Thirty hours to take out a policeman and implement a scheme of his own. A tight schedule. As Willy drove, ideas leaped across the glare of his headlights. This sudden change to his fortunes, if he handled it right, he was beginning to think could be for the best.
He found it ironic that he started his life’s work as a peacekeeper in the Canadian Army. He was assigned to United Nations Command Military Armistice Commission, charged with supervising the end to the Korean War. Buddies died when their Jeep drove over an unexploded bomb. There and then he understood that a ceasefire did not mean peace. As a soldier, he patroled a zone between battling forces that desired to kill each other. He now walked a similar demarcation line, only not as a peacekeeper. He wholly intended to ignite a war.
In the army, he received letters from his mother, usually about his dad. Reports that grew increasingly dark. His dad had been a soldier, too, and like his son had a stubborn streak that was unassailable. A mobster wanted protection money from his dad’s used-car dealership. A car was set ablaze. Then three more. He won’t pay! his mother informed him, and it was difficult to know if she was infuriated with her husband or especially proud. Then the family home was firebombed. Out of control, raging, the man sought vengeance. Mobsters intercepted Willy’s dad. Clubbed him into a coma. Willy was granted compassionate leave and might have engaged in a regrettable fury of his own were it not for his mother falling ill under the strain. He returned to duty while she remained hospitalized with congestive heart failure, soon to pass away two weeks after her husband.
He never learned who specifically was responsible for his father’s death. His experiences in Korea taught him that it didn’t matter. If executed, whoever had been responsible would be replaced. Criminal forces perpetuated themselves that way.
Out on the front lines, walking vacant roads between warring factions, a desire was born in him to roar back at the heart of the mob – in reality, any mob – eliminate it from the face of the earth. For his dad, for his mom, for all those who had been victimized.
He talked to random people about it, out on the front lines. He wasn’t posturing. He was daydreaming.
Then a few very specific people talked to him.
They were Americans.
They worked something out after he left the army. More training. His commitment tested.
He passed with flying colors.
He remembered those days.
That fire within. It still burned.
Time took a toll. Revenge remained a core motivation, but he had changed, and his comprehension had altered. He had lived among the vile too long. Some guys intrigued him. He was swayed by their humanity, their humor, their fears and fearlessness. The ruthless, the jaded, the murderous were commonplace in his world now. He had become one with them. The things he’d done. Sold guns. Pitched good advice. Regulated the bookkeeping. Kept the prostitutes busy, the drug-runners safe. He had earmarked the innocent for extortion and cast his glance away when violence was ordained. Now he wanted mob justice to decide the course of events. He did not trust a fearful judiciary and despised a police department he knew to be corrupt. Apart from that, he understood that a job done properly meant that he should be taken down with the rogues’ gallery himself. He deserved to be impaled on the spear of justice. He’d joined forces with his enemies and, like them, true for any mobster, yearned to keep his secrets concealed.
He did not want to speak of them.
Once he had been an idealist. No more.
Once he had been in fighting trim. He’d purposefully let himself grow soft. Touton had suggested it as part of his disguise. Though he never pulled his teeth out or indulged excessively in candy.
Ironic, also, as he stepped on the accelerator and merged into traffic, that Ciampini had mentioned Captain Touton. The man who met him in a coal bin. Touton warned that whatever reason he gave himself to embark on a life undercover would not hold up through the years. That proved true. His original impetus, for blatant revenge, which he hadn’t admitted to anyone, lingered in his bloodstream like a dormant virus. Overruled now by an impetus more prevalent, more determined.
He needed to ignite a war, not for revenge, but for the sake of his own salvation.
To make his life whole, or worthwhile, to forgive his manifest transgressions, he needed the gangs to implode. Otherwise, his life underground had been futile.
Captain Touton, he believed, had seen it coming. He’d like to talk to him again. Perhaps, if the conversation swung that way, enter for the record a full confession, a tally of his sins.
A tally of his contributions, too. Few knew of them.
And yet. He had killed two men. Fingered two others for death.
An end to a peacekeeper’s life.
With it, an end to other lives ahead. Quickly, likely, an end to his own.
To be determined. Time to drop a dime. That was paramount now.
His end game was upon him.
Willy drove straight to The Rabbit’s nightclub. As if his mind was on accelerant, he exceeded all speed limits. No hassles. He wasn’t the first speeder to get away with his foot to the floor. He counted on cops prepping for the funeral procession the following afternoon. Whether they were or not, he made it into town in record time.
He had twenty-nine hours left to kill a cop and start a war.
The bartender punched The Rabbit’s number into an intercom then passed Willy a Molson Ex. Word returned to take the stairs. Wow. Either he’d moved up in the world or his fate was sealed. The bartender shrugged, indicating he could neither ask that question nor answer it.
The Rabbit slouched in the swivel chair behind his desk. ‘Willy, my Willy,’ he greeted him.
‘Hey, The Rabbit, how’s it going?’
‘One big favor, Wills. Cut off the balls of this world. A rusty hacksaw I got for that.’
‘OK,’ Willy said. He didn’t know if the man was doped up or generally off his nut. He sat down opposite him.
‘Give me best news you got. What goes on?’
‘Cops from everywhere are in town for a funeral tomorrow.’
‘Heard that. A cop funeral good news to me.’
‘Joe Ciampini wants to make a statement. Expect fireworks. Maybe a late-night dance.’
‘They should come to my place, these cops. I got whores don’t mind jerking off a badge. One girl, strap on a Glock, bugger ’em the way they like it.’
His language in English might be stilted, but he could create an image.
‘I’ll leave those arrangements to you, The Rabbit.’
‘I know. You like your pecker clean. Wash in turpentine. What else new in the fat?’
Willy was familiar with the old reference. Among those who pilfered and swindled, extorted and fought and bled for a living, the fat referred to the fat world where people held property and jobs, had families, pensions and vacations. The bitterness behind the phrase derived from a conviction that the criminal element lived off society’s scraps, that they represented the lean, the hungry, the disadvantaged. A man such as The Rabbit might use the phrase to distance himself from the world of civility, despite being a fat cat among criminal felines. He devoured the fat of the land and the excesses of the city yet did not portray himself that way. In that sense, he admired his enemies, the bikers, who pocketed millions yet looked like human debris. To him, they had the right idea.
‘Time to step up, The Rabbit,’ Willy told him. ‘The war’s on.’
The man considered the statement in silence. Then decided, ‘I make my own war.’
‘Maybe you initiate your own,’ Willy pointed out. ‘If it comes at you, what will you do but fight?’
He had a point The Rabbit could not repudiate.
‘What you know?’ he asked Willy.
‘Ciampini has guys in from New York and Detroit. Bolster the ranks. You know they don’t show up unless it’s serious. Won’t be enough, I don’t think. The Hells are making a move.’
‘Farmers’ market? That them?’
He had to be wise. For all he knew, The Rabbit had carried out that attack himself, with Ciampini’s blessing or without. Ciampini could have hired him for the hit. The Rabbit’s question, then, could trap him if he knew more than he let on.
‘I’m not privy, The Rabbit. Let’s say that Ciampini don’t seem too upset. Except, he called in reinforcements. Ask yourself for what. He’s vulnerable, that’s true. Not weak. Don’t misunderstand me. Understaffed in the short term is all. He’s willing to semi-retire, peel off an enterprise, keep a piece of every action, otherwise let things go on as they are.’
‘You talk to him. You have offer?’
‘Depends on the war. The Hells are coming after you—’
‘Wait minute, what?’
‘I hope you’re ready. They’re coming after you because they want to take over the sex trade. That’s their action. They figured out you’re after it, too.’
‘They don’t know who is with me. You don’t, neither.’
‘That’s to your advantage, no? They’re coming anyway. I’m here to warn you to be prepared. Also to remind you that Joe Ciampini is on your side. Wants you to win.’
‘You mean he hang me on a line like washing.’
‘Not that way at all, The Rabbit. Still, if the Hells look like they’re winning, then yeah, I’d say you should start shooting Mafia too. Take no chances that way. Then it’s all-out war. A three-way. But understand, nobody wants that, except maybe the Hells. They think the Mafia is on their side. What a surprise when they find out different. They want the sex business, and the drugs, and Ciampini is willing to relinquish only the women. To you – if you pay back a slice, and if you win this fight.’
The Rabbit uttered an unintelligible noise that sounded like a scoff. ‘You talk like tough guy, Willy. Who you are?’
‘The messenger. Don’t shoot me. But even me, I have to prove myself. Tomorrow, I shoot a cop. Boss’s orders. Don’t tell nobody, all right? Between me and you.’
The Rabbit remained quiet for a beat. The news serious, a surprise. ‘Willy, you?’
‘Me. Yeah. Everybody has to step up. Guys have gone down. So, yeah. Me too.’
‘When this fight is start?’
‘When you hear a knock on your door. Could be bullets. Could be a grenade, that knock, or a Molotov. Sooner. Not later. It’s coming all right. Be ready. And then, fire back, The Rabbit.’
Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars sat alone in his apartment at night. Lights off. A fan gently whirred on low. After midnight, quiet was an elusive prize. Alley cat tangles, dog barks, infant wails, a domestic shout, a distant siren; a car accelerates rapidly to show off the loud, deep subwoofer of its muffler; a truck brakes with a prolonged screech; a teenager’s car passes, the radio turned to a level that will impair a driver’s hearing by the age of twenty. Stillness – sudden, penetrating and disorienting that way – when it comes, feels triumphant.
The cacophony of the day has been quelled. Noise after dark is identifiable and precise, rather than a constant thrum of generic racket. Daytime roar is now a syncopated percussion. Cinq-Mars is aware of the aural interruptions to his meditations that keep him awake. He’s risen from tossing and turning to get dressed with nowhere to go.
Wiggles his bare toes.
Content to be solitary, initially. After a notion strikes, he reaches for his phone. Armand Touton is home, he knows. He calls.
‘What?’ the other man barks.
‘You with all the contacts.’
‘Who do you want to meet? A president? The Queen? Anybody but the Pope. He’s not taking my calls these days.’
‘Someone to take a conversation into the core of the Hells Angels.’
Touton’s gruff nocturnal breathing.
‘Armand?’
‘I can give you a name. He works days. Sleeps at night like the rest of us old farts.’
‘I can wake him like I woke you.’
‘Better I do. Me, he knows. You? He’s chainsawed guys for less.’
‘Call. I need to talk to him tonight.’
After The Rabbit, Willy rolled into Slewfoot’s strip club while it was in full swing. Stepping from the quiet of the streets in its out-of-the-way, other-side-of-the-moon location into the high-bedlam-attack-volume inside created a polar shift. The dance music was raucous, the choruses of hooting drunks profane. Quieter men occupied tables in the rear. Some sat still with their drinks. Others conversed loudly. Still others invited women over for a private dance. The ladies put their high-heeled feet onto the dancing stools they carried with them and accepted fives and tens and twenties in the elastic of their thongs they’d slide to one side for a view. Willy saw that a contingent of out-of-town cops had found its way inside. Their haircuts, mustaches and interactions gave them away, as did their accents and demeanor. He bellied up to the bar.
‘You here?’ the bartender asked him.
‘What, I’m a mirage? What the hell kind of question is that?’
‘You’re not usually here so late, Willy.’
‘I need to talk to Slew.’
‘He’s not around. You know that. The sun’s down.’
‘You think I didn’t notice? Talk to somebody who can talk to somebody who can call him. We need to meet up tonight.’
‘It’s important?’
‘When did you buy a loaf of stupid?’
Kids today.
He declined a drink. It took about five minutes before a phone was put down on the bar in front of him. Willy picked up.
‘Can you come in?’ Willy asked. ‘Or I can go to you. Critical.’
‘Pen and paper, Willy. Give you an address.’
He had his own pen. A napkin served as a pad.
A north end bar. ‘Give me twenty,’ Willy said. ‘In case of traffic.’
‘If you’re packing, leave it behind in your shitbox. Otherwise, no guarantees on your life expectancy.’
He headed north on Boulevard St Laurent, the Main, the official divider between east and west Montreal. To a degree, it marked the division between French Montreal to the east, and the conglomeration of everyone under the sun to the west, including both English and affluent French. Along the Main, nationalities commingled, and he drove into the garment district and parked down from the bar where he was meeting Slew. He didn’t park right up close, not wanting to create the impression he had a quick getaway in mind. All he intended was a heart to heart with a wise old owl of a criminal to see if he could set him on a path to war, to tear down the house the Mafia built, and raise Slew’s adopted gang – the Hells Angels – to a new threshold. That Willy meant to send the bikers into a lethal tailspin, he’d keep to himself.
The north end bar Slewfoot selected was dark, with a few regular citizens playing footsie under the tables or entwining fingers above them. He saw Slew in the rear of the narrow space but took no more than three steps inside before being accosted. He was covertly frisked by a massive hirsute man in a suit who was usually more comfortable in biker leather. Permitted entry, Willy joined Slew in the back.
Slid onto the booth’s banquette.
‘You’re not armed,’ Slew said, ‘but I am. You woke me up. For that, I’ll blow your balls off if you waste my time, Willy. Understand, this cannot be no habit.’
Willy ignored all that. ‘Good to see you too, Slew. Interesting times, hey?’
‘Drink?’
‘Why not? I’ll have an Ex.’
Slew didn’t react. He said, ‘What am I, your waiter? Raise your own arm.’
Willy did so. The waiter had been hesitant to come over without an invitation. He knew who he was dealing with.
The two men understood to wait until the beer arrived and the waiter had vanished again so that no word of their talk would be overheard. The beer tasted warm, but he wasn’t going to complain.
‘War’s on, Slew. No stopping it now. Ciampini’s bringing in boys from New York and Detroit. The Rabbit’s loaded up a bunch of imports from overseas.’
‘Overseas? What the hell does that mean?’
‘Russians, Slew. Ukrainians. Poles and East Germans. A tide you better stem before it’s a flood. They want to be the new Mafia. Get a foothold in North America that way. Maybe let you guys be their muscle, the same way Ciampini uses your French pals to keep them on the farm.’
‘That’s the plan, huh?’
‘The Rabbit’s put on a vest. He’s not even the mover. He’s just the door they’re walking through. They need the door. Do you get me?’
‘Close the door. Why doesn’t Ciampini do it?’
‘He needs to know first, who wins that fight? What goes to the victor, Slew?’
‘Is that an offer?’
‘The sex trade is on the table. Your boys were planning to fight the Mafia for it anyway. Fight The Rabbit instead. And look, everybody figures your boys want more. Not just the street drugs but the international trade. We get that. Ciampini gets that, but he’s not giving up everything he’s got, OK? He’s ready to retire but not that fast. He wants stuff to pass on. You will get the sex trade. You even get a leg up the ladder with the drug trade, I can help with that, as long as you control the street action. Keep the prospectors out. After that, well, that’s the future, isn’t it? I’m not here to talk about the future. I’m here for today and tomorrow.’
Slew showed complete interest while indicating nothing. He shuffled around in his seat finally. Unlike Willy, he was drinking water, and took a long draught.
‘You on the wagon?’ Willy asked.
‘Doc says I have to keep my kidneys wet. Stay hydrated.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘I’ll live. Keep that in mind.’
‘I’m on your side here, Slew.’
‘I bet. About you, Willy.’
‘What about me?’
‘I have my doubts.’
‘I understand that.’
‘Do you? How do we know you’re not running your own game? Beginning to feel like it, though I can’t figure out what’s in it for you. Survival, maybe. Anything else?’
‘What game? I’m talking to the boss is all. Letting you know how he sees it.’
‘I talk to him too.’
‘I know that.’
‘So what’s your skin, Willy?’
‘Mine? Not much. All I got to do is shoot a cop tomorrow.’
That brought on a moment of silence.
‘Any cop?’ Slew asked.
‘Specific. The one who sent his daughter up.’
‘Makes sense,’ Slew said.
‘I’m allowed to hire it out. But I’ll do it myself. Let it be a sign.’
‘A sign.’
‘To start the war. I kill a cop. After that, cops are less concerned if a few bikers shoot up The Rabbit’s shop.’
‘Is that what we’re doing?’
‘You can wait until he shoots up your place first, if you want. Not a pimple on my dick. Not good for business, though. Not to mention what you brought up to me before.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Your life expectancy.’
Slew mulled the implications. ‘Ciampini?’
‘On your side. He expects a fallout. As long as you hold up your end, he’ll have a trigger finger when it comes to Russians. Clean out a bunch, put the rest on the run, take over the sex trade top down. Your boys will be on the ladder to success and you don’t go through an all-out war with the Maf.’
Slew soaked his kidneys again. Put his glass down.
‘First things first, Willy. You get to start it off. We see you take down this cop, only then do we take out The Rabbit. Minimum five guys drop. That should make an impression on Russians, close the door. But you first, Willy. So we know this is how it will be, that you’re selling me good dope.’
‘You think I’d dare cross you? I thought everybody knew I was smart.’
‘Counting on it, Willy.’
‘That’s why I’m here so late at night, Slew. I got opportunity tomorrow. Big cop parade. The funeral for my mark’s partner. My mark will be there.’
Willy held the other man’s gaze, then resorted to his beer.
‘Tell me your plan.’
‘Orders just landed. No complete plan yet.’
‘I need your plan.’
Willy devised one on the spot. He’d been mulling it over on the trip in. ‘Look, the parade is out of the question. I’m not going to kill a cop with two or three hundred international cops marching by, plus another two or three hundred local flics. It’s not like I’m a sharpshooter in a bell tower. This has to be up close and real personal.’
‘It does. Tell me.’
‘The gravesite. Why not? The parade, the memorial service, lousy with cops. The gravesite? No more than a few. My mark will be there.’
‘Why? How do you know? Maybe you’re only hoping for the convenience.’
‘He’s the dead guy’s partner. He has to stand with the family, no?’
Slewfoot nodded. ‘Makes sense.’
‘Pick my opportunity. If I’m lucky, it’ll come after most of the cops disperse. Hostage my way out.’
‘High risk.’
‘Damn straight. The dead guy’s daughter was on the TV news. See her? A babe in arms. Babe in arms, Slew. Two hostages for the price of one, and no one’s taking a pot-shot at me standing beside a babe in arms. If things work out, I keep my skin. I’m also the manhunt focus. Except, nobody can find me. I’ve got that covered already, and anyway they don’t know me. I got my disguise going. Meantime, you get to face-plant The Rabbit in a gutter. Let him bleed into a sewer. Show the Russians you won’t be pushed out. Send them back to Moscow. When they’re ready to return, let it be to New York or Miami or fucking Toronto. Anywhere but here. Your boys will be in charge by then.’
Slew wasn’t listening to advice on how to conduct his own affairs. Still focused on Willy’s plan.
‘You need help?’
‘Should be able. Don’t want to complicate the situation.’
‘We’ll be watching.’
‘Why? Well. OK. Up to you. Your concern. If you help with the get-out, if that’s necessary, that’s even better. Otherwise, let’s keep it neat.’
‘It won’t be. Always count on that.’
‘OK. Right.’
‘Change of pace for you, eh, Wills?’
‘Yeah,’ Willy agreed.
‘My advice? Extra pair of underwear, in case you lose your shit.’
‘Yeah, all right.’ He slid out of the booth and stood. ‘How about you buy this round?’
‘Kidding me? I’m drinking tap water. You can buy your own damn beer.’
Willy nodded and went over to the cash. His plan was in play. Ciampini had inserted one helluva wrench into the machinery, but his plan was definitely in play. Follow through, and the bad guys would be wrecking the hell out of each other for weeks. Who knew who survived once the smoke cleared?
Who knew if he would?
First, he had to follow through.
Put Cinq-Mars in the river.
The bad guys covered the angles. The cops, the prosecutors, the judges, the witnesses, the courts, and when things went wrong, they even controlled the prisons. Everything and everyone could be made to heel. He hated them for that. His way, Willy determined, was the only way. How far would he push it, that was the last remaining question. Maybe he wouldn’t know until the moment of truth bore down upon his back.