chapter 17d
(Three Questions for the SSG)
Moïse Berri
and the Reconstruction of the Haitian
Space Agency
by Jude Jarda
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 if you confess something or just sing every trip-hop song or Polish 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 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 in 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 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 in 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 under 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. How can you fake mobsters afford silencers, grenades and new high-tech toys in that price range?”
“I've got nothing to say to you, pigskin.”
“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 under 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. How can you fake mobsters afford silencers, grenades and new high-tech toys in that price range?”
“I've got nothing to say to you, pigskin.”
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. Lieutenant-Detective Gilbert is a potbellied lawman with a metrosexual haircut and a disco era moustache. He looks like a very aggressive truck driver, stuck in a traffic jam with a full bladder and a jock itch. The officer is dragging an overloaded leather golf bag behind him. Gilbert acts like if 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 charges.”
“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 department of the Dodge Charger is of the same caliber as the one used to put Davidson Duguas, aka Jumpy D., 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 go to hell, if you ask me or my soon to taste the joy of retirement's ass.”
“Are you joining us in Boucherville for the two o'clock tee-off, Parent?”
“I'm waiting for the Commander to sign the charges.”
“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 department of the Dodge Charger is of the same caliber as the one used to put Davidson Duguas, aka Jumpy D., 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 go to hell, if you ask me or my soon to taste the joy of retirement's ass.”
Samuel
In the meantime, one floor down in the basement, Gunjah Spliff is crying like a tad who just witnessed a sweetmeat tree get cut off 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. Inspector Susie Marcotte and Lieutenant-Detective Maureen Samson know much more then they pretend.
Gunjah Spliff and Marcotte are meeting for the third time. He tried to seduce that brawny brunette back in the day when Longueuil police was trying to infiltrate the underground hip hop scene of the South Shore. While Spliff was cramming the two female officers with loads of bullshit, 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 blond with the personality of an antisocial pit-bull. 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 was trying to infiltrate the underground hip hop scene of the South Shore. While Spliff was cramming the two female officers with loads of bullshit, 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 blond with the personality of an antisocial pit-bull. 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, 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.”
“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 will learn about what happened to his only 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. Let me speak to my lawyer or go fuck yourself, my dear.”
“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?”
“I've told you a thousand times. I had no idea Candy was shooting hard stuff.”
“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 will learn about what happened to his only 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. Let me speak to my lawyer or go fuck yourself, my dear.”
“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?”
Wilmer
Elsewhere in an undisclosed and secret room of the police station, Sergeant Albanel is comparing tool prices between two advertisement brochures. Little Ronnie Costco is not being very talkative. Is that blood on the walls? The experienced officer tried to mollify Costco by throwing a couple of compliments here and there, saying for instance that he prefers him as chief of the SSG in place of Chucky Charles Vériquin, considered mentally unstable by many.
Since Little Ronnie's been in charge of business, violence has dropped 67 per cent around the nightclubs of the South Shore at closing hours. A tighter control on the younger members of the gangs gravitating around the SSG as brought some good results. High school principals agree that bullying, intimidation and the dropout rate decreased significantly within their establishments. The only thing Albanel reproaches to Costco is the fact that he works with traitors. According to the other 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 policeman says with a large smile as he handles a thick file to Little Ronnie Costco. “We have the name of your new chemist and the address of your new clandestine drug lab near 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? Did you think for a second about the safety of the firemen and 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?”
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, violence has dropped 67 per cent around the nightclubs of the South Shore at closing hours. A tighter control on the younger members of the gangs gravitating around the SSG as brought some good results. High school principals agree that bullying, intimidation and the dropout rate decreased significantly within their establishments. The only thing Albanel reproaches to Costco is the fact that he works with traitors. According to the other 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 policeman says with a large smile as he handles a thick file to Little Ronnie Costco. “We have the name of your new chemist and the address of your new clandestine drug lab near 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? Did you think for a second about the safety of the firemen and 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?”
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 fucking 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 Commander Bilodeau works as a charm. Longueuil Police will never know where the heroin came from, but it learns from 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.
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