Street Legal

by William Deverell

  After a long silence, she said, “What is your real name?”

  ***

  The RCMP launch had left the inner harbour, and was skirting the rim of the outer island beaches. The lowering sun was flashing off the glass of the downtown skyscrapers. Superintendent Smith thought: Toronto the Good, but there was much evil behind the placid veneer of this city.

  Smith was interrogating Mitchell now. McAnthony was just listening, sipping a second Scotch. Smith hoped it was mellowing him.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Captain Michel Lachance,” Mitchell said. “He’s in the 2 Commando, Canadian Airborne Regiment.”

  “Why did you go outside the RCMP?”

  “We’d been narked before, sir. We wanted an outsider. A volunteer. We thought of the Airborne. You know their reputation.”

  Smith nodded. “Yes, those fellows make the Green Berets pale.”

  “We did some interviews, looked at a few other people. But he was the cream. He was single, no family, adopted, a career soldier who didn’t need training. He was a natural, an actor. He jumped at it. He wanted it.”

  “It sounds as if he was somewhat too eager,” said Smith.

  “Yeah. Maybe. He kind of turned out that way. We did some psych tests on him, and he was okay, a little headstrong, that’s all. Anyway, we set him up with Leonard Woznick, gave him some pretty good cover — he was to say he was out of the Dubois gang. Billy is always looking for guys handy with guns.”

  “Did he know about the camera in the loft?”

  “No, he didn’t. He said he shot in self-defence when Schlizik turned his gun on him.”

  “But that’s not true.”

  “No, he just greased the son of a bitch. I don’t feel particularly bad about it, if you want to know the truth. Schlizik had just shot two guys, Captain Lachance probably thought his own life was in danger.”

  “That’s not what we see on the film,” said McAnthony.

  Smith silenced him with a flick of his hand. “When did he tell you this, that he had shot in self-defence?”

  “We had a couple of meets. There’s a place we go.”

  “Headstrong, you say.” Smith was still contemplating a way out of this. A police agent had committed murder on the job. If only there hadn’t been that video tape. Or if it hadn’t been discovered by that scientist, O’Doull, who apparently had it in for Mitchell.

  “Okay, he went off on his own on the Schlizik thing,” said Mitchell, “it wasn’t in the script.”

  “What did the script say?” McAnthony asked. “Did the script say Schlizik and your agent were to murder a couple of heroin thieves?”

  “We knew there was going to be some action. We didn’t know what. We didn’t expect to see Lachance there.”

  “I don’t suppose you gave this James Bond a licence to kill,” McAnthony said.

  Mitchell looked at his tormentor with sullen hostility.

  “We told him to look after himself.”

  “Okay,” said Smith, “so what then?”

  “So we decided, what the hell, alter the game plan a little bit. Make an arrest, get him bailed out, then put him right in tight with Billy Sweet as the guy who can save his skin.”

  “And hope no one would see the video,” said McAnthony. “The arrest was a sham. You used the court system, Mitchell. You used me. You used . . . And how did you settle on Carrington Barr to defend him?”

  “She was in the papers. Just won a big murder. Seemed logical.”

  “Or is it you thought she was a little raw? And tends to buy her clients’ stories too readily?”

  “Never really knew that . . . Goddamnit, Oliver, Billy Sweet runs millions of bucks worth of smack into this country and he’s crawled to the top of the garbage heap he helped to create. Your holy institution of the courts, they’ve done a damn great job of bringing Sweet to justice, haven’t they?”

  “Gentlemen,” said Smith, “this becomes self-defeating. If you will permit me, let me pursue a line of thought. I hear they train these commandos until killing becomes an instinct, Inspector. Do you think he could have gone bad? An actor, you say — are you sure he just couldn’t escape his role?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This Big Leonard character. And Mr. Norman Shandler. Who’s to say he didn’t, ah, do away with them?”

  “Well, that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Headstrong, you say. Out there doing his own thing, as it were.”

  “Deserves a goddamn medal.”

  Smith said nothing. He knocked back his single malt. “My, that’s tasty.”

  “What do you want me to do, sir?”

  “I want you to pull him, Harold. Immediately.”

  Silence, just the purr of the motor, the wash at the bow. Finally, Mitchell said, “I’ll be seeing him tomorrow. I’ll pull him.”

  “He should be charged with murder,” said McAnthony.

  “He already is,” said Smith.

  ***

  “An . . . army officer.” Carrie was dazed, her mind whirring. What were the implications here? She’d been made a fool of, to start with. “You’re Operation Sweet.”

  “Basically, yes.”

  She had returned the gun to him. He was zipping a suede jacket over the holster.

  “Everything has been a lie, then.”

  “Not everything.”

  “Your story about being an architect, becoming an addict after your lover who was killed — you really sucked me in, Captain . . .”

  “Lachance. Michel Lachance. Part of it was true. The woman I loved, she died . . . Only she was my wife.”

  Carrie faltered a little. “Big Leonard’s daughter, Lenore. You used her to get in with that gang. That’s bloody awful. That’s sick.”

  “I’m sorry for Lenore. It seemed the best way. You do what you have to do . . . She will have her revenge. Merde, Carrington, it’s they who are sick. Sweet, Cacciati, those guys. They are the scum of this earth. I’ve to go. We can talk later.”

  “Just a second here.” She ran to the front door and, her arms outstretched, barred it.

  He smiled and looked at her critically. “The image is of a woman on the cross.”

  “What are you then, a hired assassin?”

  “Not quite, Carrington.”

  “I intend to end this whole operation.”

  “But you can’t. Everyt’ing I ’ave tell you, it is privilege, yes? You are still my lawyer.”

  “I am not your lawyer.”

  “I will come back. Please, just stay here.” He took a step, his hand moved toward the doorknob. She blocked it with her buttocks.

  “Not until I have some answers.”

  His hand went to her waist, and she jumped — not from his touch, but from the sparks it caused. Lachance withdrew his hand and looked at it with mock horror.

  “You are trying to electrocute me.”

  “I’m sure it’s coming from you.”

  “A bientôt, Carrington.”

  Almost before she could blink, she was literally swept off her feet, and he was carrying her in his arms, both of hers pinned. He deposited her gently on a couch and was out the door before she could clamber up again.

  24

  Speeder Cacciati showed up at the street carnival just before sunset and mingled for a while. Big crowd, nice weather, sort of cooler now. Coloured lights strung from the trees of the park behind the church. Booths with pepperoni and pasta and plastic icons and pictures of Joe DiMaggio and Sophia Loren and the Polish pope. The sponsors, the Knights of St. Francis of Assisi, wore costumes of Roman centurions.

  Speeder, though a Knight of St. Francis of Assisi himself, was in the same old clothes he had on when he took Woznick down, except now he had on a sports jacket. He was supposed to work one of the wheels in
the hall, but had to beg off. He figured he’d spend some money, though, because it was all for a good cause.

  A stage was set up in the centre of the park where a centurion with a microphone was introducing some girls, the carnival-queen contest. Speeder moseyed over there to check them out. A dozen cute chicklets with corsages, all dressed up like Cinderellas, and Speeder figured all the Luigis standing around here with their wives, clapping, they were thinking about all that teenage pie, how sweet it would be to lay some pipe.

  Not Speeder. He liked someone more mature. More, kind of, aristocrat, where you can have an intelligent conversation after. Like that fancy frosty Carrington Barr, maybe she wasn’t so frigid in bed, he knew the type. If he couldn’t squeeze it out of Cristal who the narc was, he might persuade her to kind of open up. Speeder thought he might not mind doing that at all.

  No sign of Cristal outside the hall. But the idea was to meet him inside, that’s why he gave him the free ticket. Humphries and Elvis and those guys would be covering the exits; Deeley was supposed to bring a car around.

  He was speeding pretty good now, had done a couple just before getting here. He felt really fine, full of go and kind of lucky, like he could win some money tonight. It’d be a nice change to win, a guy gets tired of losing all the time with Billy.

  The big persuader in his pocket, a .38, made him feel good, too. Just kind of lightly poke it in the Frenchman’s ribs, and say, Hey, André, this ain’t my love muscle, how’d you like to take a little stroll?

  Those girls up there with their big boobs and nervous smiles, you think they wouldn’t freak if they knew who he was? Speed Cacciati, gunslinger, cowboy, you look at me the wrong way, blam.

  “Theresa,” said the M.C., “what is your hope for the future of the world?”

  “I think everybody has to get together and really work to love each other.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful, folks,” said the centurion. Speeder clapped along with the others. When the next girl was introduced, he gave a wolf whistle, then wandered off, stopping at a booth to buy some gum. They only had those candy-coated gum balls in a machine, three for a dime, not the kind he liked, the Dubble Bubble wrapped in a little comic strip.

  In the hall he slipped around to the back of the stage. From there, hidden in the shadows of the curtain, he could pretty well see everything, three walls lined with concessions, but mostly games like roulette and crown and anchor, and a few other deals in which you’re supposed to toss hoops or throw balls.

  He couldn’t see the Frenchman anywhere, and he worried maybe Billy was right, that he might be pissed off about Big Leonard. Blame it on a gang war, or something.

  He sat on a bench at a crown and anchor where he could watch the entrance and invested a little money. Plock, plock, plock went the little rubber pointer, right on the lucky number. Twenty bucks, just like that, he does pretty good when Billy isn’t around spreading his bad karma.

  His streak continued. He got kind of excited and wasn’t watching when he should’ve, and before he knew it André Cristal was right there beside him, on the bench. Where had the guy come from? He was here suddenly, quiet like a cat, right beside his gun pocket.

  “I ’ope I don’t bring you bad luck.” Speeder saw the smile, but didn’t like the look in his eyes. He’d met the Frenchman a few times, hired him on for Billy to work with Schlizik. Every time he saw him, he had this kind of look like he hated you.

  “Hey, André, how are ya? Good you could come.”

  “Where’s Billy? I said I wanted to meet with him.”

  “The plan is I’m gonna take you to him.”

  He watched Cristal put ten dollars on one of the squares.

  “No, the plan is you’re going to bring him to me.”

  Speeder decided the guy had a bad case of attitude. “No chance. You gotta know Billy, he don’t like to go out much.”

  Plock, plock, plock. Cristal got paid off three to one. Speeder donated twenty dollars to the Knights of St. Francis of Assisi.

  Calm, and kind of out of the blue, Cristal asked, “Did you kill Big Leonard today?”

  “Who, me?” Speeder was confused by the bluntness of the question. Should he pretend it was all news to him? He really hadn’t figured this part out. “Yeah, I heard. Naw, that was an outside job. Some money hassle is the word on that — he was runnin’ a stacked game on the book.”

  From the look on the Frenchman he was obviously not satisfied. The guy had these cold killer eyes that went right through you and out the back. Speeder felt uncomfortable now, the speed was losing its zing.

  “Honest, André. Outsiders, he kinda welshed on them. Juice dealers. Heavy people. And you got my commiserations. We all liked Big Leonard. His daughter, Lenore, listen, we got plans to see her through college.”

  The Frenchman was right up close to him where he could talk low, but it meant Speeder couldn’t easy just reach into his sports jacket and grab his piece. He began to notice his pile of bills was shrinking and Cristal’s was growing. He didn’t see this as a good sign.

  “When did you make these plans for Lenore? Before you killed him?”

  Speeder thought: plans, that didn’t sound too good, the hit was just a few hours ago . . . “We’re gonna make plans, André. Hey, you’re way out in left field on this play —”

  “I t’ink I will break your goddamn neck.”

  Speeder shook his head with pretend disbelief and grinned ner-vously. He couldn’t help looking around to see if any of the guys was in the hall. There was Elvis, just inside the exit through the kitchen, but standing there a little too obvious.

  “You ’ave others outside, eh? At the doors? The ones standing around smoking and looking stupid? André, he is not stupid. Because André knows somet’ing that makes him smart. It is somet’ing Billy will kill to know. I am not going to give it to him so cheap as he ’oped.”

  “Like, who is he, André? This canary. He work for the government?”

  “No. The cops bought him, paid him off big.”

  “How do we know you’re not lying?”

  “Take the chance.”

  But Speeder knew Cristal had the goods, the tapped phone call had confirmed that. This guy was a smart operator, smarter than anyone thought. He was confident, kind of scary-acting. Stay cool, Speeder, don’t just grab for the piece.

  Plock, plock, plock, the Frenchman doubles his money again, Speeder donates more to the Knights.

  “So what’re you thinkin’ in terms of, André?”

  “You tell Billy I want to meet with him on my ground. Tell him I don’t do deals with some stinking flunky.”

  “Hey, frog, you don’t start giving fuckin’ orders to Speeder Cacciati. I speak for Billy. I run his show.”

  “You wipe his nose and wash his underwear. You are not’ing, a two-bit punk. I made my deal with Billy.”

  Speeder began to pat his pockets, as if looking for something, the breast pockets first, and he pulled out some empty bubble-gum comic wrappers he’d been saving to read. “What kinda deal are you talkin’?”

  “The deal is I will snuff the stoolie.”

  “Good plan. Billy will pay you off real big for that.”

  “You’re damn right. Because I want in.”

  “What’s that mean?” Now Speeder casually slipped his hand into the gun pocket.

  “Equal partners.”

  “The fuck you’ll —”

  Speeder felt fingers on his wrist, like steel clamps.

  “I ’ave a big gun, too, Speeder.”

  “You’re fuckin’ crazy, you know that?”

  “Tell him half of everyt’ing. His corporations, his import business. He signs over half the shares. Got it?”

  Speeder’s hand was in pain, and he started to get scared because he was losing feeling in it.

  “I’ll tell him.�
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  “I will call your pager number tomorrow, eh? It’s still the same?”

  He grunted, “Yeah. Yeah, call me.”

  “Now go to the front door and tell your goons the action is off. I am going to walk out that door and into the crowd.”

  He withdrew his hand.

  Speeder slid off the bench, got a few feet away from him. Now he had his hand in his pocket, on the gun. “I could just blast you off the face of the earth, asshole.”

  The Frenchman shrugged. “You wouldn’t stand a chance. Anyway, where would it get you?”

  ***

  Carrie, her mind in turbulence, watched the sun die in orange tatters behind the western smog, a false sunset, factory-made. Phony like everything else in her current world.

  She thought she could make out the area around St. Francis of Assisi’s, a distant twinkling of coloured lights. Cristal . . . Michel Lachance, whoever he was, was making contact there. Brave soldier. Maybe foolish. What drove him?

  She was having a tough time reassembling the man. Captain in the somewhat notorious Airborne Regiment. Paratroopers. Commandos. Taught karate, he’d told her.

  And here was Carrington Barr, barrister and solicitor, a pawn in someone else’s game. It was unheard of. How, out of hundreds of criminal lawyers, had her name been chosen? It was bloody demeaning.

  At least she was defending an innocent man. He hadn’t killed anyone up in that prop loft: the murder charge was obviously just a ruse to gain Sweet’s confidence.

  Who knew about this? Oliver McAnthony? Surely not, it could mean his career . . . Still, she couldn’t see the Bullet flying off on a fancy all his own. She should call McAnthony. She should also phone one of her partners, someone. But Captain Lachance had trusted her not to.

  Here she was still playing their game. But just until he returned. If he returned. She would tell him thanks, but no thanks, and shedl be sending her bill to the attorney general along with a complaint to the Law Society. She’d take it to the media.

  She poured the last of the Chablis into her glass, and spilled some: she realized she was just a little swizzled. A typical escape into alcohol, she had her father’s booze genes.