Vigilante Season

by Peter Kirby

  “Not enough evidence? It means you’re guilty, but they can’t prove it. The public will suspect a cover-up, and you’ll be on a short walk to early retirement.”

  “It’s not just me. My partner will be smeared too. So I need to prove I didn’t do it.” He knew he was asking a big favour. “Help me. If there’s footage showing the kid walking away without a mark on him, I’d like to know. You will be helping to save the career of two police officers.” He didn’t know if she cared.

  Trudel brought the latte to her lips and stared at him. She was calculating, testing the angles to see how she could benefit from the situation. He continued,

  “We could take it one step at a time. You don’t need to decide yet. Just take a look at what you’ve got and see if there’s anything there.”

  “I don’t even know what the kid looks like.”

  “You do. He held a press conference. When I let him out the back door, he was wearing an oversized white parka jacket, a white baseball cap at a stupid angle, gold chains around his neck, and a pair of jeans that looked like they would fall off if he ran.”

  “A fashion maven.”

  “And he had fluorescent green sneakers.”

  “Hard to miss in a crowd.”

  “Depends on the crowd, I suppose. But you’ll be able to pick him out. He walked out from behind the station and high-fived a guy at the edge of the crowd, and then they both walked off. Your cameraman was filming about four feet away and would have got a good shot of both of them.”

  She considered for a moment, stirring the foam into her coffee.

  “All you have to do is to take a look to see if there’s anything there that might help. Then it’s up to you.”

  She let him wait, probably counting the seconds off in her head.

  “Okay. I’ll take a look at the footage. If there is something interesting, then I’ll decide if I want to help you.”

  “That’s all I’m asking.” He knew that she would give the second step serious thought. “I need help.”

  “I know. But it’s not that easy. I’m a journalist, not a good Samaritan.”

  She stared into his eyes for a few moments, and he knew it wasn’t going to be easy. She finished the latte and stood up. “Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you.”

  “So you’ll review the footage?”

  “I’ll get back to you,” she said, and left.

  He watched her in the street, but she didn’t look back. He ordered a beer.

  Louis Garguet was handing out weapons from a concealed storage locker in the basement of the Club Gym. He was excited and had five guys, pumped with adrenaline, hanging on his every word. The guys were stowing shotguns and pistols into their gym bags.

  Most humans have a desperate need to belong, and the guys in the basement had found their tribe. They were as disparate as any other group of guys, but united by their common fate to have been out of the room when impulse control was being doled out. A sad bunch of losers who had found an occupation where a taste for violence was a job requirement, and having nothing to lose an asset. The air was fetid with sweat, and they liked it that way.

  “Where’s Eddie?” asked Garguet. Somebody try him on the phone again and tell him to get his ass in here. Pronto. Don’t tell him what it’s about. You never know who’s listening.”

  Then he grabbed a huge sheet of white paper and held it up against the wall. He pumped staples into it from a staple gun to keep it there.

  A tall guy with long hair and a beard started dialling on his cell phone, and this time it seemed to work. When he finished talking, he announced, “Eddie says he’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks, Tony. The bastard’s probably been whoring all afternoon,” said Garguet. “Okay, the rest of you listen up. Eduardo finally gave me access to the GPS he put in the container, and we’ve tracked it down. It’s sitting in a warehouse at the bottom of Jeanne d’Arc near Notre-Dame. We’re going to take it back at 4 a.m. tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “That’s in nine hours.”

  He traced lines on the paper with a red felt-tip to show the intersection.

  “We’ll use three cars.” Garguet pointed with the market. “Pierre, you and Nick in your truck. George, you and Tony in Tony’s SUV. Then me, Eddie and Rico in my SUV. And Nick, you’re going to be driving the baby home.”

  He went back to the sheet of paper and drew a rectangle.

  “That’s the building. You’ve probably seen it. Green and red. A brick warehouse.”

  “Yeah, I pass it all the time. It’s shut down, no?” said Pierre. “I never seen anybody there.”

  “According to the GPS, our container is sitting in there waiting for us.”

  “What about a truck? We need a truck,” said Tony.

  “The container should be on a truck. Would have been a waste of time to take it off. But if there’s no truck, I have a guy if we need him. I’ll call, and he’ll be there in two minutes with a truck we can use.”

  “Who are we going after boss? Who’s guarding it?”

  “Patriotes. That’s who. But I don’t know how many are going to be guarding the place. I figure at four in the morning, if they’re there, they’ll be asleep, or close to it.” He began drawing doors on the rectangle. “There are three doors. No, four. Two on one side, one at the back, and the garage door. That’s for the truck.”

  “You’ve been over to see the place?” asked Rico.

  “Yeah. I drove by a couple of times. And I checked it out on Google Street View. Modern tools,” Garguet continued. “So we pull quietly into the lot. Then we blow the two doors at the front and go in fast. George and Nick on this one, and me, Eddie, and Rico on this one.” He marked initials on the paper. “Like I said, we blow the doors. And then go in shooting. Anybody inside moves, shoot them. Shit, if they don’t move, shoot them anyway. No survivors. Understood?”

  “What about me and Pierre?” asked Tony. “I don’t want nobody saying we weren’t part of the action.”

  “I was getting to you, Tony. You two go round back, to this door.” Garguet was writing initials on the back door.

  “We blow it and go in?”

  “Fucking brilliant, Tony. Yeah, you blow the door, run in and start shooting. Just when we’re coming in on the other side. We can all shoot each other.”

  It got a laugh.

  “No. You don’t blow it. You two stay outside and watch the door. Anyone tries to leave, you shoot them. Got it?”

  “Yeah, Louis. I got it.”

  “And don’t stand in front of the door in case you catch a stray bullet. Let the wall block you.”

  “Got it.”

  “Once inside, we secure the place. Like I said, anybody moves, shoot them. Nick, you get the truck going. You’ll probably have to jack the electricals.”

  “Sure, Louis.” Nick looked almost normal, with short hair and a long sleeved shirt. If he had brown shorts he could have passed for the UPS man. “I can get any truck going in five minutes, max.”

  “Good,” said Garguet. “As soon as the motor starts running, we open the garage door, and Nick takes off.”

  “Where do I take it to, Louis?”

  “Ontario. I’ll give you the location later. Guys, as soon as Nick’s out the door, we close the place up and leave. Got it?”

  The guys were excited.

  Garguet went through the plan, such as it was, again, and again. They were to meet at 3:45 a.m. in the parking lot of LaFleur’s, an all-night hamburger stand on Notre-Dame. Then they would take Notre-Dame for the five-minute drive west. They were to cut the engines as soon as they turned into the lot and cruise to a stop as close to the doors as possible. On the third run-through, Eddie came down the stairs.

  “Where the fuck you been?” Garguet said.

  Eddie shrugged his shoulders and smiled. />
  “You whore-master. Can’t you keep it in your pants?”

  A few of the guys laughed, and Eddie shrugged.

  Garguet went through the plan again. Eddie was hearing it for the first time. By ten o’clock, everyone had things fixed in their heads.

  “Okay. So you all take off. Walk out of here like after a hard workout at the gym. One by one. Nothing strange. And stay quiet. No drinking and no dope till we’re finished. At three-fifteen, you join up and head towards LaFleur’s. At three forty-five, we leave LaFleur’s. Got it?”

  The guys nodded

  “Okay. I want all cell phones here. No calls. No leaks. Understood?”

  Eddie was first to surrender his phone. He figured there was no choice, but he made sure to lift the battery. He didn’t want any incoming calls when he wasn’t there. He dropped the phone in a cardboard box and wondered where he could go to find a payphone.

  As the guys were getting ready to leave, Garguet said, “We’re going to have fun, tonight. And we’re going to kick some serious ass.”

  As they filed out, he added, “Eddie. I want you to stay. We’ll work out together.”

  “Sure, Louis. I don’t have nothing to do anyway.”

  Desportes was sitting in Bar 3687 on Sainte-Catherine Street. The owner named it after its street address and used as much imagination in decorating it. Desportes was sitting alone at one of the formica-topped tables. Two tables down, a woman sat in a pink fake fur jacket and a tight short skirt, nursing a glass of wine. It was her third. It wasn’t unusual. People often had to get their bearings before they talked to Desportes. When she came inside from yet another cigarette break, she seemed to have made up her mind. She sat down, gulped down the last of the wine and carried the glass to the bar for a refill. Then she walked over to Desportes’s table. In the tight skirt and high heels, she couldn’t stop her ass swinging back and forth like she was trolling for business.

  “I was wondering when you’d come over.”

  “Are you Hugo?”

  “That’s my name.”

  “Can I sit down?”

  He pushed the chair away from the table with his hand and gestured for her to sit.

  She sat and made a hopeless effort to pull the hem of the skirt down. “I don’t know where to start. People said you might be able to help.”

  “Maybe. What’s the problem?” He waved to signal another beer.

  “It’s my son. Serge. He’s disappeared.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How old is he?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Kids leave home at fifteen.”

  “No. He had it too good at home. He has no reason to leave. But the things that have happened, I think he’s in trouble.”

  “Tell me.”

  As soon as she started, he realized he knew most of the story. It had been hard to miss.

  “You’re Serge Barbeau’s mother?”

  “Yes. The last time I saw him was about eight o’clock on Tuesday. the day after he was beaten up, when they had his press conference on TV. You know, they shouldn’t have made Serge do that. He’s not good at speaking in public. I had to go to a friend’s to see it because my cable’s cut off. Those bastards. I owe them about $60 and they cut me off. Anyway, Serge came in for dinner, and I started talking about it, asking him about what happened at the police station, and he goes crazy. He started shouting, like why don’t I believe him? He said I was calling him a liar. It’s not that I didn’t believe him. I just wanted to know what happened. Anyway, he still ate dinner. See, that’s what I mean, he wouldn’t run away. Even when he’s mad at me, he stays around for dinner.

  “So, right after dinner he gets a call and tells me he’s going out. And that’s the last I saw of him.”

  “He hasn’t called since then?”

  “No. At about one o’clock I got a text.” She pulled out her phone and pushed buttons. Then held the screen up so he could see.

  Have to go away for a few days. Will be in touch.

  “I’ve called his cell phone, left messages. And nothing. Now the phone’s dead – .” She began to choke at the word dead. “And – I don’t know. I’ve got a really bad feeling … ”

  “It makes sense for him to lie low, doesn’t it? I mean, from what I read, the cop he accused said he lied about the beating. Maybe he was scared the cops would do something.”

  “Serge isn’t that smart. He wouldn’t even think about … What was it you said? Lying low. But that’s the point. If he did lie about the police, someone else did it to him ... Beat him up, I mean.”

  Desportes looked her in the eyes. “You think he lied?”

  “No. Well, I don’t know now. He was so defensive when I even asked about it. Like he didn’t expect me to believe it.”

  “So where might he have gone?”

  “I tried to find out. I tried to find out what he’d been doing, like who he’s been hanging with. But you know this place, nobody says nothing. It’s tough to raise kids around here. I don’t know where he is most of the time, I don’t know who his friends are. It’s easy for a kid to get into trouble here.”

  “But what can I do for you?”

  “Maybe you could find out what happened to him. Maybe you can ask around and find out. Anything. I want to know.”

  Desportes was intrigued. He had followed Barbeau’s story, mainly because he was surprised by the Patriotes’ ability to organize a riot at short notice, and puzzled about why they would even want to. He didn’t understand the kid’s disappearance, and trying to figure out what happened might be interesting.

  “If I ask around, where can I reach you?”

  Madame Barbeau gave him her phone number and then told him where they lived. He knew the street, a low rent area where people clung on by their fingernails. The last stop before moving on to rooming houses with shared toilets.

  “Okay, Madame Barbeau. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you.”

  “Anything you can do. I’ll pay.”

  “Let’s see how things go first.”

  She slugged the remnants of the wine and stood up, unsteadily. Her heels were too high for walking, but she tried her best to leave with dignity, not looking back.

  Sylvie Saint-Jacques knew where she was going, and Vanier followed. They walked up Emery Street, past a second-hand bookseller, and Saint-Jacques pulled open the door and held it for Vanier. Inside, it was quiet, only the gentle murmur of conversation. Several of the tables were taken, but nobody looked up. Vanier glanced back through the window as though to make sure that the cacophony of street noise still existed. It did, but outside. Then he picked up the low sound of Miles Davis rippling through the room from excellent speakers. “It Never Entered My Mind” always stopped him in his tracks.

  A tall bearded man in jeans and a T-shirt approached them. He ignored Vanier, and said, “Sylvie, it’s been way too long.”

  Saint-Jacques gave him the obligatory double-cheek kiss. “Good to see you, Nelson, and you’re right. It’s been too long. We’re supposed to meet someone.”

  Nelson swivelled, letting her take in the long room.

  “I think …. ” Saint-Jacques gestured to a woman with a bright purple streak in her dark hair sitting alone in a booth, staring into her tea. Vanier was already on his way. Saint-Jacques followed.

  The woman didn’t look up when they approached.

  “Madame Lavigeur?” said Saint-Jacques.

  She jumped a little and then gave a weak smile. “Yes, that’s me. But call me Melissa.”

  “And you should call me Sylvie,” said Saint-Jacques, sliding into the bench opposite her. “And this is Luc Vanier. We work together.”

  “I know. I saw you both, remember?”

  Lavigeur took Vanier’s outstretched hand and gave it a limp shake. Nelson placed two menus on the table as Vanie
r slid in beside Saint-Jacques. Vanier looked around, taking in the wooden ceiling fans that turned slowly over their heads, the dark wood of the tables, and the enclosed serving section where plumes of steam rose from several kettles of boiling water. An aroma of tea hung throughout the room, clean and comforting. He gave Lavigeur a smile.

  “First, we need to order,” said Saint-Jacques. “Then we can talk.”

  Vanier opened the menu and knew immediately he was lost. It was more information than he had expected, and he realized he couldn’t just order a cup of tea. He flipped through ten pages to get an idea. Tea was organized by type and region, with small photos of the estates they came from, or the pots and cups used for brewing or drinking. He looked at the pictures, beaten by the choices.

  “What do you think?” he asked, turning to Saint-Jacques.

  “What do you like? Green, white, black, or maybe fermented?”

  “Fermented?” He’d never heard of fermented tea, but he had great respect for fermented beverages in general.

  “Saint-Jacques saw his reaction. “It’s not alcoholic, just a way of preparing the leaves. They’re fermented for a couple of years. It gives the tea a much different taste. You might like it.”

  “I suppose a bag of Tetley’s is out of the question.”

  The two women laughed, and Saint-Jacques took charge.

  “Not on the menu. Why don’t I order for you? You like black tea, right?”

  “Sure.” Vanier guessed that he might like a black tea, and as traditional as possible.

  Nelson reappeared, and Saint-Jacques ordered Wulong for Vanier and a Rosée du Gyokuro for herself.

  Nelson said to Vanier, “You’ll enjoy that. Wulong teas are some of my favourites.”

  Vanier smiled as though he had passed some test.

  Lavigeur picked up her pot and refilled her cup.

  “So, Melissa, what did you want to talk about?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but when I saw you the other day, I thought, what’s to lose? If I don’t say anything, maybe I’ll regret it.”