A Criminal to Remember (A Monty Haaviko Thriller) (30 page)

“Can you?”

“Sure. And I would do it right now if it was a question of public fear … if everyone still thought there was a monster out there killing for fun. But the cops never told anyone about the Shy Man so there is no fear. No one is worried. And if I don’t say anything then the only ones who will continue to be worried will be the cops. And I’m okay with that.”

I smiled widely like I imagined a wolf would, if a wolf could.

“And maybe the cops being worried is even a good thing.”

“How so?”

“Maybe it’ll keep them on their toes, I don’t know. In any case my sympathy for them is limited.”

She shivered and ordered poached and bacon and rye toast.

Eventually the girl who’d lost the battle with the nip came back and finished it.

I had to admire her determination.

At twenty to four we left the restaurant and walked to a parking garage beside the Richardson building and climbed the stairs to the top. There we watched and, at a little after four, the sky to the north turned crimson and the sound of sirens filled the air.

“Will there be anything left?”

More sirens joined the chorus and lights approached the fire from all directions, dozens of trucks seemingly.

I squeezed Claire’s hand. “It is a 130-year-old building, according to a plaque in the kitchen. Splintery wood dried out by 130 prairie winters, coats of paint upon coats of paint, stored furs and hides all dried out and preserved with buckets of chemicals. And closets of methyl alcohol and dry cleaning chemicals.” I shook my head and put my arm around her. “It’ll burn like the fires of hell.”

“Good.”

The Shy Man’s money bought us a room in the Fairmont Hotel after Claire’s credit card was shown to prove we didn’t need to spend the cash we spent. For $269 plus tax we got a king-sized bed in a 300-square-foot room. It had air conditioning, a window that opened onto the burning building a few blocks away, an alarm clock, bathrobes, cable television, a coffee maker, desk, hair dryer, high-speed Internet, mini-bar and telephone. A fifty-dollar tip to the Filipino bellboy got me a bottle of Southern Comfort liqueur that I put in front of Claire once we’d dragged the desk over so we could see the fire outside.

We had a great view.

She drank most of the bottle and, when she passed out, I put her in bed and waited.

When she woke up she watched me sleep the clock around.

The next day we went home.

T
he election was scheduled to take place two months after Claire and I got loose.

At first the press wanted nothing but a piece of me, but watching McDonald and Illyanovitch dance kept them busy as shit. McDonald especially loved being a popular figure and played up his actor-school oratory until he almost made sense. Meanwhile Illyanovitch tried to convince everyone he was as honest as the day was long—he may even have been for all I know.

And for a while no one noticed that I wasn’t saying anything.

Brenda and Dean had stayed with me, despite their better judgement. To their shock my standings in the polls rose even faster when my mouth was shut.

Six weeks before the election Claire and I flew to Halifax and picked up Fred from her parents. Well, Claire did; I hid in a hotel room to avoid meeting her mom and dad. Then we flew back to town and I kept my mouth shut some more.

Don’t get me wrong. I still met individuals in their houses but I ignored the press. They just kept running my name and asking, “Where is Montgomery Haaviko?”

When Devanter or Aubrey or Virgil asked me I told them it was part of my master plan.

Five weeks before the election Reynolds told the Crown attorney that Cornelius Devanter was trying to exert political influence in the city to buy one-man helium airships to use by the police. Several city councillors admitted Devanter had spoken to them but no one could figure out if a crime had been committed.

Reynolds gave the information up in exchange for dropping the child porn charges.

When the news hit the public, industry experts said the idea was actually a good one and discussed the importance of legitimizing the rigid airship after the Hindenburg incident.

Someone else pointed out all the advantages a rigid airship had over a helicopter—silence, time in the air, and safety.

Frankly, as a bad guy, a silent danger was a much greater threat than a loud one.

However, the public and the police turned against Devanter and I felt sorry for the guy.

A month before the election Goodson announced that he was an ex-Nazi flyer who wanted to make a substantial donation to the new Canadian Human Rights Museum, the first national museum outside of Ottawa. His admission caused a bit of a splash but everyone stopped talking when they found out he wasn’t wanted for anything by anyone.

He also donated $10 million to build a park in St. Petersburg—what Leningrad had been renamed again after the war. Virgil told me privately over ribs in another steakhouse that the donation for the park was $10 million but that it cost
$20 million to the local Mafiya and political machine in graft to make sure it happened quickly. They asked Goodson what he wanted it named and he said he leaned towards “Hope” but wasn’t holding his breath.

The Russian press asked him if he wanted to be there for the ground breaking and he told them, “Fuck no! I never want to see that place again!”

And everyone laughed.

Three weeks before the election I looked around my quiet house at midnight, slipped out the basement window and snuck through the Kilpatricks’ yard and then through two more and was away. In an industrial park near the airport I found the building I was looking for, a long, low structure covered with huge windows.

I dawdled near the front gate for ten minutes until the security guard came forward. He was about six foot eight, white, young, and his hand clasped and unclasped on the big flashlight holstered on his belt.

“The factory is closed.”

I had a new hoody up and a baseball hat under it and my hands were in my pockets, making them bulge.

“I’m the one who called, Clarence McFee.”

He froze and stared.

It had taken two phone calls to find the factory. One call to find who the factory hired to run security and two calls to them to find out who had the night shift. Then it had taken eleven phone calls to find out where Mr. Clarence McFee lived. After that, two calls had finally reached the man himself.

He stared some more and I brought my hand out of my pocket and tossed an envelope to his feet. “Count it.”

I watched his lips as he counted, “Five thousand.”

Without another word he let me in and showed me where the printing presses were and how to run them. He had warmed them up and loaded them with the right card stock and I stood in front of the control panel and tried not to scratch my itchy and healing broken thumb and pinkie.

“And I just press this button?”

“Yes.” His voice was gravelly. “You understand these ballots are all numbered, right? I mean, you’re just doing a reprint.”

“I understand. You were very clear. A reprint is fine.”

“You don’t care that the serial numbers are going to be the same?”

“Not at all.”

I printed ten thousand, slipped Clarence a $500 bonus and went home again.

W
hen election day came I went with Claire and Fred and we voted, Claire first and then me, with me wheeling Fred in his stupid baby carriage that barely fit into the little privacy screen.

While the cameras flashed at the top of my head Fred handed me the bundles of already marked ballots and I stuffed them into the box until it was full.

On my way out Candy stopped me for a final interview. “You took a long time in there, Mr. Haaviko.”

“I wanted to think about what I was doing. Democracy is a very serious thing, isn’t it?”

She nodded and turned back to her camera and I interrupted her, “And did
YOU
vote?”

She had the dignity to blush and I went on my way.

Dean and Brenda had rented a hotel suite and stocked it with pop and potato chips and each had brought their own bottle of rye whiskey. They constantly skipped into the bathroom and snuck drinks as we watched the results pour in.

Everyone was there, my lawyer Lester and his wife (Lester just back from drying out somewhere tough), Elena the cop and her husband and son, Claire and Fred and I, the Kilpatricks, Veronica Rose and two slightly stunned eighteen-year-olds, the Greek bakers and Frank from the archery shop. And others I barely remembered, people whose hands I’d shaken and babies I’d kissed.

The results kept pouring in and I started to lose.

The Greeks threw the potato chips out the window and produced trays of baklava and Turkish delight while Frank handed out jerked deer meat.

I kept losing and Claire held my hand.

Fred got into a wrestling match with one of Veronica’s high school boyfriends while one of the Greeks decided she looked pretty yummy. His words. Not mine. Delivered in a serious and sonorous voice.

Candy showed up with an anchorwoman from another station and I let them in and fed them and refused to answer questions.

The Greek father went to his car and came back with a case of homemade retsina, sweet Greek wine laced with fermented pine sap.

The hotel manager brought up a case of cold champagne that Virgil had sent over and Claire took a glass and whispered into my ear, “Domestic.”

By midnight I was the serious loser and the polls were officially closed and the party went on.

By two Veronica had left with two of the Greeks and returned alone an hour later. All the babies were unconscious and tucked safely under a bed. The anchorwoman had shown Claire her breasts and asked her politely to check to see if they were real and she had done so.

They were.

By four an announcement had come on that there were serious discrepancies that had to be resolved.

By five it was announced that someone had stuffed at least one ballot box with 10,000 votes for Illyanovitch and that an investigation was being called.

By eight Claire and I were home with Fred and in our own beds.

H
ey, I lost, didn’t I?”

Devanter and I were in a steakhouse eating and talking at noon on a beautifully clear September day. Devanter glared at me and spoke through clenched teeth. “Yes.”

“And your guy won, right? He did win. At least for awhile. Then there was that whole cheating thing but he did win. Not my fault McDonald was declared the winner. Your guy still won and I lost.”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the problem? You made the deal, pay up.”

Devanter drank from his oversized wineglass and growled. “My guy, as you know, is not in charge.”

I touched the tip of my nose and shook my head. “That wasn’t part of the deal. You paid me to have me lose. That’s what happened.”

He growled again, started to say something and stopped. A waiter in black and white hustled by with a tray of steaks and fried fungus in covered dishes. Sitting back, I realized I was enjoying this way too much. I also realized my hand was mostly healed and that the cuts had faded down to a general itching.

“So, the deal is done. You owe me ten grand.”

Devanter’s face clouded over. He was in a rough place. Goodson had called his bluff and admitted his past, which left Devanter with no cards to play, but he had done nothing afterwards. He wasn’t fighting anymore. And his idea to sell the airships to the city was on hold and no one seemed to be taking him seriously. Even his lawyer had turned on him.

Really, nothing was going right for him and he finally growled, “Fuck you. Sue me.”

After Devanter had gotten up and left I borrowed the house phone and called Virgil Reese. When he answered I said, “I have a case for you.”

“Really?” In the background I heard the scratching of a pen or pencil.

“Yes, sir. Suing Devanter.”

“For what?”

“You choose. I’ve got a contract here and he owes me $10,000.”

He started to laugh.

I
visited the cop Atismak in the RCMP building down on Portage Avenue. He had a corner office on the third floor just off a bullpen full of men in business suits who looked at me sideways as I was escorted through their desks by a stocky woman who had assigned herself as my guide. She left me at Atismak’s door, which was open.

He raised his head from his desk full of papers with a slightly pained look on his face, but when he saw me it vanished and was replaced by blankness.

“Mr. Haaviko.”

I was formal. “Mr. Atismak.”

He waited and then told me I was welcome to come in. When I was sitting he put his hands together on his desk and rested his chin there. “How can I help you?”

I felt not inconsiderable rage bubbling up but I ignored it. To my surprise it left and in its place was a cold, clinical fury I had never experienced before. I wanted to smash Atismak, to hurt him, to make him into a living warning to anyone who would try to fuck me over in the future.

Instead I opened my mouth. “You can’t help me. I just wanted to say that I forgive you.”

“Forgive me?”

It wasn’t what he expected and he opened his mouth twice and closed it again. Then he asked, wonderingly, “For what?”

“For not telling me about the Shy Man.”

“The Shy Man?”

He wasn’t very believable so I shrugged it off. “Yes, the Shy Man. You know, when you set me and my son and my wife up.”

Atismak licked his lips and opened his mouth again but nothing came out. Then he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course.”

Silence. I wondered if he was trying to come up with something to say. Probably not, I guessed, he was probably stuck in his role of cop. Either way didn’t matter.

I got up to leave. “Anyhow, I forgive you.”

“Wait.” Atismak found his voice. “How’s your wife?”

“She’s perfect. I’ll tell her you asked.”

My smile was real and Atismak stared at it with his head cocked to the side. “Uh. Are you here to confess to something?”