At the corner of Charlevoix, the Lincoln stopped behind a rental cube van—the kind the film business has a monopoly on in town. The light was red and the three Bushinskys were trying to decide if there would be any chicks at Chez Parée worth braving the elements for. Nikolai was of the opinion that it was smarter to go home and watch the end of the Canadiens game in the screening room. They were pretty much decided on the Habs when the roll-up door on the truck ahead flew up, exposing the biggest motherfucking antiaircraft gun any of them had seen outside of a Star Wars film. To be fair, the driver’s reflexes were great. Maybe perfect. But even a big eight with the gas punched to the floor can’t back up faster than a double-snouted .75 cal can spit out death.
The car rocketed in reverse for about twenty yards before the massive gun opened up. As the first volley of fire mulched the engine block and front window, Josef detonated like meat-filled popcorn. The car fishtailed, swerving left and mowing down one of the groovy young people in front of the Lion before hitting the brick wall of the Corona Theatre. The big gun kept punching it, the rattle of brass in the bed of the truck tinkling like laughter just below the heavy barrage of the slugs.
The car shuddered in place as it came apart, hundreds of rounds smacking into the metal skin at supersonic speeds, red tracers lighting up the street like insects from a Timothy Leary nightmare. Somehow, Vlad rolled out of the backseat and ran for the corner of Viger. One of his hands was gone and he stumbled along, drooling blood out of his sleeve and bellowing a single shriek that was a good three octaves higher than a kicked puppy could produce.
The gunner moved off the car, the red tracers stitching a line along the storefronts, shattering windows and whipper-
snippering two hipsters down like plaid-clad dandelions. When the line of fire caught up to Vlad he danced in place for a few seconds, rounds vapor-trailing through him in a heavy black mist peppered in chunks of flesh and bone. Glass and stone and brick behind him exploded as copper-jacketed lead drilled through his body. Car alarms went off. A lamppost toppled. Vlad disintegrated before he could fall over and the line of fire swung back onto the Town Car.
But the Lincoln had already exploded. Nikolai Bushinsky’s arm stuck out the shattered back window, wrapped in flames, the index finger pointing at nothing in particular.
* * *
Jimmy stood looking out at the city in the exact same spot where, less than twenty-four hours ago, he had learned about Rockatansky. Only now Nikolai Bushinsky and his sprogs had been gunned down like 1950s goombas. Of course there were also the nine dead bystanders, if the police reports could be trusted. But there is a hidden cost to everything, survival in particular.
Harold was in the apartment, just in case the police came around. They wouldn’t have anything concrete, not in any real sense of the word. Besides, no one really cared about the Bushinsky boys—just more criminal d etritus subtracted from the gene pool of the city. Iggy and Marcus left the truck on the street, along with the anti-aircraft gun; the weapon had been in storage since the seventies and the only one who knew about it was Iggy—who Jimmy trusted with his life (at least in a theoretical sense). And the truck had been stolen earlier in the evening. Nothing but a handful of dead ends.
The nine bystanders were the problem. Which meant at least one visit from the police. A few midlevel soldiers might get picked up. Maybe even smacked around. But Jimmy and Poppa would sit right here in the apartment, comfy and safe behind a thin veil of respectability. And a pile of money.
Jimmy watched the television for a few moments. Pulse News was on the scene, interviewing Dave McMillan, one of the owners of Joe Beef. Dave was a big guy in a ball cap and apparently didn’t need anything more than a plaid shirt to keep warm. He threw a cockeyed and somehow weirdly cherubic smile at the camera. “I saw the whole thing. Four guys left the truck. Small, wiry dudes dressed in black, wearing masks—like ninjas. They got into two waiting cars—red Camaros. I think they were speaking Russian. Maybe Czechoslovakian.”
Behind McMillan, a man sporting a CN cap jumped up and down, a meat cleaver in one hand, a Labatt Blue in the other. “Ninjas, tabarnak!” he kept yelling.
Jimmy smiled and nodded at the screen. “I like these guys. Iggy, send them ten cases of Scotch—the good Japanese stuff.”
Iggy lifted his head, scanned the screen, and reached for the phone.
Jimmy watched the rest of the report then turned off the set. There wasn’t anyone from the Bushinsky family left to come after him. No sons, grandkids, or nephews—no one of note. He had already reached out to mutual friends and they had happily jumped the fence.
Which left Tiny Rockatansky as the last pebble in his shoe.
Jimmy turned back to his apartment. The old man was in front of the fish tank, off to the side of the fireplace. Every now and then Poppa’s fingers moved and his first thought was that the old man was multitasking, but he dismissed it—who would Poppa be speaking to at this hour?
Harold was in one of the chairs flanking the coffee table, a tumbler of Scotch in his hand and a concerned look on his face—from his perspective there was always a downside. After all these years, Jimmy still hadn’t figured out if skeptical was Harold’s natural setting or if he had adopted the stance because that’s what Poppa paid him for.
“Thoughts?” Jimmy asked the lawyer.
Harold took a sip and shrugged. For a man who should have looked happy, he was missing a smile. “I think that Joe Beef stunt opened a wormhole. You two have set things back fifty years.” His delivery was Kissinger-esque.
A cell phone on the counter buzzed, and Iggy, who was doing his duty at the espresso machine, held it up. “It’s yours, Jim.”
Jimmy smiled at his old man, upright in front of the aquarium. He’d had a busy day with the moving crew and his standard late night-puréed meal was an effort to get down.
His father blinked. “You did good . . . son. You get a clean . . . slate . . . to work with.”
Jimmy took his phone from Iggy’s hand. He checked the display then thumbed the screen.
After a terse greeting, his associate in Ottawa relayed information on the banking transaction—ten million US dollars that originated in a Grand Cayman account had gone through Luxembourg en route to Nassau. Not an unusual route or sum, but it was the only transaction that fit the parameters. It had been sent by a law firm in Toronto. Her gave Jimmy a name and hung up.
Jimmy put the phone down on the counter and nodded at the bulge under Iggy’s sweater. Iggy raised an eyebrow but handed it over.
Harold was pouring another Scotch when Jimmy came back in with the chrome .357 in his hand. The lawyer topped up the tumbler and returned to his seat by the fire. He kept his eyes on the pistol while he took a sip.
“I found out where the money came from, Harold.”
“Oh?”
Jimmy raised the pistol. “Toronto firm. Dooley, Hall, Kerr and Reid. Heard of them?”
Harold’s eyes scrolled up and to the right. He nodded. “Big firm.”
“Remember the Place Ville Marie parking lot purchase? They notarized the papers for the seller.”
Harold took another sip of single malt, then said, “Good memory.” He looked over at Poppa. “Aren’t you going to—”
Jimmy pulled the trigger and Harold shuddered in place. His chest blossomed in a massive welt of red and he vomited up a rope of black blood that slopped into his tumbler and spilled onto his lap.
Jimmy walked over to the kitchen and placed the pistol in the sink. Iggy opened the hot water.
Back in the living room, Harold made a horrible wheezing sound, then slumped over.
“It was . . . me,” the old man’s voice chimed to life. “I hired . . . Rockatansky.”
Jimmy stared at the old man.
“You have . . . a clean slate . . . a kingdom. Nikolai . . . just would have . . . been in the way. Harold and you were . . . a terrible . . . match.”
“So you had me kill him for nothing?” Jimmy jabbe
d a finger at Harold’s dead body.
“You needed to . . . make a state . . . ment. I am . . . done . . . tired of . . . this prison.” Poppa’s fingers tapped away as he blinked out his thoughts. “I am past the . . . point where even . . . the shitty parts . . . of long ago seem . . . better than . . . the present.” His fingers stopped and his printer spat out a single sheet of paper. “Visit me in your dreams . . . son.”
Jimmy lifted the paper from the tray. It was a bank transfer order. Another ten million US dollars.
He had time to read it once before the window exploded. The heavy slug drilled through Poppa, through his magical chair, and into the aquarium, sending the candy-colored fish to the floor in a massive surge of water. Poppa teetered in place for a second before the second shot came whistling in and he stopped being alive.
PART III
ON THE EDGE
Journal of an Obsession
by Johanne Seymour
Plateau Mont-Royal
Translated from French by Katie Shireen Assef
I’ve always been afraid of the void: a black hole, an empty glass, a vacant heart, a blank page . . . I have no confidence in the metaphysical platitude that the universe is allergic to vacuums and needs to fill the holes. I fear emptiness more than death itself. In my case, that’s saying something.
Every inch of my apartment is taken up. Wherever my gaze falls, there’s something interesting to look at—paintings, books, side tables, lamps, empty wine bottles. I hoard so that I am never without.
I live on the ground floor of a building in the Plateau Mont-Royal. In the summer, my backyard abounds with all sorts of plants and wildflowers. In the winter, I keep the curtains closed.
I have mistresses, one for each day of the week, and a few I cultivate for special occasions. I have many friends who fill the quiet moments—men, women, even children. I’m only alone when I write, and even then I’m not so alone; I have my characters to keep me company.
I’ve managed to control my obsession.
Until now.
* * *
I write in a popular café in the neighborhood, not because it’s trendy, but because it’s always crammed with people. I go early in the morning, sit at my usual table in the back, and stay until late in the afternoon. The owners tolerate me because I’m fairly well-known—they think I attract customers.
On one such day, I ordered a large latte and settled down at my table. I scanned the room as I plugged my laptop charger into the wall outlet. As usual, the assorted species of bobos and hipsters lined up along the counter to order their morning fix, while lumbersexuals wolfed down huge breakfast sandwiches as if they were actually going to spend the day chopping wood. That’s the Plateau, for you—you’re an artist, even when you’re not. After I’d scanned the crowded café, I was ready to concentrate on my work. But then I saw him, the man who would lead me to my demise.
He was roughly fifteen years my junior, a handsome man, slender yet muscular, though I doubted he worked out much; he seemed naturally fit. He smiled at whoever would look at him, confident as he strode through the shop. I noticed he was carrying a laptop.
He sat down at a small table in front of the café. I wondered how he managed to find an available seat at this hour—the shop was swarming with customers. The barista, who normally stayed behind the counter at all costs, went over to the man and took his order, removing a small Reserved card from his table. I nearly choked on my coffee.
He took out his laptop and plugged it into the wall. Like me, he scanned the room before beginning his work. Who is he? I wondered. A lawyer? An architect? Is he answering e-mails? Playing around on Facebook or Twitter? One thing was for sure—he had a lot to write. The sound of his fingers clacking keys exasperated me. You’d have thought he was a keyboard virtuoso, the Mozart of word processing.
“Is everything all right, sir? Would you like a glass of water?”
I was sweating in streams, which is probably why the waitress stood before me, a concerned look on her face.
“No, no. I’m fine.”
“Can I get you anything?” she asked impatiently.
“Another latte?”
She turned and walked back behind the counter, but not before I glimpsed the disappointment on her face. Would she prefer I free up the table? My table? The one I had occupied every day since the café opened?
Panic stung my chest.
I tried to tell myself that my imagination was taking me for another ride, but I couldn’t help but think the worst. Would I have to find another café to write in? While in every other part of my life I’d set up escape routes, detours, emergency exits, here I felt totally unprepared.
“You okay?”
Mozart stood beside my table, staring at me. With a superhuman effort to not make eye contact, I said, “Yes, thank you. It’s nothing.”
I thought he’d go back to his spot at the front of the café, but he didn’t budge. I finally looked up at him.
“You don’t remember me?”
“No. I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sorry for anything. Why did I say that?
“Well, it’s true that there were a number of us taking your seminar.”
A writer!
“What can I do for you?” I asked. “I should warn you, I don’t read other people’s manuscripts.”
Mozart smiled. “Don’t worry. I just wanted to say hello.”
Then he went back to his table and started clacking away on his keyboard, as if his fingers had a life independent of his brain, or a direct connection to it.
The waitress set my second latte on the table.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked. “Something to eat, perhaps?”
Determined not to abandon my post, I said, “I’ll have your lumberjack special.”
She turned and walked away, and again I felt that she’d prefer I gulp down my coffee and get out of there.
I couldn’t understand how I’d become persona non grata overnight. I’d never caused a scene at the café (well, once, but a long time ago), and my reputation maintained a pleasant status quo amongst my peers. So why did I suddenly feel like a leper?
I knew I was getting carried away. I attributed my state of mind to my usual paranoia, and tried to concentrate on my writing.
When I was starting out as a writer, I made a habit of rereading, each morning, whatever I’d written several days before. I thought of this as a kind of warm-up. And so I read over the twenty pages I had written in the last five days. A smile of satisfaction spread over my face. It was good. Very good. Excellent, even. Probably the best thing I’d ever written. My swan song.
The thought paralyzed me.
Was it a sign? Was I going to die? Was that what had colored this day from the very beginning? A presentiment of my imminent death? I shook myself out of it. I wouldn’t give into paranoia. Why couldn’t I write something exceptional without thinking I’d die because of it? I took a deep breath and read the pages once more. I was so moved that I could hardly believe I’d written these lines. Finally, I was writing the novel that would catapult me to fame, that would be my ticket to the hall of literary heroes, alongside Harper Lee, J.D. Salinger, Kerouac . . .
I placed my fingertips on the keys, ready to hear myself make the inspired clacking sound. I waited for the word that would prompt the avalanche, the inspired thought that would break the dam. Seconds passed, then minutes. Nothing. Not a single idea. No matter how many times I reread those lines, my thoughts stopped with the final period. Then, emptiness. An infinite void. Brain death. The café had fallen silent. All that could be heard was the sound of Mozart’s fingers tapping away on his keyboard as if he were performing the “Minute Waltz.”
It was intolerable.
My fingers were frozen in a grotesque position above my laptop while his were flying over the keys, light, bouncing, inspired. But who was this Mozart? He’d stolen my barista, my status as shop master, and now he was keeping all the muses for himself! He chose this mom
ent to close his computer, walk up to the cashier, pay, and leave the café.
I should have taken a deep breath and let him go. But what can I say? I was panicked. I was about to crank out the novel of my career until this nobody, this poor man’s Mozart, came and ran off with my inspiration. I packed up my things in a hurry, threw a few coins on the table, and left.
I didn’t know what I had in mind, going out after him. I’d acted without thinking, gripped by panic, a sudden impulse. What was I supposed to do now that I was out on the street? The wind had risen, and a fine, icy rain swept over the sidewalk of Rue Mont-Royal. The autumn, crueler than usual, was making us pay for the splendid summer we’d had.
Mozart had turned right after leaving the café. I decided to follow him. After all, he was headed in the direction of my apartment.
I was not dressed warmly enough, and shivered as the rain soaked through my clothes. The café was nearly ten blocks west from where I lived on Rue Marquette. It would be fifteen minutes or so before I was back in my warm apartment, which would be more than enough time to observe Mozart, if I didn’t die of pneumonia first.
I quickly noticed the similarities between us. We walked with the same long strides, collar raised, hugging our computers to our chests. And we shared that dumb superstition about avoiding sidewalk cracks, which gave a jolting quality to our gait. Long strides punctuated by quick, jerky steps.
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