chapter 11d
(Mister B.)
Moïse Berri
and the Reconstruction of the Haitian
Space Agency
by Jude Jarda
11d
Mister B.
Mister B.
Two days ago, Hilaire Veriquin wandered way beyond the frontiers of common sense when he declared himself capable of conducting a kidnapping and behaving like a cold-blooded criminal for the right amount of money. His inexperience was not helpful. Hilaire acted alone and unmasked. He also used his personal car and rented the room, using his own credit card and showing his driver’s license, thus leaving a trail of evidence behind him. Adding to his imprudence and carelessness, Hilaire lately became insensitive and brutal. Indeed, he lost his temper and hit his young female hostage.
What made this respectable and decent taximan sink so low? The man who sponsored Naomi Naud's abduction was supposed to show up at the motel with Hilaire's wages at noon. But, the enigmatic Mister B. called earlier to inform Hilaire he was running late. The man began to stammer almost immediately when he got a hold of Hilaire on the phone. He could not make it on time because of a problem with his old fax machine. Hilaire took this as a red flag. He was now convinced that very unpleasant complications were coming up ahead. Hilaire decided it was time for him to jump out of that ship before it slipped into deeper and darker waters. Hilaire wanted to go back home to his wife now. Monique did not deserve to be treated this way. Hilaire phoned her and promised that he'd be back to the nest in the next hours. The lying had to stop, but he just couldn't really tell her the whole truth right away. Where would he start?
Soon after he hung up, ridden with guilt and desperately feeling the need to be honest with at least one person, Hilaire took out his pocket agenda. He first thought about reaching Fritz Alphonse, his boxing partner at the gym, a high school social worker. However, Fritz new many of Hilaire's in-laws and was not to be trusted with a secret. The man played bingo every other Wednesday with a bunch of nosy housewives and always had something to say. Hilaire also considered a full confession to Roger Picotte, his next door neighbor. The barbecue master of the 35th Avenue in Lachine had the wisdom of a monk, but he only spoke French. To make sure that Naomi Naud would not understand the conversation, Hilaire believed it would be best to speak solely in Creole. So he called a fellow cabman named Bachir, a Lebanese colleague that new enough Creole to hold a basic chat. Hilaire felt relieved after confessing the details of his crimes to his Maronite friend. Hilaire Veriquin knew for sure that Bachir would be disappointed. He knew that he would be judged. He even feared being denounced to the police by his pal. Hilaire never thought for a moment that the real danger was lying on the bed right next to him. Naomi Naud was fluent in Creole. Not one word of Hilaire's dialogue with Bachir fell in deaf ears.
According to the text messages Naomi Naud was receiving from Haiti for the last two days, she was in that motel room because Chuck Three-Brothers planned it this way. Chuck wrote that he was preparing Naomi's emigration to Monaco, where he was supposed to join her in a near future, get married and start a new life together. Naomi asked Hilaire for some explanations. What was all that bunk about kidnapping people, confining them in coffins and using firepower to collect payments in cash for their release? Naomi questioned Hilaire on the real intentions and motivations of Chuck. The cab driver swore he didn't know anyone named Chuck. He had two nephews, it's true, but their names were Paolo and Charles, sometimes called Charlot or Charlie, and Charles was in no way involved in this adventure. The real culprit was probably Paolo, the crooked one. The imbroglio grew even bigger because Naomi Naud had no idea Chuck and Paolo were cousins. Hilaire suddenly felt the rise of an excruciating migraine, beginning behind his right eye. He politely asked Naomi to hand him her phone, seeing in that object a direct link between him and the penitentiary. Naomi refused. The frail woman became hysterical, confused and disillusioned. She started screaming her disenchantment and her discontent. Naomi Naud began to look for things to break all across the room. The television's remote control and the telephone were the first obvious choices. That made a lot of noise. Hilaire quickly lost it. He threw a left uppercut to Naomi's belly and a right hook to her chin. Hilaire began praying almost immediately after that sudden outburst; asking God to make sure that Naomi would be completely amnesic when she regained conscience. If the police showed up, Hilaire Veriquin knew he was doomed. Standing in front of a judge with charges such as kidnapping, sequestration and manslaughter would greatly reduce his chances, regarding that application for a permanent resident card.
Someone is relentlessly knocking at the door with a blunt object.
“That's it, Lord, help me, the police were called for the disturbance in room 29,” Hilaire says to himself. “I'll be spending the night in jail and Immigration Canada is going to send me back to Haiti the next morning on board of a ship carrying toxic wastes.”
Hilaire looks through the peephole. He sees a very odd character who looks like a gargoyle in flesh and bones. The man is about fifty, his face marked by smallpox and his head moving rapidly from left to right, like a panic-stricken pray fearing an imminent attack from a starving predator. The dark-skinned individual his wearing an impeccable gainsboro silk suit, a burgundy bow tie and a brand new top hat that makes him look a bit like a magician. He holds a tawny leather satchel against his chest. The man's initials are written in gold on that bag. It reads, B.B., for Burns Breton, aka Mister B., the funeral director at Passage Legitime and the project manager of the new Mizerikod cemetery.
“Mister B.?”
“Open the damn door, Veriquin, this place is loaded with surveillance cameras.”
“I was expecting you around noon,” Hilaire says, inviting the man in.
“Sorry, I'll make sure you get a compensation for that unpleasant delay. Where is the merchandise?”
“She locked herself in the bathroom. We had a little scuffle. Nothing major, but she refuses to open or speak to me.”
“Tell me that she doesn't have access to a window.”
“She doesn't. Listen, I don't want to know more than I need or should about that whole affair. Don't even feel oblige to answer me, Mister B., but what is going to happen to the girl?”
“Give me a minute,” says Burns Breton.
The undertaker sits on the bed and pulls out a sturdy Getac computer from his satchel. He turns the machine on and quickly consults his files. An ecstatic smile brightens up his face as he observes the numbers popping up on his screen.
“How many minutes are in a day?” Breton asks Hilaire, his reddish eyes wide open and glowing like live coals.
“Well, sixty per hour; multiply it by twenty-four… six times four… six times twenty, plus the zero… one thousand, four hundred and forty, if I am not mistaken.”
“Forget it. I have the results I was looking for. What where you saying about the girl?”
“I was a little bit worried about her fate. What's going to happen to that young lady?”
“Who wants to know and why?”
“She saw my face. She knows who I am. That bothers me a lot. If she wants to get back at me, I don't feel I'm protected. I have been very unwise, Mister B., I am not really a professional abductor. All I wanted was to make some fast cash.”
“I knew you were an amateur, but I am pretty sure you're not a complete idiot. Who can tell or testify about your presence in here today, besides the gal?”
“I didn't go in the details, but I spoke to a close friend.”
“So I clearly misjudge you. Are you out of your mind or just exceedingly doltish? You brutish buffoon! Did you mention anything about my existence to anyone?”
“No… I mean, not directly.”
“Under whose identity did you rent that room, Veriquin?”
“What do you mean?”
“You heard me well, Veriquin. Don't play with my nerves. Let me guess… the taxi parked outside is yours and the employees at the reception know your real name.”
“Like I was saying, all this kidnapping business is very new to me. I didn't even think about finding and using fake id's, even less about buying or renting a used car. I needed that money so bad, I just stopped thinking right.”
“What are you hiding from me behind your back, Veriquin?”
“Nothing… just a phone.”
“Yours?”
“…”
“Give me that, you brainless chimp!” Burns Breton yells. “What is wrong with you, a lack of oxygen at birth or were you born a month too late?”
The mortician grabs the cellular phone from Hilaire's hand. He checks the list of contacts, the messages and the recent calls. Burns Breton rubs his eyebrows, mumbling and muttering.
“You're going to do one extra task for us, Veriquin. It won't fix your fooleries, but it will justify your pay to my boss. You bring the girl to Passage Legitime, that's a funeral home on Beaubien East. You lock her up in my office on the second floor. Here's my card with the address and here's the front door key. If you hear any noises, screams or moans coming from the basement, don't you pay any attention; they are people who owe us money, not ghosts. You wait for me in the lobby and avoid doing anything else stupid. Don't answer to the doorbell or to the phone. Just breathe and mind your own business. Is that understood?”
“I don't want to be part of this anymore. I'd like all of this to stop right here. I can't take it anymore. It's too much stress. Look at my hands? That's not normal, they won't stop trembling. Forget about the ten thousand dollars. Give me half and I vanish right away.”
“You don't get it, do you, Veriquin? Because of your gaffes and blunders, this establishment must be set on fire. If the staff at the desk doesn't collaborate when I request the immediate destruction of the client's registry and the video recordings, you will have two deaths on your conscience. Do exactly what I say, Veriquin, or it is not money you're going to get from me, but six bullets and some ugly flowers to decorate your tombstone. First, your cab must disappear. Hurry up! Give me your keys. You already have mines. My ride is a Black Lincoln with a temporary transit in the back window. It's parked behind the bushes, next to the exit. There is a plastic gas canister in the trunk. You'll also find a ski mask and a bottle containing methanol on the back seat. Bring it all back to me.”
“Should I wear gloves? You know…my fingerprints?”
“What a brilliant idea? To say that I thought for a brief moment that you were a total wreck of an imbecile. Go buy at least a dozen pair of plastic gloves at the nearest dollar store. But take all your time, there is no urgency. Why don't you stop for a manicure and a sensual massage on your way back? Maybe a blow job will reactivate your grey matter, you slow demented moron. Now get the hell out of here before I shoot you in the knee!”
According to the text messages Naomi Naud was receiving from Haiti for the last two days, she was in that motel room because Chuck Three-Brothers planned it this way. Chuck wrote that he was preparing Naomi's emigration to Monaco, where he was supposed to join her in a near future, get married and start a new life together. Naomi asked Hilaire for some explanations. What was all that bunk about kidnapping people, confining them in coffins and using firepower to collect payments in cash for their release? Naomi questioned Hilaire on the real intentions and motivations of Chuck. The cab driver swore he didn't know anyone named Chuck. He had two nephews, it's true, but their names were Paolo and Charles, sometimes called Charlot or Charlie, and Charles was in no way involved in this adventure. The real culprit was probably Paolo, the crooked one. The imbroglio grew even bigger because Naomi Naud had no idea Chuck and Paolo were cousins. Hilaire suddenly felt the rise of an excruciating migraine, beginning behind his right eye. He politely asked Naomi to hand him her phone, seeing in that object a direct link between him and the penitentiary. Naomi refused. The frail woman became hysterical, confused and disillusioned. She started screaming her disenchantment and her discontent. Naomi Naud began to look for things to break all across the room. The television's remote control and the telephone were the first obvious choices. That made a lot of noise. Hilaire quickly lost it. He threw a left uppercut to Naomi's belly and a right hook to her chin. Hilaire began praying almost immediately after that sudden outburst; asking God to make sure that Naomi would be completely amnesic when she regained conscience. If the police showed up, Hilaire Veriquin knew he was doomed. Standing in front of a judge with charges such as kidnapping, sequestration and manslaughter would greatly reduce his chances, regarding that application for a permanent resident card.
Someone is relentlessly knocking at the door with a blunt object.
“That's it, Lord, help me, the police were called for the disturbance in room 29,” Hilaire says to himself. “I'll be spending the night in jail and Immigration Canada is going to send me back to Haiti the next morning on board of a ship carrying toxic wastes.”
Hilaire looks through the peephole. He sees a very odd character who looks like a gargoyle in flesh and bones. The man is about fifty, his face marked by smallpox and his head moving rapidly from left to right, like a panic-stricken pray fearing an imminent attack from a starving predator. The dark-skinned individual his wearing an impeccable gainsboro silk suit, a burgundy bow tie and a brand new top hat that makes him look a bit like a magician. He holds a tawny leather satchel against his chest. The man's initials are written in gold on that bag. It reads, B.B., for Burns Breton, aka Mister B., the funeral director at Passage Legitime and the project manager of the new Mizerikod cemetery.
“Mister B.?”
“Open the damn door, Veriquin, this place is loaded with surveillance cameras.”
“I was expecting you around noon,” Hilaire says, inviting the man in.
“Sorry, I'll make sure you get a compensation for that unpleasant delay. Where is the merchandise?”
“She locked herself in the bathroom. We had a little scuffle. Nothing major, but she refuses to open or speak to me.”
“Tell me that she doesn't have access to a window.”
“She doesn't. Listen, I don't want to know more than I need or should about that whole affair. Don't even feel oblige to answer me, Mister B., but what is going to happen to the girl?”
“Give me a minute,” says Burns Breton.
The undertaker sits on the bed and pulls out a sturdy Getac computer from his satchel. He turns the machine on and quickly consults his files. An ecstatic smile brightens up his face as he observes the numbers popping up on his screen.
“How many minutes are in a day?” Breton asks Hilaire, his reddish eyes wide open and glowing like live coals.
“Well, sixty per hour; multiply it by twenty-four… six times four… six times twenty, plus the zero… one thousand, four hundred and forty, if I am not mistaken.”
“Forget it. I have the results I was looking for. What where you saying about the girl?”
“I was a little bit worried about her fate. What's going to happen to that young lady?”
“Who wants to know and why?”
“She saw my face. She knows who I am. That bothers me a lot. If she wants to get back at me, I don't feel I'm protected. I have been very unwise, Mister B., I am not really a professional abductor. All I wanted was to make some fast cash.”
“I knew you were an amateur, but I am pretty sure you're not a complete idiot. Who can tell or testify about your presence in here today, besides the gal?”
“I didn't go in the details, but I spoke to a close friend.”
“So I clearly misjudge you. Are you out of your mind or just exceedingly doltish? You brutish buffoon! Did you mention anything about my existence to anyone?”
“No… I mean, not directly.”
“Under whose identity did you rent that room, Veriquin?”
“What do you mean?”
“You heard me well, Veriquin. Don't play with my nerves. Let me guess… the taxi parked outside is yours and the employees at the reception know your real name.”
“Like I was saying, all this kidnapping business is very new to me. I didn't even think about finding and using fake id's, even less about buying or renting a used car. I needed that money so bad, I just stopped thinking right.”
“What are you hiding from me behind your back, Veriquin?”
“Nothing… just a phone.”
“Yours?”
“…”
“Give me that, you brainless chimp!” Burns Breton yells. “What is wrong with you, a lack of oxygen at birth or were you born a month too late?”
The mortician grabs the cellular phone from Hilaire's hand. He checks the list of contacts, the messages and the recent calls. Burns Breton rubs his eyebrows, mumbling and muttering.
“You're going to do one extra task for us, Veriquin. It won't fix your fooleries, but it will justify your pay to my boss. You bring the girl to Passage Legitime, that's a funeral home on Beaubien East. You lock her up in my office on the second floor. Here's my card with the address and here's the front door key. If you hear any noises, screams or moans coming from the basement, don't you pay any attention; they are people who owe us money, not ghosts. You wait for me in the lobby and avoid doing anything else stupid. Don't answer to the doorbell or to the phone. Just breathe and mind your own business. Is that understood?”
“I don't want to be part of this anymore. I'd like all of this to stop right here. I can't take it anymore. It's too much stress. Look at my hands? That's not normal, they won't stop trembling. Forget about the ten thousand dollars. Give me half and I vanish right away.”
“You don't get it, do you, Veriquin? Because of your gaffes and blunders, this establishment must be set on fire. If the staff at the desk doesn't collaborate when I request the immediate destruction of the client's registry and the video recordings, you will have two deaths on your conscience. Do exactly what I say, Veriquin, or it is not money you're going to get from me, but six bullets and some ugly flowers to decorate your tombstone. First, your cab must disappear. Hurry up! Give me your keys. You already have mines. My ride is a Black Lincoln with a temporary transit in the back window. It's parked behind the bushes, next to the exit. There is a plastic gas canister in the trunk. You'll also find a ski mask and a bottle containing methanol on the back seat. Bring it all back to me.”
“Should I wear gloves? You know…my fingerprints?”
“What a brilliant idea? To say that I thought for a brief moment that you were a total wreck of an imbecile. Go buy at least a dozen pair of plastic gloves at the nearest dollar store. But take all your time, there is no urgency. Why don't you stop for a manicure and a sensual massage on your way back? Maybe a blow job will reactivate your grey matter, you slow demented moron. Now get the hell out of here before I shoot you in the knee!”
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