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.