Sequence 17d
(Three Questions for the SSG)
Moïse Berri
and the reconstruction of the Haitian
Space Agency
by Jude Jarda
Sequence 17d
Three Questions for the SSG
Raymond
Jedi has been confined to a shady room of the Longueuil Police Department for the last few hours. He is counting the floor tiles over and over to kill time. Jedi knows the routine by heart. They leave you on an empty stomach with nothing to do for a long period, then suddenly, a friendly cop shows up and gives you the impression that you're about to be sent back home with flowers and on a full stomach if you confess something or just sing any Scottish war song or Ukrainian lullaby he'd like to hear.
Sergeant-Detective Parent enters the room, carrying his lunch and a faux fur covered lumbar cushion. The officer is a chubby bald salt-and-pepper bearded chap who seems overconfident and extremely tranquil. Parent uses a tissue to defog his spectacles, adjusts his dorsal support and starts digging into a bowl of brown rice, a chunk of brie cheese and a foot-long bologna sandwich. All this looks like some kind of daily ritual. Jedi quickly loses patience.
Sergeant-Detective Parent enters the room, carrying his lunch and a faux fur covered lumbar cushion. The officer is a chubby bald salt-and-pepper bearded chap who seems overconfident and extremely tranquil. Parent uses a tissue to defog his spectacles, adjusts his dorsal support and starts digging into a bowl of brown rice, a chunk of brie cheese and a foot-long bologna sandwich. All this looks like some kind of daily ritual. Jedi quickly loses patience.
“I want to speak to my lawyer. I'm aware of my legal rights.”
“It won't be long, buddy. You're soon gonna get all the rights you want and even more.”
“What about right now?”
“My colleague is on his way with the phone. Take it easy, Raymond. Why don't you give me some dirt on your supplier in the meantime? The Dodge Charger is not registered in your name. It's none of your business if there was a military arsenal stashed in the trunk. You are locked in here because we caught you with a Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun. The people you terrorized refuse to file a complaint and to collaborate with us. Fear, you know? I'll let you go right now with a slap on the hand if you tell me where those polymer firearms came from. Those are very expensive weapons. You're a small-time suburban gangster wearing Jordan sneakers and not Air Jordan. How can you fake backyard mobsters afford silencers, grenades and new high-tech toys in that price range?”
“I've got nothing to say to you, pigskin. And get that sweating checked by a doctor. There's electricity in your surroundings.”
“It won't be long, buddy. You're soon gonna get all the rights you want and even more.”
“What about right now?”
“My colleague is on his way with the phone. Take it easy, Raymond. Why don't you give me some dirt on your supplier in the meantime? The Dodge Charger is not registered in your name. It's none of your business if there was a military arsenal stashed in the trunk. You are locked in here because we caught you with a Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun. The people you terrorized refuse to file a complaint and to collaborate with us. Fear, you know? I'll let you go right now with a slap on the hand if you tell me where those polymer firearms came from. Those are very expensive weapons. You're a small-time suburban gangster wearing Jordan sneakers and not Air Jordan. How can you fake backyard mobsters afford silencers, grenades and new high-tech toys in that price range?”
“I've got nothing to say to you, pigskin. And get that sweating checked by a doctor. There's electricity in your surroundings.”
Someone opens the door without knocking. A second investigator steps into the room like a storm, visibly to play the role of the bad cop. Sergeant-Detective Gilbert is a potbellied lawman with a metrosexual haircut and a disco era mustache. He looks like a very aggressive truck driver, stuck in a traffic jam with a full bladder, a lost raccoon and a jock itch. The officer is dragging an overloaded leather golf bag behind him. Gilbert acts as though Jedi wasn't even there.
“Are you joining us in Boucherville for the two o'clock tee-off, Parent?”
“I'm waiting for the Commander to sign the final charges. He was on the phone with the prosecutor earlier.”
“That won't happen before Monday. Last time I saw him, he was busy watching a cooking show in his office. Our little friends don't seem to be a priority. By the way, Meunier, from ballistics, well, he thinks the pistol found in the glove compartment of the Dodge Charger is of the same caliber as the one used to put Davidson Jumpy D. Duguas., in a wheelchair. That was last year in Saint-Henri. Gossips from the Courthouse say that Charles "Chucky" Vériquin was extradited right after that incident. Remember?”
“Yes, I do. But you forgot the phone, Gilbert. We must respect the rights of our main man, Raymond, here.”
“Your main man can eat shit and go to hell, if you ask me or my soon to taste the joy of testing my newly gifted TaylorMade R11S driver.”
“Are you joining us in Boucherville for the two o'clock tee-off, Parent?”
“I'm waiting for the Commander to sign the final charges. He was on the phone with the prosecutor earlier.”
“That won't happen before Monday. Last time I saw him, he was busy watching a cooking show in his office. Our little friends don't seem to be a priority. By the way, Meunier, from ballistics, well, he thinks the pistol found in the glove compartment of the Dodge Charger is of the same caliber as the one used to put Davidson Jumpy D. Duguas., in a wheelchair. That was last year in Saint-Henri. Gossips from the Courthouse say that Charles "Chucky" Vériquin was extradited right after that incident. Remember?”
“Yes, I do. But you forgot the phone, Gilbert. We must respect the rights of our main man, Raymond, here.”
“Your main man can eat shit and go to hell, if you ask me or my soon to taste the joy of testing my newly gifted TaylorMade R11S driver.”
Samuel
In the meantime, in the adjacent room, Gunjah Spliff is crying like a tot who just witnessed a sweetmeat tree get cut down by a leprechaun. The well-known tough guy and part-time gangsta rap performer is clearly forcing the tears to come out, desperately trying to fill up the many holes found in his story, making sure it all sticks together. Detectives Susie Marcotte and Maureen Samson know much more than they claim.
Gunjah Spliff and Marcotte are meeting for the third time. He tried to seduce that brawny brunette back in the day when Longueuil police were trying to infiltrate the underground hip-hop scene of the South Shore. While Spliff was feeding the two female officers with loads of crap, false information and implausible facts, they were actively shopping for a new house on the Island of Montreal and looking at children's clothing on their respective laptops. Detective Samson is a delicate blonde with the personality of an antisocial rescued pitbull. She decides to jump in the action first.
Gunjah Spliff and Marcotte are meeting for the third time. He tried to seduce that brawny brunette back in the day when Longueuil police were trying to infiltrate the underground hip-hop scene of the South Shore. While Spliff was feeding the two female officers with loads of crap, false information and implausible facts, they were actively shopping for a new house on the Island of Montreal and looking at children's clothing on their respective laptops. Detective Samson is a delicate blonde with the personality of an antisocial rescued pitbull. She decides to jump in the action first.
“All right, Samuel, better stop taking us for a bunch of rookies, right now, you stupid punk! We can close our eyes on the marijuana we found in your pockets, that thing will eventually become legal, but we need to know where the heroin is from.”
“I've told you a thousand times. I had no idea Candy was shooting hard stuff. We're stoners, not suicidal rockstars.”
“If she dies, you take the blame for complicity,” Marcotte says with a deep and menacing tone. “That is if the judge is sweet. Second-degree murder would make much more sense to me.”
“Ooooh, now you're tripping, sexy doll.”
“Don't you call me like that again, you dumb scamp. We're trying to protect you. Do you understand? The Bordeaux prison is overcrowded. It's a real jungle down there right now. A war is raging in the streets of Montreal for the control of the drug business. No one knows who the real boss of the city is. When Candy's dad learns about what happened to his daughter, he's going to take a break from the fights to look for the culprit.”
“Do you know who Candy's dad is?” Samson asks, her finger pointing to Gunjah's temporal bone.
“You're going to need our help to make an official name change, Sammy.”
“I've got nothing else to say. And nice try, Candy has no father. The dude bedding her mom is a loser named Rose. He is just Mister November filling in for Mister October. So, with all due respect, let me speak to my lawyer or go fuck yourself, my dear.”
“Rose? Rose? Damien Rose is just her stepfather, tough guy, a low-level dealer who did time for unpaid tickets and two grams. You're gonna need our help to change your name, Sam. Candy's biological father has a triple 6 and a tear tattooed on his face. The future doesn't look bright for you, my little maggot.”
“I've told you a thousand times. I had no idea Candy was shooting hard stuff. We're stoners, not suicidal rockstars.”
“If she dies, you take the blame for complicity,” Marcotte says with a deep and menacing tone. “That is if the judge is sweet. Second-degree murder would make much more sense to me.”
“Ooooh, now you're tripping, sexy doll.”
“Don't you call me like that again, you dumb scamp. We're trying to protect you. Do you understand? The Bordeaux prison is overcrowded. It's a real jungle down there right now. A war is raging in the streets of Montreal for the control of the drug business. No one knows who the real boss of the city is. When Candy's dad learns about what happened to his daughter, he's going to take a break from the fights to look for the culprit.”
“Do you know who Candy's dad is?” Samson asks, her finger pointing to Gunjah's temporal bone.
“You're going to need our help to make an official name change, Sammy.”
“I've got nothing else to say. And nice try, Candy has no father. The dude bedding her mom is a loser named Rose. He is just Mister November filling in for Mister October. So, with all due respect, let me speak to my lawyer or go fuck yourself, my dear.”
“Rose? Rose? Damien Rose is just her stepfather, tough guy, a low-level dealer who did time for unpaid tickets and two grams. You're gonna need our help to change your name, Sam. Candy's biological father has a triple 6 and a tear tattooed on his face. The future doesn't look bright for you, my little maggot.”
“Which part of the go fuck yourself was not clearly comprehend by your waxy ears, bitch?”
“Oooooh! I'm feeling some hostility there. Weren't you sobbing, like, a minute ago?”
“That's right, moaning makes me pugnacious. I calm down playing Scrabble. Can I have a soda now, please? Diet.”
“That's right, moaning makes me pugnacious. I calm down playing Scrabble. Can I have a soda now, please? Diet.”
Wilmer
Elsewhere in an undisclosed and almost secret room located in the basement of the police precinct, Inspector Albanel is comparing tool prices between two advertisement brochures. Little Ronnie Costco is not being very talkative. The senior executive officer tried to mollify Costco by throwing a couple of compliments here and there, saying for instance that the detectives he is supervising prefer to have him as chief of the SSG in place of Charles "Chucky" Vériquin, considered extremely volatile, highly unpredictable and clearly unstable up in the head by many.
Since Little Ronnie's been in charge of business, that's according to a massive pile of paperwork, violence has dropped 67 percent around the nightclubs of the South Shore at closing hours. A tighter control on the younger members of the gangs gravitating around the SSG has brought some good results. High school principals agree that bullying, intimidation and the dropout rate decreased significantly within their establishments. The only thing Inspector Albanel reproaches Costco for is the fact that he surrounds himself with traitors. According to the Commander of the police station and three respected investigators, Samuel and Raymond are collaborating big time with the Crown Prosecutors, dropping names and putting all the blame on his head and on his innocent mother for giving him birth in the first place.
“Nice try, Babylon. Do I look like a turkey to you?”
“Take a look at this, you ridiculous nincompoop,” the police administrator says with a large smile as he hands a thick file to Little Ronnie Costco. “We have the name of your new chemist and the address of your new clandestine drug lab in Greenfield Park. How many people are aware of this in your entourage, Wilmer?”
“Fuck me!”
“Double fuck, you, my no future friend, because your prints are all over that bungalow in Saint-Basile. Are you feeling me? Now, tell me, who got the wonderful idea of installing those lethal traps in that house? I'm not supposed to be here interrogating you. But please tell me this: when transforming your lair in a death trap, did you think for a second about the safety of the firemen or paramedics responding to an emergency call? Now, we have a twenty-five-year old agent, who just got married, by the way, with a giant harpoon stuck in the middle of his forehead. In his fucking forehead, for crying out loud! What are we going to tell his pregnant wife, Wilmer, help me with this... please?”
The door opens with a kick. Commander Bilodeau's face is red like a tomato. The frontal vein of the visibly furious man is inflated, his right shoulder bouncing, his mouth foaming. Bilodeau is either acting or completely nuts.
Since Little Ronnie's been in charge of business, that's according to a massive pile of paperwork, violence has dropped 67 percent around the nightclubs of the South Shore at closing hours. A tighter control on the younger members of the gangs gravitating around the SSG has brought some good results. High school principals agree that bullying, intimidation and the dropout rate decreased significantly within their establishments. The only thing Inspector Albanel reproaches Costco for is the fact that he surrounds himself with traitors. According to the Commander of the police station and three respected investigators, Samuel and Raymond are collaborating big time with the Crown Prosecutors, dropping names and putting all the blame on his head and on his innocent mother for giving him birth in the first place.
“Nice try, Babylon. Do I look like a turkey to you?”
“Take a look at this, you ridiculous nincompoop,” the police administrator says with a large smile as he hands a thick file to Little Ronnie Costco. “We have the name of your new chemist and the address of your new clandestine drug lab in Greenfield Park. How many people are aware of this in your entourage, Wilmer?”
“Fuck me!”
“Double fuck, you, my no future friend, because your prints are all over that bungalow in Saint-Basile. Are you feeling me? Now, tell me, who got the wonderful idea of installing those lethal traps in that house? I'm not supposed to be here interrogating you. But please tell me this: when transforming your lair in a death trap, did you think for a second about the safety of the firemen or paramedics responding to an emergency call? Now, we have a twenty-five-year old agent, who just got married, by the way, with a giant harpoon stuck in the middle of his forehead. In his fucking forehead, for crying out loud! What are we going to tell his pregnant wife, Wilmer, help me with this... please?”
The door opens with a kick. Commander Bilodeau's face is red like a tomato. The frontal vein of the visibly furious man is inflated, his right shoulder bouncing, his mouth foaming. Bilodeau is either acting or completely nuts.
“You ludicrous simple-minded jackass! I have two men in the operating room and a young woman fighting for survival at the poison center. You start talking right now or I'll lose my job for strangling a suspect during interrogation. Leave me alone with him, Allan, and shut the goddamn door!”
“I can't let you do that, Commander. You are three months away from your trip around the world, your lifetime dream.”
“Get out!”
“I can't let you do that, Commander. You are three months away from your trip around the world, your lifetime dream.”
“Get out!”
The crazy cop performance of Bilodeau works like a charm. Longueuil police will never know where the heroin came from, but they learn from a shaky Wilmer, all the necessary information needed to nail the elusive Mister B. The warehouse of this high tech arms dealer, puzzling the Canadian authorities for three years and counting, is located on Beaubien Street, in Montreal, in the attic of the Passage Légitime funeral home. It seems that Mr. B. has been using the Mohawk Territory of Akwesasne, bordering Ontario, Quebec and the State of New York, for many years, as his own personal custom services, to assure the transfer and distribution of his luxury weapons between the two North American countries.
©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda
Aucun commentaire:
Enregistrer un commentaire