by Pat Capponi
“All right, for now.” I study him with the same intensity he used on me. “You talk. I admit I’m curious about who you really are, and why you’ve chosen this kind of life.”
Even though I wince at how that sounds, a variation of “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this,” a smile tugs at his lips. I’ve pleased him.
“I have wanted to be more honest with you. Circumstances being what they were, it wasn’t possible then, but now…Yes, I would like you to know me, Dana. And I’d like to know you better as well. After all, you’re quite the celebrity, you and your group of ragtag friends.” Now that I know Jesse must have googled me, I offer up a quick prayer of thanks that Michael, because of his outstanding warrants at the time, wasn’t featured in any of the media stories. If he’s still one of us, his secret’s safe, and if he’s not, then it doesn’t matter what Jesse knows.
“Heroic, daring, that’s how they described you. And I wouldn’t quibble. I think you may be all that and more. You’re the first woman I’ve met in my life that I could almost consider an equal.”
I think it was meant to be a discreet cough coming from the other end of the dining room, but it catches, like a car engine, deepens, gets wetter and more phlegm-filled. I can see a shadowy figure almost doubled over in an effort to contain himself. Clearly a smoker. My dinner companion is not amused; a hardness comes over his face that is truly frightening.
“Out.” He doesn’t shout, he actually says it very quietly, which makes it worse. As the shadow scuttles away, still hawking up his lungs, he adds, “Tell them to begin serving.” He glares at his hands, or at the steak knife by the side of the plate. I decide to believe it’s his hands.
To lighten the moment, I say, “Can’t get good help anymore.”
For a moment, I think I’ve miscalculated and really upset him, but then he throws his head back and laughs. “Precisely. Barbarians all. Still, we’ll make the best of it.” He leans forward, his eyes so intense, I almost stop breathing. “Dana, tell me, after you’d gone to all the trouble of rescuing those old women, did your life change, your personal circumstances?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen where you live. I went by this afternoon, had a look at the kind of people who come and go from your building. Don’t you feel you deserve better?”
“I choose to live there.” That’s very frightening, to think of him watching the house, watching my friends. I try not to let it show, but he knows he’s shocked me. He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving my face.
One of Mrs. Preston’s freshly scrubbed servers appears, balancing a tureen of soup, and the mood is broken. He looks very nervous as he approaches, as if he knows that the consequences of spillage will be grim. He stands by my shoulder, and I can feel him trembling as he carefully spoons a creamy soup into my bowl. He does well in spite of the nervous shakes, not a drop misplaced, then, a bit more confident, moves over to his boss and acquits himself admirably, grinning nervously as he retreats.
“You don’t know what you’re missing, living in a Parkdale slum. You should thank me, really, for allowing you a glimpse of all this.” He waves his spoon in little circles, encompassing the room and the house itself, then pauses, as if waiting for me to say how grateful I am. Since Hell hasn’t frozen over, I don’t. He sighs, and starts drinking his soup. “Of course, none of this is new to me. It’s like coming home after too long an absence.”
I don’t mean to look skeptical, but I guess I do.
“I was raised in an upper-middle-class home, much like this. Not as dark and heavy, but well appointed. Things came easily to me, I was popular, a natural leader, good at sports and at school, everybody loved me. From the time I could think properly, I’ve known exactly what kind of life I wanted to lead, which university, which professions, right down to what car I’d drive and where I’d buy my suits.” He fingers the material of his jacket lovingly. “I was finishing my second year at law school, well on my way to achieving everything I’d dreamed of, when it was all ripped away from me.
“A woman—a nothing woman—had the nerve to charge me with rape. As if I’d ever have to take a woman by force. But no, no one believed me that she was a slut, a whore who knew exactly what she was doing.” His voice is filled with bitterness, cold and mean. He pauses, fiddles with his wineglass. “Things just kept getting worse. My friends deserted me as soon as word got out, then, at the trial, after that bitch testified, lied through her teeth, my parents, my own mother and father, turned their backs on me. I was convicted and locked up.”
Our waiter is back, successfully clearing away the bowls; another is right behind him with a covered platter. We sit in silence while dinner is served. Aside from a thumb in a dish, they do well.
“I didn’t know it then, but it was a good lesson for me, about life and the kind of world we live in. Often, the truth doesn’t matter. It’s what people want to believe. I flattered cons with questions, apprenticed myself to the toughest of them. They taught me their skills, told me their stories, most of which were gross exaggerations, but I kept listening. It was like living in the pages of Crime for Dummies. For all their bragging and bluster, they were behind bars.”
So were you, I added in my head.
“People are fools, Dana, they’re easily influenced.”
The steak is cooked just right, the meat tender. Everything is probably delicious; any other time I’d really enjoy the meal, but at the moment I can’t taste a thing except the bile rising in my throat. I swallow hard, but never take my eyes off him.
“With the guards, I was polite, did what I was told when I was told. Social workers and chaplains were the easiest to turn. I was their star, their hope, the one who made their jobs worthwhile. It was so easy to discover their weaknesses, to appear to be what they wanted me to be. It was so much more satisfying than simple violence, with none of the negative consequences.
“I’d decided, by the time I got out, that I would get back all that had been taken from me, and more. And I knew who I would target—the same people who had turned their backs on me, who had looked down their noses at me as if I were a bad smell, deserted me the minute they found an excuse.
“I had a plan. I would build a well-organized, highly disciplined gang, orchestrate their activities, and live off the profits. And that’s just what I’ve been doing. We have the whole city in a panic. I read the newspapers and I laugh: the cops don’t have a clue. They think there’s half a dozen gangs doing these home invasions. You’re the only one, Dana, who’s been able to trace it back to me.”
My stomach drops in fear. My only choice is to keep him talking, get him to tell me everything. I really want to ask him about Lorraine, but I don’t want to give away how much I know.
“So you recruited your gang from Out of the Cold programs?”
“Among others. Any place with young men who have no hope and a lot of anger. It didn’t matter whether it was agencies or drop-ins or bars. Runaways, street kids who knew they were losers, they were ripe for picking. Of course, none of them were used to discipline or work. Too much alcohol and drugs, too much partying, and far too much stupidity. Left to their own devices, they’d simply rip off the person next to them, and crow about stealing a few bucks. Small minds, smaller ambition. It seems to go with the breed. That had to change if they wanted to sign up with me. I interview every new recruit, and by the time I’m done, I know them better than they know themselves. And they love me.” He snorted in amusement. “They should. I give them everything their limited minds crave. I hand out the rewards, the women, put real money in their pockets, and all the drugs they can handle on their time off. Oh yes, they love me.”
For all his megalomania, I recognize the truth of what he says, and shiver at the thought of Michael coming under his spell.
“Where are they all, this gang of yours? I only see a half-dozen at most.”
“I don’t need to live with them; they’re all pigs. I rent a coup
le of buildings downtown, rooming houses. I keep them filled with women, and whatever else they like.” I guess that’s where Lorraine came in, getting the girls he used as rewards, young runaways looking for rescue, trusting the wrong woman.
“They know that without me, without my guidance, they’d be behind bars or dead. I’m the only one who sees their worth, rewards them, feeds them, loves them; they’re mine for as long as I want them. If I find any that stand out, if they’re smart, if they follow orders well, I make them crew bosses, lieutenants. I give them power over others, I arm them, I build up their egos, never letting them forget that I can tear them down again. Any hint of independence, of questioning my authority, and I break them. I’m their father, their god. I direct their lives, I give them purpose.”
I can’t help it, nobody could listen to this and keep silent.
“Get real, Jesse. You’re a rapist, a thief, a bully, and a kidnapper—”
The thin layer of gentility disappears as he leans forward and casually backhands me hard enough to rock me back on my chair. Then he picks up the wine bottle and freshens our glasses as if nothing had happened. My lip is cut, I can taste blood. I stay very still.
“I demand respect, Dana. I don’t expect you to understand everything tonight, but you must show respect.” He sighs, disappointed with the way the evening has turned, I suppose. When will it end? He shows no sign that he’s done with me yet. “Please, Dana, don’t make me hurt you.”
“What do you want, then? Why am I here?” Enough of this, I think. No more waiting, no more of his games.
“Your fate, Dana, is entirely up to you. You see, even with all this”—he waves his fork around, taking in the room, the house, and its contents—“there’s something, someone, missing, and when I first saw you, I thought, it’s her I want. And I always get what I want.”
“And Mrs. Preston?”
“That depends on you. There’s more to be had from her before her usefulness comes to an end. I was planning a tragic accident just before our move, a fall down that marvellous staircase, the poor stubborn woman, dying all alone like that. Of course, I could be convinced to put that off for a while.”
“Move to where?”
“You’ve met the magnificent and chatty Mrs. Fitzsimmons. Her daughter is off to Europe with her family. In a few weeks, Mrs. Fitzsimmons will be all on her own in her huge house in the middle of Rosedale. She is so very fond of me, I’m sure she’ll welcome house guests.”
He’s very scary, this man. “How long do you think you have before one of your guys trips up, gets himself arrested? You’ve been lucky so far…”
“Luck has nothing to do with it.” He toys with his steak knife, eyeing me. “As it happens, there’s an opportunity for you to see for yourself, tomorrow, when I bring them all together. Discipline, loyalty, planning, that’s why I’ve succeeded. I have a formula that can work in any city, Dana, even somewhere warm and far away. You could be with me, as my partner and perhaps more.”
“What about your crew?”
He shrugged. “They’ll have had a good run. They may have outgrown their usefulness.” It’s all the thought he spares them. “Think about it, Dana, what your life could be. There is nothing you couldn’t have.”
Silence settles between us heavily. I see what he wants from me and I’m too scared to speak. We both know he could take me by force, but he seems to want me to come to him willingly. Thank God for that. He stands and offers me his arm, smiles that smile I used to think was so magnetic, and escorts me to my room. This time he does kiss my hand, and before I can snatch it away, he is gone.
I’m happy to close the bedroom door behind me. Mrs. Preston cries out when she sees me. “He hurt you! That bastard!”
“I’m fine, all things considered. It could have been a lot worse.”
Mrs. Preston fetches a cold face cloth, which I hold over my lips. “Your trainees did very well.” It hurts to talk, pulls where the cut is. She shushes me: “We’ll talk in the morning. I’m just so glad you’re all right.”
“Me too,” I say and wince.
I sleep for a long time, an uneasy, dream-filled sleep. Michael appears in the dreams, sometimes standing right beside Jesse, staring at him in admiration, lost to me. I wake up remembering that, feeling the tears that have run down my cheeks. Oh Michael, where are you? I want out of this room, this house, I want to be away from Jesse, I never want to have to even think of him again. I hear Mrs. Preston closing one of the dresser drawers, so I swipe my hand across my face and sit up.
“How are you, Dana? Does it still hurt?”
For a moment, I think she means losing Michael, and I’m about to say, Of course it still hurts, then I catch myself. “No, it’s fine. Mrs. Preston, do you have any idea what day it is?”
“No, I’m afraid I’ve lost track. Is it important?”
What a question. We’re far removed from the world where it matters. There’s a knock on the door, and a man sticks his head in and waves me to him.
“Dana, don’t go!” She sounds so terrified. I take her hands, tell her to be strong, and leave our cell.
I’m escorted down to a room in the basement. It’s like no basement I’ve ever been in: there are no bare concrete floors, no pipes, no heaters or washers and dryers in sight. There’s plush carpeting, not a stain or spill or cigarette burn marring the pale beige surface. The walls are covered with art, expensive-looking paintings of people and horses and fields in expensive-looking frames.
Couches and armchairs, leather of course, have been pushed up against the walls, end tables and coffee tables laid upside down on them.
They should fire their new decorator. Instead of comfort and ease, a bunch of folding metal chairs have been set up in rows facing a long table against the far wall. I’m told to sit at the back, my guards taking seats on either side of me. One of them, with missing front teeth and a terrible case of halitosis, leans toward me and hisses, “Stay quiet, if you know what’s good for you.”
I’m anxious to see and learn all I can about our captors, as I’ve no idea when I’ll have this opportunity again. Men wander in, none of them wearing shoes, I notice, and take up seats. They seem quite relaxed, chattering among themselves about inconsequential stuff, a bar they’d been in, a hockey game they’d seen. I have a feeling they’re used to meetings here. No one looks at me; I might as well be invisible. I recognize a few of them from the church.
The man to my right pokes me in the ribs. “Stand up,” he growls, doing the same. Everyone is standing and applauding as Jesse walks in, nodding to the group, a people’s politician to the core, and takes his seat behind the table. There’s a noisy few minutes as everyone sits. Jesse is shuffling some papers, making us wait.
What does he see when he looks out at his disciples? Blind obedience? Fear? Love? Or gratitude? In his eyes, are they stronger than they appear? Smarter?
And I wonder what they really think of him. I suspect for most of them, their time with him is a brief, if interesting diversion, putting some dollars in their pockets. I doubt there are more than a handful of true believers. It’s a gang, not an army, no matter what rank he gives his “lieutenants.” I suspect they’re using him as much as he uses them, patient with his delusions as long as they pay off.
“Bring in the prisoner.”
Now there’s silence, an absolute, anticipatory silence. The gang members crane their necks. For a moment, I’m fearful that it’s Mrs. Preston who will be dragged in, but no, it’s a beaten and bloodied man, with guards who seem to be holding him up on either side. His pants are wet in front, his nose seems to be broken. I recognize him as one of the hard cases from the Out of the Cold program, though it takes me a minute or two—all his bluster and swagger are gone.
I don’t understand why Jesse wants me here. Is he trying to intimidate me with his power? Impress me? I’m feeling slightly nauseated. Though the “prisoner” is undoubtedly a bully, it’s difficult to see anyone so terror-stricken. He�
�s dumped into a chair to the left of the table, where he sits slumped, his head almost touching his knees, arms hanging down.
“This man endangered us all.” It’s Jesse, trumpeting the phrase like the voice of doom, pointing at the culprit with an accusing finger. “He failed you, he failed me. He will pay the consequences. He allowed himself to get drunk the day he was scheduled to lead an operation. If his crew hadn’t reported him, they might all be locked up today. I congratulate them for aborting the job and bringing this sorry specimen right to me. You’ve earned a bonus.” There’s an outburst of clapping and whistling; a few of the gang stand and take a mock bow. Jesse’s eyes seek me out, proud of his control, proud of their response.
“I have a new appointment to make. Michael, come in please.”
I go numb for a moment as Michael saunters into the room. I stop breathing, struggling with rising panic. He stands in front of the table and shakes the hand Jesse extends to him.
“Michael is your new leader. He has my confidence. Michael, take the prisoner out. Deal with him.”
Michael grabs the poor wretch by the hair, dragging him to his feet, clubbing him in the head with his fist while the gang hoots and whistles. He turns triumphantly to the audience. Our eyes meet briefly, but there is no recognition in his glance. As he drags the prisoner out, I stare after him, a flurry of thoughts and fears roiling in my head.
It’s such an acute pang of loss, it’s almost physical.
I remember when he first came to the rooming house, cautious, hypervigilant, trying to suss out whatever power structure was in the building. How he didn’t trust anyone, told the most outrageous lies. How he would suddenly appear with a new jacket, or a bag of expensive gourmet treats, or new shoes. How he would offer to sell or to share. The talks we’d have, sometimes late into the night. How hard it was to convince him to give up shoplifting. He had difficulty believing I could turn down the gifts he would bring me; he’d be angry, believing I was rejecting him, not his stolen goods. He was very likable, flawed but bursting with potential.
