by John Mackie
“How about the decision to kill the witnesses. Was that a big problem for you?”
“Also a decision made without my knowledge. My husband continues to believe the ways of our mother country are best. Unfortunately, that has not always proven to be the case. But he will be paying the price for his mistakes, and he will keep his mouth shut. Mr. Kuzmenko is another matter. This tape of yours – that was sheer stupidity on his part. That alone I might have forgiven, though it forced my Maxim to accept a plea. His decision to sell drugs, however, was a different matter.”
“Sell drugs? Or sell them for his own account?”
That pissed her off. She pursed her lips, then continued.
“I believe Mr. Kuzmenko must be punished for his disloyalty. Certainly that is something we could address on our own. But I felt it best that you be present – consider it my way of apologizing for the inconveniences we have caused for you.”
Sure. An apology. And a threat. But if she thought one of them could set Kuzmenko on fire or blast him with energy without consequences, she was wrong. I resisted checking on Ted to make sure he was getting all of this on tape.
“Mr. Rath?”
The Asian nodded, and began walking towards Kuzmenko.
“You’re not planning anything stupid, I hope. There are a whole lot of witnesses here.”
“Witnesses?” She laughed. “They are hollow automatons. Tell me, which of these people has spent more than five minutes in the past year considering their purpose on this planet? Or contemplating how they might change the world? None of them.”
Hey. If you’re going to pose a question, you could have the courtesy to allow me to answer.
“They are drones. Concerned with the past two hours and the next five minutes. How do I pay the bills, where will little Johnny go to school, does my boss like me. Faced with the remarkable, or the terrible, they cannot compute. That is why a woman can be raped and murdered in broad daylight, or a politician can lie outright, and no one is punished. Do not kid yourself, Mr. Elder. Those who even turn to watch will convince themselves that all is not as it seems. Or that someone else will do something. And by the time they get home, the events that pass here will have been tucked into a deep corner of their minds, in order that they can focus their attention on what to wear to that party on Friday. They don’t want to know anything that would threaten the numb comfort of the lives they have built themselves.”
It was a scary thought, and the sad part was that I thought she was right. But that was why we were there. To do something about these people.
I watched as Rath approached Niki. The big Russian sat still, seemingly too beat up and tired to move.
Rath stopped in front and to the side of Kuzmenko, glancing down at the big man for just a moment before looking out over the fountain and several children wading in the clear pool. He reached out, placing his hand to Niki’s forehead, like a father checking a child for fever. His other hand flicked ash from his cigarette onto the concrete, then returned it to his lips.
For a moment, Niki remained slumped over, unresponsive. Then his head lifted, eyes filled with fear and confusion.
“Remarkable, isn’t it? Man fears nothing as much as pain. Yet pain itself is ephemeral. Pain alone leaves no marks. Is my pain greater or less than yours? Did her childbirth leave deeper psychological scars than his heart attack?”
I watched as Niki’s back arched, his chest heaving to gain air.
“What the hell...” I began to move towards Rath. No matter how much I hated that idiot Niki, this was wrong.
I was still ten feet away when the air changed. If you have ever been in an open field during a lightning storm, you will know the feeling. Edgy, metallic. Niki’s body quaked, and his mouth opened wide in a silent scream.
Then he slumped over, tipping until he fell face first to the pavement. I ran to his side to check his pulse, but I knew there was no point. The Russian was dead.
“Mother...”
I stood and drew my hand back for a punch. But I didn’t throw one. There was no point. Niki was dead. Which might very well have been a good thing, depending on how you looked at the world. I was pretty sure Rath couldn’t hurt me, but the margin for error on that assessment was razor thin. He watched me through the swirl of blue smoke off his cigarette, impassive. Elena strode over to join him.
“We will part ways now, Mr. Elder. It is my sincere hope our paths never cross again.”
As I stood there, not four feet from Niki’s cooling body, Rath moved to her side and they began strolling back to the limo. She stopped, turned, and in a stage whisper called out:
“Oh. Please say hello to your colleagues for me.” With that she cast a wave at Clay and Sol, then Ted, and walked away.
CHAPTER 33
My hope was that we would have video evidence of Elena’s involvement in Niki’s death. Unfortunately, that hope proved unfounded. Moments later, Clay, Sol and I watched as Ted ran us through the video – a perfect recording of Niki taking a seat by the fountain with the assistance of a limo driver, then a minute later arching his back in pain, crying out, and falling dead to the concrete. Despite viewing the tape several times, the three of us huddled around the small camera in the middle of Nathan Phillips Square, we saw no sign of Mr. Rath. It was as though he had never been there.
By the time we tore our eyes away from the small LCD screen, Niki was no longer there either. All that remained of the incident were a few clumps of ash from Rath’s cigarette, already drifting away in the soft breeze.
The next day, the following article appeared on page A13 of the Daily Times:
LEGENKO ASSOCIATE FOUND DEAD
Nikolay Kuzmenko, aged 41, was found dead of unknown causes in a Bay Street condominium early Saturday morning, the police reported yesterday. Mr. Kuzmenko was rumored to be an associate of Maxim Legenko, the former CEO of Ruscan Investments, who pled guilty earlier this week to charges of fraud and money laundering.
A police spokesperson, Sgt. Neil Cooper, said a neighbor called 911 at about 7:30 A.M. Saturday after finding the body of Mr. Kuzmenko in the living room of his open seventh floor unit. Kuzmenko resided at the Century Club Towers, a condominium complex at 1057 Bay Street, just south of Charles Street West.
Kuzmenko, who Sgt. Cooper referred to as “known to police”, served three years in prison for trafficking and assault, and was released from Joyceville Institution in 2004. He was charged two weeks ago with possession with intent of trafficking and conspiracy to commit an indictable offence, in connection with the raid of a Rev lab in an industrial warehouse on Greylawn Street last week, the first raid of its kind in Canada. Rev began appearing in Toronto clubs and raves late last year.
Detectives would not comment on any possible connection between Mr. Legenko and the Rev operation.
CHAPTER 34
It was August 6th, and I had been with Arcane Transport for exactly three months. It felt like I should be getting a gold watch.
My first ninety days had been hectic, to say the least. But I was starting to feel comfortable at last. Jim, Harold and Jamar were handling the majority of deliveries now that things had calmed down, giving me a chance to do some meet-and-greets with those customers I had not met face-to-face. Our days were a little less crazy, and I hadn’t heard from the Legenkos or their colleagues in over a month.
Maxim Legenko had been transferred to Collins Bay in Kingston, and was apparently adjusting well to prison life. I wished him a long and pleasant stay.
Niki Kuzmenko was cremated, and a memorial placed in his name at York Cemetery in North York. I visited the site two weeks ago, to satisfy some strange need for closure. Someone had spray-painted his monument with a single word. Traitor.
At long last, Amy and I had our dinner, a great evening of prime rib and red wine at La Castile, a goony castle-like steakhouse on the Dundas strip west of the city. As to what happened afterwards – I don’t kiss and tell. But we’ve been seeing one another regularly since.
As for me, I was settling in. I had found some time to read up on Arcane, its customers, and their fascinating beliefs. I found a copy of Clay’s original business plan for the company, prepared in 1974, white-out still marking where he had made revisions. I also had a chance to start reading through Charlie Carter’s History of Occultism in Toronto, which was proving to be a real eye-opener. Of particular interest to me was a paragraph on page 64, suggesting that my parents had run a herbal pharmacy in Toronto, from 1974 to 1983. That was a fact that my mother had never mentioned in my thirty-four years on the planet. It also helped explain why Elder Herbals appeared in the list of potential customers identified in Clay’s business plan, though it raised a whole host of questions I would need to explore when I had the energy.
As for Jamar, Kara and Ted? Jamar was back with his girlfriend, and his dad had chickened out on the flight to Kiev. Kara and I had settled into a comfortable relationship as friends and colleagues, though at times I felt there might be more lurking beneath. Her boyfriend Chad seemed to think so too, so we’ll never be BFFs.
Ted? Well, he and two buddies had formed a hockey academy for kids, which was taking up the majority of his time. He still worked once and awhile at Hidden Pleasures, and was seeing a dancer with the unlikely name of Chastity.
With an hour left in the day, I was going through a file from John Vranic’s office when a voice came through on the intercom.
“Donnie? Call for you on line one.”
I pushed the payroll statements to the side, happy to do something other than review another page of numbers.
“Donnie Elder speaking.”
“This is Dr. Bernie Galt.”
Interesting. I wondered whether he was going to try to weasel his way out of the final balance he owed us. Our statement had gone out three weeks ago - $3,245.32 all in. He had been dodging Kara’s calls ever since.
“Bernie. How can I help you?”
“I am,” he paused as though wanting to start again. “I am calling to advise you that we will not be terminating your services after all.”
“I see.”
“Yes. I have considered the matter further, and determined that it would be best for Bindings if we continue to utilize your courier services. No doubt you will be happy to hear that you can continue to cite us as one of your higher-profile customers.”
“Mm hm.” So, his eyes must have popped out of his head when he saw how much it would cost him to ship via a regular courier service. Either that, or someone had balked at delivering to the Blooded Sisters of the Divine. Probably scared off by the chicken guts smeared on their front door.
“And in that regard, I have asked Ms. O’Sullivan to prepare a check today for my signature in payment of – of one-half of the outstanding balance we presently owe you. We will be getting that out to you this evening.”
“Hm.”
“It will of course cause us some short-term financial difficulty, but we will manage.”
I kept my mouth shut, not convinced I would be able to say anything without inserting a lengthy and colorful string of expletives that were unlikely to facilitate this supposedly renewed relationship. The result was a prolonged silence on the line, one underscored by Galt’s breathing, which I now realized was quite audible, even a little raspy.
“Alternatively, we could – yes – perhaps that’s what we will do. Mary? Please prepare the check in full payment of the account. Yes, it is only reasonable that we should make full payment of your account in light of your many years of good service. Full payment. We will have that off to you by end of day.”
Maybe I should try the silent treatment more often.
“I trust we can then proceed with business as usual?”
“Sure.”
“Good, good. We’ll have that check off to you shortly. Okay, then. Good bye.”
I set the phone down, shaking my head. It’s amazing how some people believe they can do whatever the hell they want and get away with it. I paused, considering that for a moment, then decided to tell Maggie and Kara the good news face-to-face.
The kitchen was oddly quiet at this time of day, but I could hear a host of voices out front. Must be a late afternoon drop off, or a few of the staff catching up.
I entered the Reception Area to find Kara, Harold and Jamar all gabbing with Harper, and with Clay, who looked like a new man.
“Donnie!”
“Clay! I didn’t know you were dropping in.”
“Oh, Harper and I thought we should pop in to say hello to the gang, make sure everyone remembered who I was.”
“Yeah, right.”
“So, what have you been up to?”
“Well,” I laughed. “I just got off the line with good old Bernie Galt at Bindings.”
Clay chuckled, and surprisingly both Harold and Jamar rolled their eyes. Seemed the not-so-good doctor had not made any friends.
“Trying to get out of that last bill?” I had walked Clay through the ups and downs of the Bindings relationships during our weekly calls. To say he was in favor of terminating the account was an understatement.
“Hah! That’s what I thought, too. Nope. Turns out our friend Dr. Galt would like to restore our relationship. He’s even prepared to pay us in full.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Me too. But if it does come in...”
Faces fell. Boy, they sure didn’t like this guy.
“Relax. No deliveries until the check clears. But once we do have the check, I’m changing the rules. No cash, no delivery. Payment up-front.”
“Now we’re talking!” Harold clapped me on the shoulder, and Clay seemed delighted with my course of action.
“Well it sounds like you have everything in good order. Maybe this is a good time to tell them, then.” Clay was looking at Harper, but we were all looking at him. She smiled and nodded, and he turned back to face us.
“We’re going on a vacation. Four weeks. Hawaii. Leaving tomorrow.”
No kidding. Good for them. The group cheered.
I felt a bit of pride, hearing that. Clay trusted me enough to leave his baby with me for four weeks. Made me think the past three months had been worth every minute.
Three days later, we got our check from Galt. And two days after that, it cleared.
If you enjoyed Hazardous Goods, then watch for the next book in the Arcane Transport series:
CHAPTER 1
“No. I am not driving your damned chicken to Hamilton.”
“But—.”
“No live transport. Read the back of the card.”
“Listen ami, I know what da card say. But Lady Clara, she need dis bird by noon. If dere’s no bird, dere’s no offering. No offering, and Papa Ghede, he no happy. Lady Clara don’ wan’ see Papa Ghede when he no happy.”
My name is Donnie Elder, and I’m the co-owner of Arcane Transport, a courier for a strange group of customers. Occult bookstores, palm readers, Goth nightclubs and churches where everyone dances naked praying to Al-Magaroth, lord of the Underbelly.
My client for this particular run was Lady Clara Ellerby, a professional psychic, medium and spiritual reader based in Hamilton, forty minutes from downtown Toronto on a quiet Sunday and two and a half hours away in the rage-inducing sludge of rush-hour traffic. The good Lady seemed pretty harmless by all standards, and was a decent account. Regular business, paid on time, courteous. Unfortunately this time she had sent me to make a pick-up from a far less reputable business. You Do Voodoo. A one-time Arcane client black-listed by my partner for various crimes, including the ultimate digression – non-payment of account.
The proprietor’s name was Darly Joseph, and he spoke with a Haitian accent so thick I didn’t understand half of what he said.
“Mr.—.”
“Houngan. My title is Houngan. Houngan Darly.”
“Houngan Darly. No offense intended. But we can’t ship live animals. It’s a driving hazard and an insurance nightmare. I can take the nec
klaces, the herbs, bones and pots. I’ll even take the rum and the cigarettes. But not the chicken.”
“Dey need de chicken. Ou konprann? No point for da rest if dere’s no chicken. It’s just a dumb animal, look ad it. Pop it in da van, and you’ll have no problems, ami.”
No way. No way in hell was I going to drive a chicken – a live, clucking, pecking chicken – all the bloody way to Hamilton. Chickens belong on a farm, or on a Styrofoam tray, wrapped in plastic with a label indicating weight and price. Not sitting on the seat beside me while I slog down the QEW. Especially not this chicken, which was standing on the counter of Houngan Darly’s shop, staring at me. Not clucking or pecking or scratching or wandering around. Just staring at me in its cockeyed way, maroon comb and wattles quivering. Thing was freaking me out.
“No way. Look, I’m sure she can just buy a chicken from a local farm.”
His expression suggested he would be making a small doll in my likeness that evening.
“Dis bird be raised for da sacrifice, ami.”
“Then get a butcher to carve it, wrap it, and give it to me in a box.”
“It needs be fresh, ami. De blood must be warm, for Papa Ghede to accept de tribute.”
“Not my problem. I can’t take the bird.”
He sighed, rubbing his chin. I glanced away to check my watch. Three fifteen. I needed to hit the road in the next twenty minutes, or I may as well just ride a bike the forty miles to Hamilton.
I turned back to see Darly grab the bird and drop it on the floor behind the table. Thank God. With some animals, I got the sense there was intelligence behind their eyes. A dog looking for approval, horse fearing an approaching stranger, a cat debating whether to disembowel you or crap in your bed. I had no idea what the hell a chicken was thinking.
Well, emotional connection or not, I wasn’t ready for what came next.
