Packed to travel.
Retired Captain Armand Touton’s Ford Country Squire was hitched to a seventeen-foot house trailer. A canoe strapped to the car’s rooftop. Tires appeared done-in and the hood bowed upward. Four fishing rods leaned against the trailer.
‘Holidays?’ Émile Cinq-Mars queried. ‘Or do you camp out in your driveway now?’
‘Blow it out your rear, punk. I’m heading up north for the summer.’
Touton carried a pair of suitcases from his house, the veins of his muscled forearms prominent. Thirty pounds each, he flicked them through a trailer door as if they were empty.
‘I hope you don’t expect me to paddle that canoe.’
‘Give me a nickel’s worth of credit, kid,’ his former boss stated. If someday Touton was a hundred and Cinq-Mars sixty-five, he’d still call him kid.
‘Always do.’ He gave the man all the respect in the world, although they were not compatible on every matter. Touton was never shy about collapsing a suspect’s defenses with a single blow to the gut or crunching a criminal’s throat in his grip. Cinq-Mars preferred guile, and the law, to reduce a tough guy to tears. Both men harbored the keenest sense of right and wrong. When the heat was on, both believed in good and evil, something generally frowned upon in the modern age.
‘I had you drive out here,’ Touton maintained, ‘because this is serious.’
Out here had been an hour’s ride for Cinq-Mars. Touton had ditched life in the big city for the burbs, living off the north side of the Island of Montreal. He had chosen a modest bungalow, and added the house trailer, canoe and a private camp in the woods by a sprawling lake as retirement perks. Cinq-Mars was glad for him. Away from the job, the man was content with his fishing rods and solitude whenever his adult children were not a trial.
‘Well, I’m here.’
‘Inside, Émile.’
Cinq-Mars took a step toward the bungalow, then noticed Touton heave himself into the trailer.
Weird, sitting in a house trailer on a driveway in suburbia. Cinq-Mars bunched his limbs on the bench behind the small fold-down table opposite his former boss. Two large men in cramped quarters. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘Let me tell you about Coalface,’ Touton began.
‘This guy’s been embedded in the Mafia for over twenty years?’ Cinq-Mars was incredulous. ‘What does he do for them?’
‘Who knows? Robs banks? Kills people? I imagine he keeps the books or sweeps floors.’
‘He hasn’t come up for air?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ Touton said. ‘Don’t ask about his headspace. I have no clue.’
‘How much has he given us?’
‘I won’t say. Nothing can be revealed. Not ever. That could be his death knell.’
‘You’re telling me about him right now – that could be his death knell.’
‘No details. If we have no details to keep track of, we don’t need to keep track of them.’
‘Armand, what’s he giving you today that you brought me out here?’
Touton was distracted by a small wooden box nestled on a side shelf. He brought it onto the table, opened the lid. Fishing flies, beautifully knotted with colorful feathers and fake wings, concealed the lethal hooks. ‘How I spent my winter,’ Touton revealed.
Given the man’s tenure in violent circumstances, as a soldier, a prisoner of war, a cop, a reformer in a corrupt department, this artistic side was unexpected. Cinq-Mars marveled at the intricacy and detailing of the delicate objets d’arts. They were functional, meant to catch fish, yet admirable on their own. ‘Beautiful, Armand. Amazing.’
Touton took time to admire them himself, before gently placing them back in the box. Cinq-Mars was left with the impression that he’d be reluctant to put the wet flies into service, that he might begrudge a fish gobbling one into its mouth.
‘If I was a fish, I’d bite,’ Cinq-Mars said.
‘If you were a fish, I’d throw you back.’
‘Coalface,’ Cinq-Mars reminded him, to get them back on track.
‘My flies are like our guy,’ Touton noted.
‘How’s that?’ He was not normally a man who resorted to metaphor.
‘Like I said, I made him mark up his face with coal. Coal is not his disguise. His whole life is his disguise. The Mafia will never know that inside his life lies a giant, very sharp hook.’
‘Does he make contact often?’
‘Extremely rare. We knew it wouldn’t be about this heist or that homicide. His purpose is to rip the heart out of the apparatus when the time comes. When he can. Tell you the truth, Émile, I forget about him for years at a stretch.’
‘You and me, not so long ago, we struck a blow.’
‘A glancing one. Now we see the effect.’
‘Meaning?’ Cinq-Mars asked.
Touton gave the back of his weathered neck a scratch. ‘Émile, you know as well as me, taking out the bad guys stops nothing. Trade away or retire players, the game stays the same.’
‘There’s always a new team, yeah.’
‘New and different. You’re new, but you’re different from me. Inside the Mafia, it’s the same difference. A new guard, respectful to the senior bunch, but waiting their turn. They’ll be different, like you’re different from me. I was muscle. You’re a smart guy. The Mafia always had muscle, now they’re acquiring brains, too. Their new boys are bright. That’s bad enough, but it’s gone beyond that.’
‘Coalface says so?’
‘Not just him. The old generation remains in place, doing it the old-fashioned way. But on their last legs.’
The postures of the two men were stooped in the cramped quarters. Cinq-Mars entwined his fingers together; Touton’s massive paws remained face-down on the table. Other men in a similar moment might deflect their eye contact. Such was the long-standing resolve between these two that neither noticed the intensity of the other’s gaze. ‘Goes beyond, how?’
‘What you mentioned, Émile, our most recent action, before I handed in my badge. We messed up the Mafia. Like always, we had to cut a deal. Scaled it back to a compromise. They were testing satellite gangs, then, to beef up their muscle. A lot of their own punks have been lost to attrition: jail, death. They need to recover. Next move, the Mafia’s wise guys are inviting the Hells Angels in. You know this. For the first time, they’ll partner across the board with non-Italians. Very significant. The Hells will provide their muscle. They’ll have guys to break legs and crack skulls. Things get heavy, these animals are into chainsaws. Bombs, too. Meantime, the Maf gives the Hells expertise, political contacts, teaches them about organization that’s local, national, international. Update me. How’s that working so far?’
‘Going well. The Italians are recouping their losses.’
‘You’re behind the times, Émile. It’s not working out as expected.’
The opinion surprised the young detective. ‘Why say that?’
‘Turns out, the Hells aren’t dumb punks with shit for brains, eager to kill for a tattoo on their arm. They’re smart, too. They’ve picked up on how to organize from the masters of crime. You don’t have an uneasy alliance between the Hells and the Mafia anymore, now you’re stuck with a vicious gang that has structure. Local chapters are brutal, as we know. Chainsaws – no joke. Sets us up with a violent biker gang that has sophisticated leadership. Their guys are learning to implement, Émile. They have a vision for the future. International contacts. A business plan banks approve of. If they went public, I’d buy stock. Anybody who doesn’t think this is a recipe for disaster will be hit with a hammer. Since nobody at City Hall gives a rat’s ass, that surprise is coming harder and sooner than anybody knows.’
Cinq-Mars concurred that trouble lay ahead. ‘You think they’re good students, the Hells?’
‘Their top guys are effing wizards. They’ve divided into cells. One cell doesn’t know what the next one is doing. Taking one down doesn’t help us. Let me tell you how different your life will be. The Mafia got by on organized muscle and intimidation. Enough to control a few unions and make life hard on the bosses. Tell me you can guess what’s changed.’
Cinq-Mars shook his head.
‘They still control unions, but they’ll be the bosses, too. You want to have an Olympics? We had an Olympics. We saw what happened. Mafia contractors hire Mafia unions, who fund Mafia-controlled politicians to keep excessive money flowing. The new guard, they’re learning to manage from the inside out. Be inside the police, worm their way inside the judiciary. Be inside business, not only unions. And finally, work inside political elites. We used to talk about their influence. Soon we’ll talk about their authority. While all this is progressing, consider that the Hells are learning how to operate at the feet of the masters. Only, they’re more cruel. More vicious. They’re willing to sit in place for now, keep learning, but not forever. Remember, the Hells are way less civilized, less willing to keep the order. The Mafia figured out that they could thrive on order. The Hells think – not proven yet – that they can thrive in chaos. They don’t give a damn if innocents get rubbed out along the way, or if the social order is wrecked. They figure they’re better off if society’s a mess.’
‘All this from your guy?’ Cinq-Mars inquired. Ominous news.
‘He’s not my guy. Never think so. I don’t know who he is. I’ve seen him, though I’m not sure I could pick him out in a crowd. I almost forgot about him, until he gave me a call one day. Years ago. Now – first time ever – he wrote a report. I got wind of the highlights from a third party.’
‘A third party.’
‘Can’t say. Won’t say. Don’t ask.’
‘And this report, it’s required reading?’
‘Phoned in.’
Levels of intrigue he was unaccustomed to and did not appreciate. ‘What’s the long-range objective for the bikers, Armand? Take over the world?’
‘You joke. Go joke.’
‘I’m not.’
‘This is no joke, Émile.’
‘I’m not joking.’
‘They’re too smart to take over the world. They’re looking for unlimited funds – nothing new there – plus they want to be invulnerable to prosecution. They’re setting themselves up to be impenetrable. What will you do then, when the bad guys can’t be touched, when they operate with impunity? When they kill, maim, extort, control – and fill banks with money. Banks they control or, at least, influence.’
A dark vision. ‘Except, we’ve got some guy inside.’
‘Inside the Mafia, yeah. The Hells, no. Not the same thing. Although he might be connected to both. Don’t get sarcastic with me, punk. I’ll punch you out.’
Cinq-Mars skipped denying his sarcasm and took a moment to process everything else. ‘As the kids say, Armand, this is heavy. Does your guy, who’s not your guy, want to pass along a word of advice? Anything specific we can do?’
‘That’s where it gets tricky. This is where you come in and you won’t like it, Émile.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘We need someone who talks nice. I’ve decided. That’s you.’
‘Now who’s being sarcastic?’
‘Me? No. Not me.’
‘Talk to who?’
‘You won’t like that either.’
He was given a perplexing task. Émile Cinq-Mars repeated it, to make sure he had it straight.
‘This guy embedded in the Mafia emerges from his lair and says go talk to a priest—’
‘A pastor. Or minister. Whatever Protestants call priests.’
‘I’m to talk to this Protestant priest to make sure a certain con stays in prison.’
‘I can’t do it myself. I’m a cop no more. Besides, I’m going fishing. Has to be you. You’re the new me, right? Even if you don’t have the real juice.’
‘I just got promoted. To Sergeant-Detective.’
‘Whoop-de-doo, Émile. Congratulations.’
‘Whoop-de-doo?’
‘You have no power. Probably, thanks to your connection with me, you never will.’
‘That’s true. You’re my kiss of death in the department until you’re long forgotten. Thanks a lot. So where do I find this Protestant priest?’
‘Your turf.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Park Ex. Don’t you live there?’
‘Really? OK. So, I have to convince a pastor to not help a bad guy get out of jail. That’s all?’
Touton rocked his head from side to side, as though to modify the assignment. ‘Émile, our guy’s been undercover for twenty-plus years. The shit that’s gone down over all that time. He must’ve done some dark dope himself. What does he want when finally he communicates? This. More than anything, he wants to stop a nobody punk from being released. After the murders, the broken legs, the abductions, the drugs, the prostitution rings, the protection rackets, the bank heists – let’s not forget the fucking bank heists; it’s like crooks make monthly withdrawals, with pistols instead of withdrawal slips. Why can’t they use a fucking pen and paper like the rest of us? After all that, this is what he considers essential?’
‘Strange,’ Cinq-Mars concurred.
‘A minor-league punk denied early release. A guy who’s out in two years anyway, what’s the big deal? I don’t know, but Coalface is counting on us. Either he’s lost his mind, or this is more important than we’re allowed to know. Don’t let this priest, this whatever, this Protestant, help a young hood get out of jail. Do not permit the pastor to be a Good Fucking Samaritan. Apparently, he makes it a habit. Talks birds out of the trees. We can’t let him convince a civilian panel to let a con go free. Go in there, talk to the sweet-talker. Convince the Protestant penguin to back off.’
‘And say what?’
‘That’s up to you! I can’t help you on this. Absolutely critical that you come through.’
‘Can I research the convict, at least?’
‘Run his sheet. Talk to his loved ones. Look at his baby pictures. Just make sure he does his full stretch.’
A bizarre, borderline ludicrous assignment. Yet no other option presented itself, and he didn’t see the harm. If a mole, secretly embedded in the Mafia, believed that a convict had to stay behind bars, why argue? ‘OK,’ he said.
‘Now get out,’ Touton told him. ‘Let me go fishing.’
His way, perhaps, of saying thanks.