thing — he smiled. He gave it a moment but it didn’t take. A smile knows when it’s unwanted. Tired, hazel eyes glimmered back at the reflection of a greying man with thinning hair and a weightlifter’s stone-carved good looks. He was still handsome for his age. He splashed cold water on his face and towelled off.

  Again he found himself meeting his own gaze in the mirror. This time he judged the old man, trying to see traces of the young military man he had once bee
n. He had graduated from RMC, the Royal Military College, at twenty-two and became an intelligence officer, serving an eight-year contract until he was thirty and recruited to go underground in the world of the outlaw motorcycle gangs with promises of glamour, excitement and money.

  The face he searched for was gone and all that was left was the image of a professional killer. His face was the last thing that many people had ever seen. His dossier in the club was impressive. On occasion he had been hired out to other organizations where anonymity was essential. He was known as the man to call for discretion, back when such a thing was necessary. Now you could hire some Third World nobody for a tenth of the price and the best part was that the guy wouldn’t even care if he was caught — jail here was better than life in too many places for a domestic market to thrive. The Third World patsy would serve a few years and come out with a refugee claim, for god’s sakes. You can’t outbid someone who thinks like that. But what you can do is accept the shrinking marketplace and offer discretion when it’s needed.

  Vince opened his wallet and took out a photograph. He held it up to eye level, arm outstretched, comparing it with his own image in the mirror. When his phone rang he answered it with one hand, not letting the picture move from his sight.

  The caller was Mr. Angelo Moretti, the club president — a sociopath who had climbed his way up in the organization with ruthless efficiency. His chief means of ascendance was killing those closest to him. More than outsiders, it was his own men who lay in graves. Vince, as was common practice, tread lightly.

  “Mr. Moretti, sir. Yes, it’s a shame things worked out that way . . . Well, sir, live to fight another day . . . Christian’s doing fine. He’s a little disappointed, you know how kids get . . . Don’t worry, sir, I’m showing him the way. When he comes back, he’ll be ready . . . Right, sir, good afternoon.” Only after he hung up and gave the picture another appraisal did he put it back in his wallet, then the wallet back in his pocket.

  He pondered for a moment then turned his attention to his phone. He slipped a memory card into the USB port from his pocket that spoofed his outgoing caller ID.

  A man answered. “Go for RJ.”

  Vince recited the motto of the Canadian military’s intelligence branch. “From darkness, light.”

  “Vince Druer, how the hell are you?” The voice was uncharacteristically jovial; it had been a long time since they had spoken.

  “You tell me, RJ. It’s tough maintaining operational objectivity when you’re up to your elbows in blood.”

  RJ grew serious. “I hear you’re on your way out, Vince, whether you know it or not.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking too.”

  “You have an evac plan?”

  Vince nodded. “Yeah, like you told me to back in the day.”

  “That’s what I always admired about you, Vince. You took advice. Not many people can actually say that.”

  Vince said nothing.

  “Am I going to see you in your next life?”

  “Yeah. In fact, I might come down that way.”

  “How long?”

  “A week?”

  RJ paused before answering. “I’ll be ready. Strangers stand out down here. I’ll keep you safe.”

  “Much obliged.”

  Vince hung up the phone. With RJ he could get a fresh start. Everyone else in the club thought that he had died years ago. No one would look there.

  He made another call. A woman answered the phone. “Hello?”

  He replayed her voice in his mind. He felt the tension in his shoulders disappear, felt his heart rate slow. “It’s me.”

  “Are you coming home?”

  “Shhh. Listen, babe, listen.” He paused again. “You listening?”

  “Yeah, Vince, what’s going on?”

  “We’re getting out. Get ready to move fast. Just the absolute basics. ID, start siphoning cash from the accounts, buy a bunch of those prepaid credit cards and make sure no one is following you when you do it.”

  He heard her sigh on the phone, heard the disappointment. “You promised it wouldn’t be like this, that they would let you walk.”

  “That was before Angelo decided to blow a jug in his heart wall. Now I have to train his kid up to speed so he can run the whole business, which should have been left to me. I’ll saw his head off and mount it on a spike before he takes over from Daddy. And as I recall, the only thing I ever promised you was to love and honour you, in sickness and in health. I never said anything about getting out of this life painlessly.”

  He peeked in the bag again, seeing the mixture of flat and rolled stacks of cash. “I don’t have long. Christian is waiting. An opportunity has presented itself here, might be good for a hundred grand all in. You liquidate what you can and set up the transfer accounts for the sale of the house. We can start over with maybe five hundred and forty grand, plus the investments.”

  “Okay, let’s do this.” She exhaled. He could feel the release of tension. Now that the decision was made she was committed.

  “I don’t know when I can call again. Remember the run code?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Okay then, talk soon. Bye.”

  After hanging up, he took out the memory device and put it away. The zipper on the bag was smooth. He closed the bag of cash then left the washroom and strolled back to the black Chevy Tahoe. He sucked the air in through his nostrils, exhaled through his mouth and reminded himself that he wasn’t yet dead.

  Vince slid into the driver’s seat, dropping the heavy bag of cash in the back. Christian ignored him. Although barely twenty years old, he was filled with obsessive hatred. He was indoctrinated into the family crime business when he was ten years old, by which time Daddy thought he no longer needed to be shielded from the beatings that his mother endured. With a sharp haircut, blond hair, blue eyes, Christian was thick from steroids but rarely worked out, leaving him less of a physical threat than he appeared. Veins protruded over thick but soft muscle. He watched a video on his iPhone, replaying and giggling at his favourite parts. To Vince’s ear the gunfire sounded tinny and thin from the phone’s tiny speakers.

  It was maddening and dangerous for Vince to be trapped between the two Morettis swirling around him like hungry sharks, Angelo circling over his head, Christian nipping at his heels. Vince was annoyed by Christian’s sly, reticent smile that said it was just a matter of time before Christian took his rightful position in the organization by unleashing on him all of the pent-up hostility and frustration he felt. Training this little bastard was bad enough, but training him to be my boss? Not going to happen.

  Vince tried briefly to consider if it would have been any different if Angelo’s heart attack didn’t happen. There had been no signs that he was being passed over until the very end, had there? He didn’t like doubting himself. And Christian was not ready, could never be ready for leadership. Vince silently ran through the plan. Taking down the entire organization wasn’t going to be easy. In fact, it was a blaze-of-glory manoeuvre that would probably only get him killed. But if it worked, he’d be set for life and he wouldn’t have to carry the picture around in his wallet for another day. He put the car in gear, hit the gas and drove back toward the hotel room.

  Tired from repeated viewing of the shooting, Christian set aside his iPhone and turned to one of his other two favourite topics. “I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat. Something good for a change.”

  Vince felt it important to appear relaxed around Christian. When the alpha dog gets nervous, the up-and-comers start chewing bones to sharpen their teeth. He turned on the radio to AM 740, solid gold classics. Decent food was a good idea and he had to admit they had fifty thousand reasons to celebrate. “What do you feel like, Youngblood?”

  “Italian.”

  “The most ethnically diverse city in the world and you want Italian? You kidding me?”
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  “Yeah.” Christian smiled.

  Vince checked his watch; they had all the time in the world. “Okay, we’re going to Frankie’s. If you want Italian, it’s the best Italian in town.”

  Vince noticed that Christian had leaned back in his seat and brought out his iPhone again. The thing was making annoying noises, one for emails, one for texts, one for Skype and god knows what else. Christian loved his little toys. After more chuckling, Vince had had enough. “What in the hell are you watching now?”

  Christian turned the phone so he could see it. “It’s the shooting. The expression on that goof’s face when he realized he shot an unarmed guy. One of the two we were sent to kill, no less. Look how scared he was.”

  Vince consciously immersed himself in character as a lieutenant and tried to puff up Christian’s ego. “You know, Youngblood, when your dad asked me to show you the business, I regretted it. Your dad’s a dangerous man who I don’t want to piss off. But you pegged those undercover cops almost as fast as I did. And catching them on video making such a big mistake was like winning the lottery.”

  Christian shrugged. “Yeah, in a way. I was going to blood in, then these two assholes stole my thunder.” Christian leaned ahead to turn on the air conditioning.

  “At least he’s dead. And you caught it on video.” It was a failed attempt to placate the monster. Vince checked the rear-view mirror, barely catching the top of the bag in his view. Fifty grand. It’s like getting paid twice.

  Christian put the phone in his pocket. “That’s where we’re different, Vince. Maybe you can let something like that go. Not me. That was my hit. Dad told me to kill that rat for him and they screwed it up. So now they’re going to pay. After them we get the bitch and get out of this shithole town. After dinner let’s finish this. Then we can go to your strip club and celebrate.”

  Vince tried not to squirm. The manager of the bar was a friend of his and if Christian grabbed her ass one more time he’d have to kill Christian on the spot.

  Vince took a breath and tried to relax. The kid is not going to let this go, the enthusiasm of youth. He vaguely recalled the thrill of the hunt from his younger days. For the longest time it fueled him in a career he would have done for free. After a while he began to see himself in a leadership position and began to take more interest in the finances. And just when he was being prepared for management, it was taken away. He was the only club member with an extensive post-secondary education. Hell, he’d served in the military as an intelligence officer. It was an affront he would not bear. The dormant enjoyment-killer within him was awakening. Instead of giving himself over to it entirely the way he had done in his youth, the way that Christian was doing now, with the wisdom of age he would control the moment of release then disappear. First was obtaining travel money.