A Criminal to Remember (A Monty Haaviko Thriller) (23 page)

In the hotel I used a pay phone to call Sandra Robillard, a gangster who ran her deceased husband’s crime organization. She was smart and fairly honest and she owed me. Or I owed her. Something like that. In any case we knew each other.

She answered and swore at me for about three minutes for calling her that early before I could say, “This is a friend.”

She kept swearing for four more minutes.

“Are you done?”

“Yes. You can reach me at …”

She gave me a number and I dialled. In the south end of the city, right near the edge, I knew she would be rummaging for a new cell phone, one still in its packaging. When she’d used it once she’d sell it on eBay or destroy it. These days it was the only way to avoid police surveillance and it was almost foolproof as long as you could also avoid having your rooms tapped.

She answered on the first ring. “Who are you?”

“Monty.”

“Thought so. What do you need?”

“A meeting. A job.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Five large.”

“Where are you?”

I told her and she was there thirty-seven minutes later on a battered old English Triumph motorcycle. She was wearing lavender silk pyjamas and a huge black helmet and she handed me one of my own when I came forward.

“Get on, bitch.”

A reference to the seat I took behind her with my hands around her waist. At least I hoped so. I got on and she floored it and soon we were on the Perimeter Highway near the bridge north of the city. That’s where she pulled to the side and stripped her helmet off to let the wind run through her shoulder-length black hair. She was slim, in her mid-to-late twenties, with a dark tan, big green eyes and no ability to feel fear.

“Five thousand? For what?”

I leaned against the bike and ran my eyes idly over its smooth, clean lines, so much nicer than any Harley I’d ever stolen.

“For taking my son Fred to Banff and delivering him to his grandparents.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. But I don’t want the cops to know and there may be a guy who wants to get Fred.”

She wrinkled her nose. “A three-year-old?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “Different reasons. Francis Bacon said that those who had children were hostages to fortune.”

“Fuck anyone who steals kids. And fuck Francis Bacon. Anything else?”

“Yep. There’s a bonus for you if you agree. The bonus comes up front. Will you help?”

“Of course.”

“The cops have got about twenty detectives and uniforms watching my house.”

Sandra smiled slowly. “They do? Me oh me oh my. Isn’t that interesting.”

I knew what she was thinking. It had suddenly become a great time to run loads of cigarettes, booze, dope, guns, stolen cars, counterfeit electronics, displaced hookers, hot building material, just about whatever into or out of the city. Since she was a serious smuggler, knowing where twenty cops were at any time was a very nice thing indeed.

She nodded abruptly. “Deal. When?”

“Tonight?”

“Sure. What kind of stroller does Fred use?”

“Mostly he uses a wagon.”

“We need a stroller. Do you still have it?”

“Yes.” We still had it and I hated it, a luxury model Claire’s parents had given her when Fred was born. It had some collapsing panels and flaps, so that Fred could still fit in it, if uncomfortably. I described it to Sandra.

“Well, dig it out and use it.”

I agreed and described the device. She nodded and I handed her five thousand in fifties as we hashed out a plan. Finally she said, “Okay. Let’s go. Any more planning and this’ll turn to shit. My husband used to say that crime ain’t a symphony by Beethoven, it’s free-form jazz by a drunk guy with a sax.”

“Who said that?”

“My husband. Before he died. Let’s go.”

“Umm. Can I drive?”

She looked at me suspiciously. “Why?”

“I want to. Also holding you when you’re wearing silk pyjamas is worse than holding you naked. And I don’t think our relationship is ready for the thoughts such activities engender.”

She smothered a smile and I drove myself within ten blocks of home and got off. At a convenience store I bought another cell phone and an hour’s worth of minutes and brought it with me to Claire. She took it without question and walked to work, making the call to her parents as she went, about the only time we could be sure the cops didn’t have a shotgun microphone on her.

That evening she told me the discussion went something like, Mom and Dad, please take my son on a three-week tour of the States and don’t tell anyone about what you’re doing. And Dad said, okay, it’s Monty, isn’t it? What did that dumb sonofafuckingbitch do this time? Nothing Dad, it’s not Monty, it’s me, just do it. And then Mom got on the phone and shut Dad up and he wandered off to check the Winnebago and sharpen his knives. And Mom said, how bad, and Claire said, bad. No one should know where Fred is, including me, so leave for three weeks and come back and call Monty’s lawyer. And Mom said, deal.

I felt considerable relief. Claire’s dad didn’t like me but he really liked his daughter and he really, really liked his grandson and I felt he would have no compunction gutting anyone who tried to touch him. Claire’s mother was even tougher than her dad and I was pretty sure she carried a pistol when I was around. Just in case.

Around noon Devanter called, pissed off at me, and I rescheduled for the next morning.

That night Claire and Fred and I went to the Globe Theatre in Portage Place with his stroller packed with clothes for him. We had explained he would be taking a trip to visit his grandparents and he nodded as though he understood. He didn’t, but he was a good kid and he tried.

When we arrived at the theatre Claire went into the bathroom and I stood outside immobile while Sandra came down the hall with a smiling young girl, maybe sixteen, pushing exactly the same kind of stroller as the one Claire and I used for Fred.

The girl went into the bathroom and Sandra stepped beside me and talked out of the corner of her mouth. “No worries—1,447 klicks to Banff and I’ll run it in twelve hours. Fred will be in his grandparents’ arms by noon at the latest. Susie’s the girl making the transfer, she’s bringing her baby girl as cover, and she’s one and a half, so she’ll be company for Fred. The baby’s waiting downstairs with Long Tom.”

Long Tom was Sandra’s lieutenant, reliable and vicious with a strong sense of loyalty. “Great. Is the car clean?” I meant was she running dope or guns. If she was, I would be pissed.

“Yes. It won’t be on the way back though.”

“That’s fine.”

A large African woman walked past us, swathed in fabrics of unbelievable colours. When she was gone Sandra said, “Is it bad?”

“Yes.”

“You need back-up?”

“Just what you’re doing.”

“All right. There’s a Browning Hi-Power in the men’s bathroom. Fourteen rounds of 9mm military surplus full metal jackets. It’s in a plastic bag on top of the toilet paper dispenser of the second stall from the end. It’s clean and I’ve run a few rounds through it myself. It works fine.”

I stared at her and exhaled. “Thanks.”

“Least I could do. You need anything else just call. I’ll hold onto the number you’ve got for a bit.”

When Claire came out of the bathroom I had the gun under my light summer jacket tucked into the back of my belt where no one could see it.

And Fred was on his way to see his grandparents.

Claire and I walked home silently. Because the cops were listening I turned the Muppets on full blast when we were inside and watched Claire cry. When she was empty I walked upstairs and told a bedtime story to Fred’s empty bed.

I did Dr. Seuss’s
Oh The Places You’ll Go.

And by the end I was crying too.

T
he next day I went to my meeting with Devanter at 7:00. When I got to the building his secretary was waiting outside the front doors, wrapped in an expensive lamb leather coat against the morning chill.

“Mr. Haaviko.”

“Ma’am.”

Her mouth twisted unhappily when I said it. Then she led me up and through her office and into Devanter’s suite. The place looked the same and I glanced around idly while waiting for Cornelius to arrive. I didn’t have long to wait before he came slamming down from his loft wearing an impeccable dove grey suit with a lavender silk shirt and the same tie as before.

“Mr. Haaviko. What the fuck is happening?

“Just what you paid for. By the way, you owe me $5,000. That would help right now. I’ve got expenses.”

He snorted. “You get sweet fuck all.” He stomped to the desk and pressed a button. “Honey? Coffee for two.”

I walked over to the wall with its displays of planes and such and stared at a streamlined blimp rendered in exquisite detail. It was on the lowest level, even with my eyes, stuffed onto the same glass shelf as something that looked like a shark with wings. Stencilled on its side was the word
PELIGROSO
. There was nothing on the blimp though, just clean lines, huge engines and a tiny cockpit hung from the bottom.

I glanced around and saw an empty shelf about five feet up between two other blimps.

“Nice. It looks smaller than the others.”

Something hit me in the back and I turned to find an elastic-
wrapped bundle of twenties on the floor. I knelt down and picked it up and started to count as Devanter gestured me towards a chair.

“Now what the fuck does that buy me?”

“What you wanted. A loss on the part of Goodson.”

Devanter sat down across from me and his eyes flickered over my shoulder and then back to me. I wondered what was over my shoulder as the coffee arrived and I helped myself. As I stirred in my sugar and cream I turned to check the wall and saw that Devanter’s eyes had been somewhere near where I’d been standing.

Interesting.

Also, flipping the money at me wasn’t something I’d thought Devanter would do.

Devanter cleared his throat. “Here.” I turned and he was offering me a little metal vial with a tiny spoon sticking out.“It’s good Peruvian flake. One of my pilots brings it up for me from the Panama free zone. Help yourself.”

“Thank you, no. I’m straight, remember?”

“Right.” He dug in and snorted a tiny mound of crystal and I saw his eyes sparkle. “Ah … firstest with the mostest.”

Interesting quote. It rang bells—I remembered reading up on cowboys and gunslingers and finding that same quote. I watched the cocaine slam into Devanter and then the quote’s origins came to me. Nathan Bedford Forrest, a Confederate Civil War general in the States, an illiterate autodidact who went on to found the Klu Klux Klan and the namesake of the Republican wet dream Forrest Gump. Someone had asked him about the secret to his success and that had been his response.

I drank some fantastic coffee and wondered what was going on in Devanter’s little mind.

He put away the cocaine and drank some coffee and sneered at the taste. My body remembered what was happening in his mouth and nose—the coke took away your sense of taste. Devanter shrugged and said, “Distinguish the superficial from the substantial.”

That sounded familiar as well. “What do you mean?”

“Well, tell me what you know about Daniel McDonald.”

“Mr. McDonald is the latest man to throw his hat into the ring for the police commission job. He’s right of right wing, a little flaky, pretty, young, and impassioned. My handlers Dean and Brenda have checked him out and claim he’s a student and an actor. Brenda goes on to claim he’s a much better actor than student.”

Devanter nodded and poured more coffee. “And what are you going to do?”

“Stay the course. McDonald and Illyanovitch are in exactly the same place so all I have to do is keep hitting the same point and it’s all good. Then I fade out at the last minute.”

“What about Illyanovitch?”

“What about him? You telling me he’s worried about some wannabe? I’ve debated the man, he has nothing to fear. Tell you what though, McDonald took a swing at me and it’s on camera. I can press charges, which might take him out of the running.”

He digested that while I waited and finally asked, “Where’s Reynolds?”

Devanter’s face tightened and got red. “He no longer works for me. Call me if he tries to reach you.”

“Certainly.”

“As for McDonald, you do that. Fuck him up.”

“Sure.” I got up. “Anything else?”

“No. Nothing.”

I walked out. Two blocks away I bought a handful of change from a vegetarian restaurant and drank coffee. At nine I used a pay phone to call the biggest Indigo bookstore in the city and got hold of the ordering desk.

“Good morning, this is Cornelius Devanter. Are my books in?”

“Let me check, sir. Address, please?”

I gave it and there was a pause.

“No sir, we have nothing listed for you.”

I hung up and called the McNally Robinson bookstore and did the same thing. They admitted they were still waiting for my copy of
The Book of 5 Rings.
I thanked them and hung up gently.

Then I drank some more coffee.
The Book of 5 Rings
was a book on philosophy and war by a Japanese swordsman from about 500 years ago. It was required reading by movers and shakers in the business world. They believed the strategies of war applied to business.

That fit in with the way Devanter talked and acted. I finished my coffee and went to the library and waited for it to open. Then I went in and used the Internet to search out the pattern of his tie—he had worn it twice and once it had gone with the shirt and the second time it hadn’t. A blue tie with tiny designs that looked like tridents.

On an English site I found it, an
SAS
regimental tie. The Special Air Services, British commandos and killers. Out of curiosity I kept looking for the tie clip, the little knives, and found those too, an emblem of Gurkhas, Nepalese mercenaries renowned for their use of the kukri knife.

I leaned back. So. Devanter carried a pistol and he had gotten training. And he quoted military truisms and he wore military mementoes.

All that screamed that he was a fetishist. A new insight into his mind but not one that was of much use to me.