Sequence 17h 

(The Infarct) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 17h 
The Infarct 

Edmondine Belhumeur is in a very bad mood. She has been experiencing hot flushes to her face and is fairly convinced that her sugar and blood pressure levels have dropped way below normal. She just crossed the Flagler Memorial Bridge in a dirty taxi with no air conditioning, squeezed between her butler, Guillermo, and a judicial adviser she just recruited in front of the unemployment office in Little Havana. The latter accepted to work for Edmondine in exchange for the Tahitian pearl necklace she was wearing. 

The wife of Ulysses Hercules Dondedieu Legitime shows up on Seagate Road, in Palm Beach, Florida, so she can settle the record straight on the subject of her marital status, and also to consolidate her current financial situation. As it is stipulated in her prenuptial agreement contract, adultery constitutes a valid reason to obtain a divorce and to get close to fifty per cent of the couple's matrimonial heritage in any American Court of Justice, especially the ones located inside the Bible Belt. According to Edmondine's mother-in-law, Eudoxie Angelique Legitime, her husband had been leading an active double life behind her back for a long period of time. That shocking revelation put Guillermo in a very delicate position, because the Mexican butler was fully aware of the extramarital affairs of his boss. He was well paid to keep it quiet though. To show his neutrality, Guillermo insisted on paying for the plane tickets from Chicago to Miami. That way, he saved his completely broke employer from the humiliation of asking for a personal loan. 

Grandma Legitime, her gardener, Alejandro and her reptile pet, Mr. Norbert, are sunbathing around the pool, a glass pitcher filled with sangria nearby, a joint in each hand, enjoying the sound of a water-resistant CD player blasting some old school roots rock reggae music. Edmondine opens the gate of the backyard and starts ranting about her spouse's strange behaviour almost immediately. Guillermo and the lawyer stay behind, visibly embarrassed and looking sorry. Grossly, Edmondine's intentions are merely to prove that the infidelities of Ulysses Hercules are not affecting her. She wants to let everybody know that she had enough of that crazy family, and that she does not owe anyone anything. Insulted by the cold indifference and the condescending look on Eudoxie Angelique's face, who keeps savouring her drink and smoking her pot with a hypocritical smile, Edmondine decides to go further in expressing her rage. She adds a couple of unfounded accusations and highly defamatory comments about her husband's relatives, expecting to hurt or to, at least, make the old lady react a little. 

Thus, according to Edmondine, all the members of the Legitime family are sociopathic monsters and they all make her puke, beginning with her neurotic impotent husband she describes as an impulsive liar, a thief and a coward. 

“How many secrets can a household keep under the carpet and for how long?” she asks. 

Edmondine then starts to denunciate the implication at the highest levels of Ulysses Hercules in the Chicago Outfit and his dubious relation with William Anne Dumortier, aka Willy Bossal, practically the private owner of Gonâve Island. She also brings up the bribing system implanted by Ulysses Hercules to control the ports of Miragoâne and Petit-Goâve and his iron grip on customs clearance in those two communes. “What about Achilles Hector and his Emmy Award performance as an actor pretending to be a devoted man of the Church?” Edmondine Belhumeur continues. “That evil manipulator is more of an atheist than Bertrand Russell himself. He is also a secret admirer of Richard Dawkins. His brother sells cars he would not drive, Achilles Hector sells a Jesus he believes capitalists have created to increase their revenues between Christmas and Easter. Pedro Francisco Maria Alvarez won a phenomenal amount of money playing the Powerball in Arizona. Achilles Hector came from the shadows and put his black widow's grip on him. The man now resides in a barrack filled with mold on a sugar cane plantation of Dajabón, in the Dominican Republic. Who owns that ranch, you may want to ask? Arcadio Enrique Jesus Mendes owns that sixteen acres ranch. That maniac is an associate of Ulysses Hercules. He imports stolen vehicles from Joliet, USA, and send them directly to shady armed factions anywhere in the Middle East and West Africa. Mendes is also an important shareholder of the coffin manufacturer that belongs to your brother-in-law, that bloodsucking Deodas Demosthene Legitime. Can anyone explain why Mendes, a former drug lord of Ciudad Juárez figuring on the top ten list of the most wanted by the DEA is involved in importing and exporting with a small artisanal coffin distributor from Montreal? Achilles Hector is always bragging about the academic success of his two daughters. If they're doing so well in school, what pushes Fredeline to work as a striper in a shabby strip club after class? And why did Delcine try to commit suicide on three occasions? Was it to escape her controlling father, who wants her to become a jurist, while she has been dreaming all her life of breeding horses on a collectivist farm? Let's not forget Jeanne d'Arc-Victoria. She arrived in West Hollywood with a suitcase filled with hopes and just enough funds to survive a couple of months. Thanks to her secret alliance with the Grosbois family, she now owns one of the biggest studio in Santa Monica and three residential towers in Marina Del Rey. Getting engage to the national president of the Filthy Cobras Motorcycle Club must have opened a lot of normally closed doors. Planning a marriage with the son of the biggest money launderer of New York City surely made it easier to obtain some interesting contracts. What about uncle Quick, Mister one thousand numbered offshore companies? Everyone is aware that he is working hand in hand with the Kaliningrad Bratva and the Barons of Chihuahua. The Marseillan Camorrists calls him Mister Clean, because everything he touches becomes pure and invisible in the eyes of the French government. And can the gala of the despicable souls walking on this planet take course in the absence of Leviathan in person?”  Edmondine asks herself, but this time yelling. “Deodas Demosthene Legitime is the malevolent beast who sold to the best bidder, tons of United States Army's rejected and defective weapons to the wrong people in a great number of unpopular conflicts. He was implicated in wars raging in Liberia, Sierra Leone, Rwanda, in Darfur, Bosnia and Chechnya. If his daughter, Evelyne Laure, chose to challenge the Himalaya without any preparation, it was solely to get some attention from him, to remind the jerk of her existence. It was in fact a call for help. Since her coming out, no one in this disturbed family has kept a healthy relationship with the poor girl. What a shame? As if suddenly, all her being was reduced to her sexual orientation. I blame you, the Legitime clan, for the death of that promising young woman. I am going to fill up the divorce papers when I get back home in Chicago. I am going to prove to you, you old skank, that I am worth much more than you. Your incompetent son is going to end up in the streets when I'm done with him.” 
“You did not have to travel all the way from Chicago, you know?” the old lady calmly replies. “A telephone call would have been enough.” 
“I wanted to look at you in the eyes when revealing the details of the kind of divorce settlement I want to impose to Ulysses Hercules. I wanted to hear your heart break in half to the idea that I will soon become richer than you, you despising despicable witch.” 
“You forgot to empty some of your venom on my deceased husband and on me, my dear. Would you like a drink or a puff of my blunt to revive your memory?” 
“Twenty-six times! That’s the exact number of times I have met you over the last twenty years. I have nothing to say about you, because you are a complete stranger to me. I don't know who you are. I just know that your old and that you're going to die sooner than later.” 
“Let's say that I am more foresighted than my little Hercules, sweetheart. After the divorce is concluded, you will get a toothbrush and some soap to clean the Augean Stables, my love. You see, besides his wardrobe, Ulysses Hercules owns basically nothing under his legal identity. Did I forget to mention the names of his three grown kids? I guess I did. Well, all his fortune is lawfully listed as theirs.” 

Edmondine Belhumeur suddenly feels an unbearable pain deep into her chest. She was obviously not prepared to absorb such an unexpected piece of information. She first thinks that this sudden ache in her thorax is caused by emotions, and that it will soon pass. So she keeps her concentration on the profound hatred she has for her mother-in-law. What Grandma Legitime just revealed to her is pretty devastating. The discomfort behind her sternum persists. The pressure on her rib cage does not improve and the cramp is getting sharper. 

“That sorceress just put me in cardiac fibrillation,” Edmondine concludes. “If I can get a bit closer and grab that old bag's neck, we will be even.” 

The side of the pool is slippery. Edmondine falls in the deep section where the water is darker. The incident is funny at first. Everybody laughs. Everyone looks at the irritated woman, desperately fighting her way out of the water for a minute and everyone chuckles. But when they watch her go down to the bottom of the pool, her eyes wide open and her right hand under her left breast, the wings of a fly can be heard. The mouth of Edmondine Belhumeur is open and seems to spell the letter O. All the witnesses of the ongoing drowning frown and put themselves in decision mode. Like most people born close to the ocean, Edmondine never learned how to swim. She is dying right in front of them. Guillermo would like to save his boss, but he doesn't want any picture of him on the front page of the Palm Beach Post. An undocumented migrant, who entered the country illegally twenty years ago using a catapult saves an American citizen from certain death. Not good. Not good at all. Alejandro just paid 185 dollars for his manicure and pedicure special with yin-yang motifs on the big toes. Mrs. Huang does not reimburse. So that's not going to happen. The judicial adviser just remembered the fifteen reasons why he is not allowed to work in South Carolina, Georgia and the Floridian Peninsula. The three men therefore hesitate to jump in. So Eudoxie Angelique Legitime puts out her joint, thinking about the consequences of a visitor drowning in her pool on her insurance fees next year. She dives in, but complains in her head that she must be the only grandmother of Palm Beach who will be forced to use the CPR lessons of Doctor Stewart on a woman she doesn’t even like. 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda 

 Sequence 17g 

(The One Percenters) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 17g 
 The One Percenters 

Jeanne d'Arc-Victoria Legitime spent the afternoon in the company of three different police organizations: the USMS, the CHP and the SMPD. The one-percenter type of bikers, Junior Grosbois sent earlier to save Victoria from the wrath of her employees, were brutally attacked as soon as they stepped on the property of the Legit Imco Media Corporation. A group of angry lighting and rigging technicians from the film enterprise were even showing off their California weapon's license while shooting at them. The parking lot of the company now looks like a war zone. Distressed, wounded and highly disorientated people lie in every corner. Many vehicles are reduced to ashes. Paramedics, firemen and police officers are trying their best to do their job. Everyone believes it's a miracle if no one died from the stabbings, the slug injuries and the iron bar, jack and wrench blows. The Santa Monica Police Department limited its presence to securing the crime scene, collecting witness depositions and reconstructing the sequence of events, while at the same time, scientifically establishing the trajectories of the bullets fired, the type of ammunition used, identifying the impact sites and determining the position of the belligerents during the skirmish. For its part, the State Police got busy interrogating Victoria Legitime, concerning her links to the Nevada Filthy Cobras Motorcycle Club and the reason for their sudden unexpected intrusion inside the State of California. Far more worried about the money trail, the two US Marshals were more interested in the last phone calls made from Jeanne d'Arc-Victoria's office, and also in the identical serial numbers of all the banknotes found on the scene and in various stores located in the geographical lozenge formed by Burbank, Santa Monica, Long Beach and Monterey Park. 

Agent Znatchko keeps her sunglasses on to intimidate Victoria. She mumbles in Russian once in a while to express her dissatisfaction with the vague and incomplete answers coming from the entrepreneur. Agent Galardo adopts a much more cordial attitude. Her goal is to gain the trust of the suspect and make her talk more than her lawyer would recommend. Galardo goes as far as to share her personal experience with pain, her family having been directly touched by the L'Aquila earthquake in 2009. 

“Your father was a true patriot. The devotion and the perseverance of that man for his country transcend death. And the fact that you chose to pursue his work makes you a combatant that deserves our respect. Oksana and I are Americans, but when a catastrophe hits the land of our parents, we automatically remember that the tree always drinks from its roots.” 
“What can you tell us about Slugger?” Agent Znatchko interrupts with a total lack of emotions in her voice. 
“You've got to help me with that one, I have a lot of employees,” a very confused Jeanne d'Arc-Victoria answers. 
“That's not his real name. And I doubt he ever worked for anyone but himself.” 
“He is some kind of parasite fungus,” Agent Galardo says with a grin. 
“We have the antifungal cream to eradicate that leech, but we need to isolate and identify it beforehand. The counterfeit money that you distributed to your staff…” 
“I had no idea the bills were fake,” Victoria Legitime protests. 
“We're not prosecutors,” Agent Znatchko firmly reminds Victoria. “Let the California State and the Feds decide on the legal stuff. We would like to limit our implication to the investigation. Now, you said that you called a good friend to obtain a loan so you could pay your employees, right? The money was delivered by a member of the Nevada Filthy Cobras yesterday around noon, but you swear that you never met that man before.” 
“Asking my ex-lover for help was a huge mistake.” 
“Philbert Hans Orville Grosbois Junior, am I right?” 
“That’s the name of the asshole.” 
“Could that be an alias?” Agent Galardo wonders. 
“It's the name of a well known family back in Haiti over many generations, just like us, the Legitimes. I know Junior since preschool; our parents have always done business together.” 
“You speak French and Creole. Legitime means Legitimate. Now, how would you translate Grosbois in English?” 
“I don't know; Big Wood or Large Timber, I guess.” 
“I see. In the game of baseball, a slugger is a fearsome hitter. I feel that the end of this falsifier is very near, Donatella.” 
“What's going to happen to me?” Jeanne d'Arc-Victoria worries. 
“The FBI is on its way,” Agent Galardo answers. 
“Counterfeiting is a federal crime. A particularly heavy sentence is generally proposed by most conservative jurists.” 
“If I was in your shoes, ma chérie,” Agent Znatchko adds, “I would hire the best lawyer in town.” 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda 

 Sequence 17f 

(Murder Eye One) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 17f
Murder Eye One 

Big Moose's loyalty is legendary, so is the young man's appetite. The Baudouin-Lacroix twins were certainly not aware of that factor when they came up to the SSG gang's giant with a very unusual proposition, right in the middle of his bacon, eggs and French toast brunch. Yves Lacroix and his brother, Yvon Baudouin, called from Haiti and promised fifty per cent of Chuck Canada's hidden cash to the SSG's official accountant, if he agreed to go and get that money in the company of one designated close associate of theirs, currently living in Montreal. Big Moose answered to the twins that he was very much interested, but needed more information before making such an important decision, and consequently becoming a traitor in the eyes of his long-time buddies. So the South-Shore goliath cleverly interrogated Yves Lacroix, hoping to squeeze some key facts and get a good hint on the exact location of that famous stash. 

The twin known as Loverboy explained to Moose that he would send a trusted partner to pick him up at the Longueuil-Université-de-Sherbrooke Metro Station around noon, driving a red rented car from the Via Route Company. That dude's job was to guide Big Moose all the way to the coveted treasure, concealed in a place so uncommon, Loverboy believes only a leprechaun would have thought about it. Now, Big Moose may be known as a stoner and a drunk who never finished high school, but his knowledge of numbers still rivals the most competent actuary working in the business district of the City of Montreal. 

“Are you calling me from a tropical mangrove to pull a prank on me, you sick jackass?” 
“I don't get it. Fffffht! We can bargain a sixty-forty cut to your advantage, bigwig.” 
“If your homeboy knows where to find the dough, why would you need my involvement in your shady venture? Sounds like you're trying to set me up big time, Dessalines ambush style?” 
“There lies our principal problem, partner. The guy I'm sending to you knows the details of the safe; as for you, we were informed that you're more familiar with the global address of the riches. You get the vibe and dig what I'm saying? Fffffht!” 
“I ain't digging shit, motherfucker! Do I sound like a gopher to you? And just wait a minute, that sound you're making... Are you smoking dope, right now, as we're technically planning a breaking and entering plus theft?” 
“Fffffht! So?” 
“What the hell is wrong with you? I don't want any part of this. I'm not getting involved in a job with a stoned individual. Next thing you know, you won't remember a thing about our conversation. It will then be a headache for me to put some order back in your brain if I want to get paid. You're asking me to invest a lot of energy into a complete stranger's plan who could be calling from next door or from a police surveillance truck just outside.” 
“Stop it with the paranoia, Richman. I'm calling from Haiti. Can't you hear the poverty in the background? You watch too much of that cinema bullshit. Back to our biz, we're talking a hundred thousand dollars, minimum, my good Canadian friend.” 
“There's no way Chuck saved that kind of money before being shipped to Sugarcane Land. I don't know the cost of a lap dance in the swamps you're dying in, but over here, or anywhere above the 45th parallel, if your willy participates in any of the choices you make, you're ruined way before you get hard. Chuck has been a strip club VIP all his sorry life. Strippers don't let you go until you're broke. Therefore, I don’t believe in your funny smelling shit talk.” 
“Listen to me, my judicious and highly responsible accomplice, do you want to be loaded, yes or no?” 
“Repeat what you've said about Chuck's hiding place.” 
“You bring my man to Paris; he will show you the Eiffel Tower. You land in Kinshasa; he will show you where to find the coltan. Fffffht! Longueuil-Université-de-Sherbrooke Metro station, be there alone. No need to bring your heavy hardware. I'll call you back in a moment for further information.” 
“And what's the name of the guy I'm supposed to be meeting?” 
“Pepito, but he prefers to be called Murder Eye One.” 

“You must be fucking kidding me.” 

Big Moose immediately convenes a meeting with the active SSG members at their new headquarters in Saint-Hubert. Moving in the apartment of Florence’s mother was necessary for the time being. According to three news specialty channels, Anaïs and Moose are presently wanted for questioning, regarding the violent shootout that occurred the night before in the city of Longueuil. When everyone is gathered, Big Moose reveals the content of his conversation with Yves Baudouin-Lacroix to the rest of the gang. The opinion of each companion is taken into account. Ricardo considers this hidden treasure story a complete sham or some kind of set up, orchestrated by the dissidents of the SSG crew, notably Costco, Jedi, Gunjah Spliff or even Two-Face Ace. Paolo thinks it might be real. So he proposes to follow Pepito's Via Route rented car and simply improvise from there with a lot of convincing violence. Drive-by argues that sending Big Moose alone would be a major mistake. A recent mug shot of Moose has been shown to millions on National Television in the last hours. The subway system is a crowded place, filled with cameras and citizens carrying smart phones. Florence pleads that the first thing to do is a brief inquiry on the thug named Pepito. They must find out how tough the fellow really is, who he knows and who knows him. 

The squad goes along with Florence's suggestion. Anaïs starts the research by communicating with the loudest and widest mouths of the South Shore available on the cyberspace. Fifteen minutes later, the comrades are laughing their stomachs out. Many people dealt at least once with Pepito. He is the younger brother of Paquito Luis Villacampa, aka San Salvador, aka Fake Jewels. Pepito is seventeen. He weighs fifty kilos when wet on a five-foot-three frame, and his favourite weapon is a cheap air pressure gun bought in person at Canadian Tire with his mom's credit card. The SSG finally decides it will just show up to the rendezvous and beat Pepito extensively until Mr. Murder Eye One leads them to Chuck's savings. If all of this is a lie or a trap, all members present at the reunion agree, Pepito's mother will cry profusely, many X-rays will be performed on Pepito's unconscious body and Provincial Health Insurance will be greatly requested. 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda 

 Sequence 17e 

(The Bomber and the Sister) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 17e 
The Bomber and the Sister 

During this time, in the coffee room of the West Island Operational Center, Detectives Pinheiro and Shaughnessy are celebrating the fortuitous arrest of Sprinkling Happy Joey, born Emerson Louis Fournier. The atmosphere in the police department is very festive. The two police officers were congratulated by the Deputy Minister of Justice for their remarkable achievement. They got a strawberry and cheesecake, a phone call from City Hall and praises from the Education and Public Safety Ministers. Emerson Louis Fournier is that audacious and reckless student who took pleasure and pride in pelting riot brigade policemen with toy balloons filled with hard fecal material during the 2012 province-wide student protests. The SPVM only had a single and out-of-focus picture of him, unmasked, in their possession. The service had lost all hope of putting their hands on Sprinkling Happy Joey, a delinquent who reached a near-legend status among the students all over the province and made the authorities look like a bunch of amateurs. 

The charges hanging over the heads of Georgelina Vériquin and Emerson Fournier are quite serious. Failure to assist a person in danger comes first. They should have stayed near Candy during the 911 call, while she was agitated with muscle spasms and overdosing, to follow the nurse’s instructions. Health risks associated with heroin use are very severe, the young adults were told. Leaving the scene of an accident and countless hit and runs will be added to the long list of accusations. Minerva Veriquin's Malibu was involved in three separate collisions. Judicial summons to appear before a court for careless driving, causing extended damage to infrastructures belonging to the city of Saint-Basile, to a family-owned creamery and to a private daycare are almost inevitable. Refusing to obey a direct police order will be added also, because the two transgressors forced the agents to chase them on the 116 at a dangerous speed, putting the lives of a dozen drivers in peril. Finally, Emerson will have to respond to a judge for driving with a license that was suspended for impaired driving six months earlier. Some good news: the luminol test confirmed that the red liquid found on the windshield of the Malibu was not human blood. Some bad news: a victim of Emerson Fournier's shit bombs was recently promoted to assistant-director to the prosecution, and will probably be among the first lawmen to testify when the trials of the radical students begin in the spring of 2013. 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda 
      

 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 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 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. 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. 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 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 Captain 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 compartment 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 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 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 blonde 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 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. 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. 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 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 Albanel reproaches Costco for 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 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? 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?” 

The door opens with a kick. Captain 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, Captain. 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 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 

 Sequence 17c 

(The Reverend) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 17c 

The Reverend 

Reverend Lamisère stole just about everything before fleeing the country, including the rainy-day money left in the security fund of the New Golgotha Baptist Church. His frequent visits to the Atlantic City casinos were not only to fuel his gambling problem. The pastor was also laundering money, withdrawn systematically on a weekly basis from the congregation's bank account. The investigation didn't take long, and its conclusion was very simple and indefensible. It looks as if the cleric wanted to get caught. One quick stop to a nearby ATM and a print of the reverend's transaction history was enough to build the entire case. The District Attorney was notified of the matter. The senior members of the Church met soon after at the Camden temple; trying to find a way to digest the devastating news together. 

“We should have reacted more vigorously when all of this began, right after the first sexual misconduct allegations came out against Sylvestre,” Freddy Odelin maintains. “Even if his numerous accusers later admitted that they were paid to make these false accusations.” 
“I spoke to his daughter, Immaculée,” Dudley says. “She was also a victim of intimidation. A local gang leader sent her a threatening email prompting her to leave Haiti immediately or be set ablaze along with the building housing her NGO. You all know Immaculée's temper. She told that punk to hurry up and get down with business while she lacked ammunition to welcome his whole posse and his sorry ass. She asked me to reassure her father and tell him that everything was going to turn out okay. Immaculée told me that Sylvestre is completely innocent and has absolutely nothing to worry about. She added mysteriously that despite the appearances, Jesus Christ and Moïse Berri were playing offense and defense for her team. She cannot lose. That brave woman believes that all those trials and tribulations she is going through have a deeper meaning. Well, Immaculée was about to tell me how she was going to twist the neck of whoever would stand between her and her God-given mission, when I heard a great clamor and a series of explosions coming from behind her. Immaculée suddenly shouted, “Lord, have mercy on us! The idiots just blew up the power plant!” The phone line then went dead. 
“The reverend should not have run,” Achille Hector Legitime reflects. “Being isolated makes him more vulnerable. We must find good old Sylvestre, my good friends. With that kind of cash involved, he is probably in danger as we speak.” 
“Aren't you supposed to fly to Chicago for your sibling's sake?” 
“Ulysses Hercules will have to get out of this one alone. I did not pick him as a brother, but I did select Sylvestre Lamisère when I chose him to become my kin.” 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda  

 Sequence 17b 

(The Snitch) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 17b 

The Snitch 

Ulysses Hercules Dondedieu Legitime spent a sleepless night in the overcrowded lockup of the Harwood Heights police station. He was put in a holding cell specially adapted for inmates with mental issues. Two of the men he shared this narrow room with snored all night, interrupting their irritating orchestra only to cough or to stammer some incoherent meaningless thought. A third man, still high on smack or something worse, made the springs of his bed grind all night and kept switching positions and kicking the demons disturbing his sleep. Three others, the vampire type, who had formed a veritable caucus and went through the whole day snoozing and dozing, waited until nightfall to ultimately reveal to each other with pride and precision the detailed secrets of their criminal pasts. Finally, one convict kept scratching his elbows and collarbones, moaning and groaning until blood spat out. 

The eldest son of Sixte Osmer Legitime firmly believes he won't survive this arduous ordeal. He can feel the dust that has been accumulating all over his body since yesterday, crawling up to his throat to suffocate him. He can smell his own sweat, slowly corroding his sensitive skin. Ulysses Hercules can no longer look at his own hands. He considers them soiled and possibly carrying some kind of random flesh-eating disease. He stares at the ground, consumed with guilt and a great amount of shame. The man avoids his own reflection. A tear comes out from his left eye when his ankles are confined with leg iron shackles. The transfer to the Cook County jail has been officially initiated. 

“I am worth sixty-four million dollars,” Ulysses Hercules tells himself. “According to clause 7 of article 12 of my father's testament, when the reconstruction of Mizerikod is completed, that number will nearly quadruple. Isn't there any justice for the wealthy in this crumbling country?” 

The armored bus smells like rancid urine. The driver and the two guards look like experienced Klan members, patiently waiting for all the potential witnesses to leave before removing their virtual masks. The prisoner sitting next to Ulysses Hercules orders him to switch seats. He needs to be close to a window for personal and emotional reasons. U.H.D. Legitime gawks at him, completely disconnected from reality. He is convinced that huge molecules carrying his neighbor's bad breath are floating in the air and trying to penetrate his airways. Ulysses Hercules tries to sneeze. Nothing comes out. 

“Please don't speak to me anymore,” Ulysses Hercules strongly requests. 
“You ain’t gonna boss me around, you fucking snitch,” the man replies. “I use vermin of your kind to wipe my ass when I have diarrhea.” 
“Guards!” 
“They don't like rats either, you, ugly bald bitch.” 
“I am not an informer, Sir. You are mistaking me for someone else. I'll pay you to leave me alone as soon as I speak to my lawyer.” 
“Take a good look at my tattoo,” the unpleasant prisoner says, rolling up his left sleeve. “It says Joliet's Lethal Irish. I already got paid by D.P. Carrigan to waste you for good.” 
“I don't know any Kerrigan, Sir. Why would this Dippy Kerrigan be so mad at me?” 
“Carrigan is the godson of K.Q. O'Reilly. Does that name ring a bell in your brain, dick head?” 
“I do have an employee...” Ulysses Hercules starts explaining before retracting himself. “Forget what I have just said, all right? This conversation makes me very uncomfortable. Guards! I want to be relocated. That man seems on drugs and he is threatening to kill me.” 
“Stay calm, you little canary. You certainly don't want me to tell the Irish population of Cook County that you beat O'Reilly's daughter so bad, she lost her baby in a McDonald's bathroom near Lagrange.” 
“That's completely false!” 
“You tell that later to the broomstick and the soap, Beyoncé.” 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda  

 Sequence 17a 

(The Investigator) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 17a 
The Investigator 

Philbert Hans-Orville Grosbois Senior was supposed to meet with Burns Breton in downtown Montreal around noon. The meeting was due to take place at the bistro-bar of the Fairmont The Queen Elizabeth Hotel. The New York lawyer has been waiting for the elusive mortician since ten o'clock this morning. The delicate octogenarian is nervously flipping through a tourist brochure and sipping a martini, reassessing every detail of the elaborate plot he put up to neutralize that shady funeral home director known as Mister B. for good. 

Deodas Demosthene Legitime's fishy envoy is one hour late. P.H.O. Grosbois Senior believes it's on purpose. That crook Burns Breton likes to infuse doubt and insecurity in the minds of the people he deals with according to his friend and business partner, Amaury Quick. The lawyer orders a third aperitif. He knows that without Breton, all his plans will go down the drain. 

The headwaiter of the establishment finally comes out to announce the arrival of the anticipated guest. The heart of the old man skips a beat. This is not the individual Philbert Hans-Orville Grosbois was expecting. The dude smiling at him from the reception area is certainly not the Black morose undertaker he met on two different occasions. That man is slimmer, in his forties, has frizzy auburn hair and a long unkempt beard. He is also a white guy, as in Caucasian. The strange gentleman has a bandage on his nose, wears leather gloves and sports a pair of sunglasses similar to Roy Orbison's famous spectacles. The odd fellow tries very hard to hide the handcuffs linking a portable Getac X500 computer to his left wrist. Grosbois Senior waves at the weird character with a fake welcoming grin on his face. The eccentric chap approaches quickly, all smiles and waving back at him. 

“Who are you?” the seasoned lawyer spits with a lot of disrespect. 

“Rogatien Gingras, Sir. We met before at a fundraising event; it was, I believe, at the headquarters of Quick Holdings in Boston. How have you been, my good man? Big fan of yours, right here. I am honored.” 

“Take a seat. Are you positive we've been introduced before?” 

“Well, I remember you. One of the greatest days of my not so exciting life. You do understand that it's not safe to show up here all alone, don't you, Mr. Grosbois? Burns Breton is a dangerous cutthroat. Back in Haiti, many people say that monster is not of the human race and drinks children's blood to stay young and healthy.” 

“Don't worry about me, Mr. Gingras. As a fully shielded Christian, I am never alone. Now, justify your foolish disguise or get the hell away from me before I lose my religion all over you.” 

“It's macular degeneration, Sir.  My eyes can hardly tolerate natural light. Those cheap gloves hide my eczema. It's a habit. The funny beard is the result of a sports bet with an old acquaintance; a ZZ Top fan and jolly prankster. I have to keep this hairy face until Sunday for his pleasure if I want to remain a good sport.”

“Ha! ha! ha! That's funny. I appreciate a man who keeps his word. What about your nose, who rebuilt this, a four fingers sculptor or what?” 

“That's a souvenir from Burns Breton's poisonous entourage. They were planning to execute me in cold blood, in a dark alley by the Old Port. Lucky for me, a police car came out of nowhere. I communicated with the RCMP and told them about Breton's presence on Canadian soil. I am an economist, by the way, Duke University; a micro-credit specialist. But nowadays, and it's all new to me, I'm more like a recycled-slash-reinvented bounty hunter. For my own personal reasons of course. I had no choice. I want payback from Burns Breton. You see, I've been tracking that swindler like a real sleuth for almost a year. My fees are paid by Alistair Stetson, a Chicago lawyer who got robbed by Burns Breton also. I have accumulated enough proof against that rat to get him sentenced in Quebec, the State of Illinois and in the district of Columbia. We're talking traffic of prohibited weapons, illegal drugs and human beings; also for a major Ponzi scheme and a long list of crimes including attempted murder and aggravated assault.” 

“How can you be useful to me without Burns Breton in the picture and on our side, young man?” 

“I'm aware of the financial disaster undermining the achievements of the late Sixte Osmer Legitime in Haiti. It's a catastrophe I could have prevented. You see, the culprits used River of Hope, an NGO I was running with limited means, as a platform to test their embezzlement techniques. Once ready, they just replicated the experience on a global scale. Those wild boars ruined my reputation and drove me to the brink of bankruptcy. It took me a while, but I figured everything out. I understand how their stratagem works.  The computer takeover, the induction and the management of general discord; just about all of it. Entrust me with the power to investigate the case, I promise you results in less than a week. I'll have those crooks imprisoned before Christmas, starting with our common enemy: Moïse Berri.” 

“What happens if you find any dirty or compromising stuff on my partner, Amaury Quick, or on myself, pal?” 

“I'll destroy anything that could harm you later in the inquiry, Sir.” 

“If I understand you correctly, Mister Gingras, you loan small amounts of money to poor people. We both know these tech-savvy heisters didn't pick you out randomly. Why was your organization targeted?” 

“Evelyne Laure Legitime is alive, Sir.” 

A long pause follows that revelation from Rogatien Gingras. The lawyer's jaw drops on the left side and stays there, nearly paralyzed. 

“That's not amusing, young man. Do you have one shred of evidence to back up such a declaration?” 

“Evelyne sent me a framed picture of herself, holding a real New South Wales daily newspaper, with a phone number on its back. It was taken recently in front of the Sydney Opera. The people who know she is alive and well fear that she will reclaim what belongs to her. And that is her fair share of the heritage and the chairmanship of the Legitime Funds. I called her, but I had no idea my phone was tapped. Burns Breton decided to get rid of me because I already knew too much. I'm the best candidate for the task, Mr. Grosbois. I'm fluent in Creole and I've worked with the good people of the region of Mizerikod for years. They trust me. What they'll hide from a stranger, they'll gladly reveal to me. I am an adopted Haitian, sort of. I know all their customs and traditions. I dance the kompa pretty well, with the hip movements and all the attitude required. No one in Mizerikod can tell you what religion I defend, because I'm a chameleon when it comes to avoiding endless debates. I am cognizant of the Haitian Omertà; I know its rules and its codes. And when it comes to politics, I always agree with the person I'm arguing with to save my precious time. If there are two of them, I find an excuse to run away with the one who drinks more and speaks less. Missionary, that's how they nicknamed me. They have a name for everyone or they really don't like you. You won't find Kennedy Fleurinor anywhere, now that Burns Breton vanished into thin air. Name me your chief audit executive, comptroller, auditor general or financial fixer if such a position even exists and give me the latitude and all the privileges you gave to Kennedy Fleurinor. I won't disappoint you, Mr. Grosbois. Moïse Berri and his associates will be punished, Mr. Quick and you will be cleared and I will finally get my revenge.” 

“You are one convincing party, Gingras. But wait a minute, you, are you trying to hypnotize me, like, now, as we speak?” 

“It's the truth that enthralls you, Mr. Grosbois. Take me under your wings. You won't regret it.” 

“I admit that you inspire confidence, Gingras, but I'm not alone in this. I have to consult my business partner before taking that kind of decision. Amaury Quick is landing at Dorval Airport at around six p.m. I invite you to join me in a meeting with him. Now, are you hungry, young man, you look frail? I recommend the fried calamari or the clam chowder. The halibut filet is not bad either.” 

“The situation is more critical than you can imagine, Mr. Grosbois. My stomach can wait. Let me show you some images that my inside man filmed. That video dates from last night. It accurately describes the total confusion reigning in Mizerikod at this moment and time. If we wait another day, our efforts might be useless. The commune will cease to exist.” 

Rogatien Gingras turns his wrist and dials a numeric combination that unlocks the access to his sturdy computer, but he keeps the handcuffs on. He types a series of passwords in ASCII code with an astonishing speed and then turns the screen towards the old lawyer. The silent scene is exactly thirteen seconds long. It shows Léopold de Grâce, the head of the human resources department of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation, running in his birthday suit, followed closely by a thousand rioters, charging an army of policemen and United Nations soldiers. All  this in the middle of the street, more precisely on Capois-la-Mort Alley, back in Mizerikod. The vast majority of the revolters seem to take the situation very lightly. They look entertained by the nudity of their leader. On the other hand, sheer terror and real concern can be read on the faces of a small minority of bystanders. Strangely enough, the reactions and emotions on the side of the police forces are highly similar. 

“Do you understand why we need to act right now, Mr. Grosbois?” 

“That is extremely troubling. But explain one thing to me, Gingras. There is obviously a mobile camera shooting that video. You mentioned having an inside man in Mizerikod. The person who filmed the disorder could not be driving the motorcycle or the bike moving away from the crowd at the same time. Two people had to work on this footage. I'm an aged man, but I'm not dumb.” 

“Nothing escapes your attention, Mr. Grosbois, but I must keep that information secret. A sleuthhound with good ethics must protect his sources. I can make an exception if you have something as awkward to feed me with in exchange.” 

“Go ahead, Gingras, you've got my word. Let's play that game.” 

“My spook is an itinerant patty vendor named Ludovic. When I learned that Djon Djon, that's a reputed thief known by all in Mizerikod, had stolen his bicycle once again, I bought the kid a brand new one, but with a solid lock this time. I did however install two webcams on the thing; one in the front and one to the rear. The idea was to spy on the comings and goings of Moïse Berri, Burns Breton and the Human Resources Director at the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation, Mr. Léopold de Grâce; that's the naked clown we just saw on the video. Ludovic works for me on his two-wheeler, always on the same street, without realizing it, reporting live and collecting evidence for me twenty four seven.” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughs the old lawman. “You little trickster! ha! ha! ha! son of a gun, that's hilarious. I hope that Gus will like you as much as I do, Gingras. I picture you with your gloves and your Viking beard under the Haitian sun. Ha! ha! ha! You're going to melt and die of a heatstroke, Gingras, ha! ha! ha!” 

“Your turn now, Sir.” 

“My turn for what? Oooh, yes. Aaaah, did you notice the African giant sitting at the bar with the parachute pants at three o'clock?” 

“I was going to ask you if you knew for sure that you were not being followed. That man seems lost. He has been sipping on the same Perrier for quite a while now. He reminds me of William - The Fridge - Perry. And have you seen his orthodontic retainers, they look handmade?” 

“Mr. Nji Mbonjo's job is to watch my back when he is not busy escorting ambassadors and foreign ministers between Ottawa and Montreal. He is a Cameroonian killing machine who has worked for private companies in Iraq, Uganda, the Nigerian Delta and on the Congo River. Take a good look at the umbrella he has been pointing towards you since you entered the room. It's the latest toy from MI6. It shoots six .22-caliber bullets per second. And did I mention that Mr. Nji Mbonjo is under the cloak of diplomatic immunity?” 

“That is what I call efficient back up, Mr. Grosbois.” 

“Just like I told you, young man, I am never alone.” 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda