by Peter Kirby
“If I knew, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Wait a second, what if someone disappeared the kid? The court wouldn’t like that, would it?”
“Disappeared the kid? You mean like deliberately made him disappear?”
“Yeah. The judge wouldn’t be pleased with that, would he?”
“I can’t do that. I can’t even suggest it without evidence.”
“No, but you don’t have to actually say it. I know lawyers. They’re good with words. You can plant the seed can’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Make it clear that you have your suspicions, but because you’re a lawyer, you can’t speak your mind.”
“You mean, like ethically.”
“Yeah. You’ve got ethics, so you can’t do it. But you’ve got suspicions too.”
Dufrene thought about, it wouldn’t be hard to do. “Maybe.”
“Then do it. I’ll help you.”
The Journal de Montréal had received a ten-second video clip and released four screenshots in the morning edition, one on the front page and three more inside. One would have been enough.
The front page was dominated with a photograph of Louis Garguet standing over a man tied to a chair. The banner headline said: The Final Hours of Émile Legault. The guy in the chair looked like he’d fallen face down onto concrete from the third floor. His head was drooping and his face was covered in blood that streaked down his chest and arms. The newspaper identified the guy in the chair as Émile Legault. Garguet was standing over him holding a hammer and smiling. The pictures inside were similar, Legault being beaten to death and Garguet looking like it was all in a day’s work. The Journal’s chief crime reporter, Norman Tessier, wrote that the DVD had arrived in a brown envelope with a handwritten note. He had immediately turned them both over to the police, but not before making copies for his exclusive use.
Vanier had heard the story on the radio and had gone out to buy a copy of the newspaper. Now he was struggling to understand the photo. It reminded him of the photos from Abu Ghraib of kid soldiers posing for photographs while torturing prisoners, or the photo essay of Canadian soldiers beating a 15-year-old to death over twelve hours in Somalia for stealing food. He didn’t understand the urge to record the brutal horror of what sons, daughters, and next-door neighbours are capable of doing in the right circumstances.
And Garguet didn’t need photographs to prove what he was capable of. The opportunity to beat a man to death wasn’t a once-in-a-lifetime meeting with fate for Garguet, it was his life, the real and constant world. And posing for photographs like a trophy hunter made no sense. Yet there it was. Vanier let the pictures sink in and wondered if Garguet was really posing. He didn’t seem to be aware of the camera. He looked more like a pool player reading the table after a good break, except there was no pool table, and the cue was a hammer hanging casually from his hand, its business end dark with blood.
At 11 a.m., Saint-Jacques called and told Vanier to look at the television news on TVA. He tried to explain that he had already seen the story in the Journal, but she cut him off.
“Just watch the latest and call me back.”
It took a few minutes but he found it, footage of Garguet arriving at Headquarters. The screen showed the usual march of a handcuffed suspect into the front entrance of the building. Flood and Laurent were flanking Garguet. The prisoner was holding his head up in a show of unconcerned confidence for the cameras. Journalists were milling around, shouting questions and flashing photographs, and being ignored by the three men. As the three of them went up the steps to the main entrance, Garguet hesitated for a second, seeming to have trouble balancing himself with his hands cuffed behind his back. Flood took his right arm, as if to help him, and reached out for the door. Then Garguet seemed to leap forward, his head exploding against the plate glass door. The glass shattered, and Garguet’s fall was broken by the handrail that stretched across the door, so he didn’t hit the ground, he balanced bent over the handle like an overcoat on a railing. Then Laurent and Flood manhandled Garguet off the door handle and dragged him inside the station.
Vanier speed-dialled Saint-Jacques, his cell phone cradled between his shoulder and ear while he tried to bring the clip up on the TVA website.
“Laurent and Flood?”
“Fine, I called. Garguet’s dead.”
“It looked like his head exploded. When was it?”
“About half an hour ago.”
“Wait. I got it. On the computer.”
Vanier pressed the play button on the screen and watched again as the three men approached the door. He pressed stop as Flood moved to open the door, and then moved the video forward as slowly as he could. Then he saw the light, a bead of red on the back of Garguet’s skull just a second before he pitched forward through the plate glass.
“What have you heard?”
“Not much. They told me that Laurent and Flood were unhurt, but that’s all. We’re pariah, remember? We don’t exist.”
“Sylvie, take it easy.”
“Take it easy? Things are out of control. Garguet was trying to tell you something with his video, and now he’s dead. Shit’s happening and we’re involved. I need to do something. I can’t just sit and watch all this happening.”
“Why don’t you come by? We can talk this thing through.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
It took a while, but Vanier finally got Laurent on the phone.
“So, how are you feeling?” asked Vanier.
“Like shit. I heard the bullet blow through his head. Shit, it was six inches from my own.”
“It looked like a clean shot.”
“Clean. The experts said it was sniper clean. They found the shooting site, on the third floor opposite the parking. But there was nothing there, no prints, no hair, no spent case, nothing. Like the shooter was dressed in a forensics suit. Small powder burn on the window ledge, that’s it.”
“Someone knew you were bringing Garguet in.”
“It wasn’t a big secret. The place was full of reporters waiting for us. Everyone who wanted to know could have figured it out from the radio chatter.”
“And somebody set him up?”
“Set him up good. He wasn’t walking away from this.”
“How was he on the drive down?”
“Like he was mad as hell. Not at us. Just mad. He kept saying that he wanted his lawyer and then he would talk to us. You know, the way everyone’s rushing to make the first deal with Crown when the shit hits the fan. It was like he knew that he was nailed, and it’s only the first deal that counts.”
“He didn’t take the pictures himself, and someone sent them to the papers.”
“Yeah. I guess he was going to nark the others out and hope for a lighter sentence.”
“And he would have succeeded.”
“Listen, boss, I have to go. It’s a madhouse down here.”
“OK. Appreciate the call.”
“Sure.”
The image was replaying in Vanier’s head like one of the six or seven television moments burned into the subconscious of generations; the close-up, pistol execution on a Saigon street, Lee Harvey, his face scrunched up, taking one in the stomach, or the broken Saddam Hussein, surprised until the end as the floor gave way beneath him. Vanier was used to seeing death in repose, desecrated bodies that only gave clues to the final moments, and no matter how he imagined, he could never fully recreate those moments. He carried around too many still-photo memories of the dead, but they faded with time. But he knew that the shot to the back of Garguet’s head and his pitch forward through the glass door would be with him forever.
Kids relaxing on park benches in Hochelaga are magnets for police with nothing better to do. So the kids always sit well back into the park to get some advance warning. By the time the cruis
er has parked and the uniforms have slogged across the grass fondling their gear, there’s always plenty of time to ditch the joints and booze.
Star and her new buddy Gaston were sitting on one table facing two boys on the other. The benches were close enough, so they only had to lean slightly to pass the joint. Gaston had introduced the others as Claude and Jacques. It was 4:30 in the afternoon, and the park was deserted except for two mothers watching a gang of six-year-olds climbing on the pretend fort.
“This is good stuff, fuck,” said Jacques, taking one last pull and passing the joint on.
“Crazy,” said Star. “Makes the world livable.”
Claude pulled on the joint and passed it to Gaston, holding the smoke in his lungs.
Star was waiting for the questions. She felt like she was some kind of world traveller who just arrived in town.
“So where in Montreal you from?” asked Claude.
“South Shore, at first,” said Star. She didn’t see any need to tell the truth. “It’s the worst place on earth. Full of families and nothing to do.”
“What about the malls? I’ve seen them. Huge ones. Like a million stores inside.”
Star vaguely remembered malls, and what she remembered wasn’t great. Without money, looking at window displays gets depressing. Just a reminder of what you don’t have.
Gaston had set up the meeting. He passed her the joint, and she took a deep pull. Handed it back to Jacques.
She had been hanging out with Gaston all afternoon, showing off her talents as a shoplifter. They had spent an hour in Village des Valeurs, America’s gift to Hochelaga’s poor, an American multinational retailer designed to look like a charity store so that it can compete with the Salvation Army. As though the Salvation Army needed competition.
Star was good at shoplifting. She had given it thought and she had rules; don’t waste your time with crap, just because it’s small and fits in your pocket doesn’t mean it belongs there, and just because it doesn’t fit in your pocket doesn’t mean you shouldn’t steal it. The highlight of the day’s lesson was Star walking out of the Village with a three-by-four framed poster of a lavender garden she’d lifted from the home décor section. They tried to sell it to passersby on the street. Then they tried to give it away. At three o’clock, they carried it into Le Roi d’Ontario and ordered hot dogs. After they finished, they walked out and left the lavender garden leaning against a wall.
Gaston had a cell phone, and Star listened every time he was on a call, trying to figure out what was happening, but it was nearly impossible. All the calls were the same, a telegraphic series of Yeahs and Nos, or quick-fire sentences that she couldn’t follow. If someone happened to be nearby, they’d meet. That’s how they were now sitting in the park with these two kids.
“So you’re looking for shithead?” asked Jacques.
“Barbeau? Yeah, he stole my money. You know where I can find him?”
“If you’ve got a shovel,” he said. “He went to the Alpine Gardens, up in the park. But he ain’t coming back, poor bastard.” Jacques laughed.
“The Alpine Gardens? What are you talking about?”
“It’s a section of the Botanical Gardens. We go there when it’s closed. Great place to chill. Couple of nights ago, we were up there having a few beers and we heard a truck. Nobody’s supposed to be there at night. We all dove into the bushes to hide. Anyway, this truck pulls up right where they’re fixing up the Alpine Gardens. They’re putting in new boulders, and I was, like, fifteen feet away. Two guys get out of the truck and start digging. Man, they were at it forever. We could hear them talking, and it didn’t take long to figure out they were digging a grave for Barbeau.”
“Shit,” said Gaston.
“We were scared shirtless, man.”
“How did you know it was for Barbeau?”
“They said his name, maybe three times. When they dug the hole, they pulled this long bag out of the back of the truck. You could tell there was a body in it, the way it sagged down in the middle. Then they dropped it in the hole and covered it up. Shit, I still hear the sound it made when they dropped it in. Imagine, fuck.”
“You know the guys?” asked Starr.
“Sure. They’re with the Patriotes. I’ve seen them around. They called each other Joe and Denis. I remember that. And I got the plate number from the truck. Crazy Assed Shit 286.”
“What?”
“Crazy Assed Shit. CAS 286. It’s how I remembered the plate. Man I was scared. It took them forever before they finished and drove off. And I was kneeling in the bushes all the time. My legs were killing me, but I couldn’t move.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Same way they came in, I suppose. The maintenance gate on Pie-IX.”
“I thought you said the place was closed.”
“Yeah. They must have had a key, I suppose.”
“You didn’t go to the police?” said Star. She knew it was a stupid question as soon as she asked it.
“Are you kidding, they’d probably lock me up for it. Seriously. Anyway, it’s not my problem. I never liked Barbeau.”
“So you’re not getting your money back,” said Gaston.
“I guess not. Unless you want to help me dig him up and check his pockets.”
They laughed. Star lit another joint.
“Eddie Pickton,” the voice boomed over his cell phone. “The boy becomes a man.”
Pickton was on his way to the gym. After Garguet’s killing, he didn’t know what to expect.
“You’re the man, Eddie. You’re in charge. All you have to do is make it happen. I said we’d help you.”
“I’ve gotta think. It’s not going to be easy.”
“Eddie. You and I. We can work together. We just need to get you installed as number one.”
Eddie wasn’t sure he wanted to be number one. Number one is a target. He said, “Listen. I’m on my way to meet the guys. Decide the response. There has to be a response, or we look like pussies.”
“You’ve got to keep things under control, Eddie.”
“It’s not that easy. Tony is looking for the top job. And he’s out for blood.”
“Tony’s not smart like you, Eddie. He’ll get you all killed.”
“But the guys are going to want to fight back. They all know it was you guys. They can’t take that.”
“I’m not asking you to give up the fight. I’m asking you to stay alive.”
“Yeah?”
“The way I figure it, Tony will want to come after us. Encourage him. Tell the guys you’re up for it. But just tell us when you’re coming. We’ll take Tony out of the picture and you’re in charge.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Eddie. Do you really want a war? You guys can’t win. I’m offering you to stay in business and cooperate.”
“I’ll think about it.” Eddie didn’t like his options.
“Nobody wants a war. And you guys are finished if you start one. You’ve got a chance to keep things nice and quiet.”
“I said I’ll think about it.”
“Just let me know what’s happening. If shit happens and you haven’t told me …”
“What?”
“It’s goodbye, Eddie.”
The phone clicked dead just as Pickton pulled into the Club Gym’s parking lot.
The mood was somber in the basement of Club Gym. They had all seen the images of Louis being blasted through the plate glass window at police headquarters. They knew who had set him up and who had killed him, but Louis hadn’t been the only one who had taken a piece of Legault. The Patriotes had invited people from all the gangs, and they’d all taken turns with Legault, proving how tough they were. One guy was pissed that Legault was already dead when his turn came. It was supposed to have been some kind of bonding exercise.
Eddie
Pickton and Tony Esposito were the obvious candidates to take over from Garguet, but it wasn’t clear which one. Pickton had a reputation for thinking things through, weighing the odds. Esposito believed in force. Esposito wanted quick retaliation against the Patriotes, and staked out his ground, while Pickton held back, giving Esposito room to talk his way to his own execution.
Esposito said, “I say we borrow six of the guys from the Laval chapter and take on the Patriotes head to head.”
“Tony. We can’t do another war,” said Pickton. “If the fighting gets too public, everyone loses. The police will be all over us, and the business will be under pressure for years.”
“We can’t do nothing. We’ll look like pussies. We gotta hit back.”
“You’re right, Tony,” Pickton said. “But tit for tat. They took out our boss, we pop Montpetit.”
“You scared of taking them on?”
“Don’t start with that shit,” Pickton said. “I’m not fucking scared. I’m thinking of the business. We can hit back. But this doesn’t have to escalate.”
The other guys began to chime in.
“Eddie’s right,” said Nick. “I know you’re mad, Tony. We’re all mad. But we don’t have to start a war.”
The debate continued, and Tony realized there was no appetite for escalating. Business was tough enough without getting distracted into a blood feud. They needed to keep the business going and do what they had to do to maintain respect. But they could be smart about it.
“Yeah,” said Tony, finally. “We retaliate but we don’t go further. Our boss. Their boss. There’s just one thing.”
“What’s that, Tony?” asked Pickton.
“I want to do this myself. I want to take out the fucker.”
Pickton was only too happy to agree. He went up to Esposito and gave him a massive bear hug.
“You’re the man, Tony.”
At 10:30, Eddie Pickton was on his balcony looking down into the street. He pushed the call button on his cell phone.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me,” he said.
