The Gay Community wanted their clubs and bath houses. That was an entirely new factor. Within weeks of the first demand, several establishments were open. Neither Hell’s Angels nor Satan’s Choice raised any territorial issues with respect to the Gay Community. That, for a while, kept the police at bay.
The increase in the number of girls from Quebec concerned him. Graves called it an “invasion.” The entire network of strippers, hookers, pimps, truckers, and suppliers could cause inevitable bloodshed between the gangs. In Ontario, everything was reasonably docile. However, in Quebec, nothing was calm.
Even though it wasn’t his prime interest, Graves was able to pinpoint the exact floor and wooden structure on St. Nicolas Street. The road was no more than a restricted laneway running south to north, parallel to Yonge Street to the east. At the southern end of St. Nicolas Street, the animal shelter was situated on Wellesley Street. St. Nicolas Street extended north to Bloor West, ending near various ritzy stores and cinemas. He shook his head after telling the summer student that the police knew of its operation, but nothing was being done to stop it. Street signs in the future reflected name changes first to Nicholas Street and then as the property increased in value to St. Nicholas Street. There was obvious intent to bury the past.
The author of this text is aware of Mr. Graves’ involvement in all of these aspects of inner city life because he was the summer student assigned to complete the two month long task of preparing and mailing the Gross Weight Stickers to the many trucking firms. Allow us then to engage the first person singular in the rest of this story.
The conversations were not just about Graves. His questions were many concerning university life and courses, sports, and various novels. Based on the discussions, Peter struck me as being reasonably intelligent. More so, his connections were astounding. If you needed a wedding reception at an expensive hall, he knew the right person to ask. If you needed a certain product at half price, he’d get it for you.
Graves’ reputation and activities were well-known to management in the department and to various government officials. Many concluded that the police had enough information to arrest him, but also surmised that he may have had value as a potential informant in the event of a major crime. Peter never directly mentioned any of his discussions with the police, but various comments suggested they had in fact taken place.
Many people feared Graves because of his trade. Everyone who dealt or trafficked in narcotics was considered a criminal. Accordingly, these viewed Graves at a distance having heard remote rumors that in his youth Peter Graves had stuck a knife into the ribs of another teen causing him to fall from a subway platform. The incident involved an unpaid debt.
Be very assured that I wanted no part of Peter Graves and that project when I returned to the summer job in late May that year. The first year at the government was beneficial for income and financed the academic costs of university. Jobs were still limited, so there really was not much choice. Take what you can get.
Actually I had met Peter Graves in the first year at the government. He worked with others, and seemed so casual, and was always conversant and ready to laugh with people. Near the end of that summer there were rumours; I dismissed those, employing the theory that if they were real, then management would surely be doing something about it.
Management in the government offices at that time were usually occupied by war veterans. Upon returning from Europe the provincial government provided jobs within their departments. That decision was held in the highest regard, although the veterans in management preferred to avoid confrontation and just maintain peace within their ranks. Thus nothing was ever done even though the rumours were too numerous to avoid.
Graves considered me as diligent and supportive. Working quickly would get the job done. He was well onboard with that philosophy. Our productivity exceeded expectations in the first weeks.
It was during that first week that he opened a discussion by talking about the drug culture: not about him, but about Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin, mentioning their music, lyrics and deaths.
Whenever our discussion involved religion, his interest seemed sincere; however he quickly dismissed his need for it. The Pope was constantly doing something wrong, according to Graves. A longer conversation involved the homeless in the city. There were no conclusions, but the inference was clear that more had to be done. That issue was revisited particularly with respect to the city’s decision to once again close Yonge Street between King and Gerrard. There were several strip clubs along the less than two-mile stretch. The conclusion was quickly achieved that closing Yonge Street would benefit his businesses, generating more customers and profits.
As we approached lunch that Thursday, he politely invited me to eat with the others in our standard cafeteria. Graves remained behind to welcome his clientele.
Peter was always ready to express his gratitude. To show his appreciation, he handed me four tickets to a private party in a refurbished warehouse on Britannia Street off Dundas East. The women, flowing alcohol and access to weed were unrestricted. I found myself extremely uncomfortable. This was basically Club 54 in Toronto. Friends whom I had invited with the other tickets chose not to stay. I found myself stuck in the middle—working with a person whose lifestyle I considered undesirable.
The uneasiness I felt throughout that weekend certainly did not abate when we resumed work on Monday morning. Once again, Graves started talking about the thousands of street kids that had occupied the city’s core. He attributed that, as did so many politicians, to the initial closing of Yonge Street the summer before. The entire area had become their protective haven. However, Graves avoided any admission that the closing of Yonge Street increased the profits of his establishments. The talk of the city core mysteriously prompted Peter to a discussion on territory. The Hell’s Angels controlled the city below Dundas Street. North of Dundas including the Yorkdale area and several well-established high schools were the domain of Satan’s Choice. The bikers never wore blazers, crests, or any attire to distinguish one from another. It was hard to suggest there was ever a difference in their methods or intended result.
I spent that lunch by myself, sitting in a bar that was not controlled by Graves or his bikers. The pork pie with a beer added to the refreshing break. Thoughts of just quitting the job performed a roller coaster ride through my brain. I so wanted to just get away from this, but financial constraints determined my answer. The funds were required for university. When thinking about salary and the cost of tuition, I pondered the reality that these ‘idiots’ earning an annual government clerk’s salary of about $7,000 were in most cases being paid more than first year teachers. Other thoughts continued the onslaught, ultimately demanding that I quit the summer job right that afternoon. I had to see the manager.
He was not in, and Graves was waiting for me. His statement was concise. “You’re a good Christian person.”
Shock and apprehension could not be separated.
“I need your help.” He was almost begging. The explanation had me even more astounded.
He had a problem with the clubs, particularly the number of minors in the establishments. The request was simple: “We need to get them out of there.” Graves then stressed his compassion for the homeless youth, albeit ironically. In the course of that almost thirty minutes he mentioned Paul at the Zanzibar Tavern, Jersy who worked at the racetrack, Paul Kent in Niagara, and emphasized the efforts at the Evergreen shelter, and Covenant House.
My reluctance continued to stump his impression. Questions were many and he did not have all of the answers. By the end of the day, nothing had been decided. We left accordingly with the option to continue the conversation, if I so desired, the next morning.
Rather than returning home, I stopped by the Zanzibar Tavern, a well-known and regularly attended strip club. Paul was there as Graves said he would be. Paul was an interesting fellow, and not what on
e would expect in such a place. He stationed himself near the door for security. Politely he always admitted that the pimps were friends of the prior operator. These were the ones who had been supplying women who were obviously minors. Twenty-one was still the age for majority. After conjecturing that most teenagers appeared to look as if they were in their twenties with the appropriate touch of make-up, Paul advised they were concerned with the thirteen to sixteen-year-olds. The situation possessed many dangers, primary of which was the eventuality of angry pimps. Paul’s reply provided some assurance: “They’ll not be a problem. Many don’t want these girls. If they just get rid of them, they could be charged with abandonment.” As we ended our discussion, I noticed a young brunette on stage fumbling her way through her routine.
The next morning was filled with questions conveying my interest and also various apprehensions. Graves reassured me with further information on the operations of each club, naming the respective persons, and even offering a bodyguard. My answer was in the affirmative once I heard security was in place.
Later that afternoon Peter handed me a list of fifteen names. Three were at the Filmores, five at Swayzee’s near King Street, and seven at the Zanzibar. As such, Paul would only be involved in these last seven girls as he had no interest in the other establishments.
That night, Beach Boys’ lyrics repeatedly echoed my expectations that were being tainted by fears of every possibility. “God Only Knows” captured some hope for success, but there was no assurance. As soon as there was momentary silence, dread instantly returned. Being always seemingly in control of circumstances had made life easy, almost too comfortable at times. Now I was being tested. “A good Christian? If Graves only knew.” There were extremes to pinpoint any one virtue or vice. Reasonable expectations were all that were anticipated. “Just try,” Graves had stated simply. But would the pimps who had the most to lose be so tolerable?
Manouane, an aboriginal community first settled a century before, provided no hope for any native resident. Agnielle had long experienced such despair. Thoughts of just ending her life had become her daily norm. The assembled cabins were a pathetic semblance of a village. The territory situated on the shore of Lake Métabeskéga was about five kilometers long with approximately two kilometers deep of cleared terrain. The nearest community was more than seventy kilometers away. Montreal was a distant dream to nearly every resident, more than two hundred kilometers to the southeast.
The population of about one thousand men, women and children in 1971 failed desperately to preserve traditions and the basic elements of their culture. Any chance of being assimilated into the white man’s world was absolutely absurd. White men arrived, raped the land, and left. Logging was their primary interest. Taking advantage of the docile inhabitants seemed no less important. In spite of restrictions, the indigenous residents were still able to live off the land and fish the waters, but these activities were being crudely hampered by the commercial enterprises that provided little benefit for the reserve. There was definitely money being made but it all went elsewhere. In that respect, not much had changed in the sixty-five years since Atikamekw de Manawan was established as a reserve.
There was so much about the white men in their transport trucks on the gravel road that absolutely infuriated Agnielle. They abused the residents in ways so foreign to the passive nature of a proud self-sufficient tribe. They arrived in tidal waves. There was never just one but a flood of trucks transporting logs away from their precious lands. Acres were stripped bare and the river polluted, but there was no apology. Animals fled deeper into the woods making it almost impossible to secure game for meat or clothing. Every year they’d return just to repeat the destruction of land and water, to drive the animals farther into dense brush, and to pollute the air with fumes and noise. They drank till they could no longer stand, while prompting tribal men to join them. To appease any apprehensions there was enough booze provided to silence any objection.
Their chief fought the invasion as much as he could. The response of government had been lies, with the expectation that the native residents were so naive that they would believe everything Quebec City told them.
Agnielle’s husband was fortunate to gain employment with a logging firm. It was while he was away from the community that Agnielle was raped. She conceived, telling her husband who arrived a month later that the child was premature and assuredly was his. However it proved impossible to convince him because the girl lacked his native appearance. Her husband left months later and she never saw him again.
Agnielle was thankful that the main attribute of the Manouane Nation was their insistence on caring for each other. Her daughter Emily received as much support as possible from other families. The term ‘cousin’ meant so much, because the phrase truly affirmed that each person in the community belonged to the same family.
Quilting provided Agnielle with income. The finished goods were sent weekly to stores near or in Montreal. The truck drivers were at times willing to transport other items.
One tribesman had developed the expert skill to carve and whittle. Tree stumps and discarded logs became his canvasses. The intricacies of facial figures were astounding. Agnielle admired his work and the entrepreneurial skills necessary to get the most for the finished product.
Emily was seven years old when he moved into their household and shared their cabin. The young girl was happy. Her life had suddenly improved. After several truckers delivered sports equipment, she became active in various sports. Baseball and soccer were her best. School was her venue for attentive enthusiasm. Her mother was ever so at ease. Her vitality could easily be discerned. Because her mother was feeling so blessed, Emily was instinctively overjoyed.
It was a late summer evening when the whittler, unknown to two young girls, spied their evening swim in the lake. Emily was just eleven years old. Her friend was even younger. For whatever reason, when Emily returned to their cabin her mother was not there. While she was changing into her night clothes, the whittler had his way with her.
The girl could not tell anyone. She was too ashamed that she was violated. Emily knew that she wouldn’t be believed and that the community might blame her for the incident. Unfortunately, he continued the attacks with threats demanding her silence. She was never accosted so as to fear pregnancy. Sodomy was his depravity. After having been raped on so many occasions, Emily, still only twelve years old, contemplated suicide. The thoughts were undeniably real. She had to escape the bleeding hell of such debauchery. One day a truck driver smiled at her in the local store. She sheepishly asked him for a ride. Emily knew what that would mean. She had heard enough stories of such trysts from the older girls. She took a chance and for favours granted, she found herself on the streets of Montreal.
The first visit to the Filmores proved that no one was to be trusted. There was no security. Nothing at all had been previously said to anyone there. Unfortunately that wasn’t realized immediately. The girl called Blossom was an angry sixteen-year-old who wanted no part of any discussion. She declared she was there just to please her customers. Blossom was clearly well equipped for her profession, and accordingly chose not to conceal her attributes. She obviously did more than just dance. Two rough-looking characters watched from a distance. One was obviously her pimp, and the other possibly the club’s manager. Her angry condescending tone continued to convey her frustration. She preferred discussions that generated sizeable bills on the table, but that was never my interest. The conclusion was simple, although she didn’t have to specifically say it: she was not going to leave the premises. The response of her co-worker mimicked the first. There was to have been a third girl there, but she had left for another bar just two weeks before.
In the confines of the basement stockroom, Graves was challenged regarding the lack of protection. I was not about to surrender myself to thugs in some back alley. He offered no explanation, almost as if to say it was not my role to que
stion him. His next line fell like a ton of bricks: “Oh yes, I should have said, ‘The Choice operate that club.’”
Trust had nearly vanished. Such only complicated my role. Do I keep the pledge? The answer was simple. There really was no choice. I had basically become his ‘Familiar’, the devil’s confidant or a sorcerer’s pet in whom all faith and information had been entrusted. I had become Graves’ pet pig. If I chose to bolt, I may not wake the next morning or even arrive home. The rumour about Graves knifing a debtor in front of a subway train was suddenly gaining more credibility. Graves was satisfied that I tried, and that there circulated among the clubs the opinion that having minors on premises was not and would not be tolerated.
Swayzee’s Tavern provided successful results. The fact that there were so many rumours about the establishment closing prompted the girls and their sponsors to use any reasonable means offered to sever their relationship with the club. If they had just walked away, Hell’s Angels would respond in haste. If a particular girl just left, even with the concurrence of her pimp, Hell’s Angels would not be content. They were sure to pursue the flesh they owned. This then presented a menacing dilemma. I was acting for a member of Hell’s Angels; however the bikers would never be wholly pleased with either result.
The young performers at Swayzee’s were sixteen or seventeen years old. They clearly looked in their twenties. Surprisingly they were conversant. The pimps, having been informed, were agreeable. They had been promised a monetary compensation if any of the girls returned home. That agreement too presented a puzzle, as none of the girls had a home away from this profession. Four out of the five abandoned the trade, seeking shelter away from the industry. They were given opportunities for some retraining at George Brown College.
13 Lives Page 4