chapter 2a
(The Reclining Chair)
(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.”
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.”
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