by Ian Truman
Sean was that scrawny Irish kid that liked to slap the biggest guy around just to see if he’d be down for a fight. He didn’t look like much from afar. He was maybe five-foot-seven, but he was sharp. He was working out all the time: gym, rugby, boxing…if it was tough, he did it; if it was painful, he did it. He didn’t see the point otherwise.
So there I was, few minutes later, at the middle of my first scrum of rugby at thirty-six. Guys left and right ran their arms over and under my shoulders. I did the same. I was right in the middle of it and these guys were huge.
Irish, Scots, two Greeks, couple odd Québécois and two or three black guys. It would have been hard to find a more Canadian crowd anywhere if only we didn’t weigh twice the national average.
I felt good for once. Felt good for the first time in months. I wondered right there and then why I hadn’t thought about playing rugby any sooner. I was really going to enjoy this shit.
The referee shouted, “Crouch.” The guys carried me down. I got ready as much as I could figure. I heard “Bind,” and then sixteen guys collided together to grunts and heavy breathing, a pack of mules expecting the shit to hit them any second.
All hell broke loose when I heard “set” and saw the ball being fed right in the middle of us.
I never imagined myself pushing so hard in my entire life. My legs were digging in the dirt, calves ready to snap, shoulders scattered wide and pushing forward. At first it didn’t seem like I had any control over anything, like we had control over anything, but then you started to feel it, the team work and the direction everyone was pushing towards. That’s when I doubled down. Focused on one thing, clenched my teeth and pushed the same way everyone else was pushing.
The ball was gone a moment later, hooked and passed by the other team. I couldn’t even see what happened, but I felt the whole pack dissolve in a second. The wave of people was moving to my left. I placed myself in the middle of everything, trying to figure out what was going on.
The ball was quickly passed two and then three times to a guy always further down the field, each of them trying to squeeze out a few yards before reaching the edge of the field. I didn’t know what to do so I just looked. When our side tackled the last runner down, everybody formed two lines again, ready to push and block.
“Heille! T’é s’posé être su’s bord icitte,” one of the guys on the other team told me. “Icitte, osti. Over this side, man,” he added in English, waving his hand around to where I should be. No one had stopped playing for one second. Everyone was jumping from one foot to the other, wiggling their fingers and spitting out some blood. One snap and there was blood. Jesus fucking Christ. They all wanted to smash into someone, anyone, and sooner rather than later.
The ball started going the other way just as fast as it had done the moment before, and the mass of bodies started moving along with it.
You couldn’t work yourself around a guy. You couldn’t sneak behind and tackle him in his knees. You had to earn your way to the ball with absolute effort, perfect focus. I never thought I would find a sport more noble than boxing. Boxing was tough. Rugby was tougher. And this is coming from a guy who always thought Mike Tyson had kind eyes.
Three passes in two seconds later, the ball landed in the arms of tall skinny guy with a mean look about himself. He had that stare in his eyes like he was about to jab me in the jaw if I stood in his way. Part of me knew he would do it and probably would have been allowed to.
This guy was fast, but I wasn’t gonna let him fuck me around. I glared to my left half a second and spotted Sean coming our way from a distance. The pack was closing in, too, but I needed to be the one who stopped him. I was here for a job after all, and I needed Sean to notice.
I bent my knees, ready to move left or right with him. The rest of the game didn’t matter anymore. The rest of the world didn’t matter anymore. I swear to God, I could see him move in slow motion right there and then. When he dodged left, I snapped in an instant, tackling him to the ground to the satisfying noise of his breath being taken away from him.
I hit him right in the fucking ribs. God it felt good.
Got you, motherfucker, I almost said but I managed to keep it to myself. I hadn’t earned any bragging rights just yet, but I was thinking it though.
Next thing you knew, he was on his side, protecting the ball, and I was dragged by my teammates backwards as to avoid a foul. You had to admire the control, the dedication. You had to admire the resilience of these guys.
I could see blue socks and white socks lining up around me, legs bent and toes dug in, their hands covered in white tape soiled with blood and dirt and grass. They were ready to ship that game downfield in a snap.
There was no stopping this fucking train wreck. That was rugby, and I could get used to it.
About two hours of such punishment, and we were ready to lick our wounds. I made my way to the bench. My saggy jeans were dirty and torn, shirt wasn’t in any better shape. I pick up my phone and keys from my hoodie I had left on the sidelines. I looked at Sean walking my way from the edge of the field.
In the faraway days of my youth, Sean Cullens was known as Sean the Loan Shark. His job was to navigate days the South-West districts as a lender for the Irish mafia. Rumour had it he didn’t do much collecting. Rumour had it you didn’t forget to pay Sean Cullens back neither. He had a way about himself to keep people on the hook for months or years, stretching loans out and cashing in the heavy interests and having you say thank you in the process.
He worked everything Angrignon and the Pointe. That was hardly easy territory to keep, but Sean always seemed to keep his shit tight.
Cillian used to speak well of him, and my brother’s word was good enough for me on things like this. My brother had worked for him a few times, shit like as staff or security for a few of the shows Sean also helped to run when there was money to be made.
That was how Sean moved up the ladder. He became harder to find and worked in better, more expensive places. It wasn’t like you could just run across him in the street like you used to. The legendary status of his Verdun persona seemed to dissipate as he became less public, but those who were really important must’ve known better.
Nowadays he looked like he was running legitimate businesses rather than anything else. I kinda figured the “events” were fronts for organized crime, but you could never really be sure. When you thought about it, no one really knew what Sean was up to except for Sean.
“So,” he said when he reached the bench, “I’m guessing you want to work.” He was bleeding from more places than I was. He didn’t seem to mind. He ran some water over the wounds to get the dirt out, and that was about it. Sean didn’t give a shit.
“If you have anything. I’d be happy to work.”
“Why now?”
“Job got razed by the Griffintown condos.”
“All right. Okay. But I mean, there are other jobs around, aren’t there?”
“I want to work,” I said. “I’m done being broke.”
“Okay. All right. I get that.” He paused for a moment. He was looking at the rest of the guys scattering away to their wives and their kids and their cars. He looked down and up at me again. “The question is, are you sure you want to work?”
There was no way around the implications here, so I simply said, “Yeah.”
“And your wife?”
“Patricia?”
“Yeah.”
“What about her?”
“She down with this idea?”
“Last husband died in the army. I think we’re good.”
“She doesn’t know?”
“She didn’t ask,” I tried.
Sean didn’t like toying around. “Maybe she should ask,” he insisted. The tone in his voice didn’t leave any room for fucking around. This was probably as much leeway as I was going to get in this discussion. I nodded all right, I got it, I got it!
That was enough to calm
him down.
“You see,” he continued, “that’s some shit just the same. Last guy died. It’s not like most of us will get to retire in a home. I mean, I can get some work to a kid, sixteen, maybe fifteen. I don’t like them any younger. I can get that kid some work and never give a shit about him. Nothing to lose and plenty of money to keep him in check. But you’re no kid, D’Arcy.” He ran a perfectly white towel across his dirty face. “But I’m gonna ask you again: are you sure you want to work? I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not exactly your brother.”
“I’m not as crazy as he was.”
He smiled. “No, you’re most definitely not.”
“Got himself killed, too.”
The smile vanished. “Never caught who did it, did they?”
I almost said yes, but I simply said, “No.” Saying yes would lead to questions I didn’t want Sean Cullens asking about me.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Listen,” I said. “You know the job market’s shit. The housing market’s fucked. The cost of living is killing me.”
“I don’t know, D’Arcy. This is not exactly warehousing. And with a son, too.”
“That’s the point right there. I need to feed the little fucker. Eight years of boxing training. I’m reliable, and that you know.”
“All right, shit. I mean, if you’re down, you’re down. A’ight. But I have a boss, too. You’re not exactly the typical guy I’d hire.”
And right there was a moment that defined the rest of my life. Sean was letting me off the hook easy. He didn’t know I had what it takes to work for him. He hadn’t heard about Hamilton, and it’s not like I could be so open about that job either. There was a way around that, but it was going to cost me later. It was either this or back to warehousing and insane commutes and fucking poverty. So I pushed.
My tone changed in a second. I wasn’t looking for a way in anymore. I was telling him from now on. I wasn’t Cillian’s brother looking for help anymore. I was D’Arcy Kennedy, and I had been to the boss’ cabin to answer some questions and lived.
“Ask him,” I simply said.
He noticed the change in my tone and didn’t seem to like it. “Ask who?”
“Your boss.”
“You want me to call my boss and ask if I can hire you?”
“Yeah.”
“This ain’t some fucking temp agency, D’Arcy. Are you sure this is the way you want to go about it? It’s not exactly a handout I can give you out of nowhere.”
“I’m aware of that. But run my name, see if it sticks.”
He took a short breath and looked at me sideways all of a sudden. “Why would your name stick?” he asked himself. I was reaching more than I wished I had, but there was no backing out now.
You’d be surprised, I was thinking.
He took out his phone. “Yeah, it’s Sean,” he said. “I got a guy here looking for work, asking to run his name by you. Yeah! I told him, but there’s a certain level of confidence about him. I want to know why. D’Arcy Kennedy. You know that guy?” He paused for a second and looked my way. The look said you better not fucking move. “Yeah, the brother of that guy they found in the canal, Cillian Kennedy, what? Eighteen months ago, two years ago, maybe. D’Arcy Kennedy,” he repeated. Then he looked again at me and frowned. “You sure?” He paused. “What’s that got to do with anything? Don’t ask.” He grinned and shook his head sideways just once, as if he had accepted my fate.
“A’ight,” he said. He swiped the screen to black and put his phone in his pocket. He looked at me, pissed as fuck. “Boss said to hire you. Good jobs too, no hookers, no drugs. ‘He’s good at finding people,’ he said. I don’t have the first idea why, but you’ll get to meet the boss, too.”
“That’s appreciated.”
“Yeah, well, don’t be so quick to celebrate.” He smiled that hyena smile of his. Oh! I was in his sights now; that was for sure. “You knew he knew who you were. Took me for a fool and played me for an hour.”
“Would you have believed me if I had said so from the start?”
“Probably not. But you can bet I’m gonna be looking out for who D’Arcy Kennedy really is from now on.”
There wasn’t much you could add to that. It was part of the game I was throwing myself into. Means justified the ends and all of that shit. But common sense had it you didn’t piss off Sean Cullens. This one was gonna cost me, and we both knew it. Not today and not now. This wasn’t the time or the place. He was gonna make that one count, all right.
“Boss also said to ask you how’s Mr. Hamilton doing?”
I clenched my jaw, trying not to let it get to me. They knew about Hamilton. They had me by the balls now. I had crossed the Rubicon. Alea iacta est, as the Romans said. The die is cast.
“He’s fine,” I simply replied. That was a fucking lie. “Hamilton’s doing just fine.”
Chapter 3
Sean gave me an address on Young. It was still one street behind most of the developments in the area. That particular stretch was like Griffintown used to be. A few row houses from the 1800s, and you wondered how they had made it all the way to 2017. The rest of what had survived dated back to the sixties and the seventies, and it hadn’t been kind on the architecture. Lots of simple brick warehouses much like the place I used to work for.
The address Sean gave me was somewhere in between. I opened the door to the small staircase, red brick wall inside, freshly varnished ramp, wooden stairs, and the heavy scent of recently oiled wood filling the air. They were obviously looking to save this one from the bulldozers. Was my boss going to keep it for himself or sell it off at a ludicrous price? I didn’t know, but the money was pouring in one way or the other.
I didn’t exactly know how deep the Irish mob had connections in the rebuilding of the neighbourhood. You always heard about the Italians on the news. The Irish never made a goddamned noise. It was fucking weird. Like we didn’t exit. The Chinese were deep in crime just the same, yet all the news talked about was the Italians and the bikers, the Haitians. I had yet to understand how or why the South-West seemed to fall off the radar back in 1978.
Too white for the corporate media? Too Anglo for the French press, too Canadian for the Québécois, too Québécois for the Canadians, “Allo Police” had lost its readership? Too tough for The Gazette? Or maybe The Gazette was scared of pissing off whatever market share they had left by calling in bullshit on a few of their own readers. I didn’t know. Maybe ’78 was the year enough Anglos “agreed” to move out of the province to satisfy the separatist wing of referendum-era police brass.
I didn’t know why, but the Irish never made the news anymore, and I knew better than to think that the Irish were out of the game by any measure. I was getting ahead of myself right that moment, but it was hard not to think about it.
Then I heard some chatter coming from the second floor. I made my way up there. The entire floor had been stripped of walls. Only the central wooden beam stood in the way. You could make out the name of some old shipping company painted on a portion of the inside wall, and you just knew it was the original paint, and it made you like it for some reason.
Place looked good. Real money wouldn’t be interested if it didn’t.
“Mr. Kennedy,” my new boss said from afar.
I tried to say, Hi, but that’s when I realized I had never actually learned his name. He certainly never told me and I figured he would only tell me if he wanted to.
He was dressed like a guy you didn’t fuck with. Designer white shirt and golden cufflinks that contrasted with a fitted black jacket, some texture to it so it looked even more expensive. Hair was trimmed sharply, beard too. You didn’t see any tattoos and such. This was bigger business than your daily grind or collecting welfare loans on the first of the month.
He looked at me and smiled, as if he was admitting to me silently just how much bullshit this all was. He was having fun with it, that
much I could tell. It was like that time at his cabin with the little fucking cherry tomatoes he was chopping with all the care in the world.
The guy did whatever he wanted whenever he wanted to do it. If he liked you, then he liked you. If he didn’t, then there was no way around it, and I had yet to figure him out at all. Maybe that was why he was exactly where he wanted to be.
One day he was looking over blueprints and what looked like some sort of marketing campaign, another day he’d go down to some crack house on Pitt Street with a few of his employees to collect just because he liked the smell of the place.
I had yet to witness that last bit, but I could picture it damn well easy enough.
The guy next to him didn’t look to me like he was aware of any of this. He looked just like every other guy that was buying Griffintown. Young professional, but you couldn’t figure out what that meant or what passed for a profession these days. He was walking back and forth with underserved assurance, overconfident and apparently in dire need to be the centre of attention for his fifteen minutes in the sun. He also seemed to talk a lot while saying very little. Quite the opposite of me in fact.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever met Mr. Boulay,” my boss said with a certain satisfaction in his smile. I walked across the floor. The sound of my heavy boots resonated against the hardwood in the empty room. “You two work in vastly different departments, I have to say.”
“I never had the pleasure,” Boulay said, unable to hide his French-Canadian roots in the accent. You could tell he was trying for some reason. It wasn’t working.
“Mr. Boulay here is a graphic designer,” my boss said.
I ignored the kid, shook my boss’ hand and said. “Nice to see you again.”
He shook mine back. I’d like to think he was in a good mood. “It’s always a pleasure, Mr. Kennedy.”
“What are you working on?” I asked.
“Marijuana packages.”
