Coalface lied. He lied.
The man who called himself Willy was not going to tell the boss anything the boss might already know. Far too dangerous. Since he had no idea what the boss knew or didn’t know, he kept the factual information he possessed to himself. Had he said anything the boss knew to be false, even if he didn’t know that it was false himself, he’d be a dead man. Within the minute. As well, if he told only the truth but it turned out that the boss already knew what he had to say, he’d be seen as unnecessary. Therefore expendable. He had to spin a yarn that made sense, one that would hold together, one that would set himself loose to learn more. To do that he needed to extend the boundaries of what was known and perceived.
He needed to convince others that his life was necessary. That the space he occupied could benefit them. He had to concoct a lie, a tale, to ensure that his news was news to the boss, and that the boss would want to hear more of the story. The idea being that if he did plumb the depths of what was going on, then and only then could he return with what was true. Only then could he provide his boss with sufficient knowledge to sustain his existence as someone whose life was worth maintaining.
He needed to push his end game a little further. He needed more time.
He would not be looking into the actions of the Hells Angels. Far from it. That had been a resourceful, a knowledgeable, lie. He was ahead of the game on that one. He’d told the boss what was coming, because it made sense and was believable because it was true. Yet Willy knew enough to know that what was coming remained a long way off. The Hells were still putting two-and-two together. They’d not arrived at their D-Day landing just yet. They weren’t ready to embark. Preparation stage only. Mum’s the word. In the meantime, another challenge was afoot, one that had gone undetected. He knew very little about it. No one did. He’d take aim at this matter and not signal his trajectory until after the arrow of his life struck the mark.
He was still way undercover. That’s what no one knew. Not those he spied on and gathered intelligence against. Not those for whom, supposedly, he was working. With pay, but without acknowledgment. This was the only way to go to the heart of the matter and blow it to smithereens.
His handlers, who from the outset were not permitted to handle him, agreed. He was going so deep that everyday contact was out of the question. Forge ahead on his own, under his own rules and with his own schedule and guidance. He alone would determine the results and when to reveal them. He helped with this and that along the way. His true masters reaped rewards. But only in secret. He kept his eyes on the greater prize personal to him: ripping the racketeers apart at the seams, not only in Montreal, but in the States as well.
After all this time, he wasn’t quite there yet.
He knew it, too.
He might never be.
In this horserace, if he fell a nose short, it might as well be a furlong. He’d fail. He’d trail the field.
For the first time in his life, Willy was admitting that he required help. For the first time he was willing to seek it out, too. In his line of work, he knew that nothing – absolutely nothing – was more dangerous than trying to make and solidify an alliance. It’s why he’d never done so, why he’d stayed under on his own. The time had come to alter his circumstances. Although he really had no clue how, he figured he’d find a way.
A start was the best that he could manage for now.
Something to begin the process, then he’d follow through.