I open my eyes, breathing deeply and doing my best to wrap my head around what’s just happened here. Did I imagine the whole thing? Is the lack of sleep over the past few days finally catching up with me? Or was I just threatened—warned to back off of trying to sort out what really happened between Trent and Jamie? That possibility sends new thoughts flying around my brain—angry thoughts, furious thoughts. This is one of my favorite places in the world, somewhere I never thought I could be in danger. Finally, I sit up and look around. My spotter is nowhere to be seen.
Chapter
29
I dream about the police again. It’s fuzzy and confused but I wake up in the middle of the night a couple of times with my head full of frantic sounds and upsetting images of uniforms and cars and guns.
Checking my email, I see that Bill has sent me a bunch of stories in French and English about the guy in Trollop’s selfie. The first article I pick up begins dramatically:
George Baker—aka “Baker the Undertaker,” a member of the high-ranking Nomads unit within the Montreal motorcycle club known as the Popeyes—walked away from double murder charges today after a key witness surprised prosecutors by abruptly changing his testimony in court. Baker declined to comment as he left the courthouse.
The rest of the stories are similarly ominous. Baker’s name pops up in several reports about drug trafficking and murder, and I’m treated to his terrifying mug shot in a couple of them. Most of the incidents the articles describe took place in the Montreal area, but his alleged misdeeds have spread to Toronto and even Vancouver over the years. Witnesses seem to suffer memory loss or go away whenever Baker the Undertaker gets into trouble.
You really want to get this guy pissed at you? Bill asks in his message.
The media pieces and court reports confirm that the Popeyes are connected to serious mob people in Montreal and Toronto, as well as the Colombian and Mexican drug cartels and several Jamaican and Haitian street gangs. No wonder everyone in my brother’s world seems afraid of them.
Bill has also sent some material about law enforcement’s use of encryption breaking and something called Stingray surveillance in investigating both the Mafia and outlaw bikers. One story in a national newspaper reads:
Police are fighting to keep a lid on the release of spy technology that they’ve begun using to tap into cellular phones as part of the fight against organized crime and motorcycle gangs.
Documents filed in the Ontario Court of Appeal show that federal government lawyers have acknowledged the police’s use of a spy tool known as a “mobile device identifier.”
In policing circles, it’s more commonly called a “Stingray” and it’s capable of collecting phone and text conversations that take place within a kilometer of affiliated portable towers.
Government lawyers are fighting hard to keep further details under wraps leading up to a hearing scheduled for next month in Toronto.
Paul Bates, a researcher with the Citizen Lab at the University of Toronto’s Munk School of Global Affairs, said the devices have been used in the past but that this marks “the first time authorities have been caught out in court.”
“This has profound implications for law enforcement, the cellular phone industry, and the privacy concerns of law-abiding citizens,” Bates said.
Another story notes that even encrypted cellular devices aren’t immune from Stingray surveillance:
“What if the police knew how to tap into not just everyone’s phones, but their encrypted messages as well?” one journalist has asked. “That’s essentially what’s going on now with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Canada, which has the power to decrypt at will messages intercepted in a massive, ongoing organized-crime probe.”
I have to wonder: Were there Stingrays in the Guelph area when the Annihilators and Spartans were holding their secret meeting?
Plenty of local bikers are opposed to the Popeyes pushing into their area, Bill has added in his message. The guys who went to the Guelph meeting are taking a huge gamble. They’re risking a bullet from their own clubs as well as the Popeyes. They have to pray no one sells them out.
Really appreciate it, I reply. But I need a plan. I’ll go nuts if I just sit here.
Here’s an idea, he writes next. Some of the Popeyes are big fans of Frank Lupo Jr, a boxer related to an old mob boss. He’s not a great fighter, but he’s game and it gives them a chance to show their support for the mob and have a little fun as well. His ring nickname is “Hitman.” Seriously.
I see from one of the links Bill has sent that Frank Jr. has a bout in Mississauga this weekend. It would be interesting to see how the various members of the Spartans and Annihilators are treated by the Popeyes in that setting.
I should go, I type.
If you do, please be careful.
It’s something—a lead, Bill might say—but I still feel hopeless. What have I really learned? I already knew meth paid big money. Big deal if I have some media reports about that. I already knew Baker was a serious bad guy. So what if I have his name now? The Stingray stuff is sort of interesting, but I don’t really know what to make of it. I have to keep moving, but I have the sinking feeling that I’m just running around in circles.
Chapter
30
The boxing event is taking place in a recently built hockey complex off Highway 403, an hour or so from St. Thomas. I park at the back of the lot, far away from the crowded area near the arena entrance. The last thing I need is to scratch or box in some gangster’s Escalade. Fancy oversized vehicles are everywhere, and mostly black. You never see those guys in a lime-green Smart car or a Prius. The high-end car show around me makes my Cruze stick out like a Vespa at a biker field day.
This parking lot was the site of an alleged mob hit about four months ago. It took place after another boxing night. Someone shot a Toronto restaurateur and his bodyguard at close range while they were seated in their BMW. This was a big-time crime, and I only know about it through the news. As I remember, both of the victims were carrying handguns, but neither of them managed to draw. Things must have seemed okay—right until the moment they saw the assassin’s gun pointed at them, I guess.
The old disco hit “Stayin’ Alive” blares over the loudspeakers as I take my place in the cheap seats. VIP seats down by the ring are $150 each, triple what I paid. I tell myself it’s probably better to be hidden up here anyway: plus, $50 isn’t exactly peanuts, especially since I no longer have a paycheck coming in. My seat gives me a clear view of the VIP section, where the Popeyes are gathered.
I can see Baker the Undertaker down there with three or four others who look like bikers too. No one’s wearing gang colors. They’re forbidden in the arena, but Baker and his buddies still have that big-club look. Mixed in with them are some intimidating guys who look too slick to be bikers, dressed in a rich-dude-casual style: sports jackets, expensive jeans, and fitted T-shirts. It’s a safe bet these are some of the mobsters Bill said would be here.
Then a more familiar face comes into view: Carlito strolls up to one of the ringside tables to say hello. The bikers and their fancy friends give him some time, but they don’t offer him a seat. He seems happy enough with the attention he gets, and returns to a seat a few rows back from the ring.
I text Brenda.
At a boxing match. Checking things out.
We’ve had no contact since our tense encounter at the clubhouse, and I have no idea what kind of response to expect. But I want her to know that I’m working on this, that I’m still trying to prove that Jamie had nothing to do with her brother’s murder.
No reply.
Five minutes go by.
Still no reply.
Rejection? She’s still mad? She has something better to do? She’s with someone? All of the above? There’s nothing I can do but wait.
The first matchup features a guy named McTav
ish, who’s led out by guys in kilts playing the bagpipes and a drum. He’s pasty-white and lean as a whip and doesn’t look like much, but he devours a heavily muscled black fighter from Montreal. Several members of the crowd whoop appreciatively as the referee stops the fight in the second round with blood pouring from the Montrealer’s face.
The next three bouts are all variations on the same theme. Fit, sinewy, borderline-skinny Ontario fighters outbox burlier, less skilled plodders from out of the area. Seeing local boys beat up on the visitors goes over well with the audience, who hoot and shout their approval.
Finally, it’s the Hitman’s turn.
Frank Jr. enters the ring with the Rolling Stones’ “Start Me Up” on the speakers. The fight announcer clearly enjoys shouting out “the Hitman!” in the introductions, in case anyone has forgotten the boxer’s family background. Frank Jr. is wearing a serious scowl and has an average body for a boxer, while his local opponent is rangy and loose-limbed, with a pale complexion and a shock of red hair.
Immediately after the opening bell, Frank Jr. rushes the taller fighter, hungry for a quick knockout. His opponent sidesteps him easily and connects with a jab to the side of the head as Frank Jr. lurches past.
“Hit the Hitman,” someone shouts as Frank Jr. absorbs a faceful of leather.
They say that every fighter has a plan until he is hit. Frank Jr.’s plan was clearly to take out his opponent early, before his own lack of skills and limited punching power were exposed. That plan is derailed quickly.
Through the first several rounds, Frank Jr. keeps swinging and missing. There’s something almost noble in the fact that he won’t just go down or stop trying. Another pop-pop-pop and Frank Jr.’s legs buckle. The bell rings to end the round.
When it sounds again for the start of the sixth round, Frank Jr. wearily pulls himself up off his stool. His trainer takes a hard look into his fighter’s eyes, gives him a fatherly hug, then turns to the referee and waves his arms back and forth.
Mercifully, the fight is over.
Frank Jr. staggers over to the victor and embraces him before being led off to the medical room.
Back at the mobsters’ table, they don’t seem to particularly care that their man just got pummeled, and the bikers seem equally indifferent. Baker the Undertaker barely glances toward the ring as he stands and gets ready to leave.
And that’s it. The fights are done. I head back to the car with a familiar knot forming in my stomach. This intelligence-gathering expedition feels like a waste of $50, not to mention gas money. I don’t know what I expected to find here, but whatever it was, I came up short.
Chapter
31
A black Dodge truck pulls out from the spot next to me as I text Brenda from the parking lot: Just leaving. The big guy from Popeyes is obviously close to some mob guys.
It’s no great scoop, but it’s a nice excuse to try again to make contact with her.
You okay? she texts back.
That was quick. And she’s concerned.
For sure. In parking lot now. Tried to text you before.
Battery weak. Had to recharge. I need a new one.
I guess her earlier silence wasn’t a rejection after all. That’s something. And the tension from our talk outside the clubhouse seems to have passed, or at least lessened. There’s a lot going on in the parking lot now. Everyone is trying to leave and no one is directing traffic. There are some pretty high-end BMWs, Porsches, and Mercedes in this jumble, as well as a smattering of Audis and even a few Maseratis. Their drivers aren’t eager to scratch their cars or bump anyone, so aggressive drivers in the big muscle trucks like Ford F-150s and Chevy Silverados get a pretty wide berth.
We’re all trapped in our vehicles now. It would be easy to walk up to any car and fire a few shots and not be noticed until it was too late. When did I start thinking like this?
Are you okay? I text.
Bit blue, sorry.
Don’t be sorry. You had a week from hell.
Don’t believe in hell, but yeah.
Well I believe in heaven, I write.
Really?
I believe in something, I reply. Hard to define.
Hopefully that ends this line of discussion. Life on Earth is confusing enough without getting into the big questions of what comes next. I’m stuck in the back of the parking lot for now so I have time to text, but I’m not really in a deep-thoughts mood. She clearly is.
I think we’re basically alone, she writes. People make up things so they don’t have to feel lonely.
You aren’t alone, I offer.
You are a very sweet boy.
I’m not so sure what to make of the words “sweet” or “boy.”
I doubt she calls Carlito a boy, and I definitely don’t want to be treated like her little brother. She’s special, and I want her to realize I’m a guy, not just some generic nice person. If we were living three hundred years ago, I’d cross the ocean, make my fortune, then return in triumph to win her heart. All I can do right now is text her using both thumbs.
Are you outside? I ask.
Yeah.
Do you see a big star up there?
Yeah. Actually, I see a lot of them.
Okay. See the moon? I’m looking at it too, I type. We’re doing the same thing. So we’re together.
Oh God. Did I just type that? I have seen kids teased unmercifully for this sort of thing. This might be a good time for a mobster to walk up to the Cruze and put a slug or two in me. I could load and aim the gun for him.
Thank you, she texts.
So she thinks my tone is okay. I decide to ride the mood further.
The moon changes every day, I type, but it never goes away.
We both pause, and not just to give our thumbs a break. I’m pretty sure she has never had a moment like this with Carlito.
A minute later she continues: What about when the moon isn’t out?
It’s 10:20 now, I text. Twice a day, at 10:20, you think of me and I’ll think of you.
That’s very sweet, she replies. I will.
“Sweet” again. I’m wondering whether to keep going or just bask in the afterglow of this exchange. It’s much easier to communicate with her when I’m not spellbound by her eyes.
Then she adds: You really believe in a God?
Yup, but my heaven has a wing for nice honest atheists.
Lol, she replies. Thought your heaven was the gym. Or the football field.
At least she knows I’m an athlete, so I guess I’ve got a little masculine cred with her. That stuff’s dumb in the big scheme of things, I write. Running around with a little ball. Who cares really when you get down to it? It’s how I feel, to be honest. She could convince me to quit sports and the gym in a second.
No it’s not. You love it.
Think of how great you are, I type. I have totally lost any filter I ever had. It’s like driving fast at night without brakes.
Night, she types.
A few seconds later, just as I’m signing off, she adds, XO.
Chapter
32
The morning after the fights I drive to the jail as soon as I get up. Today, Jamie walks into the visiting room as stiffly as an old man. His lower lip is purple and at least twice its normal size. There’s a jagged black line below his mouth from stitches. And his left eye is so bruised and puffy the outline of his cheekbone isn’t visible.
“You okay?”
It’s a stupid question and his answer isn’t any better: “Fine.”
I try not to stare at his face. There’s no point asking what happened. He wouldn’t answer me and he’d just be annoyed. He needs to maintain some pride, and it’s unlikely becoming known as a squealer would help his jailhouse reputation.
I doubt the Popeyes are behind his injuries. I’m s
ure they have contacts on the inside and could have gotten to him, but if they really wanted to hurt him, they would have done a better job. He’d be in the hospital, maybe the morgue. I suspect there doesn’t have to be a great reason for attacking someone in jail so I decide to let it go.
It’s not long before I can sense that Jamie regrets coming out to see me. He’s not as talkative as usual, and he fidgets with his hands the way he did when his stuttering was really a problem. I also doubt I’m going to learn anything new from him today. I feel like things are getting worse, that we’re sinking lower and lower.
But there is something positive to report. “I managed to get $5,000 from the club for a lawyer’s retainer,” I say. “It’s not much, but we can at least hire someone good. We have to make it count.”
Jamie looks confused. I expected him to be happy and grateful—a good defense could save his bacon and I made it happen! There’s clearly something he doesn’t want to share with me. I guess a lawyer would demand that he tell the truth about what he knows about Trent’s death. Does he have an alibi he’s not telling me or the police about? And would he tell a lawyer? He would have to cooperate with his defense counsel, wouldn’t he?
I’m still infuriated that he’s staying quiet. I can’t imagine he’s feeling good about his future. How will he cope if he has to spend the next twenty-five years in prison? More than anyone I know, Jamie needs his own space. At his house, he gets agitated if anyone even touches his special coffee blend or the TV remote.
“Were you at a meeting with some guys from the Spartans the night Trent died?” I ask. “It’s really important that I know.”
For a moment, he looks startled, but quickly regains his composure. I’d take his expression as a “yes,” but I need more. I feel like I might have just said something very dangerous, that maybe we should be whispering. And I know that our conversation is probably being recorded, but at this point I don’t care. I need the truth to start coming out.
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