chapter 3 

(The Weapon) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

3 

The Weapon 

Back at the police station, Evans Ferjuste is napping peacefully. Sergeant Pyram Malvenu is reviewing his grocery list in the meantime. The native police officer is waiting on his father, the commissioner, to get his report read and validated. Pyram is extremely jittery. The day he was sworn in as a lawman, Pyram promised in his speech never to succumb to corruption, to perjury or to participate in any illegal activity or take part in any form of evidence falsification. Now that he is in deep shit, the sergeant has to figure out the best way to buy his young partner's silence. 

Pyram's incoherent statement is plague with lies and contains a serious accusation of high treason against one of his peers, namely, Robin Monarque. Sergeant Malvenu has no choice but to tame Evans and make sure that the young Canadian policeman goes along with him and keeps his mouth shut on what really happened this morning. Pyram didn't mention money yet, but he made it clear to sergeant Ferjuste, that he would gain a lot of it if he stood by his side all the way. Knowing the young man's interest for Haitian culture, Pyram planned a meeting between Evans and Victor Gourdet, the editor of the local newspaper. 

Gourdet is a well respected historian nicknamed, the Hexagon, because he supposedly graduated from Paris-Sorbonne University sometime in the seventies. Victor is an exuberant part-time careerist politician who will gladly teach Evans everything about Toussaint Louverture and the House of Bourbon; all he needs to know about Emperor Jean-Jacques Dessalines and  President Alexandre Pétion; every details on the mental health of King Henri, the secrets of the Citadelle and the spies of Napoleon. 

Pyram suddenly slaps Evans on the back of the head, pulling the sergeant out of his sleep to give him an overview of the advanced Creole lessons he will soon be taught. 

“The trick with the Creole language,” Pyram starts explaining to the half-conscious constable, “is to stick with the essential. You must use the tone of your voice to highlight particular words with a load of emotions. You get what I am saying? The verbs used in every sentence must stay alive and be imperative. There's no need for a complement or a subject. That's White people's stuff. The verb should be self-sufficient, always. It is highly recommended that you move your hands and hips as you speak; that you make all sorts of face expressions to support your punctuation. The pitch of your voice better carry half of the information you're trying to communicate. Start yelling for absolutely no reason is part of the culture. And you should never be shy to introduce foreign words once in a while in a conversation. It shows that you've been around, that you've seen a plane from up close.” 

The police station is on Lysius-Salomon Avenue, in the heart of Mizerikod's business district. It's cornered between the municipal jail and City Hall, right across the cemetery, three hundred feet from the Our Lady of Seven Sorrows church, facing the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation headquarters. The working space of the commune's law enforcing agents is limited to a small dry area in the station's backyard. Scores of people have found refuge in the sector. The noise is constant. Many families have officially relocated themselves in the bank's parking lot, spared by the mudslides caused by the passage of Hurricane Sandy on Wednesday. Others have erected their tents in front of the recently vandalized church, which has its front door and all its bells missing. That part of the city is nonetheless the safest zone in town. 

Two culprits are playing checkers in the only lockable cell of the police station. They look like two regular clients at a private club. The two men are dead quiet because Pyram threaten to transfer them to the municipal jail instead of setting them free at noon like he usually does. Nobody wants to be left alone with Oscar Perceval, the warden of that stinking dungeon. Many people in town believe that Oscar Perceval is in fact a prisoner on the run since the big quake, wanted in three different departments. Exactly twelve per cent of the convicts left in the hands of that maniac since May 2010 have died or disappeared before facing trial. 

The first peace agents of the day shift arrive in a bus of the Legitimus company. They are closely followed by the Lincoln Navigator of Chief Malvenu and an armored vehicle of the United Nations Police. It's eight o'clock. Evans Ferjuste fell back asleep. Pyram rushes to the lobby to welcome his father. Chief Malvenu is wearing an impeccable white linen costume and a cream Havana hat. He is a stocky hairy man with glassy eyes and a sniffing problem. The commissioner introduces two well groomed Uruguayan officers to Pyram. The sergeant automatically assumes that both men are gay and up to no good. Pyram Malvenu unexpectedly becomes very suspicious and bleak. Captain Pintado and Lieutenant Menendez perceive the change in his attitude, but they go straight to the point. Pintado shows a photograph to the sergeant. 

“Do you recognize this man, Sergeant?” 

“I sure do. He is the main subject of my declaration.” 

“He was seized by force last night from Senator Fleurant's villa, on the Morne de la Gloire.” 

“You're late on the news, Captain. I chased his kidnappers myself, just before dawn, all the way down to their hideout. Those malefactors even tried to kill me. Can you believe this shit? If I didn't have my lucky cross on me… the Lord is my Savior, Christ is alive… I was doomed, condemned, adios mi amigo. Nobody has been listening, but I've been asking for more powerful weapons for at least a decade. You know what I mean? I need metal pieces with a laser pointer on top and a double magazine at the bottom. The people at the mayor's office keep lying about our limited budget. Look at the results. I've been outgunned by a bunch of amateur thugs.” 

“Do you know the individual on that picture, Sergeant; can you tell us his name?” 

“Billionaire.” 

“Say that again?” 

“He is the brain behind the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation and the Vilaj Espwa project manager. We call him Billionaire.” 

“That can’t be his real name. I know that your people can be very original with surnames, but...” 

“Well, that's the name he answers to on the poker table. Some folks also call him Director or President. It depends.” 

“What do you know about that guy, Sergeant?” 

“He sure knows how to bluff, I'll tell you. He has a pair of sevens; his eyes make you think that he is holding a royal flush. Let’s say that he is very discreet about his private life. I don't even know the age of that inscrutable jackal.” 

“We've searched his luggage back at the villa,” Menendez mentions. 

“Careful now, Lieutenant,” warns Pintado, “the information is still classified as secret by the Interior Ministry.” 

“Don't worry, Captain. We found two passports in his suitcase, Sergeant, a Canadian one and another from the State of Israel. This guy crosses international borders under the name of Yosef Cohen-Abitbol, a resident of Tel-Aviv, and sometimes under the name of Moïse Berri, a Canadian citizen from Oshawa. We are aware that Mossad and the SCRS are active in the region. They know about the existence of Mizerikod, but the UN must be alerted if one of their agents decides to infiltrate the public administration of this country. Do you think you can lead us to the kidnapper’s hideout?” 

“With the adequate firepower, a decent road blockage and enough men to cover the river, I'll bring you these savages sealed in lead caskets before midnight.” 

“Is that a figure of speech?” 

“That's just slang,” Chief Police Malvenu cuts with a reassuring voice. “A casket is like a pair of handcuffs in his patois. They'll be so alive, that you can plan to have a cup of tea with them later. Am I right, Pyram? Of course, if they refuse to collaborate or start using their canons against us, that's another story. My men like to come back home after their very demanding shift.” 

“When do you want to attack,” Pyram asks the Uruguayan officers, visibly impatient and thirsty for blood. 

“Before nightfall,” Pintado answers. “We'll be back with the right equipment and enough men to hold a two day siege. Not even a rat will leave this city without our permission.” 

“Don't forget the dogs,” Pyram adds. “The people who protect these scavengers are afraid of them.” 

“Those same people could complicate our work if they decide to hide or help move the victim during our search,” the military police supposes. 

“The Diabbakas are malicious demons,” Pyram says, “and Chuck Three-Brothers is working for the Prince of Darkness himself. He dresses, feeds and employs the poor of the village. Some even pretend that he loves them for real. Many would gladly take a bullet for him. My solution would be to put everybody in town under house arrest, quarantine the whole tribe and wait for hunger to do the rest of the job. All we need to do is keep the newspapers and Amnesty away. We don't want them in our legs with their human rights crap, their annoying presumption of innocence rhetoric and all that bullshit on neapolitan ice cream from Europe.” 

The military police officers leave for the capital. Evans Ferjuste never woke up despite the noise. Pyram Malvenu shows his written report to his dad and begs him to sign it at the bottom. The commissioner puts his glasses on, but decides to read the content of the statement for a change. That is something he hasn't done in months. 

“Did you get it back,” Chief Malvenu asks after scanning the document. 

“What?” 

“Exhibit A; the electric drill.” 

“You can still smell the gas on the damn thing. Lieutenant Monarque goes out for a smoke every fifteen minutes. That gives him plenty of time to set up an IED and cause serious damages. He is the one who knocked down the wall of your office, searching for we don't know what.” 

“We need to determine his motives before we nail him, son. We must be careful; the man is a Canadian and he's our guest.” 

“The person who sent me that email describes Robin Monarque as a Neo-Nazi. He revealed the geographical location of Mizerikod to his shadowy organization. They're now planning to sterilize all the children of the region. They plan to hide behind a vaccination campaign that will be sponsored by our own government.” 

“That's insane! This is nothing short from genocide. But that could all be made up. Maybe your source is lying, son.” 

“The police truck is in the yard. Go take a quick peak at the tank, dad. Count the holes and then come back to question the integrity of my source again. Why would Vidal Gascon lie to me? If we wait too long before stopping Lieutenant Monarque, we might be too late. He probably contaminated Marguerite with that shitty virus of his already.” 

“Wait, what virus, you mean that this son of a bitch is also sick on top of that?” 

“I went through his medical files. Hepatitis is like a cold compared to what is circulating in Monarque's body. I am no virologist, but when you're carrying a disease with a code name and numerals, it's definitely not a good sign.” 

“I'll go get a warrant from Judge Campbell after breakfast. And before I forget, Pyram, why are those two stinking punks still in here?” Chief Malvenu asks, finger-pointing the two detainees playing checkers. 

“Well, as you know, Guito is here because the Constitution obliges us to feed him twice a day. He hears voices in his head every time he walks through the park near the Presidents Memorial. He waits around supper time to start a riot and just hangs around until we pick him up. Djon Djon stole father Romuald's bicycle again. He believes it's the priest fault, because the old man doesn't use a lock to protect his bike.” 

“Do you have another gun to replace the one you threw away, son?” 

“Many, but none are registered.” 

“Pick one in my reserve and write the serial number in my notebook. But you still have to get your official weapon back from the slums before someone uses it unwisely. That would not look good on us. Do I make myself clear? Now, what was on your mind, throwing your Beretta like a goddamn baseball?” 

“The adrenaline, dad. I wanted to stop Chuck so bad. You had to be in my brain. I was completely obsessed.” 

“Don't make that mistake, Pyro. I understand your hatred for these dogs, but remember that you are a professional. You need to go by the rules as much as you can, and take very few things at the personal level. One of them shit heads charmed your girlfriend and sold her to a group of Dominican cane cutters. So what? Life goes on.” 

“Her name was Amelia, dad, and she was my wife.” 

Pyram Malvenu walks away, his blood pressure rising dangerously. Days before falling for the lies of Jim Falafel, Amelia had revealed her pregnancy to him. 

chapter 2c 

(The Mutineers) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

2c 

The Mutineers 

In the meantime, back in the small town of Saint-Basile-le-Grand, south of Montreal, the rebel elements of the SSG Cell debate on the destiny of Chuck Rasta's former posse. Little Ronnie Costco never tried to usurp the leadership of the gang, but the fact that he is presiding the reunion tells a lot about his hidden agenda. Gunjah Spliff and Jedi don't have a problem with Costco's new attitude, as long as they can keep doing whatever they want. Candy is the sole hustling female of the crew. That makes her the de facto commander of the women's faction of the new dissident organization. The future without Chuck Rasta and the name change of the group is the main subject of the meeting. Gunjah Spliff is quietly rolling a joint on the kitchen counter, giving his back to the rest of the guys, watching TV in the living room. Jedi is in his own world, playing with a PlayStation console, headphones resting on his cheeks. Candy is very agitated. She keeps on looking outside, hiding her face behind the shades. Candy is obviously paranoid, like if she was expecting a police raid any time soon. 

“I thought about the SSH or the SSM; the h standing for hustlers, the M for mobsters,” declares Little Ronnie Costco, while sipping on a glass of Irish whiskey. 
“We're neither,” Jedi says. “The SSG is us, man. We were there long before Paolo and Drive-by. They were just kids when we were already graduated bandits with records and all.” 

“I never really liked SSG,” Gunjah Spliff admits. South Shore Gangsters is a pretty dumb name for a street gang, when you think about it. It basically tells the cops we're from the South Shore and that we're outlaws. To go by unnoticed, I would personally avoid any geographic clue or social declaration. Why not pick a name in Hindi or Mandarin; with nothing indicating that we're a team or doing any business?” 

“What do you think of that?” Little Ronnie Costco asks Candy. 
“Aren't you afraid, Chuck is going to come back?” 

“Not really. Chances that he is already locked up and back in jail are very high. Haiti will not let him go unhurt and alive; Canada will not let him in even if he is boxed in a coffin. And Candy, will you please stop looking through the window, you crazy bitch? The neighbors are going to start thinking we're planning their execution or something.” 
“I just smoked. Just having a bad trip, that's all.” 

“Chuck needs money to organize is escape. And we all know that his dough is stashed somewhere in here.” 

“I already knocked down three walls,” Gunjah Spliff says. “We've turned the crib upside down, despite the risks of explosions. I don't want to touch the wrong thread or the wrong cable. I was not the one in charge when Chuck decided to put booby traps in the entire house. I think it's too dangerous to move or touch anything else, especially now that we're high. I still believe Naomi is the only person who knows about Chuck's hiding place, and it's definitely not in here. That's why she disappeared without leaving any clue.” 

“I thought about something drastic if we don't find Naomi,” Jedi whispers. “But it is a little bit extreme.” 

“Speak your mind.” 

“We pay a visit to his mom in the West Island, wearing masks. If the money is there, it's worth the crime. If not, we make her call Chuck and force him to sing whatever song we want. I'm sure she knows how to reach him.” 

“That's just disgusting,” Candy protests. “Chuck's mother used to babysit you, you ungrateful wolf!” 
“Hey! the judge tagged me a sociopath. For the right amount of liquid cash, I'm ready to prove him right.” 

The phone rings. Everyone freezes. Candy fears that it might be Chuck. Jedi hopes it's one of his ex-comrades in reconciliation mode. Little Ronnie thinks it would be a mistake to answer, because the number is under the name of the owner of the house. That phone practically never rings, and when it does, no one usually picks it up. Gunjah Spliff doesn't think when he grabs the handset. The joint he is smoking is bigger than a Cuban cigar. 

“Word?” 

“Good morning, may I speak to Charles-Henri Veriquin, please?” 

“Wrong number, Buddy, there is no Henri Charles Brochafoin here.” 

“That is Chuck's real name,” Jedi informs Gunjah. 

“Who's asking for him?” Little Ronnie Costco mutters. 

“Yeah, it's me,” Gunjah continues. “What do you want, who am I talking to?” 

“Well, my name is Sylvain Boileau-Landry, from the Caisse Populaire de Saint-Hubert. Following the letters we sent you, a three thousand and three hundred dollar deposit on your mortgage would be greatly appreciated.” 

“Will I have to pimp your mom or your sister to gather that much cash, Chummy?” 
“I'm sorry?” 

“According to my horoscope, I doubt I can pay all that today, tomorrow or whenever. So…” 

“In that case, Mr. Veriquin, I have no choice, but to transfer your file to the recovery department. They are far less flexible than us.” 

“Is that a menace?” 

“Listen, Sir, you're three months late. We want to help, but you've got to help us help you.” 

“At what time do you get off work?” 

“We're open till four, Sir.” 

“What about the Red Mazda in the parking lot, is it yours?” 

“What Mazda? I'm lost here, Sir.” 

“What kind of car do you drive?” 

“I'm currently renting a Grey Subaru. But Sir, I just don't see the link between my crossover and the current situation.” 

“It's my way to find you. You must be short, with a pimple face and a tight ass. Am I right?” 

“Where are you going with this, Mr. Veriquin, I don't understand?” 

“When I start poking you with my butter knife, everything will be clarified, you fucking dweeb.” 

“We don't need to go there, Mr. Veriquin, violence is certainly not the answer. Let us work together to find a solution. May I recommend you to avoid threatening my life while we do this? You do understand that our conversation is being recorded?” 

“That's exactly what I'm trying to tell you, fuck head. I'm totally disconnected, completely coocoo. I hear voices and they're begging me to kill you. Waaaah!” 

Gunjah Spliff hangs up the phone. Everyone is just staring at him. Candy believes that the cops are already on their way with a search warrant. She starts shaking. The guys will never forgive her if they find out she's still shooting heroin. Jedi is weighing the options. Should he pack all his brand new ultramodern firearms and leave the house right away? For his part, Little Ronnie Costco is convinced that the seriousness of the situation is dramatically being exaggerated by the THC factor. Hitting the road could make things worse. The SSG Crew owns one car, a tuned up Black Dodge Charger fitted with titanium mags. That vehicle would look suspicious even if it was painted in pink with a rainbow and a peace sign on each side. Gunjah Spliff passes the blunt to Jedi and goes back to his seat in the kitchen, his scissors ready to chop another chump of marijuana to roll another biggie. 

2d 

The Cab Driver 

A couple of miles away west, a man and a woman from two different cultures and very different backgrounds share the same room in a Châteauguay motel. Hilaire Veriquin is extremely anxious. His nervousness makes him insomniac and anorexic; Naomi Naud is calm, her nicotine withdrawal makes her unusually voracious and narcoleptic. The generational gap between the two makes the conversations sparse. They are not a couple in need of counseling. The man is a kidnapper, the young woman, his victim. Hilaire Veriquin is in denial, trying hard to minimize the gravity of his crime by assuming that the absence of violence makes it less serious. It is after all abduction, a very serious offense in the civilized world. Hilaire just spoke on the phone with the man who hired him to commit this despicable felony, a certain Mr. B., a taciturn and short-tempered individual who used a bunch of word plays and a series of double entendre to explain what was coming next. It didn’t take long for Hilaire to realize that this maniac was planning to make of him an accomplice to first degree murder. 

The nightmare of this modest taxi driver began on the day he finally admitted to himself that he was never going to regain his losses at the American roulette. Hilaire failed in obtaining a ten thousand dollar loan from a legal institution to erase his debts and, furthermore, keep his legs away from the orthopedist. He felt obliged to go out and beg his rotten nephew, Paolo, for help, in order to find a fast paying job on the side. Three days later, two offers were laid on the table. Hilaire Veriquin had to choose between delivering drugs with his taxi cab for ten straight weekends or bring a fierce young lady to a designated address, by any means necessary, and then wait for instructions and for his retribution. As usual, Hilaire Veriquin picked the easiest way out of trouble. The sinister individual with whom he made that verbal deal, the man known as Mister B., just confirmed over the phone that he would show up at the motel before noon with Hilaire's reward. But the cab driver feels absolutely no joy, when thinking about the big amount of money he is going to receive. 

Meanwhile, Naomi is quietly watching television and listening to some music on her iPod, on the only bed available in room number 29. Communicating with the outside world is forbidden to her, supposedly for her own security, but she is okay with that. If Mr. Veriquin wanted to do her any harm, he surely would have thought about hiding his identity picture in the car. Naomi trusts her fiancé's uncle. She did however keep to herself the fact that she has been sending dozens of text messages, every single time she had to use the bathroom. 

chapter 2b 

(The Traitor)

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency

by Jude Jarda

2b 
The Traitor

While Chuck Three-Brothers is busy putting the final touches to his bizarre plan of robbing himself, Jones Brooklyn is trying to understand the last arithmetic lesson he recently grasped over the Internet. Jones refuge is forty feet away from Chuck's hideout. It is basically a military tent, but fully equipped with electronic materials, computers, weapons and a large quantity of various chemical products. An AK-47 Kalashnikov is hanging above the entrance, the barrel pointing down like the Sword of Damocles. The trigger of the assault riffle is attached to an ultra-resistant monofilament fishing line with a refractive index very much similar to water. The fiber thread disappears behind a commode and reappears two inches above the floor in front of a hammock. It finally enters a nineteenth century coffer that is nicely adorned by two Colt Peacemaker revolvers with ivory grips. A dozen laptops and smart phones are plugged into a diesel generator. The place is a mess, but Jones many possessions indicate that he is a settled bachelor. The antique furnishing blends well with his gadgets, game consoles, LCD television sets, sound systems and drum machines. Jones Brooklyn's dining room consists of six chairs and a table that probably came from the same restaurant. The tent is decorated with souvenir photos, newspaper articles, car calendars, and a collection of Hollywood stars portraits, sports magazine covers and snapshots of famous and unknown politicians. Jones Brooklyn's love for fashion shows in his modest residence; what he doesn't wear anymore lies on the muddy floor or is sewn to the ceiling to close the holes and keep the place dry when it rains. Colorful tablecloths and plastic sheets protect his weapons, computers and music equipment from dust and keep them out of sight from potential thieves. 

Jim Falafel just left Jones's HQ. He came to give Jones his cut of the weekly loot; a sum of seven hundred dollars. Jones is upset. He clearly remembers Chuck talking about a state of accounts mentioning a profit of seven thousand dollars for the last seven days. That was before collecting the two thousand dollar ransom for releasing the Red Cross driver. According to the math teacher from the Lycée Notre-Dame de France, on the Internet, eating twenty-five per cent of a pie is like eating one piece of the pastry cut in four equal parts. Before Chuck Three-Brothers got in the picture, splitting the booty of the Diabbakas was a very simple task. It was ten bills for you, ten bills for me. The division was visual and palpable. The day Chuck brought the notion of percentage and fraction in the equation, everything became complicated. How come four piles of seven hundred don't add up to seven thousand if it is indeed twenty-five per cent? Jones Brooklyn calculates. The answer is obvious. Chuck Three-Brothers is screwing everyone. He separates the profits at his own advantage since he joined the club. Where Jones Brooklyn is from, that type of behavior deserves a severe sanction. 

The Baudouin-Lacroix twins enter Jones's tent on the tip of their toes. The two bogus Rastafarians walk around with extreme prudence. Touching the almost invisible fishing line is out of the question. That would be a stupid way for a self-designated wise guy to die. Yves, aka, Yves Lacroix, also known as Lefty and sometimes called Loverboy, pulls a chair in a safe corner and stays quiet, looking extremely concerned. Yvon, aka, Yvon Baudouin, also known as Righty and sometimes identified as the Cherokee, approaches Jones with his index finger placed upon his lips and whispers: 

“Mistaken identity, Emcee Jones.” 
“Wooooh! What the hell is wrong with your breath, you fuck'n reptile? Your mouth smells like death.” 
“Shhh!” 

“Why do you have to be so close to communicate with me?” 

“I don't want Chuck Canada to hear what we have to say.” 

“There is at least ten tons of cement between Chuck's rabbit hole and my place. It's not the case with your sick dog's breath. I just have to put some music and pump up the volume a bit, you stupid ass bitch.” 

Jones Brooklyn opens a file from his music sequencer. That gives him an opportunity to show his new internet site and let the twins hear some clips from his upcoming rap album, entirely plagiarized on the works of Mos Def, De La Soul and Q-Tip. 

“Okay, now, tell me what's consuming your monkey brain, Baudouin?” 

“The guy you asked us to keep an eye on,” starts the right handed twin known as Cherokee. 
“Is not the man we've been planning to abduct for the last four weeks,” ends the clearly disappointed left handed twin known as Loverboy. 
“In the beginning, we really thought it was him, Billionaire, you know, the guy in the film, the largest employer in town?” Cherokee continues. “There was no doubt in our mind that we were dealing with the same dude running the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation. I got this close to him during President Martelly's visit last year. And I never forget a face. Now, here is the situation: you promise us riches in return for our loyalty; we gave it all to you. What do we get in return? I say, deceptions.” 

“What the chuffing hell are you talking about, you inbred retard?” 

“Either you know something, but think we're just too dumb to understand, either you don't know but… no, let me rephrase that. Either you know, but you're acting like if…” 

Jones Brooklyn pulls out a pistol from his waist at the speed of light and places the barrel between the nose and the upper lip of Yvon Baudouin-Lacroix. Based on the highly irregular and uncontrollable nervous movements of his left eyelid, Jones patience has attained its limits and Cherokee is unfortunately going to die. 

“You stop fucking with my brains right now, Cherokee. The next thing that comes out of that stinky mouth of yours better make sense or I'll gladly put an extra hole into it.” 
“Chuck Canada played us, Emcee Jones. You snatched the wrong guy. The man you took from the senator's mansion is not the president of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation.” 

“Yeah? So who is he, then, tell me?” 
“We have absolutely no idea, man. One thing is certain; he is either Jewish or Muslim.” 
“Wait a second! fumes a suddenly furious and out of his mind, Jones Brooklyn. You think I'm bluffing because I didn't pull the trigger yet? Do you want me to pour some acid in your ears? Guess how many dorks like you I've killed with that Colt since I started shaving? Tell me a number, take your pick, come on, just test me! I'm the one who went inside the villa of the senator to grab Billionaire, you fool. I knocked him out myself. As I recall, the sun was arising and I wasn't drunk like Chuck and Gargarine. I've been spying on the target for months. I shook hands with Billionaire at the Kompa Lakay Club. Blindfold me and I will locate the man with my nose, because I know the scent of his cologne. A very feminine fragrance, by the way. There are more pictures of him in my computer than there is of naked chicks. Come take a look.” 

“That is really strange,” says Yves Lacroix, as he gets closer to the computer screen chosen by Jones Brooklyn to show the veracity of his claim. 

The twins are astounded by the first close-up picture of the individual. Unless cloning people is already feasible, the hostage that Jones left under their surveillance is definitely the man everybody in town calls Billionaire, Director, sometimes Brainer or The Architect. It is without a doubt the head of the Vilaj Espwa project and the very popular president of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation. It is indeed the show off who takes control of the Kompa Lakay Club on every Saturday night, always drinking Champagne in the middle of the dance floor and surrounding himself with a bunch of wet groupies.

Yves Baudouin-Lacroix details the origin of the misunderstanding. His brother and him were having fun, harassing and terrorizing the important prisoner. For instance, they kept threatening of severing his testicles and sewing them on his forehead using dental floss, if they didn't get a positive response for the ransom they've asked for in time. Billionaire began to cry and to implore the sky in a language containing tons of h's and throaty sounds. He begged the twins to set him free. He swore on his mother's grave that his family was poor, that there was no way anyone he knew could raise such an amount of money for his release. Billionaire added that he was indeed working for the Foundation, but only as a paid actor and a double for the real president. He never took part in any official decision. All he did was playing this puppet role to divert the attention from the real rulers of the organization. Billionaire was so terrified that he ratted on some of those deciders. He mentioned, Philbert Hans-Orville Grosbois, a powerful lawyer based in New York City, Gustave Amaury Quick, an international financier from Boston, and also Deodas Demosthene Legitime, a well known businessman living in Montreal, and the brother of Sixte Osmer Legitime, the philanthropist who left his fortune in the hands of the Foundation. The hostage wrote some digits on a piece of paper; an account number linked to a financial institution, located in the Province of Quebec, that could possibly lead to the people masterminding this great conspiracy. The twins were flabbergasted when Billionaire declared himself a Moroccan born in Marrakech and being named Yosef Cohen-Abitbol. He was in Haiti only because his deeply indebted Palestinian impresario had promised him a large paycheck at the end of this unusual acting gig. Believing that their prisoner was delirious because of an empty stomach, Yvon Baudouin-Lacroix offered him the leftovers of his grillot, rice and plantains plate. The captive jumped on the food, but while chewing, he suddenly became suspicious. He wanted to know what type of meat that delicious thing in his mouth was. Billionaire forced himself to throw up when the word pork was pronounced. Therefore, the Baudouin-Lacroix twins concluded that Billionaire was Jewish by name, Muslim, according to his place of birth, and practicing both religion every time the question of banned food surfaced as a topic. 

Jones Brooklyn had stopped listening to the twins for a good while. He is now convinced that they are using drugs behind his back, despite the interdiction in the Diabbakas ethics charter. On the other hand, he concedes that Billionaire must be an amazing actor, good enough to manipulate the twins to the point of rendering them sensitive to human sufferance. Jones advises Yvon and Yves to forget about everything the hostage told them and concentrate on more serious matters. He orders Yvon Baudouin, the right-handed twin, to head for Carrefour, where Jones set up a meeting between him and a visitor from abroad that he recruited on Facebook. The bloke is supposed to be an ex-member of Chuck's Quebecois gang, recently converted to the Seventh-Day Adventist Church. Brikoleur, as he is known in Carrefour, will meet him in front of the Sports center of the commune. Yves Lacroix, the left-handed twin, is sent to Jacmel, to gather information from a guy who spent time in jail with Chuck back in Montreal. It is fair to believe that this Paquito Luis Villacampa holds a lot of information on Chuck Canada and his secret stash of money. 

chapter 2a 
(The Reclining Chair) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

2a 

The Reclining Chair 

The sun rises for every soul of the shanty town located on the south side of Mizerikod, but Chuck Three-Brothers stays away from the daylight by choice. That's his way to keep feeding the stories about his evil nature and nourish the myth that depicts him as an immortal specter. His hideout is under the rubble of a collapse blacksmith shop. The place is hot like a furnace and is only accessible through a small gap between two crushed doors. Chuck is in the company of Jim Falafel and Jeff Sprinter, his main lieutenants; two other Haitian natives that were expatriated from Canada by a judge who tagged them as irrecoverable offenders and a considerable threat to national security. Jim is a slim fellow who dresses like a real dandy. He also spends all his free time at the barbershop, working on his hairdos and watching international sporting events on satellite television. Jim Falafel got stuck with that unusual nickname when his buddies found him in a humid cave at the foot of the Black Mountains, agitated and delirious, repeatedly yelling that Egyptian word. Deprived of food and shelter for days, he had been on the run and hiding from the police, but got lost after a storm. More laid back, Jeff Sprinter is a great hulk of a guy who shadow boxes and does push ups all day. He only wears tracksuits and snickers, even at funerals and weddings. 

Chuck Three-Brothers is reviewing the recent activities of the gang with his two associates. He tackles a number of issues; notably the fact that the junior members of the crew have been parading around town a little too much. They have been seen mingling with law-abiding citizens and talking in public with far too many honest folks. Chuck warns Sprinter and Falafel that such behavior is bound to attract wannabe thugs in the inner circle of the association. Inviting a flock of sheep to play with a pack of wolves will no doubt make us look less menacing in the eyes of the general population. The gang leader then carries on with the weekly report of the organization, focusing on the proceeds and the way he plans to split the moola. 

“Seventeen abductions were planned; four have succeeded, two of them were profitable,” Chuck Three-Brothers tells Jim Falafel and Jeff Sprinter. “From now on, it will be forbidden to ransom the same person twice. There's one particular man, a French national working for the Red Cross, in Croix-des-Bouquets. We just cashed in two thousand bucks for his liberation. Well, that dude just became too cozy with us. You understand? I was told that he calls many of our soldiers by their birth names, which, of course, makes no fucking sense, since we're not even supposed to exist. The guy told George Double-U and Jason that he frequently dreamt about them. He said that he wished they'd be less tender with him, that they should use their well sculpted and rugged hands more thoroughly to make him collaborate next time they meet. Those are exactly the words he employed. Now, I don't know what the hell he meant, but I don't want any of this in my business. I must also warn you, guys, you're gonna have to make some more research before you kidnap people you don't know. Our profession is not well regarded by civilians. Therefore, we must have a good code of conduct and show some professionalism. And please don't go messing around with people carrying bigger guns than us. Jones Brooklyn's team traded a businessman from the capital for five thousand dollars, last Sunday after church. Do you have any idea who that man is? The fucker's name is Burns Breton. You learned it from me; we're talking about the psychopath of Delmas. It may be complete fabrication, Vidal Gascon being my main source of information, but folks in town do say that this deranged motherfucker eats human flesh to stay young and healthy. And that's not all; Breton works for William Anne Dumortier, aka Willy Bossal, the former military commander who now runs the drug business in Anse-à-Galets like if it was his personal garden. Good news for us, Burns Breton took a plane for Montreal two days ago from O'Hare. The bad news: that screwball will be back sooner or later to question us. Remember that Burns Breton is the man in charge of the company responsible for the landscaping and maintenance of the city's cemetery. That cutthroat knows how to get rid of a corpse without leaving a trace for the forensic teams. Personally, it gives me the creeps to know that this mental holds a grudge against us. Making this man angry was a very huge mistake. It should not have happened. Burns Breton trusted us; he was on our side in this combat for survival. He is our weapon's dealer and our main cocaine buyer and distributor. I must also add that Breton is our number one informer within the National Police. Now, stupid ass Jones Brooklyn knew about all the things I am revealing to you this morning. He was perfectly aware that toying with Burns Breton was like juggling with five loaded guns on a wet trampoline. So now I'm thinking, either Jones Brooklyn wants us all killed by this maniac, either he plans to whack Breton before he goes bonkers on our asses when he gets back here. I should be able to answer that enigma before the end of the day. Am I forgetting something? Yes, I want you to spread the word among the crew. When the whole family of an abducted victim refuses to pay and insist that you keep that said person because they've labeled the hostage completely worthless, get rid of the prisoner before plunging our fraternity into deficit. You've got to understand that the rice we feed the captives costs money. Now, let's talk about our profits. We made 7000 dollars this week. I took my thirty per cent share before you arrived. Your shares are in the envelopes on my desk; fifteen for you, Jim, fifteen for you Jeff. Jones Brooklyn's ten per cent is in the usual schoolboy bag, along with the thirty per cent split in two per cent fractions for the rest of the Diabbaka Brotherhood. The question period is open. Be brief.” 

“How much are you asking for the release of the Vilaj Espwa director?” Jim Falafel inquires. 
“A hundred K, minimum,” Chuck Three-Brothers answers. “I'm going to let the newspapers speculate a little bit on the identity and the market value of our man before fixing a maximum price.” 
“Who's going to get our next kilo out of the country?” Jeff Sprinter asks. 
“Mullet Dot Org's deaf uncle lands from West Palm Beach on Monday. The fact that his English is very limited helps him go through customs hassle-free. Our money will be hidden in the next mobile phone shipment. We must also remind Mullet Dot Org to stop showing off. It doesn't make sense anymore. He has to stop acting like a newly rich spoiled bitch. Have you seen him walking around with his crocodile leather shoes and that ugly stupid watch showing more diamonds than numbers? Who the hell needs a platinum tie clip, anyway? Mullet is out of his mind, I tell you. It's too many expenses for a storekeeper who sells seven phones and three computers each month. I gave him a serious warning. If you catch Mullet Dot Org on a real motorcycle, flaunting on the boardwalk with a pack of hired women and wearing real bling-bling all the way up to his neck, you can break all his front teeth or cut his right thumb. Be courteous, give him the choice. That brings me to the issue of the Baudouin-Lacroix twins. Will someone put and end to their foolishness? The left-handed one stole a garbage truck in Kenscoff. There's no buyer for that kind of crap. It stinks, it's losing oil and there's a big hole right in front of the driver's seat. Worse of all, the moron drew our logo on that truck with a steel blue paint bomb. The right-handed twin is not doing any better. I've been told the idiot broke a Minustah officer's head with a cast iron saucepan in front of a crowd at a Petionville Hotel. The imbecile yelled to the witnesses that were watching his bloody show, that his name was Chuck Three-Brothers, and that they’d better not forget it. Do you have any clue as to why this nitwit would mention my name on a crime scene and insist on reminding people to remember it? I did two months in jail since my extradition and did fifty more days hiding like an animal in the Massif de la Hotte. I won’t go through such misery again. Filling my empty stomach with living and moving insects is not for me. As soon as Jones Brooklyn is neutralized, I want the twins out of this department, across the border or at the bottom of the sea with the crabs. My patience has a limit. I warned them not to piss me off. Now leave me alone. Go bring their cuts to the brothers and take names if anyone asks to double check my calculations.” 

Jim Falafel and Jeff Sprinter depart from Chuck's hideout. Chuck suddenly becomes very nostalgic. He cannot stand the mosquito bites and the constant heat anymore. He misses the harsh Quebec winters he used to dread; the pleasure felt when wrapped in a comforter by the fireplace, awaiting the end of the snowstorm. Chuck remembers the good old days; when he used to deal with cops who didn’t feel obliged to hit his genitals before questioning; when he was chased by educated detectives who’d wait for a warrant before putting him under arrest; days when professional law officers felt absolutely no need to shoot in his direction to get his attention. Everything Chuck loves is in the northern hemisphere, family, houses, belongings and all his cash. He takes a seat on a Cola Champagne case, opens his new laptop, adjust the webcam and uses Skype to make a video call. His cousin, Paolo, answers. 

“Player!” Paolo cries out. “I wasn’t expecting your call. Is it the lighting or you’re getting darker? Shit, man, you’re black as coal.” 
“It’s no joke around here, little cousin. The sun down here is like an oven. Where are you at?” 
“Big Moose’s apartment in Longueuil. There’s Ricardo, Drive-By, Anaïs and Florence with us. They’re stuck on channel 23 in the living room. The rest of the crew is at the bungalow in Saint-Basile. Yo, man, the SSG Cell has been in a state of crisis since our last reunion. And internal war is causing a ravage inside our ranks. Gunjah Spliff pointed an Uzi on Ricardo and me the other day, because we didn’t want him to go sell all your stuff to a pawn shop on Taschereau Boulevard. Your studio is gone, Playa, no more console, no more microphones. Don’t ask me why, but your analog turntables and your digital mixer are at Candy’s house in a FedEx box. You basically have nothing left that can be plugged. Ace and Miron left the boat with no warnings whatsoever. Ace tells everyone he meets that the SSG Cell doesn’t make enough dough for him anymore and that we've morphed into an amateur club. He told Florence he might try to join the major leagues in Montreal or the NSC Brothers in Laval. Ace doesn’t seem to understand that these guys know each other since childhood. If he joins them, they’re simply going to use him to do their dirty jobs, the kind of acts that lead directly to jail or to the morgue. Nobody understands what’s going on in Miron’s head since he met that church lady in the metro. He is now some kind of Christian extremist, warning people to repent before the second coming of Christ in public places. Little Ronnie Costco thinks he is our president whenever he gets high. He is wearing all your jewels, a watch on each wrist. He is obviously preparing a takeover. He keeps repeating that you’ll never find a way back in Canada with the new security laws put in place by the US. I even heard him talk about selling your heart-shaped waterbed on Craig’s List. Your bed, fuck! Do you understand the level of chaos we’re dealing with? You’ve got to get back here, Playa.” 
“Who takes care of my house, Paolo? Does the money I send go straight to the mortgage and the bills?” 
“Accounting is Naomi’s responsibility, but no one knows where she is. Concerning the electricity, the cable, the phone and the Internet, just forget about it, Little Ronnie Costco and Gunjah stopped opening the envelopes a while ago. And your home is officially a dump, Playa. Nobody cleans whatever mess they've caused. You’ve got dirty dishes, cigarettes butches, empty beer bottles and pizza boxes moving on their own.” 
“Why didn’t you tell me all that before?” Chuck moans. 
“I called you exactly two hundred and sixty-two times on a period of twenty-eight days; check it out on your Blackberry. Don’t tell me I wasn’t annoyed by the situation. I was redirected every time to your voice mail. I did exchange a couple of text messages and emails with your First Colonel. He was supposed to transfer all the information I gave him directly to you. I hope you trust him, because I linked him to our uncle. Hilaire was desperately looking for a hot job to make some fast cash. So I hooked him on a paying gig. Everything is set up. Your guy told me it was all right with you and gave me the flag of your approval.” 
“Emcee Jones never mentioned any of that to me. That’s pretty strange. I lost my personal digital assistant in a nightclub last month. Nobody tried to sell it or put it back in service, so I assume it's still in the lost and found at the Kompa Lakay club. I couldn’t dial in my mailbox or my Gmail, simply because I have a ton of passwords and they’re all in a word document on that lost PC. That said computer has been damaged recently by someone in my entourage. It's a total wreck. I have reasons to believe that Jones Brooklyn is the culprit, but I can't prove it yet. I couldn’t bring that machine to the repair shop or go recuperate my Blackberry at the nightclub because of a deranged cop who is chasing me around to kill me. Bring Naomi in front of the camera.” 
“Nobody knows where she is, I've told you. Naomi went out clubbing with Candy, Wednesday, on Halloween Eve, knowing for a fact that Candy had chosen to join the rebels led by Costco and Spliff. I heard that a big fight broke out on de Maisonneuve Street between a Black Posse and some very unlucky McGill students. Naomi and Candy lost each other from sight in the ensuing riot. A friend of Florence swore that she saw Naomi jump in a cab during the brawl. I have zero news since. We just hope that she is not in the custody of those mean motherfuckers. They are core members of the Laval NSC. The kind of swine that could sell her to the first Turkish ship anchored in the Old Port for a pack of hash and a shish taouk with extra hummus.” 
“What have you done to find her?” Chuck Three-Brothers asks with a lot of anger. 
“We've searched all the strip clubs in town and every popular after-hours. We roam the streets and question the right people. The girls put their energy visiting women's shelters and Naomi's extended family. Wait a second; you better speak to Florence directly. Florence! Hey, Gang, it’s Chuck Rasta Playa on Skype. Come see how dark he got!” 
“I don’t want to speak with anyone else, Paolo. Let's keep this between you and I. Did you receive the last load of weapons from the Indian Reserve, the high-tech pieces with laser pointers?” 
“The weirdo from the funeral home delivered them on time, just like you planned. That Mister B. guy is a very strange character. Not being seen is an obsession for him. We never got to meet face to face.” 
“Find some sandbags and a bullet-proof vest, Paolo. We're going to fix Little Ronnie Costco's problem for good. I'll call you back around three this afternoon. Say hi to everybody for me. I've got to think of a plan. Please find Naomi, Paolo. It's urgent. I'll owe you one.” 

Please is not a word often used by a roughneck like Chuck Three-Brothers. Naomi is one of the rare souls on Earth to know anything about his good side. Chuck fell in love with Naomi the moment he laid eyes on her. He had never seen such grace and beauty in a woman before. After dreaming about her for a week and losing ten pounds due to a sudden loss of appetite, Chuck went to his sister to get some advice. Georgelina being an avid Harlequin books reader, the methods of seduction she proposed to Chuck were kind of okay for a normal guy trying to be romantic. But Chuck found himself too impatient, introverted and impulsive for her recommended tactics. He therefore decided to proceed with his usual techniques. He spied on Naomi for a while to learn more about her interest. He quickly found out that she liked shopping, fashion, nightlife in the city's hot spots, expensive cars and five stars restaurants. So Chuck sent half a dozen goons to her boyfriend's house in Montreal to beat him the crap out of him and make him comprehend why moving away from town would be a wise choice if living was one of his priorities. Chuck then put his evil plan to work. He became Naomi's prince charming, covering her with gifts and taking her out to fancy places, sometimes picking her up in a limousine. His goal was to ask for reimbursement and force her to become his personal property as soon as she would show signs of love or recognition. Chuck was going to give her the key of a three bedroom condominium to enslave her for good, when he discovered Naomi's real age. Nineteen sounded so young that he used to lie about it to anyone who'd ask. Sixteen, like she really was, made him feel like a nanny, and eventually a criminal if he touched her. So Chuck put a stop to his illegal confinement plan and walked away from Naomi. But echoes of her decaying health reached his ears six months later. Chuck first thought it was a sham, but when he saw her bony body lying on a hospital bed, he admitted the seriousness of the situation. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia; that is what doctors called her disease. Naomi blamed her aggressive, incompetent hippie parents for her condition and said she didn't want them around anymore. Because he had a heart somewhere in his chest, Chuck decided to become the tutor and protector of that innocent juvenile Caucasian female. Naomi eventually got better and slowly became Chuck's courier, accountant and assistant. 

Chuck was deported from Canada after a ten-month sentence and has been in Haiti for the last eleven. He hasn't seen his family since. Because he is about to lie to them, he prefers to avoid any eye contact. Chuck puts the computer aside and switches for the telephone. He dials his mother's number with a mobile he took from Jones Brooklyn's stash. His sister, Georgelina, answers. 

“Hello?” 
“Hey, Dragonfly.” 
“Good Lord, Charles, is that really you?” 
“How are you, little sis?” 
“Just having a heart attack for now. Where have you been, you stupid burro? Mom and I thought you might be dead. Do you want me to reach her at work for a conference call?” 
“I'll speak to her later.” 
“Last time you mentioned the word later, we didn't hear from you for a whole year. Are you completely senseless, you cold-hearted retarded baboon? What have we done to deserve all the baloney, you...” 
“Georgie!” Chuck yells out. 
“Don't raise your voice on me, you freaking monster!” 
“Besides the apologies, there's nothing I can do to fix the past.” 
“First of all, where are you calling from, why didn't you come directly to the house?” 
“I'm in the Bahamas.” 
“Aaaaaaah! ha! ha! ha!” Georgelina laughs. “Let me guess. You found a manager's job at the Hilton British Colonial with your fake diploma in accounting? Before you try to feed me more of your lies, let me tell you what I know about your recent follies. You didn't go to Australia last year to work as a tourist guide like you pretended. Instead, you were jailed at the Bordeaux prison for drug trafficking. You were twenty minutes away from us by car, you soulless animal. But at least, you used to pick up the phone and communicate with us once in a while. Montreal is smaller than you think, Charles. There was a solid rumor about you being thrown out from Canada by the Justice Department for a second time. Is that rumor true?” 
“I'll be back soon.” 
“No way! Don't tell me that they sent you to die in that hellhole again? Mom doesn't need this right now. She is already losing sleep over uncle Hilaire's predicaments. Auntie Monique is convinced that he owes money to the wrong people. He is clearly hiding and still lying about his gambling problems. She saw him riding in a car with our wicked little cousin, Paolo. This means he is up to no good. And now, you come from nowhere to announce that you're trapped in that devastated country. You're going to kill our mom, you ignoble assassin! Where you hit by Hurricane Sandy? Are you walking in mud like they're showing on TV?” 
“Calm down, sweetie, breathe though your nose. We're talking days, now, two weeks top. I'll be home knocking at the front door. Just tell Mother that I am in the West Indies, healthy and on my way back with plenty of gifts.” 
“Who feeds you, Charles?” 
“I am twenty-eight, Georgie, what are you talking about? You know I'm a hustler. In fact, I eat very well, better than most people down here. Listen, do you want to make some fast and easy money?” 
“Of course not, who needs cash in a world where everything is free?” 
“Stop playing, Georgie. I have some fresh bread for you and Mom, but I cannot go through the regular money transfer services. There's just too much of it. I need you to take care of it.” 
“Interesting, a job proposition, go ahead. I can't wait to find out if it leads me to prison or in a refrigerator at the coroner's office.” 
“Be serious for a moment. It's nothing risky and very easy. Are you familiar with the South Shore, do you know Saint-Basile?” 
“Not particularly.” 
“Saint-Bruno?” 
“I've been there once to ski, but that was years ago.” 
“Saint-Basile is not far from there, a couple of minutes on the 116, which you get from the 30 East. All you have to do is show up at my old place. I'll tell you where to find a double of the key. You go inside my music studio, that's the second door left to the bathroom on the main floor. You'll find an old reclining chair in the corner. You can't miss it, it's dirty and stained. Use a knife to rip open the cushion if the zipper is too rusted. The package is in a white and blue Honduran cigar box with five stars in the center. You'll find between eighty and a ninety thousands bucks in it. Hide the dough in a safe place until I come back home to split it in three.” 
“That's a lot of cheese, Charles. Does anyone else know about this? I don't want to be involved in anything dangerous. I would have to be certain that it's safe.” 
“I will only give you the address when I am sure that every detail of the plan is perfect. First of all, the house will be empty. I guarantee you that the undesirable rats that took control of my domicile will all be locked down at the police station when I give you the green light. Are you with me on this, Georgie?” 
“I'm a bit reluctant to join in your gimmick. A lot of your friends have made the front page of the city's newspapers recently. I don't want any trouble.” 
“It's a lot of money, Georgie. I'll call you back around two o'clock this afternoon. Don't worry about a thing. I know what I'm doing. The whole operation will take less than five minutes.” 
“What if I choke at the last minute?” 
“Once I give you the address of that house, there is no turning back. You automatically become an accomplice. If the banknotes vanish after you've been informed, that wouldn't look very good. We don't want to go there.” 
“Did you think of anybody else before asking me?” 
“There is Paolo, but I can't trust him with that much cash involved.” 
“I'll do it.” 
“That's the spirit, Dragonfly, keep your mind on the money and the money on your mind.”