The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  Elena had the sense in that moment that Claude had somehow displeased Georges, or maybe it was just the awkwardness of their roles muddling: Georges suddenly grown-up, adult and organized, the hot-shot financier, and Claude then the errant dependant. It wasn’t in anything said directly, more in-between the lines or the timing of when Claude fell silent or quickly changed the subject. But perhaps, having spent a lifetime of shadow-dancing around the truth in her own life, that was where she saw everything now: in between the lines and in the silences.

  Then came, inevitably, the even more awkward topic of just how Georges went from successful banker to involvement with a crime family. She never asked directly, but Claude seemed eager to make clear that Georges wasn’t in the least criminally inclined. ‘He had a good position, was very solid with Banque du Quebec before joining the Lacailles. That’s why I find this now so hard to take, let alone understand.’ He pointed accusingly to the TV, which had been off since she arrived. ‘He always said that the only reason he’d joined them was because they’d moved away from crime. And it was a challenge. He was very strict about things like that… strong principles. The only problem he ever hinted at was the two Lacaille brothers not always seeing eye to eye – but he said he worked only for Jean-Paul, who he insisted was clean as a whistle and equally as principled. Maybe it will all turn out to be nothing.’ Again he was back to trying to make light of it, lessen the blow that after a lifetime parted from her son, she might now never get to see him.

  She shook her head, her eyes welling. Never to be seen again…

  The express elevator was still falling, an abyss of dark despair sucking her inexorably down since she’d left the Donatiens. She’d skirted dangerously around the edges at moments during her door-call vigil and at St Marguerite’s – but now the depths of that despair, the gut-wrenching emptiness she felt inside, was total. And after her battles of the past days, her diet of pills and whisky, her lack of sleep and her nerves almost constantly on a tight-rope – she felt completely drained, no reserves left to claw her way back up again.

  Besides, it was all over… never to be seen again. What could she do? Claude Donatiens said he’d phone later when he’d spoken to the police – but what was the point of deluding herself by still clinging to hope? From what little she knew, the whole point of witness protection was to keep the subjects away from family and friends – because that was the first place criminals tried to track them.

  Never to be seen again…

  She gripped tight at the steering wheel and tensed her jaw against it, but still she was falling, the dark edges of the abyss washing in. Traffic was heavier now approaching the centre of Montreal and she had to concentrate. But her eyes were welling faster than she could blink them clear or dab away the tears with the back of one hand… and through her blurred, pastel-wash vision a car appeared out of nowhere and verged across her, or had she swung over slightly as she wiped at her tears? The car’s horn blared, and she braked and swung the wheel away… then suddenly a squeal of tyres and two sharp beeps from the other side, one after the other – and she realized that she’d cut in on something on the inside.

  ‘Elena… watch out!’ Lorena hit the stop button on her walkman, looking concernedly over her shoulder. ‘There’s a…’

  Oh God. Oh God. Elena was shaking uncontrollably, still falling, a kaleidoscope blur of cars and road and buildings, tilting, slipping sideways; she thought for a second she was going to black-out right there with the traffic streaming all around her. She slowed, waiting for the car on her inside to pass – its driver fired her a last stony look – then she pulled across and took the first turn on the left, stopping twenty yards in.

  She gave into the abyss totally in that moment, sank down into its darkness as if it were a feather-down duvet. The near accident had jolted away her tears; all that remained was her shaking and a tight, aching knot in her stomach, the only sensation left amongst the overwhelming emptiness she felt.

  Last night struggling to get back to sleep after her dreams, she’d vowed silently to her father to find Georges to make good on how she’d betrayed his memory all these years – thinking in that moment how she’d never felt closer to her father, and how oddly ironic it was that finally now, after all this time, they’d found some common ground – and already she’d struck out. Pathetic, really; almost as pathetic as the sham that had been her life so far.

  ‘Are you okay, Elena?’

  And now Lorena’s voice heavy with concern to remind her that in a couple of hours she’d phone Gordon and then let her down too. Another failure.

  ‘It’s okay… I just need a minute. I’ll be fine.’ A minute? She probably needed twice as long in therapy than even poor young Lorena to sort out the mess of her mind. But only after she’d slept for a week to shake off this tiredness sapping every last ounce of energy; that was her first promise to herself.

  She stayed head down, eyes shut a moment more, listening to the steady fall of her own breathing against the ebb and flow of city traffic, as if like a metronome rhythm that might tell her when it was alright to start driving again.

  She was slow in shaking off her dark mood, finally lifting her head – but the urgency in Lorena’s muttered ‘Ele!.. and her suddenly aware of a figure by the car, made her look up sharper: brown uniform, one hand by the holster, the other reaching out.

  The RCMP officer tapped at her window, signalling her to wind it down. Though suddenly she no longer felt afraid, but strangely relieved that it was finally all over. She could get the sleep she needed, and she wouldn’t have to break any bad news to Lorena: they’d both been victims.

  ‘You just couldn’t wait, could you? Just couldn’t wait!’

  ‘No, Jean-Paul, I tell you – you got it wrong. What they put on the news about Donatiens has got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Really?’ Jean-Paul glared back stonily.

  Roman flinched under its intensity. Jean-Paul’s jaw was set rigid, and Roman noticed a small muscle pumping repeatedly in his neck. Jean-Paul had started shouting before his study door was barely shut behind them, and for a moment Roman thought he might break with character and start pushing and manhandling for an explanation; what he himself might do if the situation was reversed. Roman could never remember Jean-Paul angrier; and he had to admit the situation looked bad, real bad, whichever way he might try to explain it away. He was still pondering whether to keep protesting or just stay silent and let Jean-Paul burn off steam, when Jean-Paul continued.

  ‘I mean, we sat in this room not forty-eight hours ago and you swore blind that you had nothing to do with his disappearance, and now this… this!’

  ‘You gotta believe, Jean-Paul – it wasn’t me. Wasn’t me.’ Roman was shaking his head vigorously. ‘Don’t know shit about it.’

  Jean-Paul rolled on as if Roman hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve been assuring Simone all along that you hadn’t done anything… wouldn’t do anything without my sanction. Don’t worry, don’t worry...’ Jean-Paul closed his eyes for a second and appeared to almost shudder. ‘All that time lying to her.’

  Roman leant forward and slapped the flat of his palm on the desk. ‘You’re not listening, Jean-Paul. I didn’t do it – know nothing about it.’

  Jean-Paul flinched only slightly, then he slapped his own hand twice as hard on the desk-top. ‘You’re right, I’m not listening! Because that’s what I did before – fell for every word and the same fucking outraged act you’re throwing at me now. So this time you’re going to have to explain yourself, Roman, and maybe you can start with just who did this if not you? Who?’

  The doubt in Jean-Paul’s voice had now reached incredulity, and Roman had rarely heard him swear. It made him more hesitant about his first and most obvious explanation; the second, and what he thought had really happened, would sound even more incredulous. ‘I… I suppose it must have been the Cacchione’s.’

  ‘The Cacchione’s… the Cacchione’s,’ Jean-Paul mimicked. ‘To blame
for Pascal’s death and now conveniently every family problem since: Leduc, Savard…now Georges. Don’t you think they’d have given on up on us by now? Realized that we’re out of crime and no longer pose a threat to them?'

  Roman leapt for the hand-grab to build his case. ‘I think you’re right, they probably do realize that. But this isn’t about us and continuing old vendettas – this is more about Medeiros. The Cacchione’s are still dealing drugs for sure – but Medeiros thinks he’s blocked their supplies and pushed them out for good.’ Roman chose his words carefully. He was skirting uncomfortably close to the truth, and didn’t want to unconsciously give away that he knew more than he should. ‘The other main option for the supplies still getting out there is us – so Cacchione is keen to jump on anything, such as this RCMP investigation right now, to keep us in the frame as still involved in crime and still dealing. It throws Medeiros off of the scent.’

  Jean-Paul mulled it over, but looked far from convinced. ‘I suppose there’s some sense to it – but how would they know to pick on Georges? Know that he was our weak spot?’

  Roman felt himself getting cornered. ‘They could have known from Savard, or maybe that’s my fault: I have at times complained, to Frank and maybe one or two others, that Georges concerns me. Things like that can too easily get out.’ All he could think of: concede to a lesser crime. Perhaps it would also give Jean-Paul somewhere to direct his anger.

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ Jean-Paul swayed for a second before doubt again took grip. ‘And the timing too: how would the Cacchione’s know about the problem with the girl – that at this moment of all moments Georges would automatically think that any attempted hit must be down to us, because he feared he was out in the cold?’

  Roman’s collar was suddenly tight, and he felt hot. Finding a clear way through Jean-Paul’s maze of doubt was getting more complicated with each step. ‘Maybe the girl. When I called the club last night, Azy said she hadn’t shown. Maybe she knew something had gone down.’ Originally, he was going to keep that under his hat until he’d found out more; of all people she knew too much, could prove a problem. But he’d grabbed at the first thing in desperation: right now he needed everything he could possibly throw across to break down Jean-Paul’s wall of doubt.

  Jean-Paul felt himself swaying again. But then Roman had been equally as convincing last time, then only forty-eight hours later he was left feeling like a mug, Simone’s words ringing in his ears – ‘How do you know Roman’s not done something to him already?…’ This time around he’d make Roman sweat every word, and as credible as Roman might be he’d pass it on to Simone dispassionately, with healthy reserved doubt. Safer stance. He studied Roman levelly. ‘A lot of maybes, Roman – but you’re the only one who knew for sure about Georges’ problem with the girl.’

  ‘Yeah – so why would I go to all the trouble of telling you about it, only to try and take him out myself?’

  ‘Because you started to worry that I might not deal with it the way you hoped and have Georges hit. That my idea was leaning more towards getting him away to Cuba until things had settled down.’

  Roman leant across the desk. His patience was fast thinning: he’d thrown across every good argument he could think of and still Jean-Paul appeared entrenched. ‘I didn’t know that was the way you were thinking until the last time we were in this same fucking room shouting at each other – after Georges had already disappeared.’

  That was true, thought Jean-Paul: the only tangible fact Roman had so far thrown across amongst a sea of maybes.

  Roman swept one arm away dismissively. ‘Besides, if I was going to take the fucker out – I’d have made sure to do the job properly. Not left him for the RCs just so he could testify against us. The only person that sort of scenario benefits is Cacchione.’

  Jean-Paul nodded and cast his eyes down: Truth number two, but he was dammed if he was going to leave himself vulnerable again. And he was tiring of the argument; they were just going round in circles. The most he’d move to was a mid-ground, reluctant concession. ‘Regardless of whether it’s Cacchione or not – if it wasn’t for your little political background battle with Georges, the situation for Cacchione to take advantage wouldn’t have existed, or for Georges to even think it might be us and end up in the lap of the RCs giving evidence. So whichever way, this falls down to you Roman – with the onus on you finding him now stronger than ever. What news on that front?’

  Roman wasn’t comfortable ending on that note, but his nerves were shot from fencing with Jean-Paul and perhaps it was the best he could hope for. He brought Jean-Paul up to date: Nothing yet from the streets, and now it was pretty obvious why not. No call yet from Georges to his parents – but some English woman had called out of the blue wanting to speak to them urgently; sounded real cagey, concerned. Could be something, could be nothing. His guy Funicelli was monitoring their conversation right now – he’d know more in an hour or so.

  And for the first time since they’d entered the room, they were pulling in the same direction. But their differences aired and those unspoken through the years – now more than ever to remain so – still hung heaviest in the air. The gulf between them had never been wider.

  Of course, Roman knew that it wasn’t Cacchione; he knew that because he’d been working closely with Cacchione for the past three years.

  When Jean-Paul had first announced them moving away from crime, he’d thought that he was joking. Then when he realized that he was serious, his first protest was that that would simply leave the whole pie to Cacchione: ‘How’s that going to pay him back for what he did to Pascal?’

  Jean-Paul calmly explained, almost as if enlightening a naïve child, that it was no longer a matter of pay-back or getting even, that would simply continue the cycle and Pascal’s death would have been for nothing; that if that was the cost, then Cacchione was welcome to ‘the pie.’ Jean-Paul had made a solemn promise to their father, and he wasn’t about to budge. That same condescending tone every time he tentatively raised the issue over the next twelve months, as if Jean-Paul’s new quest was based on moral principles beyond his grasp, and whenever that wasn’t enough Jean-Paul would raise Pascal or their father as final moralistic tombstones to end the argument.

  No care or consideration or even a minute’s thought that he might not be happy with their new direction. That as muscle-man and enforcer, the guy who took care of all the messy details nobody else wanted to get their hands dirty with, what place was there for him in a set-up without crime? Head of Security? Made to sound important, but in reality he’d been relegated to checking the takings from their pussy clubs and restaurants, with the occasional excitement on the rare occasion someone got drunk or out of order. And meanwhile golden boy Georges was in the hot seat, the Lacaille family money spread like monopoly confetti on stocks and shares or marina and hotel developments across Mexico and Cuba: all eyes suddenly on him to secure their future fortunes.

  And, like he’d warned, Cacchione did take ‘the pie’, fill the vacuum they’d left – until the run-in with Medeiros. It was then that Roman saw his big opportunity. Cacchione’s business died as quickly as it had expanded over the last eighteen months. Cacchione tried a couple of times to establish himself with other suppliers – but two middle-men at the bottom of the St Lawrence later, Medeiros’ message was clear: Cacchione was a no-go area, under no circumstance to be supplied. And with Jean-Paul out of crime, the vacuum was once again there.

  Roman contacted Medeiros. His story was that he and Jean-Paul had split the business: Jean-Paul would continue solely with legitimate business and, now that their ‘cooling off’ period had achieved its aim of suitably diverting attention, Roman would quietly revive some of their past enterprises. With the accent on ‘quietly’: officially, they were still out of crime. Jean-Paul therefore wouldn’t at any time contact Medeiros or talk to him about that side of the business, all dealing would be with Roman. And for the same reason they demanded absolute discretion: n
o mention whatsoever on either side that Medeiros was supplying to them.

  Medeiros agreed, but Roman knew that for the other part of the equation he’d need Gianni Cacchione’s co-operation: Cacchione wasn’t just going to sit back and let him freely take over his old territory and contacts, they’d have to work together.

  Drugs distribution in Quebec and Eastern Canada was a strict hierarchy: the Colombians and Mexicans provided the raw shipments, the import and business arrangements were handled by the local Sicilian, Neapolitan or Union Corse Mafia, who then used the bikers for distribution. The Colombians wouldn’t deal with the bikers directly: they saw them as renegade and volatile, and at times indiscreet. That was why Medeiros had warmed to his approach, in particular the discretion.

  Roman checked his watch as he crossed Avenue Jean Talon. He was driving faster than normal, one finger tapping repeatedly on the steering wheel; he was still wound tight like a coil from the session with Jean-Paul. Twenty minutes before his arranged call to Funicelli, but he wanted to squeeze in another call beforehand: he couldn’t go a second longer without getting an inside track on the current state of play at Dorchester Boulevard.

  Discretion was also at the heart of his partnership with Gianni Cacchione, and the tight-rope nature of their duplicity seemed to appeal to Cacchione as much as him: Medeiros thought it was the Lacailles, Jean-Paul the Cacchiones; in reality they worked together and split the proceeds 50/50. And they used independents such as Leduc who previously worked for the Lacailles, or some of Cacchione’s old fold who’d also gone freelance since Medeiros shut them down. But apart from the strong insistence on discretion they passed down the line – ‘You don’t want to end up like the last two dealers that fell foul of Medeiros, do you?’ – these were mid-level soldiers with no possible contact with Medeiros and Jean-Paul: their secret was safe.