A Criminal to Remember (A Monty Haaviko Thriller) (18 page)

“Because they’ve got experience …”

“Wasting $18 million? Yes, they do. How many chances do you want to give them? I think we should try something new.”

The man shook his head. “And that’s you? That’s putting a fox to guard the hen coop.”

“So vote for someone else, not me. I don’t give a rat’s ass. But don’t vote for Rumer. Or we’ll keep wasting money. And if we don’t have the money, there will be fewer cops on the streets. Which is where they do good.”

The man stared at me and started to say something and then changed his mind and said casually, “So how much does a cop make?”

“To start? $38,002.28 is the starting salary of a fourth-class police constable after thirty-seven weeks of paid training. But in eleven years they can become a first-class constable, which pays $73,081.30. Plus overtime and benefits.”

The man’s face tightened. “How much?”

I told him again and he swallowed and asked, “But they have education, right?”

“The thirty-seven weeks of training, yes. But all they need is a high school degree. Or a general equivalency degree. And you can retire at fifty.”

The man swayed and closed his eyes and looked pissed and I went on, “Look. You decide. But you said crime is bad. The system we currently have sure hasn’t helped solve that problem and Rumer is all about keeping the course. And the course doesn’t look so hot to me.”

The man’s hand came up slowly and I shook it and looked him straight in the eye. “And have a great day.”

On the sidewalk Dean and Brenda were both smiling. We kept walking and she asked, “And how did that go?”

“Fine. I think I understand these folks.”

She seemed surprised. “You do?”

I told them what I’d told the man and they nodded. “He’s a working guy. Probably with a good paying job that he fought for. Probably with a union backing him up and making salary increases of 1-2 percent per year, increases he has to threaten to strike for every year. Probably a job he started out with as a journeyman apprentice or trainee making very little. And I’m telling him about a job that pays $20 an hour to start and goes up two, three bucks a year until it reaches $40 an hour.”

Brenda and Dean looked at each other and I asked, “Do we still have the police recruiting pamphlet?”

We did and I read it as we walked and by the next house I was ready with some more numbers and data. I may not have convinced anyone to vote for me but I sure made a few dozen people start to think in a new way.

When I got back home that night there was a package between the screen and patio doors—I opened it standing there. As I did so I stared into the distance, feeling for anything odd or heavy in the brown paper parcel. Sniffing deeply for anything chemical, listening for anything clicking or whizzing or chirping or preparing to explode. And as I opened it my eyes roved and I saw movement in the car way down the street where the cops were and I saw a shadow appear in the loft above the church.

So I knew the cops were watching and it didn’t bother me. It even made me feel safer.

Inside the package was a ten-kilogram box of chocolates from Mordens, a Winnipeg institution and one of the best candy makers in Canada.

They were called Russian Mints and they were delicious. I ate one slowly and looked around.

There was nothing else with the box, no message or note or anything, so I put the box under my arm, took the garbage with me and went inside.

A
few days later Brenda and Dean and I were at the University of Manitoba at my insistence.

Dean had been nonplussed when I’d suggested it. “Why are we doing this? The students aren’t well known for showing up for civic elections—federal yes, civic not so much.” Brenda had agreed and I’d taken Dean aside for a minute.

“We’re going for two reasons; it’ll get good press and it’s a weak spot for Illyanovitch. He has no attachment to the young, educated voters.”

Dean had agreed grudgingly and then went about getting permission and spreading the news of my presence on campus far and wide.

While he was gone I told Brenda, “We’re here for two reasons; it’s not something that Illyanovitch has on his radar and the students are already furious because he supports the cops and the cops raided the protest bike ride two years ago.”

She went off to start rounding up students and dragging them to me as I stood in the centre food court near the bookstore.

To my surprise the students had lots of questions and informed opinions and they were enthusiastic. Apparently the cops were a tender spot for them; who knew? For them I kept the idea simple. “Hire me, who’s outside the system, to watch how it works and to keep it honest. The cops will watch me intently, so I’ll be honest, and I’ll watch the cops intently, so they’ll be honest.” The students and professors liked that.

One professor even quoted someone by saying that kings should have nooses around their necks to keep them upright.

When we were done I told my minders I had to pee and then hit the bookstore. In the anthropology section there was a copy of
Hunting Humans
by Elliot Levin, an anthropologist from Newfoundland, who’d studied serial killers as social phenomena. The book had been recommended to me years before by a wannabe serial killer. I bought it for cash and tucked it down my pants when I went to pee.

Ten minutes later Brenda and Dean and I were headed north.

That night Claire and I were expected at a “Greet the Chief” meeting in Wolseley. I didn’t know the area well so I asked Brenda and she said, “Granola country. Hippies and hippy wannabes.”

We parked Fred with Veronica and took a cab to make sure we’d arrive on time. In the cab Claire leaned close to me and whispered in my ear. I responded in my best prison yard speaking voice, which meant my lips were motionless. Just in case the cabbie was listening.

“Monty, did you call the candy company?”

We crossed the giant rail yard that sits to the north of centre in the city. Dozens of tracks and strings of red and black boxcars stretch for miles to the east and west. The bridge soared over it all and I could feel the warm wind through the open window and smell a hint of rust and diesel fuel.

“Yes. They received cash and an anonymous order. It was dropped in the main office mail box overnight. That’s it. They also told me they produce one ton of Russian Mints every three days from October to December.”

“That doesn’t help us. So, a dead end?”

I hugged her with one arm. “Maybe not. The cops will follow up on it; they saw us get the package. They can order copies of all the surveillance tapes of all the buildings around the head office. They might get a good picture.”

“Might? So the odds aren’t good?”

“No. Not at all. Question here: why did Veronica want to watch Fred?”

Claire giggled and the noise broke the solemnity of the moment. “She’s taking him to the mall with her. She trolls with him.”

I looked at her to find out if she was kidding. “Trolls?”

“Trolls. She says that men keep an eye out for single mothers sometimes and look for a woman with a baby but no ring. She says the men think that single mothers are … ummm.”

“What word are you looking for?”

“How about, not shy?”

“Good choice, but a mall? Won’t she get mostly eighteen-year-olds?”

“Yes. But she says you can date two or three of those at the same time and it’s not too bad. As long as you don’t talk to them. And as long as you don’t mind the smell of Axe cologne.”

We arrived at our location, a huge, four-storey home, and I didn’t have to answer.

Inside we found out that the party was not just to meet me but also to deal with community problems, which took a lot of pressure off me. The festivities stretched into the backyard where people had laid out potluck dishes on folding tables under Chinese lanterns. A tall, thin man with a black Vandyke beard and a patch over one eye came up as soon as we arrived. He wore a red velour smoking jacket and introduced himself by saying, “And you must be Montgomery Haaviko, the reformed thief.”

“I must, and this must be my wife Claire.”

He shook my hand and hers and led me off to meet strange people whom I quite liked.

Lots of great conversation and some fantastic food. Homemade chocolate and roasted pine nut clusters made with all organic ingredients. Tiny cheeseburgers made with bison meat spiced with cinnamon and jalapeno Monterey Jack cheese from a place called Bothwell’s. A pomegranate and saskatoon berry punch laced with Indonesian arrack liquor for the brave and with Schweppes ginger ale for me.

The history of Wolseley told by a fat, unhappy woman. “Yes. It all used to be regular homes but then everyone left in the seventies and eighties and it turned into a district of rooming houses. Then a whole new brand of owner started to come in and rebuild a pride in the neighbourhood …”

The mechanics of crime by a young man in a leather bomber jacket. “And so, crime, real crime, is a reaction against the chains of authority and the morality of the rich …”

I nodded and agreed and the night went on and more people arrived and left and the food changed to desserts and free-trade coffee and teas that were not from tea but from South African and South American bushes. Plates of tiny cupcakes with cream cheese icing, cranberry/apple butter tarts and thick two-layer brownies sandwiched around fudge.

Claire stopped me while I reached for a brownie and I complained, “Hey!”

She spoke slowly. “Two things. One. It’s not on your diet. Two. It’s laced with hash. The woman who brought it told me to go easy.”

“Ah. Thanks.”

She wandered away and I went back to a crowd listening to a young girl reciting T.S. Eliot’s poem
The Wasteland
. As the girl was only six, the effect was unnerving. When she was done I applauded and she bowed from the waist. The girl thanked us all for listening and then left to play badminton. I talked with her father, who owned six news websites.

“Well, Mr. Haaviko. What do you think should happen next?”

“Mr. Rhine, the police should not be necessary but they are. They wield a great deal of power in society and deserve the greatest possible oversight. Mr. Illyanovitch would receive their support so I am not sure he would ever be able to treat them with the correct degree of irrespect and doubt.”

Rhine smiled and I saw three other people nearby, listening. He gestured broadly. “What do you mean?”

“The essence of our legal system is conflict. The prosecutor attacks to the best of his ability and the defence attorney defends to the best of his ability. In that struggle, with the help of a judge, the truth is supposed to emerge. Yet Mr. Illyanovitch will not fight with the police, he will cooperate. And there will be no judge; Mr. Illyanovitch will hold that position as well.”

Mr. Rhine nodded reluctantly and I finished, “So how can there be justice?”

“I see your point. I may not agree, but I see your point.”

“A second factor is that I being on the commission will attract intense scrutiny. No one will try anything funny with me being there because of that scrutiny.”

“Including yourself?”

I looked at Rhine in amazement. “Me? I’m an ex-thief sir. I’m like a cockroach. You shine a bright light on me and, I assure you, I will behave.”

He laughed and I went looking for Claire. We got coffee and took a look inside the house.

Claire linked her arm in mine and we looked at the photograph on the wall above the old fireplace for a long time. It was made up of six separate black and white pictures of a dark-skinned man leaning against a cave wall. He wore a long, flowing robe and his hand rested on the hilt of an ornate dagger tucked into a sash at his waist.

My wife turned to me and frowned. “Just because they call it art and give it the respect art is due does not make it art.”

I stared at it for a long time. “I know what I like.”

Claire’s frown stayed in place. “And?”

“I hate it. It bores me. I hate being bored.”

“This is true.”

I touched the glass covering the images with my knuckle and Claire sipped some pretty nasty dark roast. I knew because I was drinking the same stuff. Then she asked, “What do you get from it?”

“Hate and disrespect. The subject is minimized and marginalized. He’s out of place and out of time. He’s wearing a dress. He’s living in a cave. He’s a fetishist, fondling the hilt of his jambiya.”

“Jambiya?”

I touched the image with my knuckle. “The dagger. The Arabic name for dagger is ‘jambiya.’ The sheath is curved at the bottom to keep it secure under the sash, the blade itself is actually fairly straight. The hilt is traditionally made of rhino horn and the quality of the hilt defines the status of the owner, the more ornate the better.”

“Really?” Claire sounded amused and I turned to catch her smile.

“Really. So we have an image of a man, out of place and out of dress.”

Claire drank some more coffee. “So we hate it?”

“Yep.”

We went back outside and traded the coffee for more punch. The party had livened up and three teenagers were standing in a patch of grass throwing bowling pins to each other. Which they caught and tossed back to create an intricate pattern amidst laughter and polite applause.

I
listened and listened and listened at the party. About problems with gangs and problems with hookers. About meth labs and marijuana grow operations and police arrogance. About the corruption of big business and the intolerance of the wealthy.

So far maybe 100 people had come through the party and I overheard some interesting conversations. Like one between two businessmen wearing tie-dyed t-shirts and ragged cut-off Levi shorts.

“… and then I get an email cease and desist. Can you believe it?”

“No! Wow. So what did you do?”

“I foreclosed on the little shit. Called in my loan approval and cancelled his insurance.”

They exchanged fist bumps and I wandered along, thinking. A cease and desist order was a legal paper telling someone to stop doing something or some specific penalty would be enacted—generally a lawsuit. A preventative injunction, for example, would stop the person from doing a single specific thing and a restraining order would keep someone away. Both worked in theory.