Race

by Mobashar Qureshi

  “So when Voshon said he worked night shifts at the club he meant security work?”

  “Voshon’s not into drugs. The only thing he cares about is his brother.”

  This Voshon guy wasn’t all that bad. Come to think of it, Beadsworth didn’t look like a bad guy, either.

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot,” I shrugged.

  “Don’t mention it, officer.”

  “But I do think I should be able get to know you, y’know. You already know a lot about me.”

  “What would you like to know?” he asked.

  “Where you from?”

  “England.”

  “That explains your accent. But I’ve watched a lot of British soap operas and you don’t sound anything like them.”

  “I was born there. But I spent most of my adolescence in the United States.”

  “So you’re married with kids?” I said.

  “Yes.” Beadsworth was about to say more when his cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said. “Detective Phillip Beadsworth…” He listened. “Yes, dear…where is he now…is he okay…I’ll be right over.”

  He hung up and continued driving. I could tell he was thinking.

  “Why don’t you drop me off right here,” I said.

  He looked at me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Headquarters is the other way. Don’t worry. Drop me off and go, do whatever you have to do.”

  For the first time he looked at me as if there was more to me than met the eye.

  “Are you certain?” he finally said.

  “Yeah. Go. Don’t worry. I’ll call a taxi.”

  “When I’m done, I’ll call you.”

  ***

  He dropped me off and drove away. I looked around; this was unfamiliar territory. I pulled out my cell phone, ready to dial for a cab when I saw one come to a halt across the street. I squinted. It was orange and navy green. The cab plate number looked familiar and the driver did too. I rushed over.

  A guy was approaching the vehicle when I intercepted.

  “Sorry, sir,” I said, catching my breath. “Police business.” I waved my badge and got in.

  “Police Headquarters. Fast,” I ordered the driver in a loud voice. He complied and put his foot on the pedal.

  Once the guy was out of sight the driver slowed.

  “You always do that,” said the driver in a slight accent. “He called for the taxi.”

  “Hey, Mahmud,” I said, shocked. “I didn’t recognize you.”

  “Yeah, sure,” replied Mahmud Hanif.

  Mahmud always wore a Blue Jays baseball cap, even though he’s not a baseball fan, and below that a plaid shirt and a sports jacket. He once tried to explain to me the similarities between baseball and cricket. Not sure what they were because I don’t know anything about cricket or baseball, for that matter. He’s from Pakistan and he came to our fine land almost three years ago with his wife and four children. Back in his country he was a qualified engineer, but once he arrived here, his experience and education were thrown out the window. He tried desperately to secure a job—any job—in his field, but it always came down to his zero Canadian experience. With a large family, going back to school was not an option. So he started driving a taxi to put roti, so to speak, on the table.

  “Mahmud,” I said. “How come I always end up meeting you?”

  There are five million people in the Greater Toronto Area and somehow I always managed to run into people I knew. Maybe it was my dashing good looks and sharp intellect—gravitating people toward me. Or maybe it was coincidences that only happened to me. That was the story of my life. Jon Rupret, man of infinite probabilities.

  “So where is your car? Towed again?” he said smiling.

  “I am ashamed, Mahmud, that you would say that,” I leaned over to the front seat.

  “It happened before. Many, many, many times,” he said. “So what are you really doing with no car?” Mahmud asked.

  “I’m glad you asked,” I said. “I’m on a case. A covert operation.”

  “Covert?”

  “Secret, top secret, to be precise. What I tell you must never leave this vehicle.”

  “Sure,” he said, humouring me.

  “I’m serious. I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Even some people I work with.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  “You know they have doctor-and-patient relationship? Lawyer-and-client relationship?”

  “Yes.”

  “You and I have passenger-and-taxi-driver relationship.”

  “Yes, that’s very important.”

  “So with our special relationship I can trust you. I know what I tell you will never leave this taxi.”

  “You are correct.”

  “I’m on a mission between good and evil.”

  “Which side are you on?” he said. Then started to laugh.

  “Very funny.” I said, slightly hurt. “Keep driving. No more of those smart-ass remarks or else our special relationship ends.”

  “Sorry,” he said, still smiling.

  “Like I was saying. There’s this new evil approaching our city and only one man can stop it—”

  “—Sorry, I’m too busy driving taxi. Don’t have time.” Then he exploded.

  “That’s it, Mahmud, our relationship ends right here.”

  That didn’t bother him. He continued laughing.

  “I’m warning you. I’ll find a new taxi driver. Someone who can appreciate our special relationship.”

  “No, no. I’m sorry. Special relationship is very important.”

  I sat back, crossing my arms. “Man, I was going to tell you everything. Now I’m not.” I pouted.

  “No time. We are here,” he said looking at me through the rear-view mirror.

  “So how much do I owe you?” I said putting my hand into my pocket.

  “Forgot to turn on meter. Maybe next time,” he said.

  Mahmud never charged me fare.

  It happened eight months ago while I was driving through my usual route. I saw a taxi parked in front of a park with no driver in it. Parking around the park was not allowed. When I approached the vehicle, thinking I might get a tow, I heard a noise coming from the trunk. I pried it open and found the driver in bad shape. His was throat slashed, his palms bleeding, and he’d been stabbed in several places. I rushed Mahmud to the hospital. I guess I saved his life.

  “You know you have to stop doing this,” I said.

  “I forgot to turn on meter,” he repeated.

  “I saved your life because it was my duty. If you keep doing this it could be seen as bribery; that’s illegal in this country, you know.”

  “Next time I will turn on meter,” he smiled.

  I patted him on the shoulder and smiled. “Thanks, buddy,” I said and got out.

  EIGHT

  Ms. Zee came back to find Joey in one piece. “Good, Kong, you behaved yourself,” she said, walking past him.

  Kong didn’t smile. His features stayed the same: empty and devoid of any emotion.

  “Ms. Zee,” said Martin. “We are still missing a chemist.”

  “I have already solved that problem.”

  “How?”

  “Armand worked for Bantam Pharmaceuticals before he was fired, right? At Bantam, Armand worked in a team. He said there were others who influenced the design of the painkiller. Like him, some were also let go. We find these people and persuade them to continue our research.”

  Martin thought about this. If Ms. Zee had an idea she rarely went against it. “How do you suggest we do that?”

  She turned to Kong. “With Influence.”

  There was renewed energy in Kong’s eyes now.

  ***

  After having retrieved my car from Central Command Headquarters I drove back to Parking Enforcement Headquarters. I found Sergeant Motley in his office.

  He was glad to see me. “Jon, how did it go?”

  “Good, I guess,” I said. “Sir, I have an important questio
n to ask you?”

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “Can I still write parking tickets?”

  “Um…No.”

  “Not even part-time?”

  “No.”

  “On weekends?”

  “No. Jon, what is really on your mind?” he said.

  Motley could always sense something was bothering me.

  “Do you know Phillip Beadsworth?”

  “No, I can’t say I do. Why?”

  “He’s my new partner.”

  “You have a partner?” he asked, shocked.

  “I’m not too proud of it. I don’t tell many people that.”

  “Of course not,” he said..

  “How about Andrew Aldrich?” I asked.

  Motley’s brow furrowed. “I met him once at a charity event. Good man. Believes in authority. He doesn’t like those who disobey him. There was something about him and the drug squad but I can’t remember what that was all about. How are you two getting along?”

  “Great,” I said. “I’m like a son to him.”

  Motley didn’t believe me.

  “What about Ronald Garnett?” I then asked.

  “That name sounds familiar,” Motley said searching. Then his eyes lit up and his face went pale. “Jon, of course. I’m so sorry.”

  I raised my hand up. “That’s all right. He and I will work something out.” It was more like he’d work me into a pulp.

  “Who’s taken over my shift?” I asked.

  “Calvert.”

  “George Calvert?” I exhaled. “That man is no good. He’ll mess up all my clientele.”

  The telephone rang and Motley looked at me.

  “Have you heard of a group called the RACE?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  I thanked him and let him answer the phone.

  ***

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I went home. I turned on the TV and flopped on the couch. I flipped through the channels. Flip. Soap Opera. Flip. Crappy show. Flip. Soap Opera. Flip. Soap Opera. Flip. Weather channel: chance of everything. Flip. Flip. Flip. Shopping channel: a butt sculpture was on sale. I made a mental note of the item number. Flip. Reruns. Flip. Soap Opera. Flip. Sports: nothing good on, only figure skating. Flip. Cartoons: seen this episode but will watch it again.

  In the middle of the episode where the anvil was falling on the helpless coyote I fell asleep.

  My cell phone rang.

  I opened my eyes and checked the time. It was after 6:30 p.m. “Jon Rupret,” I answered.

  “Officer Rupret.” It was Beadsworth. “Am I disturbing you?”

  I lowered the volume. “No, driving my car.”

  “I thought I heard the television.”

  “No. I’m in my car. It’s probably noise from outside. Let me roll up my windows.” I paused. “Yeah, now that’s better. Everything okay?”

  “Noel, my son, he broke his arm during a soccer game. He’ll be all right. Thank you.”

  “Good.” I was actually glad to hear from him.

  “Where are you right now?”

  “Um…sorry?”

  “What part of the city are you in right now?” He meant where I was driving.

  “I’m almost near my house.” That was roughly the truth.

  “You live on Gerrard Street. Correct?”

  “Yes…”

  “I’ll be there in a short time.”

  “Where you coming from?” I asked.

  “Forest Hill.” He hung up.

  Forest Hill? Didn’t the rich live there?

  I shook my head and quickly washed up.

  ***

  The doorbell rang and I rushed down to the main floor. I took Beadsworth upstairs to my apartment.

  “Hi, Mike,” I said, passing Michael Jordan, but then stopped.

  Beadsworth looked at me oddly.

  “It’s a family tradition,” I began. “Never mind.”

  I offered him something to drink but he declined.

  “Do you live alone?” he asked.

  “For now,” I said, as if I was in a serious relationship.

  Beadsworth didn’t take a seat. “On my way I made a search of Max Vernon and Vernon Max through CPIC and it came up empty.”

  The Canadian Police Information Centre is a database used by the police, corrections and immigration officials, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, to track dangerous criminals. As a PEO, I had used CPIC to track stolen vehicles. The problem with CPIC is that it does not record summary offences—minor crimes that range from fines to six months in jail, crimes that do not require fingerprinting or mug shots.

  “This guy is clean,” I said.

  “Not quite,” Beadsworth said. “I then did a search on the Criminal Information Processing System, alternating between the two sets of names. I managed a hit. Max Vernon had a collision on Highway 427 in 1999. From there I was able to acquire his address.”

  “So we go and pay him a visit,” I said.

  “Tomorrow. Right now we have to meet Detective Nemdharry and Constable Terries.”

  We were rushing down the stairs when my landlady popped her head out her door.

  I stopped and introduced her to my new partner. Living alone and having no alarm system, she was my only security. If an unknown person ever came into our building I had instructed her to call the police. She was my first and last line of defence against would-be thieves and robbers. My partner gave a small courteous bow. She smiled back.

  ***

  We drove to Scarborough and parked in the back of a coffee shop. We found Nemdharry and Terries sitting near the front windows.

  Nemdharry spoke first. “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  We sat opposite them.

  Terries smiled—at me—and I smiled back.

  “Phil,” Nemdharry started. “I think we’re on to something.”

  Nemdharry’s grayish hair was gelled back, and his light brown skin was smooth and without a blemish. He looked much younger than his age, around Beadsworth’s.

  He looked out the window. There was a huge white building across from the coffee shop. It had a wide sign that read: OFFICE SPACE FOR LEASE.

  “I think there’s something going on in there,” Nemdharry said. “A tip from our informant gave this address. The owner of the coffee shop says he’s seen some peculiar people come in. Not too friendly. Couple of days ago he saw a moving van in front of the building. I spoke to the company that manages the building and they say it’s an export company.”

  “What do they export?” Beadsworth asked.

  “Clothes.”

  “To where?”

  “Southeast Asia,” Nemdharry said.

  “What’s the name of the company?”

  “LLPM Imports & Exports.”

  “What does LLPM stand for?”

  “Don’t know.”

  I caught Terries staring at me. Her cheeks flushed. I turned back to Nemdharry as if it happened all the time.

  “You think it could be RACE?” Beadsworth asked.

  Terries spoke, “I paid the company a visit. I told them I was looking for some cheap space to rent. I was willing to share space with someone, maybe a quarter of the portion. The receptionist was very polite but said they needed all the space.” As Terries spoke I realized I was staring at her. Her long hair slid down her back, her tiny nose moved up and down while she spoke, her eyes, full of excitement…I blinked and then blinked again…focus, Jon...She was saying, “The floor space is huge about—two thousand square feet. But there’s a large divider in the middle.”

  “How do they operate?” Beadsworth said.

  “They purchase used clothes in bulk from places like the Goodwill and the Salvation Army and they sell it to countries like Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, and Indonesia.”

  That didn’t make sense so I interrupted. “Don’t we import clothes from these countries because it’s cheaper to produce there?”

  “That’s what doesn’t make sense,” she said with
admiration.

  I felt smart.

  “What could be behind the divider?” Beadsworth asked.

  Terries replied, “It could be a production lab for Nex.”

  We all thought about it.

  “Can’t be a clandestine lab,” Nemdharry said. “Too risky.”

  “Too many people,” Beadsworth concurred.

  “Should we go in?” Nemdharry said.

  Beadsworth shook his head, “No. Let’s not jump the gun. It could be something or it could be nothing.”

  ***

  He walked out of Mount Sinai Hospital with a heavy bandage wrapped around his head. He was well over six-feet-four and close to three hundred pounds. He made his way to the parking lot. With his fat fingers he rummaged through his pockets searching for the keys. He pulled out the set, but being on medication he was unsteady and uncoordinated. The keys fell to the ground.

  He cursed.

  Huffing and puffing, he knelt down on one knee and retrieved them.

  “Mr. Burrows,” said a voice from behind.

  He turned.

  A man in a nice suit stood holding a briefcase. “My name is Martin. My last name is not important, but I am a representative and business advisor to someone who is interested in you.”

  Ed Burrows was not interested in anyone right now. He was getting a massive headache and all he wanted to do was go home and sleep. “Buzz off,” he said.

  “Sir, if you hear me out I promise you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

  “I said buzz off.” Burrows was on his feet now. He was gigantic but that didn’t bother Martin. Someone sitting in a car not far away was much bigger and more menacing than Burrows.

  “You used to work for Bantam Pharmaceuticals.”

  “Those rat bastards,” Burrows cursed.

  “You were working on a painkiller, model P147, until your unfortunate departure.”

  “I got fired. Plain as that.”

  “Yes, we’re interested in what you know about this painkiller.”

  “It was months ago,” he said, finding the right key. “Whatever I worked on, Bantam owns it.”

  “We have the design.”

  He stopped. “You’re…” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not supposed to have that.”