chapter 11c 

(The Poser) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency  

by Jude Jarda 

11c 

The Poser 

Forty kilometers south, on a beach near Jacmel, the other Baudouin-Lacroix twin is achieving much more success with the fellow who spent time in jail with Chuck Three-Brothers, the previous year, back in Montreal. The meeting takes place in the artist's district of the city. Naive art rules in that part of the island. Untalented opportunists and cocky careerists infiltrate the working space of the international master painters, hoping to catch the attention of a neophyte tourist, pretending to be connoisseurs who would gladly spend big dough on a canvas reflecting the soul of the Pearl of the Caribbean. Paquito Luis Villacampa acts as a middleman, a freelance dealer who offers advice and information to potential buyers in exchange of a fifteen per cent cut on the sales. Paquito is extremely loquacious. People tend to agree with him just to keep him quiet or shut him down. The Salvadorian born Quebecker did not try to run away when he saw Yves Baudouin-Lacroix. He noticed the obvious resemblance to Chuck Three-Brothers, but also the fact that Yves Lacroix is left-handed. Paquito being an incredibly verbose dude, the twin didn't have to use menace or violence to make him open the valves about the location of Chuck's stashed cash. 

“Chuck's nest egg is real, man, and I know exactly where it's at!” boasts Paquito Luis Villacampa. “Yo, Chico, you go tell your boss that I know the safe's combination. I'm open for discussion, concerning my share. That's the way it works with me. Donu kaj vi ricevos. That's Esperanto, a constructed auxiliary language. Give me silver today; I'll give you gold tomorrow.” 
“Who are you?” the left-handed twin asks, faking total amazement. “French, English, Spanish, Creole and a constructed tongue? You should be in office at the United Nations. You're one hell of a cultured pigeon, my friend. I wish I had half of your knowledge. But tell me, Paquito; don't lie to your homeboy, now. With a brain like yours, how come you didn't try to rob Chuck Canada yourself? You told me you lived in the same hood.” 
“Home invasion is not my thing, my Haitian compadre. I'm a white collar criminal. You dig me? Anyway, the SSG Crew knows too much about the shape of my balls and for too damn long. They'd recognize me even if I wore a panda suit with the mask of Guy Fawkes on top of it. Not to mention the booby traps and the cameras in their filthy crib. You open the wrong door or turn the wrong doorknob and you’re dead. Bang! A scatter gun blows fifty grams of shotgun shell right into your face. These motherfuckers have to deal with a lot of disconnected wires up in their cranium. They're known as the Mental Cowboys, back in Montreal, Chico.” 
“How do we know the intelligence you want to sell us is accurate? Once you've left the country, it's going to be very complicated if we ask for a refund, either because you made a mistake or intentionally duped us. We don't know you. Maybe you're the biggest babble mouth of the Western world. You didn't show me any references.” 
“Open those jumbo ears of yours, Compañero. Listen closely. Chuck Playa has moved three times since he became the SSG's leader. He got rid of all his furniture, even the designer stuff, on every single occasion. You'd think, that's it, the man simply enjoys the smell of new goods. Well, mark my words: it's not the case at all. Chuck owns an old stinky armchair his father bequeathed to him. That bug infested piece of junk is like a museum artifact to him. He doesn't mind you looking at it, but he appreciates if you don't touch it. You see, I've been doing business with Chuck Playa for at least thirteen years. The story about his dad leaving that dirty recliner for him in his will is complete bullshit, a fabrication of his deranged mind. Chuck never had a father. That's probably why he trusts no one and wants to run everything himself. Have you read Freud, Chico?” 
“Where does he keep that chair, Paquito? Do you have an address?” 
“Hola, Amigo! You already know a lot for a guy that hasn't paid me zilch. I like doing business in the clear. You feel me, Homes? How much are you carrying on you, right now, let me see? I must be served before I serve. Understand me, Bro, that's the way I grow.” 
“Whatever the fuck that means, I am not the one making the decision when it comes to money issues. My motorcycle is parked behind the fish market. Let's go meet with my boss.” 
“Do I look stupid, Gringo? I'm not going anywhere with a total stranger in a foreign country. I want our entire transaction to be completed in the open, with lots of witnesses, if you don't mind.” 
“You, Canadians, think about every little detail. Jones Brooklyn loves smart crooks. You’re welcome to join our clan if you plan to stay in Haiti. You could be my gofer until you graduate. We're well armed and the mayor of our town becomes an official member of the family on every payday.” 
“I don't like weapons, Desconocido. I told you I was a white collar criminal.” 
“Weren't you with Chuck Canada during that epic shooting on Saint-Florent Street? Chuck told us that story more than a hundred times.” 
“Saint-Laurent Boulevard,” Paquito Luis Villacampa corrects. “People in Montreal call it the Main because all the different cultures and ethnicity of the city meet there. It was during the Jazz Festival, in the heat of July. We did the cover of all the major newspapers on the next day.” 
“Did you hit someone with a bullet?” 
“Are you insane? I was the principal look out, positioned on Sherbrooke Street. I am the one who warned the guys when the five-o's turned to red, sirens on.”  
“Looking out?” 
“Are you deaf? Listen, I am regularly asked to head the surveillance team of the SSG. What do you want, the homies trust me? I am part of the family. My girlfriend his half Haitian. I am a member of a very small circle of close associates that can get direct access to the SSG leaders. Being a watchman pays my herb, my styling, my clubbing and my booze. There's no way I'm getting busted for weapons possession. My thing is fraud, credit cards and stealing people’s identity. No violence is required. When you face the judge, your chances are very good. Especially on a Monday, when you know the old man just came back from a fishing trip, feeling rested and happy. When you know the prison is full and that you will be the first one out, because the social workers believe there is a chance you might change. Know what I'm saying?”  
“I was wrongly informed that you were the most dangerous wacky fucker living in Canada,” Yves Baudouin-Lacroix says with a certain relief in his voice. 
“Where did you get that?” 
“A buddy of mine, Vidal Gascon. I know he lies all the time, but he showed me a blurry picture of you and him sailing on Lake Memphremagog. I realize just now that Vidal never left Haiti to go anywhere. He's never even been to Tortuga, and the phony shithead was born in Port-de-Paix.” 
“They call me Paquito the Peacemaker in the north of Montreal. I'm such a diplomatic unifier up there that gang bangers won't fight in a club after I pick up the mic.” 
“Is that so?” the Baudouin-Lacroix twin mumbles, his eyes suddenly injected with blood. “Well, in this mountainous country of mine, the journalists call me Yves Sweats and Nightmares, because most people lose their sleep when I'm around. I pull my gun and shoot people for no reason at all, and I do it in the open because I like the publicity. I... am... clinically insane.” 
“Ugh!” 

“Exactly! Now I want you to follow me,” the left-handed twin known as Loverboy adds, showing his charged Glock to Paquito. “I'm taking you to my hometown. On the way there, I want you to tell me everything about Chuck Canada's past. For every extra word you will say without my permission, I'll remove one of your eyes with my fingers. Cric, you are a one-eyed man, crac, you're in the dark forever. Just try to yell for help on the way there, and I'll make sure that you eat through a nasal tube for the rest of your life. Do I make myself clear… Compañero?”