by Mike Knowles
“Yeah, kid, you got it. Now that we know who’s who and what’s what, let’s get this straight. You owe me money and a book. I’m gonna tell you how much, and you’re going to give me what I want. I’m going to pay you double for what you did because you killed that thief and framed that ugly bouncer. That worked out better for me than what your uncle planned.”
“How much?”
He told me, and I looked out the window, screaming inside my head.
“Don’t worry, kid, there’s more money. I got lots of money, that is, if you want to work for it.” That was the first time I went to work for Paolo. It would not be the last. After Paolo had cut me loose for killing Tommy, I was left without a job again. I had spent so long living the way I had that there was little chance I could start over fresh. I only knew one kind of life, and that life gave me few options. I couldn’t stay in the city — there would be no employment when word got out I was blacklisted, and solo jobs didn’t have longevity. Working alone kept the jobs small and the risks high. No one retired from a career of working alone; coffins and cells are lined with cons who thought they could beat the system every time — by themselves. I needed to work my way into another network where I could find bigger jobs with other professionals. I knew of some names in Montreal, so I decided to scout out opportunities there.
I took a week and drove out to Montreal. I spent time in the right places asking for the wrong kind of people. After a few days of looking, the names I asked about sent a car for me. Some of the names I dropped from back home checked out, and I was told there could be work if I proved myself. Proving myself could have meant anything from murder to shooting up in front of an audience. There were all kinds of chest-beating rituals intended to sniff out undercover cops. I didn’t trust anyone to set up a job for me, so I said I would think about it and let them know; they gave me a number to call when I had made a decision. I took a cab from the meeting and got out on Boulevard Saint-Laurent. The street, known as locally as “The Main,” was full of bars, nightclubs, and restaurants. Even in the early evening the street was crowded with people trying to get a glimpse of the real nightlife of the city. The bloodbath in Hamilton forced me to operate with greater care because I had no idea when I could become a target for what I had done. A new city hundreds of kilometres away was no exception. I used the windows of every restaurant to check the posted menus, and to look behind me using the polished glass as a rear-view mirror. It didn’t take me long to see that I was being followed by two men. The reflections I saw several times in the windows made me sure they were tailing me. Seeing two men at once usually meant trouble. One person is a good enough tail — if they’re good. Sometimes two people worked together, leapfrogging after a target to lower the odds of the target recognizing a face. Two men together meant something else entirely; it meant there was going to be heavy lifting involved. If the two were pros there was probably a driver out there too, so the team could get away fast.
I stopped at a phone on the street and called the number I had been given at the meeting.
“Oui?”
“We just met. Do I have reason to think that there are two things you want to see me again about?”
The voice on the phone did not betray any emotion; it just shifted to accented English. “We are waiting for a call. That is it.”
I clicked the phone down and kept walking, immersing myself deeper in the crowds. The men I met with denied knowing the two men behind me. It wasn’t proof that the men belonged to some other outfit, but it was enough for me to know that they were there to start trouble. I moved quickly and entered the first mall I saw. I crossed the sensors of the first clothing store that appeared and picked a shirt, hat, and glasses from the nearest racks, tore off the tags, gave them to the cashier, and hit the change room. When I came out, I paid for my new outfit and browsed near the front of the store, using the window to look out into the mall. Through the spaces between the frosted letters in the glass I saw throngs of shoppers walking by. I could also see a man loitering by the mall entrance, cell phone in hand, meaning the other man was searching the mall for me.
I walked out of the store and went to the warm pretzel restaurant three stores to the right. I bought a pretzel and a Coke and sat at one of the tables provided out front. I was out of sight from the mall door, so I ate a few pretzels and waited twenty-five minutes. After the pretzels and Coke I got up and checked the door. No one was standing guard, cell phone in hand. I went deeper into the mall, found an ice cream shop, and ate for another half hour. When I finished the ice cream, I asked a girl at the information kiosk where the closest cabs were located. The girl behind the counter told me of an exit on the other side of the mall. On my way to the exit I spotted a mall rat. She was a teenage Goth kid hanging out by herself. She looked dirty — like one of the many homeless of the city. Montreal had a huge number of homeless teenagers who escaped their parents for the club life of the big city. I grabbed the girl by her arm, forcing her to join my pace.
“Hundred bucks if you leave with me.”
“No way, loser. Get the fuck off me.”
The crazy population of the city made sure nothing surprised this girl anymore. She didn’t even seem scared of a strange man offering her money.
“No sex. No date. Just help me get out of here, and you can take the hundred bucks plus cab fare wherever you want to go.”
“Why the hell would I go anywhere with you, asshole?”
“Either come or don’t, but I don’t have time to waste. One fifty, take it or leave it.”
Her eyes lit up, and she licked her lips. “Fine. Where’s the money?”
“You get it in the cab.”
I didn’t let her continue the conversation. We walked to the exit and got into a waiting cab. The watchers were looking for one man in different clothes. All they would see leaving was an unhappy man dragging his daughter out of the mall.
“Airport,” was all I said to the cab driver.
“Oui.”
Two blocks into the ride, I told the driver to pull over. I got out and left two hundreds on the seat. I walked away without saying another word.
I wasn’t sure who would be looking for me, especially in Montreal. If I had to guess, it would be the cops. Criminal organizations were big business in Montreal; the city had Italians, bikers, even Russians of their own. The organized crime guys must have seen me leave a hot spot and tailed me for an ID. I moved around the city for a few more hours, checking for a tail, but I never found one. After I decided I was clean, I took a cab back to my car. I had stashed it at an expensive city parking-garage a block away from the motel I was staying in. I travelled light so all that was in the motel room was a change of clothes in a duffle bag. I decided to leave clean, dropping the motel key down a sewer grate before paying up for the car and driving home.
When I got back into town I checked my office and found only one change: there was a plain unaddressed white envelope on the floor inside the door. The letter contained a piece of paper with a phone number on it. The digits indicated it was a cell number. Out of curiosity, I dialled it.
“I was looking for you.”
The voice registered immediately — it was Paolo Donati. Our conversation was short — all that was said was a meeting place and a time. I had to haul ass to make it out of the city to a small-town restaurant that served all-day breakfast. I got there first and took a corner booth where I could eye the exit. The booth would also give me a chance to slip into the nearby kitchen if need be. Kitchens are always busy, and fire codes mean they always have exits. I checked before I came in — the kitchen exit was on the right. It was a standard door, which would open easily so the kitchen staff could get to the Dumpster with their hands full. I carried the Glock inside a folded newspaper into the restaurant. I could have cared less about the news; the paper let me blend in, and it hid my gun in plain sight. I looked like any other customer, but I was one who could pull a gun without making any grand gestures.
As I sat, I scanned the restaurant. There was no one looking my way, no one on a cell phone, and no one who suddenly got up to use the rest room. It was an odd choice for a meeting place, but it seemed clean.
Right on time, Paolo Donati made his way into the restaurant. He was an old man, but he looked fit. His hard, pointed nose showed signs of being broken several times. His dark eyes were hard, and they scanned the room, taking everyone in while simultaneously sending out a don’t-fuck-with-me message. He wore green slacks and a blue nylon golf pullover. He looked like a golfer from a distance. Up close, he looked like someone who had just robbed and stripped a man on his way to the links. He wore a heavy grey wool cap, like the old-time golfers wore; it covered the immaculate haircut that framed his head in silver.
His eyes spotted me right away but went over the room twice more. A passing waitress saw him looking and said, “Just grab a seat, hon, I’ll be right with you.”
He didn’t miss a beat; he gave her a sweet smile and said, “I just saw my friend. I’ll be fine. Thank you, dear.”
He didn’t stroll with the languid gait I had seen on many occasions. He shuffled like a man his age should have walked.
“Nice walk,” I said as he approached.
“It helps to blend in.”
I shook my head. “You don’t blend in. The golfer’s outfit is wrong. You’d look better in a casual suit. Like a guy with money who still likes the simple stuff,” I said.
All I got was a cold stare for a reply. We sat silent, waiting to order, then continued to say nothing while we waited for our food. Finally, after the food arrived and the waitress left, Paolo told me why we were there.
“I fired you for good reason.”
“No argument here. It could have been much messier,” I said.
“Everyone thinks you’re out with me.”
“I am out with you.”
“You aren’t out of shit, figlio.”
I knew the word figlio meant son. I heard enough Italian over the years to decipher bits and pieces. Whatever the translation, he used the word like a boot, shoving me down into my place.
“I let you off. Never forget that. You didn’t earn, justify, prove, or bribe anything from me. I decided your fate. You breathe because I had a single thought that you might be useful.”
I took in the rant and thought it over. What he said wasn’t false. The only missing part would have been the expense of killing me. It would have been hard, costly, and pointless. “The point is I’m out,” I said between sips of tea.
“Fuck, you really are stupid, aren’t you. You are what I say you are, and no one is going to hire you until I decide I’m done with you. Not even those bilingual criminals. Oh, don’t look surprised, I know all about the little introduction you had. It’s good you came home because I was ready to make sure no one would be looking to give you work.”
I took another sip of tea. The man across the table controlled my immediate future; he could make things easy or very, very hard. I decided to hear him out.
“What’s on the table, Paolo?” I asked.
He smiled then. It was the smile a cat would have on its face when the mouse finally gave up and stopped running. I hated that look and I promised myself I would remember it, and someday pay it back.
“We on a first-name basis all of a sudden? You and me equals now? What part of the city is yours? ‘Cause I own fucking everything. Now shut up and listen. You’re gonna work for me like before, but this time no one will know you fucking exist.”
I had to admit I liked how this was going. It already sounded natural to me.
Paolo went on, “A man like me is always surrounded by people who are looking to take information and put it to use. Many people in my own organization would take me down if they could. I need someone no one would trust. Someone with no allegiances who will work jobs I set up. You’ll get things for me, private things, on people who work for and against me, and you’ll deal only through Julian. That way I stay on top, and you stay employed. And if you get an idea to rip me off, to take from me? Well, I got an army who would love to know what really happened to Tommy.”
“I’m not going to become a contract killer for you.”
“I want information only. I don’t need you to kill anyone.”
“How much does it pay?”
“More.”
Paolo didn’t wait for me to say yes. He stood up. “Thanks for breakfast, figlio. Julian will be in touch.” And he walked out.
I paid for breakfast. What the hell? I figured. I have a job. I can afford it.
CHAPTER TEN
I had a cramped timetable for getting back what I had already stolen. The Russian demand of twenty-four hours didn’t give me enough time for finesse. I had no idea who Paolo Donati would contact to hack some encrypted disks. If I started asking around it would take longer than a day to find out, and word of it would leak up, leaving me blocked out or dead. My only option was to go at the problem head-on. I had to find someone in the know and grind what I needed out of them. I also had to get the information in a way that wouldn’t leave any traces back to me. It would not be in my best interest to make things right with the Russians only to have more problems with the Italians. Paolo wanted me dead. I didn’t know why he chose now to pay me back, but his intentions were clear. I had to weather the storm with the Russians so I could settle up with Paolo later.
I really only had one name to choose from — Julian. Julian was Paolo’s second; he knew where all the bodies were buried. Julian would know who the disks were sent to and why. He wouldn’t appreciate being squeezed, so I would have to make it hard on him. If I did it right, he would keep his mouth shut. If Paolo found out that Julian gave up information to me, he’d have the life expectancy of milk in the sun. Julian would have to keep quiet about what I did and wait for a time to deal with me privately.
After the business with Steve and Sandra, I had decided to find out where all of the major players lived. I knew where Julian lived, but there were few times when he was alone and unaccounted for. He worked whatever hours Paolo worked, and Paolo was a workaholic. The hours Julian spent at home in his condo were sporadic. Julian’s condo also offered a high degree of security: there were guards in the building, in addition to whatever measures of his own he took to secure his home. I’d have to hit him between point A and point B. Point A was the restaurant; point B was his condo. I looked at my watch. It was 9:30 p.m. I still had time to do what needed to be done.
I took a cab from outside the office to the local hockey rink, which was always busy at night with games of shinny going on into the early morning. I stole an old Ford pickup with a large empty bed and headed away from the city to a garden centre on a back road in a quiet neighbouring town. It was still warm enough that a lot of the supplies were kept outdoors. I picked the padlock on the gate out front, drove in, and parked the truck beside a pile of garden stones. I piled as many of the huge garden stones as I could into the bed of the truck. Each stone pushed the shocks farther and farther down on the wheels. With the truck full, I drove out of the lot and onto the shoulder of the road. In the glow of the rear lights of the truck, I relocked the gate. I got back behind the wheel and headed back into the city. The truck lurched like a drunk, but when the odometer hit fifty the pickup was as solid as a sledgehammer.
I drove to the restaurant and parked in a lot on the corner; the dashboard clock read 11:23. I could see Julian’s car parked out front. It was a Cadillac sedan, black, tinted, powerful, and fast. There was another vehicle parked out front: the black Escalade that transported Paolo everywhere he went. The fact that there were two cars in front of the restaurant told me Julian would be driving himself home eventually.
I spent the next two hours waiting in the silent truck staring at the two vehicles in front of the restaurant. At 1:13 there was finally movement. The lights went out in the windows, and the doors opened. Two men in suits came out first; they scanned the area before nodding towards the do
or. Three men left the restaurant and joined the two; among them were Paolo and Julian. Paolo got into the back of the SUV with another man, and the two men in suits got in front. Julian waited alone in the street and watched the car pull away. He stood in the street for a full minute, waiting for something I couldn’t see, then he walked to the Cadillac and shoved his body in. The car rocked from the impact of his huge body against the frame. I started the pickup and drove around the block.
The truck lurched forward, building speed slowly. After a minute, I was moving above the speed limit. I hung a left on a one-way street and used the road to connect to the street Julian would be taking. The truck slid a little as I rounded the corners, and there was a hard jolt when I pressed the gas pedal down to accelerate again. Pedal to the floor, I moved up the road looking for the black Cadillac. As if the heavens were looking down on me, I saw the car, alone, stopped at a light two hundred metres ahead.
As I approached the intersection I craned my neck to check the cross streets, saw no one coming. I yanked the wheel left and then hard to the right and swerved the weighted truck through the intersection like a right hook into the driver’s side of Julian’s car. I pulled my hands up to my face and shielded my head as the two cars collided. The impact shot through my body, and I felt ribs strain under the pressure of the seat belt. The frame of the old truck held, and I woke up after what felt like a long blink to find my legs still able to move, and the engine still clucking.
I pulled the emergency brake and kicked the dented side door open. I freed the gun from behind my back and held it with two hands as I approached the window of the Cadillac and looked inside. The window was shattered and the air bag had deployed, but no Julian. I bent to look deeper in the car and saw his body half out the passenger-side window. The direction of the impact and lack of seat belt had sent him flying sideways. The side impact beams kept Julian inside and the shape of the car somewhat recognizable, but the sheer force of the impact must have rocked Julian hard. Quickly I moved to the opposite side of the Cadillac. Julian’s head and shoulders were out the passenger side window; he was semi-conscious and no good to me. He mumbled something in Italian through his bloody face when his glazed eyes saw me. I swore at him under my breath for not buckling up, then put him all the way out with the butt of the Glock. Killing Julian would let everyone know that the accident wasn’t just a simple hit and run, and it wouldn’t take long for Paolo to tie the hit on Julian to the disks; they would be gone forever after that. There were no cars nearby, but a set of lights approached in the distance. I reached in through the window and did a quick frisk. I pocketed Julian’s wallet and a cell phone, and went back to the truck. I pulled myself in behind the wheel, leaving the broken door open. I released the emergency brake and put the truck in reverse. The engine chugged, but the truck made a choppy lurch back, slamming the broken side door into place. I moved away from the Cadillac and drove straight down the street. After a minute, I passed a car; the driver’s stare at the wrecked front end of the truck was illuminated for me in the streetlights. I pulled a right as soon as I could and got off the main road. I found a parking lot a hundred metres from the road behind a closed Pizza Pizza, shut off the truck, and used my sleeve to wipe down the interior. I left the truck there and found a cab two blocks away. Police cars, sirens blaring and lights flashing, passed the cab on their way to the mess I left behind.
