by John Mackie
She pulled the office camera out from behind her back.
“Yup. Three great shots.”
“Thank you! Wasn’t sure if you would get it.”
“C’mon, give me credit.”
“Hey, you deserve it. Thanks. So, you said we can access photos from the parking lot security cameras too, right?”
“Yup. I just go to their website, type in our password, and voila.”
“Great. Let’s see if we can print off a few pictures, then.”
Maybe the old adage was right after all. What comes around, goes around.
That night Ted called to say he was going to be out of town for a few days. Tournament in Barrie. My plan was to take advantage of the quiet and spent the night channel surfing, but I happened to come across an article in the Globe while eating dinner.
CORPORATE FRAUD TRIAL COMMENCES
Key Witness Commits Suicide
TORONTO — The trial of Ruscan Industries’ CEO Maxim Legenko commenced yesterday, with opening statements from Legenko’s defence and the Crown prosecutors trying the case.
Legenko was formally indicted two years ago on charges of embezzling almost $18 million in company funds and laundering criminal proceeds through Ruscan Industries accounts.
However the prosecution was dealt a severe blow yesterday when Andrew Simpson-Doig, a key witness and former senior officer of Ruscan Industries subsidiary Timber Circle LC, was found dead in a Forest Hill mansion in what is assumed to have been a suicide. Simpson-Doig had been staying with Declan Quinn, Chairman of Global Youth Charities. Quinn and Simpson-Doig graduated together from the London School of Economics in 1971.
Crown Prosecutor Barbara Moodie indicated that, while police will be investigating Mr. Simpson-Doig’s death, preliminary findings suggest no indication of wrongdoing.
“Unfortunately these trials can cause tremendous stress for all involved, in particular witnesses who are called to testify in court. We pass on our best wishes to Mr. Simpson-Doig’s family.” Ms. Moodie later advised reporters that the death was not expected to impact the Crown’s case against Mr. Legenko. She did confirm that a second witness, still unnamed, has agreed to enter witness protection and is presently under RCMP watch at an undisclosed location.
Alec Lawson of Lawson Kenetti, who was representing Mr. Simpson-Doig, could not be reached for comment.
I couldn’t finish my sandwich.
“Goddamn it.” I pushed the plate away. If O.J.’s trial and the Bush administration weren’t sufficient evidence that there was in fact no justice in the world, this was. Imagine the luck.
Or was it luck?
The article got me thinking about the mugging and the stolen “dowsing device”. And the more I thought about it, the madder I got. I had a bad feeling I knew why Clay and I had been robbed, and I didn’t like it one damned bit.
I had to get that package back.
CHAPTER 23
Two days later, Amy agreed to get together at a local Timmies for breakfast, provided I sprung for her coffee. Man, can that woman drink coffee.
“Kuzmenko’s dealing something.”
I passed her the plastic baggy Niki had left in our parking lot, cupping my hand around it to hide it from the view of the others in the restaurant. Amy’s eyes widened, but she took it from me.
“Any idea what it is? I gotta admit, I’ve seen stuff like pot, hash. But when it comes to pills and powder, I have no idea.”
“Good. Keep it that way,” she murmured, reaching into the bag with two fingers. She pinched a few grains and held them up to the light.
“Well, well. Rev.”
“Rev?”
“Rev. Supposed to be short for Revelation. It’s new. We just started hearing about it last year. The hospitals notify us of possible overdoses, that kind of thing, so we can monitor the street. We’ve had three kids die in the past six months because of this shit. But we’ve only been able to get a couple of pills for study. This is the most product we’ve been able to get a hold of to date.”
“You think Niki is dealing this shit?”
“If he is, he just moved to the top of our hit list.”
I gave her an edited account of Niki’s visit to the office, leaving out the part about him “mugging” me. Not sure what she would have thought about the whole ring thing, but I wasn’t about to get into it.
It occurred to me that this might be a particularly good time for Niki to have a run of bad luck.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” But I couldn’t hide my grin. Maybe things were looking up after all.
After work I picked up Ted at the apartment and we headed over to the rink.
I don’t play a lot of hockey anymore. My body can’t handle the aches, pains, bumps and bruises. It also can’t handle the post-game beer and wings. But Ted’s car was in the shop, and so he talked me into joining him for a pick-up game. Fact was, he hadn’t found a cabbie yet who would let him put his equipment in their car.
Unfortunately, he had failed to point out we were playing at Pineview Arena. Not the easiest spot to get to in rush hour traffic. I found myself experimenting with a number of combination profanities as I slogged through traffic on the 427, then the 401.
A bunch of the regulars were already in the change room when we arrived, thus explaining the stench emanating from the hallway. With a deep breath and a prayer, I headed in to get ready.
The puck was deep in the corner, right below the Hyundai ad on the boards. I charged in, determined to beat the defender to it.
Too slow. He picked it up and rounded the net, with me hot on his heels. I was hoping Chili would be there to cut him off, but the lazy bugger was headed to the bench, sucking air like a long haul trucker. He was two years younger than me, but skating like a senior. So I continued my chase, tapping my opponent’s shin with my stick on every stride, to let him know I was coming fast.
Good lead pass to one of their wingers, who sliced between our defenders and roared in on Ted unobstructed. Shimmy right, drag back left. Ted stayed with him, but was too slow sliding to the post.
Goal. Three — two for the bad guys.
“Shit!” Ted glared at his two defencemen, who knew better and had headed off for a change. I laughed as I joined Chili on the bench.
The next shift barely cleared the zone before the other team gained possession and pressed again. This time, they took position in our end of the rink and began cycling the puck around the perimeter, looking for a clean shot. Their big forward planted himself in front of Ted. Guy was wearing a 1972 Team Canada jersey, the new Nike skates and a new Easton composite stick that cost four hundred dollars. Jerk.
“Guy has no idea what he’s in for.” Chili had a huge grin on his face, watching the scene with rapt attention.
How right he was. Ted shoved the guy twice, trying to gain line of sight on the puck as it cycled between the other team’s defenders. Then one of their other forwards took possession at the half boards, angling for a shot, and the jerk moved back into Ted’s line of sight, his big ass sticking into the crease and right on top of Ted. Ted clumped him in the back of the head with his stick hand, nearly knocking him flat.
That got the jerk’s attention. He snarled over his shoulder at Ted, then resumed jostling for position in front of the net. One of our guys came over to help out, but he couldn’t budge the big guy. A shot came in, low to the near side. Ted snapped his knees down into a butterfly and the puck ricocheted into the corner. But our defenceman was too slow, and they regained possession. This time the jerk backed right into the crease in front of Ted, who had to peer around him to see the play.
Ted slashed at the back of the jerk’s legs just as a weak shot floated in. He caught it and stood, a wicked grin on his face.
“Whataya doing, man?”
Chili and a bunch of the other guys on the bench erupted into laughter. Big Jerk was crouched over, holding the back of his knee where Ted had laid on the lumber. I knew that feeling
. Stung like a rusty nail through the sole of your boot.
Ted snorted, dropped the puck on the ice, and skated off to the corner so he could cool down. But the jerk didn’t know when to let things be. He skated towards our bench with the puck, then launched a hard wrist shot over the boards.
A little lesson on the game of hockey. A hockey puck is a vulcanized rubber disk, one inch thick and weighing a little under half a pound. A topnotch pro can shoot a puck at over a hundred miles an hour. Even at half that speed a puck can break bone or leave a purple and black bruise on sore flesh. And we were no pros. Most of us wore helmets but no facemasks, some with plastic face shields that covered the face from the forehead to nose.
So when Mr. Asshole fired into our bench, he knew there was a good chance someone was going to get hurt. As it happened, it was Denny Mills who took the shot right in the mouth.
Split lip and a lot of blood. Thank God he had been wearing a mouthguard, or he would have lost a few teeth for sure.
I went over the boards.
The game came to a sudden close after my tussle with Mr. Asshole. No big deal — we only had ten minutes of ice left anyways.
“Thanks, man.”
I glanced up from untying my laces to see Denny with a towel to his mouth. The bleeding had stopped, but you could see a half inch V cut into his upper lip. That was going to take two or three stitches to close, for sure.
“No problem, Denny. You going to be alright?”
“Yeah. My wife’s going to kill me though. I’m supposed to be going to my sister-in-law’s wedding this weekend. In all the photos.” He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace.
“Guy was a complete jerk.”
“No kidding. Well, thanks for standing up for me.”
I nodded and watched as he slung his bag over his shoulder and headed out.
“Who was that guy, anyway?”
Chili had been talking to a few guys on the other team, who had stood by and watched when I went after Mr. Asshole. Apparently he didn’t rate a lot of loyalty from his teammates.
“Real estate agent. Cokehead. Went to Laurier with some of their guys.”
“Well if he shows up again, I’m going to break my stick over his head.” Chili glanced at Ted, then back at me. He knew Ted as well as I did. If Mr. Asshole hit the ice with us again, he was going home with a broken helmet and a skull fracture.
Ted was waiting for me in the hall when I emerged, his pads, bag and sticks in a mound blocking traffic in all directions.
My timing was impeccable as always. Just as I stepped out of the dressing room, Mr. Asshole emerged from the room next to us.
I stared up at him, a good four inches taller than me and with muscles on his muscles. A vivid welt shone under his left eye, and another on his chin, both remnants of our little battle on the ice. The knuckles on my right hand throbbed, reminding me that my first two punches had landed on the top of his helmet. I really did not want to go again, and I hoped he didn’t start something.
He stared down at me, anger flashing for a moment in his slate grey eyes, then his face relaxed.
“Sorry about that. Your friend okay?”
“Yeah. He’ll be fine.”
“Good.” He stepped past me gingerly, worked around Ted’s bag, and headed for the exit. As he passed Ted, he called back. “You throw a mean punch for a little guy.”
I looked at Ted, and we both shrugged.
“Let’s get outta here.”
“Hang on a sec, I’m just gonna grab something to eat.”
Good idea. I was starving. Normally we would hit a bar with the team after a night game, and on a night like tonight I might have joined them. However, half of the guys couldn’t make it, so they had postponed. The result was that there were no chicken wings or nachos in the immediate horizon, a discouraging thought.
“Grab me some fries, willya?” If I was going to drive for fifty minutes just to get him home, he could cough up for some carbo sticks.
A Peewee team was heading in for a practice, the kids staggering under their bags like miniature sherpas. I dragged our equipment out of the way, to avoid a pileup of twelve year olds.
“Two hot dogs, two plates of fries and a Coke, please. You want one?”
I nodded.
“Sorry, make that two Cokes.”
The Chinese lady behind the counter had been smiling and shaking her head up and down while Ted placed the order. Unfortunately, the smile was replaced by a look of confusion.
“Hot dog?” It came out as “haw dawk?”
“Yeah.” Ted pointed at the steamer cabinet to her left, where two plump dogs were turning next to a bag of buns.
“Ah! Hot dog!” Same “haw dawk”, but apparently she had caught on.
After a strange flurry of action involving paper plates mysteriously stored behind the candy rack, Cokes grabbed from a Styrofoam cooler on the floor rather than the standup glass-front refrigerator behind her, and a single napkin selected from the top of a five inch stack of napkins just out of my reach, we had our food.
“Ketchup?”
I glanced around the lobby, to see if they had set up a separate table for condiments.
She stared at Ted blankly, so he asked again.
“Ketchup?” That came out as “ketta.”
“Ketchup? Mustard?”
She couldn’t have looked more mystified if we had flown in on a UFO and asked to see her leader. Ted glanced at me, his left eye twitching just slightly.
“Heinz?” He mimed pouring ketchup across the top of his hot dog.
“Sauce?”
“Yeah. Sauce.” He glanced back at me, eyebrows raised and shoulders shrugged. What the hell.
“Yes, yes!”
With that she turned and headed to the refrigerator cabinet filled with pop that was apparently not suitable for distribution. At least not as compared to the pop in that classy Styrofoam container. Opened the door and leaned way down, reaching into the back of the bottom shelf. From where I stood, that shelf appeared to contain several industrial sized bottles of unknown origin, a bunch of paper plates and napkins (did they have several caches, in case of emergency?), and a very large piece of cheddar poorly wrapped in plastic.
“Christ’s sake.” Ted was muttering now, while I turned and smiled gamely at one of the Peewee moms.
“Ah!” That cry of triumph was accompanied by the site of serving lady hauling a magnum-sized plastic bottle of no-name mustard from the fridge, and thumping it down on the counter.
Ted nodded his head and smiled. She nodded and smiled back.
“Ketchup?”
“No, no ketchup. Sauce OK?”
Big sigh. Ted turned to me, then ripped into the bare hot dog with his teeth, mumbling throughout.
“Let’s get out of here before I jump the counter.”
I dropped Ted at home and headed straight out again. Amy had called right after I finished my yummy “haw dawk”, and asked me to meet her at Starbucks for a coffee. I guess she had been on duty since I saw her that morning, though she looked just as good, maybe better.
“Turns out it was Rev. Narcotics have been on my ass all day, wanting to know where I got the stuff. So you’ve officially become my confidential informant. That means I’m keeping a CI file with your name and contact details in it, but the file is confidential.”
“I’m cool with that. Do I get a code name?”
“Sure. How about — Mr. Dimples? Freckles Malloy?”
Great. I hated it when chicks played the “cute” card. Often the first sign I was headed for the friend zone, or at least the first sign I was capable of reading. Yes, I have dimples. And yes, I have so many freckles I look like I have a perpetual tan. That does not detract from my manliness.
“Nah. How about Studly Doright?”
“Ha! Yeah. Mr. Dimples it is.”
She tweaked my cheek, and I felt very small.
“You may need to meet with my supervisor at some point. He’s going
to let me know.”
I wasn’t looking forward to that, but one thing I was sure about — I wasn’t leaving Amy out to dry on any of this. “OK. Whatever you need. So, what does all of this mean for Niki?”
“It means Narcotics are putting a team on him, starting right now. Once they find him, he’ll be put on surveillance.”
“If they don’t have any luck, tell them to try the Ruscan Industries’ head offices on St. Clair.”
“We figured that. They’ll head over there if they don’t spot him at his apartment.”
I returned home to a litany of questions from my dear brother. Did we do the deed? Was she wearing handcuffs? Was I wearing handcuffs? Who did the cavity search?
Ted needed to get out more.
He went to bed just after eleven, but I was too wound up to sleep and ended up watching an hour of MMA fighting. Mixed Martial Arts, or no-holds barred beat’em bloody fighting, as I like to think of it. You would imagine I had seen enough violence for one day, but it was just nice to see someone else throwing punches for a change.
Some guy was bending his opponent’s arm in spectacularly abnormal angles when the phone rang.
“We got him!”
What?
“Niki?”
“Yup. Right in the middle of a deal, four grams of Rev. And he was carrying a gun.”
“No kidding.” Jeez, how long had the guy been wearing the ring? He was getting it even worse than Jamar had. Sweet.
“Oh yeah. High fives all around. Narcotics love me right now. I owe you dinner.”
My heart leaped and I admit it was not the only part of my anatomy that experienced a surge.
“Sounds good to me.”
“Don’t get any ideas. Anyways, keep an eye out. We’ve got him, but he’ll probably make bail and be back on the street in a day or two.”
“He’s a hard guy to miss.”
“True, but he’s also a real hardass. They’re still questioning him, but he refuses to give up any names. Guy’s been in the system awhile. He’ll be a tough one to crack.”
“You get the sense he was supposed to be dealing, or is he doing this on the side?”
“Can’t figure that out yet. He was definitely dealing in the club when our guys arrested him, but he had enough at his apartment that we think he might also be a middle man.”
