Authors: Gabriel Boutros
Joe, who was experienced at being surveyed by secret police, looked around quickly, and relieved that there was nobody else in the store. He half-expected Tony’s shop, and just about any other place that people gathered, to be bugged.
“Antonio,” he said, rising from his seat. “I need a cigarette with my espresso,
si
?”
“You want to go outside?”
“
Si
. The poison has some breathable air in it today.”
The two men laughed at the old joke and gathered up their coffees and stepped out of the store. They placed the saucers and cups on the ledge of the storefront window and then Joe pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
Soon, they were smoking the
Nazionali
cigarettes that Tony had gotten for Joe through his contact on the Akwesasne Reservation. Before coming to Canada Joe only smoked imported American cigarettes, which were much smoother than the stinky
Nazionalis
. But there was something rebellious about smoking duty-free cigarettes from the old country, even if they smelled worse than metro-bus exhaust.
Once outside Tony began complaining about the lousy music they were being forced to listen to. Joe saw that his friend was more excited than usual today. Maybe it was because of the visit of that Robinson fellow, but Joe wasn’t any more comfortable with Tony’s ranting in the street than when they were in the store.
He’d suggested that they step out into the relatively breathable air for a few minutes to avoid any electronic surveillance that could be planted inside the butcher shop. But there were cameras everywhere in the streets, and Joe felt just as exposed discussing politics out here. Tony, despite surviving for years as a smuggler and black market operative, occasionally let his emotions get the better of him when he should have been keeping his thoughts to himself.
“We just smoke our cigarettes now, Antonio,” Joe said, trying to distract his friend from saying anything that could get them into trouble. “Then we go inside and listen to some nice Vivaldi,
si
? Maybe some
Le Quatro Stagioni.
”
“Sure, sure. Don’t worry, Giuseppe.” Tony’s face lit up with an impish smile. “I am not so angry now, because I know some things that make these
fascistas
very sorry one day.”
Joe looked at his friend’s gleeful expression and wondered what was behind it. In the time they’d known each other Tony had never been able to keep secrets for long.
“What do you know about, Antonio? Is it about those
radicales
?” He leaned closer to speak directly into Tony’s ear. “Is your friend, the
Inglese
, planning to set off his little bombs? Maybe they hurt someone for real...”
“No, no. Giuseppe. This has nothing to do with that man.”
Looking at Tony’s expression Joe thought that whatever secret he was holding would have to be revealed soon, or his head would burst. Tony pulled Joe’s sleeve toward the door, butting his cigarette out on the store’s wall. Joe did the same and the two men re-entered the store, Tony leading his friend to a room in the back.
Tony stepped toward a console in the wall and flicked a switch. Soon the strains of violins began playing, and he raised the volume to an uncomfortable level, making it impossible for their words to be overheard. He took Joe by the back of his neck and pulled their heads close together, so he could speak directly into his friend’s ear.
“No, Giuseppe,” Tony said, picking up the conversation. “I am not talking about
petardos
. Those are just firecrackers to make noise and scare people a little. What I know is about a real bomb.”
“What real bomb?”
“You know what bomb, Giuseppe: the
atomico
that blew up Quebec City.”
“This is old news, Antonio. Why do you make like it’s a big secret?”
“No, no. What I have is not old news. My best friend when I was a child in Asti, his name was Pietro Caputto.”
“Yes, you told me about him,” Joe said, trying to remain patient. “He is dead, no?”
“
Si, si.
He died years ago, after he moved to America. He had a son, Emilio; loved me very much. Always called me uncle. I get bad news this week. He died too.”
“
Ah, condoglianze, Antonio
.”
“
Grazie, amico
. It is very sad, but it is very strange, too. They tell me he killed himself, but I have my suspicions.”
“Suspicions?”
“Emilio worked in Buffalo, at the Homeland Security office. He didn’t have many friends. That’s why he called me all the time. He worked on a big computer; very high security, you see? And he is very
curioso
, this boy. Always likes to know things he is not supposed to know. And sometimes, he gets scared a little bit. And he talks to me about why he is scared. That is why I have suspicions, because he was scared before he died.”
“But what scared him so much, Antonio?”
“He saw things he wasn’t supposed to, on this computer. Maybe he went looking for them, I don’t know. But he wanted me to know what he found, because he had nobody else to tell.”
Joe waited for a few seconds while Tony rubbed his damp eyes, a pensive expression on his face, but his friend was lost in thought.
“Well, Antonio,” Joe said, his impatience getting the better of him. “Are you going to tell me what he told you or not?”
Tony’s head jerked up abruptly, like he’d been caught napping. He looked around the empty store, and then he pulled Joe’s ear closer.
“This is what I said to you, Giuseppe. It’s about the
atomico
.”
Joe leaned back a little to get a good look at his friend’s face, which was flushed with excitement. He wondered what this nosy boy, Emilio, could have found out. And what did it have to do with the bombing of Quebec City 21 years earlier?
August 7, 2039
Sunday lunch with the family was one of the few traditions that Janus had taken from his parents and tried to pass on to his children. (“Enforced” was the word Richard used, but he’d already begun spending less time with the family, as boys his age often did.)
The smell of a special meal cooking all Sunday morning let his sons know that this day was not like others, and the meal gave them an opportunity to spend some time together, no matter how little quality that time contained. Even if the meals were rushed through, with hardly a word being spoken, they let Janus feel he was playing the role of
pater familias
the way he’d been taught in his parents’ home.
While Joe cooked, Janus sat in his basement office, trying to view his morning news reports. He recognized the smell wafting up from the kitchen as that of lamb roasting. He loved lamb, particularly the way Joe marinated it, although he always made a face when Joe bought food on the black market. The butcher shop sold it without the administration stamps that ensured it would be overpriced due to Canada’s punitive import duties. The truth was that Joe’s lamb was also much fresher than the flash-frozen meat sold at the administration grocery stores. Janus’s official status required him to make at least some pretence of displeasure at Joe’s shopping habits, but he never let a morsel of his cooking go to waste.
He’d gotten used to the fact that Joe did most of the cooking nowadays, and big Sunday meals were his speciality. There had been one occasion when he mentioned to Terry that between Joe’s cooking and the Filipino cleaning woman who came in once a week she really had very little to do around the house. Terry’s cold silence for three days after that ill thought-out comment assured that he never made another one like it.
On this Sunday, however, it was Janus’s turn to be irascible and Terry knew enough to keep herself and the boys out of his way until it was time to eat. She must have neglected to warn Joe, however, because her uncle insisted that Janus taste the baby potatoes he was roasting. Janus knew it would be inappropriate to yell at the man cooking one of his favourite meals, and decided to limit his expression of displeasure to a venomous glare directed at his wife. He then quietly took a bite from the proffered fork, before grumbling something vaguely complimentary and going back into his office.
Janus’s foul mood was not caused by this latest example of Joe’s growing indispensability to their family. He was bothered by a conversation he’d had with Normand Leblanc. Leblanc was worried about the new Deputy Minister who’d come over from Security Prosecutions. Recent office rumours said that the man was on some sort of witch hunt to weed out corruption and anti-administration activities. On Friday Leblanc had slunk into Janus’s office and shut the door behind him, wearing a particularly worried expression.
“It seems this Deputy Minister Prescott’s a straight-laced tight-ass,” he complained to Janus.
“And why should that concern us?” Janus replied.
“Because I heard he’s sworn to rid Public Works of anyone displaying moral turpitude.”
“Moral turpitude, eh? Do you even know what that means, Normand?”
“That’s a direct quote. This is serious, Al. He’s like a one-man vice squad. He thinks people having fun on their own time somehow reflects badly on the administration, and maybe opens us up to, and I quote, ‘improper influences’.”
Janus wasn’t entirely sure what Leblanc was talking about, but he detected a potential hint of trouble for himself.
“Norm, what’re you talking about? He’s interested in people’s personal lives now?”
“Yup. He wants to know if people are involved in anything shady, especially if it could impact any department in the Ministry. You’re lucky, because you walked away from the dogs a long time ago. So maybe he won’t hold that against you.”
“I thought dog-fighting was tolerated,” Janus argued. “And didn’t you say you quit when I did?”
“I did quit. I just didn’t quit permanently. And, you know, I haven’t been exactly lucky in my betting.”
“Neither of us was very lucky. That’s why I never went back.”
Leblanc shot a quick glance toward the office door, as if he was afraid that someone might walk in on them. He cleared his throat twice before speaking again.
“I owe a lot of money, Al. Almost $40,000.”
Janus kept his face expressionless, and tried not to think of a similar conversation he’d had with Uncle Joe. He’d never let Leblanc know how much debt he’d run up, or how he’d been able to clear it, and this wasn’t the time to discuss his own experiences.
“So, how are you paying it off?”
“I made…arrangements with, um, some people.”
The hesitation in Leblanc’s voice made Janus sit up.
“What arrangements? What the hell’d you do, Normand?”
“Shit, I didn’t want you to know anything about it. So you could deny it, you know?”
“Know what? Does this affect Infrastructure?”
“I guess so. I hired some sub-contractors; you know, like we always do. It’s just that these guys are friends of the people who own my debts now.”
“Own your debts? What does that even mean?”
“That’s how these things work. These guys, they do repairs, just like our own sub-contractors. They’re almost as good, too. And they bought my debts. So, I get them some city contracts and pay off what I owe them that way.”
Leblanc suddenly slammed his hands on Janus’s desk, and glared at him as if his friend was being intentionally dense.
“Jesus, Al! What do you think happens when you owe money to these people? They don’t send it to a collection agency! You weren’t as bad off as I was. You never had to make that kind of a decision, so don’t you look at me like that.”
“Ok. Sorry,” Janus said, not bothering to correct his friend’s impression of how badly off he’d been. “I’m just trying to figure out what all this means.”
Leblanc sat down again, looking thoroughly dejected.
“I don’t know either. I mean these guys did the work we contracted to them, right? Maybe they charged a little more than usual, but we’re always over budget anyway. Is that so bad?”
“No, maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe you’re worried for nothing.”
“You think?”
“Why not? I saw all the bids. As far as I knew, you followed the usual process, so why should anybody care who got the jobs, as long as the work was done. Like you said, right?”
“Yeah, Al. It was all done. Swear to God.”
“Then you’re getting yourself worked up for nothing. I’m sure of it.”
He stepped around his desk and gave his friend a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.
“Norm, go back to work. Just do your job normally and don’t draw any attention to yourself. And maybe stop the betting.”
Leblanc nodded and tried to work a smile onto his face.
“Ok, Mother Teresa. I’ll try to be good.”
Janus smiled paternally and went back to his chair, while his friend got up and headed to the door.
“I’m definitely going to keep away from the dogs,” Leblanc said. Then he straightened up and tried to recover his usual playful tone. “I heard Prescott’s got a man keeping an eye on everyone’s comings and goings. Can you believe it? Maybe they’re tapping our coms. Or checking if we watch porn at work. For all I know they’ll be peeking into people’s bedrooms to see which positions they screw in.”