Your Friendly Neighborhood Criminal

by Michael Van Rooy

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  #1

  #2

  #3

  #4

  #5

  #6

  #7

  #8

  #9

  #10

  #11

  #12

  #13

  #14

  #15

  #16

  #17

  #18

  #19

  #20

  #21

  #22

  #23

  #24

  #25

  #26

  #27

  #28

  #29

  #30

  #31

  #32

  #33

  #34

  #35

  #36

  #37

  #38

  #39

  #40

  #41

  #42

  #43

  #44

  #45

  #46

  #47

  #48

  #49

  #50

  #51

  #52

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  In memory of Don Dewar, a gentle man and a gentleman.

  And

  To Laura, always.

  #1

  It was not my fault. I swear to whatever God you want to name. It was not my fault. It was November in Winnipeg and I was not looking for trouble. I was limping around with a cane. I was in pretty rough shape overall with assorted ill-healed holes in my hide and the beginnings of the flu from hell.

  I was not looking for trouble. I want to emphasize that.

  I limped, hacking loudly, into the Entegra Credit Union on Selkirk Avenue in the North End about five minutes after it had opened, just in time to stand at the end of a long line of blue-collar retirees and middle-aged housewives. My wife, Claire, had stayed home from work to let me open my very own bank account and I was enjoying not babysitting, which was how I was currently earning my living. Not that the kids were that bad, they were just very, very, well … bad.

  After ten minutes I finally reached the teller. “I need a savings account, one that I can access through the automated tellers.”

  She stared at my bruised face and looked away. “Sure.”

  “I also need some deposit slips. There’s nothing on the table over there.”

  The girl, whose name tag read EILEEN, was maybe twenty-five and pretty with black hair and dark blue eyes. She smiled with some condescension as she answered, “We haven’t had those for five years at least, maybe longer.”

  She took the information form I’d filled out along with my social insurance card, my Manitoba Medical card and a piece of photo ID, in my case a Manitoba Liquor Control Commission card (cost $17, newly arrived), and $5,632 in cheques from the Manitoba Lotteries Corporation, and typed away on her computer. I’d phoned ahead of time and knew they’d run a credit check on me before I received the account, but I was sure I’d pass—ex-cons like me didn’t generally have any credit rating, good or ill.

  I was standing there with my cane hung on the counter when the robbers walked in.

  Bang!

  I turned around slowly to see two guys in the lobby behind me, one with a rifle and one with a pistol. They were both wearing rubber masks of Brian Mulroney, Canada’s least loved prime minister. All of a sudden I was feeling every injury, bruise, and hole in my hide.

  “NO ONE MOVE!”

  Both robbers were painfully thin—drug thin—and wearing jean jackets and canvas gardening gloves. Both vibrated with adrenaline and, maybe, chemical speed. Not a good combination for anyone.

  “THIS IS A ROBBERY!”

  No shit.

  A curl of smoke was coming from the barrel and breech of the rifle held by Mulroney Number One. It spiralled to the ceiling while he fumbled in his jacket to fish out a pillowcase with its mouth held open by a bent coat hanger. This meant he was the cash man, which meant that Mulroney Number Two was …

  “WHAT ARE YOU SMILING AT?”

  … crowd control, and since the crowd consisted mostly of older people and me, he chose me. He took four fast steps and rammed the pistol barrel into my chest.

  “I’m not smiling.”

  And I wasn’t. These guys were amateurs, which made them dangerous. Amateurs are always worse than pros. Pros will kill you but they’ll generally do it on purpose. Amateurs, however, can kill you by mistake as well as on purpose. Everything they did screamed that they were amateurs. Like the way that Mulroney Number Two was poking me with the pistol. You never, ever, touch someone with your gun. Touching someone with your gun makes it easy for whoever is being threatened to take the weapon away from you.

  “WISE ASS!”

  He screamed assorted obscenities at me and I could smell rye whiskey on his breath, which was a second mistake; never drink before work. Mulroney Number Two backed away and swung the pistol at the tellers. Mulroney Number One started to work the cashiers. Mulroney Number one was holding a lever-action rifle with the barrel cut right down to the top of the tubular magazine and the stock crudely shaped into a pistol grip. He waved the gun around and I saw the barrel width and guessed it was a .22 or a .32, a pretty small calibre. That was good and bad. Good because the hole it would make would be small. Bad because it meant that the magazine could carry a lot more rounds. Also bad because it meant the recoil would be lessened, which would mean Mulroney Number One could shoot more often and more accurately. I realized I hadn’t heard or seen him work the action, which meant the hammer was sitting on a spent shell.

  That would be the third mistake the Mulroneys made and that is another reason why none of it was my fault.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. A bank robbery occurs every fifty-six minutes across North America, so the odds catch up with you eventually. That’s like 9000 a year, each netting an average of two grand Canadian, which made for a lot of loot changing hands.

  Of course generally I was the one doing the robbing. In the good old days when that was my business. Nowadays I don’t do that.

  Mulroney Number Two was standing there in the middle of the marble-floored lobby waving his gun around. It was a revolver, an old one with most of the bluing gone from the barrel and with the kind of forward-leaning lines that made me think it was single action. Single action meant that the hammer had to be pulled back to full cock before each shot. Double action meant pulling the trigger would cock the gun for you.

  One teller had dumped handfuls of bills into the pillowcase and Mulroney number one bellowed, “THE COINS TOO! NOW!”

  This was embarrassing. No one takes the coins—they’re too heavy and too hard to dispose of, unless you own a pool hall. And, really, why make it any easier for the cops, who have a 70 percent clearance rate on bank robberies in the first place? Of course the clearance rate was little comfort for the banks because only 30 percent of the loot is ever recovered. The rest goes to broads, booze, and blow. And if the police captured the loot then some of it sometimes went for the occasional subsidized police vacation in Cancun.

  “ARE YOU FUCKING SMILING AT ME? ARE YOU?”

  It was Mulroney Number Two. The hammer was still down on his revolver and again he was pushing it into my chest and I was feeling pretty sore from assorted injuries.

  “No sir.” With all that pain I had no problem putting a quaver into my voice.

  It didn’t help and he slapped the barrel of the gun into my temple. Everything went dim and hazy and I barely stopped myself from falling. I reached up and touched the edges of the hole and it became wet. Blo
od welled down the side of my face and the pain blossomed and I just stood there.

  The bright red blood and the open flower of a wound seemed to satisfy the robber and he walked away to yell at other people. A metre and a half away a plump white lady shook her head and muttered something in Ukrainian or Polish. Other than that the crowd was silent and I watched the robbers work. I tried not to think and my mind wandered. The most popular day to rob a bank is Friday and the second is Monday and the most popular time to do it is in the first two hours of opening. And more robberies occur in California and Florida in the States and Ontario and British Columbia in Canada. Vancouver is the bank-robbery capital of Canada. Go figure. The weather, I guess. In the States the robbery capital is Atlanta. I blame that on the Coca-Cola bottling plant and CNN.

  Another teller was handing over her bills and coins. That left only one teller and then this would all be over. Then I could go home and find out how big the hole in my head actually was. Maybe it would earn me a little sympathy sex from my wife Claire. Maybe I could go back to healing from my own errors. Then I heard sirens and that made me flinch. These were amateurs in front of me and amateurs panicked when the cops showed up. And panicking amateurs might freak out, take hostages, or start shooting. All of those options would be bad.

  To top it all off I knew Claire would never, ever, let me hear the end of it if I survived. All of which meant that I had no choice at all when I called out, “Hey, asshole, yeah, you.”

  Mulroney Number Two twitched like I’d slapped him and strode over to me. He paused and jammed the gun barrel into the centre of my chest. He still hadn’t pulled the hammer to where it was supposed to be.

  “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

  “I was just calling you an asshole, asshole.”

  I wondered if I was right. I wondered if the gun was single action. If not I was deeply and truly fucked.

  Mulroney Number Two sputtered and pulled the trigger but I was right, the gun was single action. Nothing happened. While he was trying to figure out what was going wrong I grabbed the gun with my right hand and twisted it down with the barrel pointing towards his belly. The sound of his finger breaking was loud and his scream was louder. A few metres away Mulroney Number One dropped the pillowcase and raised the rifle with both hands.

  I wasn’t hurrying. Never rush these things. There’s a rhythm to it all.

  My left hand went to the centre of Mulroney Number Two’s chest and pushed hard and I jammed my right foot down onto his to pin it in place. He was overbalanced and fell backwards slowly as I kept my weight on his foot. He fell and the weight of his own body tore the muscles and bones loose and turned his ankle into shredded meat. That made him scream even more and his voice filled the credit union like water pouring into a fishbowl.

  Two metres away Mulroney Number One pulled the trigger of his rifle but nothing happened and that gave me time to flip the pistol around and pull the hammer back through half-cock to full cock.

  “Stop.”

  He did.

  “Gun down.”

  The big question. The big chance. The thousand-dollar question. If he tried to work the lever I’d empty my gun into his narrow chest, but it was his choice.

  The gun went down.

  “Arms up.”

  His arms went up and the doorway filled with blue uniforms, black leather belts, anodized steel, white skin, and maybe a half metre of moustaches and about two square metres of bald skulls. I had the pistol pointed at the ceiling and I put it down on the ground. I did it all very slowly and I did it staring into the barrels of eight semi-automatic pistols held by eight stressed cops.

  I sighed as I sank to my knees and said loudly, “This is not my fault.”

  #2

  Early September, two months before.

  Claire and I were walking up the front walkway of a tidy two-story brick house about six blocks from our place. “And why does your renter want to speak with me?” I asked my wife as I fiddled with the collar of my shirt. Finally I gave up and undid an extra button.

  “No idea.”

  My wife is beautiful. She’s a little shorter than me, 5’9” and about 140 pounds with long reddish hair and dark brown eyes that develop green tints when she is really angry. She also looked muy sexy in a dark blue sweater and skirt and the side of her breast rubbed pleasantly against my arm as we walked. Before we reached the front door it was opened by a middle-aged woman with greying-blond hair cut about an inch long and slightly slanted blue eyes. At a guess I put her height at 5’4” and her weight at around 100 pounds.

  “Good afternoon, Claire, Mr. Haaviko.”

  She held her hand out and I shook it. “Call me Monty.”

  She smiled in a meaningless fashion and showed us both into a small room with no furniture. On the floor were heavy oblong carpets covered in brilliant, bright designs and piles of small round cushions. There was a woman in the corner of the room wearing a rich blue dress that covered her feet and pooled like water. She was sitting in front of a hibachi set out on a thick piece of grey-veined marble.

  “I’m Marie Blue Duck. Please come in.” Our host stepped aside.

  “Thank you.” Claire’s murmur was polite and non-committal. Nothing else.

  Marie went over to the figure by the hibachi. “This is my friend Eloise. She does not speak English so please do not be offended if she does not speak during our conversation.”

  Claire looked puzzled and we took cautious seats on the cushions. Marie sat down gracefully and looked at me. “You’re wondering about my last name?”

  “Not really.” I was being polite. I wanted to scream ‘Why do you want to talk to me?’ but I didn’t.

  “I’ll tell you anyway. My first husband was a Mohawk, a wonderful man. I kept his name after we parted ways, it’s such a wonderful name, don’t you think?”

  I agreed and asked her what she did and she just smiled. After a second she quietly said, “I help people.”

  Her words made me pause and look at her more closely. She had the angled perversity of a hard-core believer and I started to become worried. I’d seen it before in the faces of social workers, white supremacists, parole officers, black supremacists, religious leaders, Jewish supremacists, drug dealers, and Muslim supremacists. I’d seen it before endlessly in the faces of people who wanted to convince me to do something or not to do something and it left me cold. With nothing to say I complimented her on the home. “You have a beautiful house.”

  “Your wife rented it to us. It’s perfect for our needs, two storeys with finished basement and attached garage.”

  Her hands drummed briefly on her thighs and then she turned awkwardly and presented her profile to me while she talked to Claire. “I want to hire your husband.”

  Her vocabulary was educated and her tone was calm but it still startled me. “Me? Are you sure you’re talking to the right person?”

  “You are Monty Haaviko. Ex-thief, ex-burglar, ex-armed robber, ex-smuggler, ex-drug dealer …” She sounded mostly amused and a brief smile ghosted across her face as I answered, “That’s me.”

  Marie held up her hand politely. “Ahwah comes first. That’s Turkish coffee. After that we can talk.” Eloise at the brazier worked with small, brisk motions and dumped a handful of glossy brown beans into a small iron skillet, where they were quickly roasted. When they were done she used a blackened wooden dowel to crush them to a very coarse powder which she scooped into a brass pot with a long handle. That went back onto the brazier along with a little water from a plastic bottle and a piece of crystallized sugar.

  When the brew came to a boil Eloise took it from the brazier using the long handle, unceremoniously dropped two greenish-coloured things into the pot, and then put it back to heat. Claire looked at Marie and raised an eyebrow when she answered the implied question. “Cardamom pods for flavour.”

  When the pot boiled again Eloise picked it up carefully, took spoonfuls of froth from the pot, and placed them into three tiny steel cups. Whe
n the pot boiled a third time she picked it up, added more water, and then filled the cups with the thickened brew. Marie handed me and Claire cups and I drank the best coffee I’d ever had, sweet and strong and exquisite.

  “Good?” She seemed genuinely concerned and interested.

  “Very.” Eloise tidied up and Marie faced me again. “I’ll be direct. I bring people into Canada and the United States who cannot make it into the country any other way.”

  I put the cup down. “You smuggle them?”

  “Yes. I help the hopeless and the dispossessed and I will pay you $5000 to help me. Five thousand dollars for one week’s work.”

  Claire looked at me and squeezed my hand but I already had an answer. It wasn’t the one Marie wanted but so it goes. “No.”

  “Why?” She was calm, very calm, and Eloise was looking down into her lap as I answered.

  “Five thousand is too much money for you to pay me to do something even remotely legal. This means you want me to do something illegal. I do not want to do anything illegal. So the answer is no.”

  “Illegal? Does that bother you?”

  That was a stupid question but I answered it anyway. “Illegal doesn’t bother me. Being caught does. Prison bothers me, arrest bothers me.”

  “Even if it’s for a good cause?”

  “What is a good cause?”

  “Let me put a face on what I deal with … maybe that will help. Eloise was from Vietnam. She fled when she was twelve by boat, her family was Muslim.” Behind the veil the woman kept her face averted.

  “I see …”

  “Do you?” Marie’s face was blank. “She had a brother, a father, and two sisters when they left by boat. That first night they were attacked by Communists. They took everything of value and raped the women, the girls, and some of the boys. The next night fishermen found them and that happened the next night, and night after night. The fishermen would board, steal whatever they could find, rape whomever they chose, and leave. Within eighteen days the brother was eaten after a lottery, the father went mad and was drowned by the survivors, one sister hemorrhaged to death after being raped by Thai fishermen, the other vanished during a storm. They were rescued by the Red Cross and put into an internment camp in Thailand. And things became worse.”