“Frank!” I yelled into the night sky, then at the cats, hoping to conjure him up from thin air. The crickets stopped chirping, though, and a neighbour told me to shut the fuck up. I slumped against the doors, shirt in hand. I considered burning it again. Then a light came on in the kitchen, and I saw a hooded figure shuffling around inside. It was Frank, making himself a peanut butter sandwich. I banged on the glass even harder and held the jersey up against it, finally catching his attention. He made his way to the doors and opened them, wiping crust out of his eyes.
“Dude, fuck. I’m sleeping. Calm your shit.” He squinted. “Do you need to crash or something? Come in—but shut the fuck up.”
“No, no. It’s more serious,” I blurted out. “It’s about this jersey and Mike and Stefan and the pizza and—”
“Whoa. Slow down. I’m barely awake,” he said and rammed a slice of PB and J into his mouth.
“See this?” I shoved the jersey in front of his face. “That’s Mike’s. I made a few calls and ordered food and they gave it to me for doing them a favour—remember?”
“Yeah, so?”
“You saw him with this on yesterday and earlier today, right?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“They did something terrible,” I said and glanced around, scared someone else might hear. “They tried to frame me by giving it to me and making me make phone calls for rides out west and pizza. I need you to be my witness.”
Frank’s eyes widened.
“The shirt is his, not mine. I’m going to call the cops and explain it all.” I put the shirt in Frank’s hands and asked him to leave it on the couch or give it back to Mike when he saw him. I could tell he was having a hard time understanding what I was doing, why I’d rat them out.
“Listen,” I said. “They killed someone. I don’t believe in hurting people like that. Selling dope and stealing is one thing, but murdering is another.”
Frank shook his head, threw the jersey on the sofa, and shut the glass doors.
He’d never done that before, closed the door in my face. I wasn’t sure he’d help me.
RAT
“I’D LIKE TO REPORT A murder,” I said. “The cabbie from yesterday—Baljinder Singh Rai.”
The line was silent, then I heard a click and the 911 operator say, “Murder? Where? Be specific.”
“Brampton. New Year’s Eve. Gateway Six,” I said and rubbed the sweat off my free hand onto the arm of the couch. I tried lighting a cigarette but my thumb shook so violently I couldn’t strike the wheel to create a spark. I flicked it a few more times—nothing.
“Okay, sir. Where are you?” Her voice sounded firmer, more focused.
I told her the address. I was still at Uncle Ron’s place.
“What’s your name?”
“Me? I’m Jesse Thistle. Two guys I know did it. Stefan and Mike. I don’t know their last names.”
She told me to stay on the line. Ten seconds passed, maybe, and I looked around for Uncle Ron. He must’ve locked himself in his room, I thought. He doesn’t want to see me become Judas. I again tried to light my cigarette, but, again, I failed.
The 911 operator came back on the line. “I’ve dispatched officers to your location. Do not leave.” I heard a chorus of radio chatter in the background, a barrage of police lingo I didn’t understand.
Before I knew it, someone was pounding on the door. If it was the police, I had no idea how they’d bypassed lobby security. It’d literally taken them one minute to come—I was still on the phone. I hung up and peered through the peephole and saw two huge men in uniform, although they must’ve left their jackets in the squad car. Early twenties, their hands hovering over their firearms. My stomach dropped. They weren’t fucking around.
This is it. Go time.
I panicked a bit and scanned the apartment for an exit—over near Solomon’s bed, then over to Jerry’s door, then the sunroom—and considered jumping out the window two stories to the ground below. Running away was my way of dealing with life, my solution when things got hairy, and was something ingrained in me since my days with Dad and travelling with my old Adidas bag. And it always seemed to work. But there was nowhere on Earth I could run to avoid this mega-sized clusterfuck.
“Mr. Thistle. Jesse,” a voice thundered. “We know you’re in there. We just got a call from dispatch.” He hammered on the door so it shook in its frame, and I swear loosened a few marbles in my skull. His radio was going berserk, but I could make out that more officers were en route. I heard sirens screaming outside. They were getting closer and sounded like they were coming from every direction. The idea of a swarm of cops frightened me, but running was impossible now. I opened the door as Uncle Ron came out of his room. His hands were clenched.
One police officer’s arms were the size of cement pillars, all veiny and tanned; the left was covered in tribal tattoos. His bulging muscles looked constricted by his tiny blue shirt. His partner was shorter, more refined, with a uniform that actually fit his torso.
The second guy did all the talking.
“Jesse? We’ve come to escort you to 21 Division. We need your statement.”
The elevator doors in the hallway opened and more police appeared.
“Let me get my jacket and shoes,” I said, my head spinning.
“No problem. Take your time.”
Uncle Ron came up behind me, slipped a pack of smokes in my pocket, and told me to be strong. I can’t remember if he said anything to the officers before they ushered me out of the building, but I thought of him the whole ride to the station.
I was surprised at how nice the officers were. They cracked jokes about their jobs and some of the stuff they’d seen earlier that day. They even asked if I was hungry or needed anything before we reached the station.
I blurted out, “Not hungry, but this is like being in a real-life episode of Law and Order, eh?” I saw the big guy nudge his partner. He was too stupid to play games, and too stupid to pretend he was my friend.
When we arrived and got out of the car, but before we entered the station, they cuffed me, saying it was for my own safety, and for the safety of the officers inside. The cuffs bit into my wrists as the bigger officer hoisted my arms up behind my back, pushing me forward, parading me past clerical officers toiling at their desks. They acknowledged Mr. Muscles, but none made eye contact with me. It was as if I was a criminal, or some trophy prize they’d dragged home to momma.
The interrogation room had one table with two chairs facing each other. There was a video camera in the corner, and on the desk were two coffees, an empty ashtray, and a pad of paper and a pen.
“Tell us everything you know,” the smart officer said. He lit a smoke and pushed the coffee my way. “Don’t be afraid.” He motioned to his buddy, who unlocked the cuffs, then left us alone. I took a sip of coffee, and the red light on the camera went on.
I told him everything: about the jersey, the pizza, the Y2K party, the drunk girl, the call to Shawn, Frank as my witness to it all—everything. He jotted down things and let me speak freely. At times I felt like he wasn’t paying attention. Every so often he’d offer me a new coffee and the big guy would come in and take away the old cup and give me a new one. They did the same with the cigarette butts after I’d smoked—always returning with a fresh new ashtray and a lone cigarette.
“I think we have some evidence,” the officer said after a couple hours, as he nodded to the camera, “but not enough to charge anyone.” The big officer came back into the room with his own chair and sat beside his partner on the other side of the table. “Did you see any weapons on Mike or Stefan?” the smart one asked.
The steel of the chair was cold against my back as I shifted for comfort. Then it came to me. “I don’t know, but Stefan has a big knife. It’s about nine inches long with a pearl handle. Serious knife.” The two officers turned to face one another.
“Draw it,” the big guy said, and tore notes off the pad of paper, leaving a blank page exposed. “As
much as you can.”
The smart officer bit the nail of his index finger and started shaking his left knee up and down. I glanced and saw that the light on the camera was still on. The lens made me feel like a tiny ant getting roasted under a giant magnifying glass in the sun. I wiped away the sweat drenching my brow and sketched out the knife—a long, sharp blade with a well-formed grip and hilt. The picture was crappy but it conveyed the vital data.
“How do you know he had this knife?” the smart officer asked. His intense stare told me this was the most important piece of information I had to offer. The hum of the neon light above us sounded like a cloud of road-allowance black flies.
“Because I taught him how to scam welfare three weeks ago.”
They looked at each other, puzzled.
“Stefan’s homeless and Olive was sick of having him around the house eating all the food, so I felt sorry for him and told him to go to the shelter to see the emergency social service worker who cuts cheques. All you need is a rental letter and a phone number.”
Both officers leaned in, and I could tell they were having a hard time following.
“They give out $1,000 for start-up if you have that. It’s to get you set up in a place with food and clothes—all that shit. But most people just scam it for money and stay at a friend’s house. I do it all the time—forge rental documents so I have some money—”
“What does that have to do with the knife?” the smart guy interrupted. He pushed the drawing into the centre of the table, then flicked his butt, blowing smoke up toward the light, where it swirled around the bulb then was sucked up through the ceiling vent.
“When Stefan scammed welfare he bought a knife and some white baseball gloves. I thought it was a waste of money, but, hey, that’s what he did. I hear he and Mike are back living at the shelter now. They just go to Olive’s during the day.”
The officers sat back, and a third, much older, officer came in and said they had what they needed. Then they took all the items out of the room except my chair and the table, and left me sitting there for a couple of hours. After, I was taken down to the holding cells. I got a single cell with an iron waffle bed—the kind they make drunk people sleep on until they sober up.
I awoke to find a perfectly bald detective in a grey suit standing on the other side of the bars. He didn’t waste time with introductions, he just opened the door and instructed me to follow him. There were no handcuffs this time, but I knew not to fuck around. Out back of the station, there was an armada of black SUVs. A massive black cop was driving the one I got into with the detective. They didn’t say a word to each other—not hi, nothing, they didn’t even nod to one another.
The black fella scared the shit out of me—he looked like a Navy SEAL, but was dressed in what appeared to me to be a thousand-dollar suit, and was wearing a pair of black sunglasses. His knuckles were scarred, and he had cauliflower ears. I’d seen ears, scars, and knuckles like that before, on professional boxers and rugby players, but never on cops. I tried not to stare at him but he caught me in the rear-view mirror. He turned up the chatter crackling over their walkie-talkies.
With sirens blazing on the lead car, our SUVs blew through a series of red lights—an ominous caravan of justice speeding mercilessly toward its destination. The morning sun didn’t penetrate the tinted windows of our vehicle; it spilled in only briefly through the windshield as we turned and drove east a spell before we met another gang of trucks parked behind an abandoned warehouse.
The detective and black guy told me to stay put and jumped out to meet a crew of bigger, even scarier men armed with guns. A few were dressed in black-and-grey-camouflage commando gear, utility belts, and bulletproof vests covered in what looked like ammo magazines. I heard dogs barking in the back of one of their trucks. It was the Peel SWAT and K9 units. They formed a half-circle around the detective, who clapped his hands at every order he gave. The men jumped at his commands, checked their gear, then separated into groups of three and got in six different vehicles.
“The shelter,” the black guy said to the detective as he got into the driver’s seat. “We’re going to apprehend them there.” The detective slapped the dashboard. I saw then that he had two handguns—one under his suit jacket under his arm in a holster, and one strapped to his leg—I could see the impression under his pants. He rubbed his hand over his bald head. “After we get them,” he said to me, “we’re gonna take you up to the Major Crime Unit on Courtney Park. We need more info from you.”
“I’ll tell you whatever I know,” I said, fearful of the power I knew he wielded.
Outside the shelter we saw four homeless men emerge near the smoking pit. The SUVs circled round the building, reminding me of a well-coordinated pack of wolves stalking prey. The sound of truck tires on gravel was the only sound they made; the men in the smoking pit created more noise as they shivered and complained in the cold January dawn.
I heard the black guy unclick the safety on his gun. He motioned to the lead detective, who ordered the others to wait until they had confirmation. The men in the SUV to our right, fifty metres away, were prepping their guns. They stood in position, behind their doors, which were now splayed open for protection. There we waited and waited. Ten minutes went by, until over the radio I heard a voice that said, “Negative on the suspects. Staff says they didn’t stay here last night. Stand down.” The black cop clicked the safety back on his gun, and before I knew it the pack of SUVs was driving off again.
When we got to the Major Crime Unit building, about a thirty-minute drive from the shelter, I was placed in a room with plush couches and a TV that didn’t work. They told me I had to stay there until they apprehended Mike and Stefan. I asked for a phone call and they denied me. There I languished—for twenty hours.
It was the next evening when they finally came and got me. I’d stretched my shirt up around my head and tucked my arms in for warmth and was sleeping when the bald detective arrived. He seemed happy.
“We got them at three p.m., Jess,” he said. “They were at Olive’s.”
I was relieved at the thought of them getting arrested, but I wasn’t happy to hear they’d been at Olive’s. I thought of Frank, Tim, and Olive and wondered where they had been when it’d happened. I hoped they weren’t home.
The cops never did ask me any more questions. They simply drove me home and told me I’d be okay because they’d protect my status as an informer.
No more than six hours passed before I started hearing that I was a dead man walking.
AFTERMATH
I WAS TERRIFIED THAT I was now in danger, a known informer, but curiosity overcame me. I decided to walk over to Olive’s to see what had happened during Mike and Stefan’s arrest. I couldn’t get any closer than two hundred metres because the area was blocked off by police tape.
Buzzing about were forensics units, police vans, squad cars, sharply suited detectives, and uniformed police officers. There must’ve been around a dozen people. A few of my street friends stood transfixed, watching the commotion from a distance. They didn’t notice me. The investigative team carried out box after box of evidence, and one had Tim’s leather jacket in his hand. I imagined lines of determined ants hauling away leaves to their colony-headquarters. Their industry was perfect, inhuman, insidious.
I saw the shattered back window of the apartment, glass strewn all over Olive’s porch and out onto the parking lot, where, only two days earlier, Stan had warned me to be careful. The blue-and-red strobe of the squad-car lights refracted off the shards, sending rays of broken colour in every direction, dancing across my eyes, carving the scene into the back of my cranium.
The police must’ve entered, gangbusters, that way.
Olive, Frank, and Tim were nowhere in sight. I searched for Olive’s cats and saw the bald detective arrive in his SUV. He ducked under the yellow tape and entered the apartment through the destroyed glass doors. He, again, seemed to be calling the shots, pointing his finger and making younger c
ops jump. I looked around for the big black cop but he wasn’t there.
I walked closer and caught the attention of one of the neighbourhood street kids who stood watching. “What’s going on?” I asked, pretending like I knew nothing. A look of disgust shot across his face.
“Don’t chat to me,” he said. “You’ll get it soon enough, you fucking rat.” He spit on the ground, mounted his bike, and flipped me the bird as he rode away.
An old lady nearby said, “What a rude young man.”
I had broken a cardinal rule. The cardinal rule—omertà, silence above all else. Old friends I’d dealt drugs or gone to raves with wanted nothing to do with me. I was seen as untrustworthy, vile, scum—the worst kind of person.
People lured me to parties or to dark corners of the park with the promise of smoking a joint, then jumped me and beat me up. One tried to knife me in an alley. Another beat my leg with a baseball bat after he’d invited me into his place for a drink; the muscle on my thigh was clobbered so badly it was purple and black halfway up my belly, and it was nearly impossible for me to walk. I was lucky, though, that he never got to my knees—his original target. I surely would’ve been crippled.
I bumped into a friend at the mall, who I used to sell sheets of acid with a few years before. “I’d have done the same thing,” he said when I saw him in front of the Chinese food stand. I was in between meals and he offered me a bowl of stew his mother cooked for lunch. He had it in a container in his knapsack. I ate it, but it tasted funny—bitter, sour, off or something. When I was done he looked me right in the eye and said, “Eat shit and die, motherfucker.” I was sick for a couple of weeks afterward. It was the worst retaliation of all—biological warfare, street style.
The people who did talk with me only did so to give me attitude or tell me I wasn’t worth the skin I was born in.
All the maltreatment left me wondering if I’d done the right thing, if helping to deliver justice was worth it. I mean, maybe the cops wouldn’t have found me with the shirt. Maybe Stefan and Mike would have gotten away with it. Maybe I should’ve just laid low until things cooled off. Maybe I should’ve just taken my chances.
From the Ashes Page 17
