“He’s looking for you.”
Roger and Lily were pals. She enjoyed having a big, strong man around who was not actively trying to sleep with her, and who would talk about his child. “Who?” he asked. “The boss.”
He almost replied, “What boss?” He had several, although he called himself an independent contractor. To advertise that he worked for different people was unwise, so Roger checked his response. “Where is he?”
“Diddling girls backstage.”
As he navigated through the thick stage curtains, Roger was caught off guard to come across a bevy of chorus girls, a few wearing less than on stage, surrounding Maurice Duplessis. Lily’s reference to the “boss” had perhaps been intended as a poor translation of the man’s nickname,
le Chef.
He waited for the portly, diminutive premier to slide free. In the dark, Roger agreed that the man really did look remarkably like Hitler.
Duplessis crooked a finger, then tilted his head. As if on strings, Roger veered to his right and found a nook. Momentarily, the premier joined him there.
“My man phoned your house, Roger. No reply. We guessed you were out on the town.” “Yes, sir.”
“I have a small task. It will mean some travel.” “I’m free these days.”
Duplessis looked up at him, as though to suggest that his schedule was of no logical interest. As far as he was concerned, Roger would attend to whatever task he directed him to do, regardless of his availability.
Catching the nuance, Roger inquired, “Where am I going?” He realized at that moment that they had both been whispering.
“Asbestos.”
Roger felt himself sobering up quickly. He didn’t know if it would be wise to point out to the premier that his wife and two-year-old daughter were already in that town—on the picket lines. If she’d been quizzed by reporters, Carole had probably already sullied
le Chef’s
reputation.
“You got a thousand cops out there,” Roger brought up. “What do you need me for?”
“I
wish
I had a thousand officers in Asbestos, Roger. In lesser numbers, policemen are on hand, but do I tell them how to do their jobs? I only expect them to maintain the peace.” Roger doubted that, but the premier brooked no dispute from underlings. “Should I desire that specific actions be taken, I call on you. We don’t want to create a fuss, Roger.”
“I understand, sir. Ah,” he hesitated, thinking that he might not like the answer, “what actions?”
“The intellectuals,” Duplessis hissed. He waved over Roger’s shoulder at a pretty chorus girl, nude from the waist down, walking past them in high heels. Roger took a glance, then refocused his eyes where they belonged.
“Sir?” he inquired.
“They think they can run my province. As if they know what’s best. Like these girls here, they’re wet behind the ears. What do those truants know? How to lace their own shoes? By the time you’re finished with a few of them, Roger—”
“Yes, sir?”
“—they’ll lace themselves up in corsets. Dance in high heels. One thing’s for sure, they won’t make any more trouble for me.”
The assignment must be vital for the most powerful man in Quebec to give him illicit orders in person. Usually, he sent a man. “Sir? Who do you have in mind?”
“The riffraff,” the premier dictated, whispering still. “Marchand. Trudeau. That journalist twit, Pelletier. Also, the priest, Father François.”
“A priest?” Roger was shocked. This was crossing a line he’d not trespass.
Duplessis scoffed. “Don’t be an altar boy. Father François is a lackey for Monsignor Charbonneau, which makes him no priest worthy of his collar. He deserves an old-fashioned whipping behind the outhouse to preserve the good name of our Church. It’s a tradition. If a priest goes astray, not much else can be done. Whip him in private. The pope will be on our side on this, as will God.”
“Yes, sir,” Roger said. Still, a priest. He recognized the name. He was thinking that Carole might have mentioned him from time to time.
“I don’t know who you’ll bump into. Maybe Chartrand, the union guy, if you’re lucky.”
“Reggie
Chartrand? The boxer?”
“That’s the one. You’re not afraid of him, are you?”
“Why would I be?”
Duplessis nodded approvingly. “I don’t care who it is as long as you come across one of them in a dark alley at night.” The premier winked. “When you do, help that man understand that being an intellectual communist is not what it’s cracked up to be in Quebec. The others, they’ll learn from the good example you deliver.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If given a choice, find Trudeau and teach him a lesson in high finance. London School of Economics, my ass. Who does he think he is? Communist riffraff. If you find him walking alone at night, make him wish he lived in Moscow.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“On your way, then. Have a good trip, Roger.”
Duplessis brushed past him and reconnoitred with the three women he’d chosen for a night’s merriment.
They met in the park down the escarpment below City Hall. The mayor was wearing his morning suit and shiny black shoes with spats. Seated on a bench, tossing breadcrumbs to pigeons, Roger’s old campmate leaned forward with one hand on his cane for support, his grotesque, ugly face all smiles.
“I need you in Asbestos. A mission of mercy,” Houde informed him.
The trip was beginning to look as though it might be profitable, at least.
“Who’s giving you trouble there?”
“I said mercy, Roger. What do you take me for, some goon? Oh, who am I kidding? You know me well enough. But this time it’s different. A friend of mine arrived there last night. He’s doing a survey. He’s discerned that people there are hostile to his presence. Go. Protect him. Be his bodyguard. Once people spot you, the rude ones will back off.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Count Jacques Dugé de Bernonville.” Roger had heard his wife mention him. “He’s at the hotel. It’s a small town. You’ll find him.”
Feeling flush with the promise of two paycheques, Roger took a taxi home to pack. While there, the phone rang, and he answered to a high-pitched, secretarial voice inviting him to meet the archbishop of Montreal.
“I was just leaving town,” he stated.
The priest repeated, “The archbishop of Montreal.” Something in the snooty tone suggested that he’d comply or be directly dispatched to a lower tier of hell.
Roger heard himself acquiesce. “Yes, Father.”
For the first time in ages, Roger Clément felt fear. Although he knew the most powerful men around, he had never encountered a prelate of such distinction. A religious man himself, after a fashion, for Roger the encounter was akin to standing two doors down from God. At the archiepiscopal palace, his travel bag—which contained knuckle dusters, a switchblade and a pistol—in
hand, he gazed up at the towering ceiling vault and the ornately embossed balustrades and columns, before he was led in to see the city’s most authoritative clergyman.
“Roger Clément.” The man sprang to his feet as though greeting a distinguished monarch from abroad. “Good of you to come on such short notice.”
He didn’t know how to conduct himself. Perhaps he should fall to his knees and kiss the floor, or the man’s shoes. Flummoxed, he sank to his knees. The man gently guided him back up. “I’ve been speaking to Father François, a priest from your district. He’s in Asbestos as we speak. He’s been talking to your wife. Apparently, the two of them have cooked up a plan. They tell me that you’re the man to carry it out.”
“What plan, ah, Father? Bishop? Ah, Archbishop? Father? Your Grace?”
“We need you to secure the peace in Asbestos. See that the miners remain disciplined, yet strong. We do not want them subjected to further brutality instigated by Duplessis and the police.”
“Just me? There’s a thousand cops, I heard. With submachine guns.”
“You can handle it. Discipline is the answer. A calm disposition.”
“Ah, Father, Archbishop, Your Grace, Mon—Mon—”
“Call me Father Joe.”
“I’m going to Asbestos.”
“Good. You must leave at once. My office will see to the fare. What am I saying? Better yet, we’ll send you by car!” Father Joe was smiling at him. He was a tall and distinguished-looking man, reminiscent of a matinee idol if not for his plain grey robe. Roger felt intimidated, although not in any usual way. “Your wife was correct,” the monsignor stated.
“Sir? Mon—Mon—excuse me—I mean, Father Joe?”
“You’re the man for the job.”
“I was going there anyway.”
“To see your wife. Grand! We’ve spared you the expense. We will anticipate your rendering when the work is done, Roger, when the strike has been concluded to everyone’s satisfaction. A nasty experience, don’t you think?”
“Premier Duplessis—” Roger coughed up. He felt himself teetering on the brink of confession.
Forgive me, Father Joe, for I’m about to go to Asbestos to sin.
“That runt? Don’t be concerned. The tattletale. He telephoned the pope to berate him over my good intentions. The
pope
has given me a lecture on Quebec politics. Quite amusing, actually. In the end, Roger, justice and calmer hearts shall prevail. That is my conviction. As it is yours, I’m sure.”
“Yes, Father Joe.”
Archbishop Charbonneau took a gander at the muscled man’s bag. “You’re packed? Have everything you need?” “Yes, Father Joe.”
“Efficient. Off you go, then. I’ll call for the car. Godspeed. Blessed be the peacemakers, Roger. That’s what you are in this circumstance. A peacemaker.” Roger bowed deeply, kissing the archiepiscopal ring. He thought he had pulled that off quite well.
Between guarding a fascist war criminal, beating up intellectuals, protecting striking workers from submachine-gun fire, and hanging out with his family, Roger gathered that he was headed for an interesting excursion. One good thing: this would be the first time he’d been driven to a job in a limousine. He only wished that Anik were older. His little girl might be impressed to see her dad chauffeured into town in a limo to greet her and her mom on the picket lines.
On the streets of Montreal, supporters of the strike rang trinket bells, as they had observed the Salvation Army do. Men and women dropped coins and even bills into their buckets to support the miners of Asbestos.
Everyone took a side and held a strong opinion. People knew about the beatings. Brave newspapermen, such as Pierre Laporte, had defied Duplessis and gotten the stories out. Men had been taken out of town to police stations around the countryside and had their faces and bodies smashed.
Everyone knew it. Asbestos had become a battlefield.
As he drove into the dreary town, Roger became increasingly anxious for his daughter’s safety. Rough-hewn, dusty, the landscape a litter of boulders and cannibalized old trucks and earthmoving machines, the company town resembled a cross between an outpost from the Wild West and a movie version of gangland Chicago. Barricades constructed of lumber, scrap metal and decrepit furniture determined which streets were accessible. Behind them, he saw cops with high-powered weapons or miners with shovels and bricks, anything they could swing or throw. Another group of men milling around the entrance to a corner store proved to be journalists—he recognized a few of them from the El. Driving in a Cadillac that belonged to the archbishop, with a driver who could prove it, allowed him to finagle his way through the roadblocks, no matter whose. The town was on edge, at war, and while confrontation might suit his job description and be familiar to his wife, he was not happy about his daughter’s proximity to the action. Stray bullets, stampeding boots, Molotov cocktails, mysterious fires—amid incendiary emotions, anything could happen, making the town no place for a child.
A set of miners didn’t want to let him through, although the driver displayed a letter from the monsignor. One guy in particular was belligerent, and the chauffeur got out of the car to make his point. Roger was ready, thinking a fight would ensue, and noticed for the first time that his driver was a big man, perhaps a good ally in a battle. The chauffeur was also wise. He surmised that the miner confronting him might be illiterate, which made a letter thrust under his nose both useless and an insult, so he read the gist to him aloud without implying that he could not read it himself. Properly informed, the guard permitted the pair in the magnificent vehicle to travel down that dusty street.
“What’s your name?” Roger asked him. He’d conducted himself well. “Michel Vimont.”
“Good work back there. I guess you got a good job with the monsignor.” “It’s a great job. I love the guy. We’ll see how it goes. He’s under a lot of fire.” “What do you mean, fire?”
They passed poor homes, narrowly segregated by shabby yards, kids by the dozen at play for every few houses, their voices vibrant, shrill and strangely
reassuring. A large number stopped their games to stare at the limousine, while a few chased after the elongated black car, the oddest and most impressive vehicle on wheels they’d seen.
“He confides in me as we drive along.”
“What does he say?”
The man chuckled. “That’s the point. He
confides.
I can’t tell you any of that.” “I understand, yeah.”
“But I’ll say he’s under some fire. Pressure. If he goes, I go.”
“Goes?”
“The pope might give him the boot. Send him to Timbuktu. Father Joe let me know that’s a possibility. Depends on this strike thing maybe, what happens here.”
“Jesus.”
“I wouldn’t say that in this car.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know so much—” He nearly added
depends on me.
“You’re saying you won’t stay with the Church?”
“No different driving a bishop than someone else. The man wants you to be his driver, not the other guy’s. The next bishop won’t want me. He’ll choose his own.”
“Michel … Vimont, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You lose your job here, look me up. I know a few people. Politicians, club owners. We’ll get you established. Maybe it won’t be as good as you got it now with the monsignor. But if he goes down, we’ll take care of you, all right?””
“Sounds good.” The man seemed genuinely reassured, as though he expected to be relieved of his duties any day now. Which was ominous.