Sequence 15b 

(The Administrator) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 15b 
The Administrator 

Earlier today, Léopold de Grâce, unmistakably Mizerikod's least respected bureaucrat, was looking for his younger brother Lordy near Elzéar Michelet's garage. The Human Resources Director of the Zanmi d’Haïti Foundation was walking around carrying a rather tacky leather briefcase containing half a dozen salt-cod patties, a 1981 issue of People magazine, a check for five hundred thousand Haitian gourdes stamped with the official seal of the Mizerikod commune and ten thousand bucks in American banknotes. That dirty cash came straight from the safe of Léopold de Grâce’s anonymous employer. That money was essentially a reward for his sibling, Lordy de Grâce's commission, a bonus for services rendered. Léopold suffered a disconcerting anxiety attack upon learning that the black limousine Lordy got paid to destroy had not yet been dismantled. It was still on the road and his unreliable brother was nowhere to be found. 

The ringleader and crime mastermind of Anse-à-Galets who threw the dough for the execution of that particular job, a man of very few words, insisted and made it perfectly clear to Léopold, that any trace of human DNA present in that vehicle had to disappear. Any physical evidence of Moïse Berri's presence in Haiti had to be eliminated, starting with that Lincoln Town Car, in which the vanished executive had lost some blood during a recent scuffle. 

After a quick search in the courtyard behind the shop, Léopold de Grâce caught young Gargarine sitting in the front seat of an old beat-up  ambulance from Ontario, busy cleaning a pistol with a dirty, oily cloth. 

“By the Lance of Longinus, Gargarine, what the hell are you doing with a firearm?” 
“That piece of junk is not even real,” the adolescent answered, obviously lying. 
“Let me take a closer look at that devilish object.” 
“Of course, but can I take a closer look at those hairy testicles of yours and palpate your enlarged prostate in return, while you’re putting your greasy nose in my personal business... Sir?” 
“You, illiterate walking chunk of poop!” the administrator raged. “The whoopin' you’re asking for is looking for you with the same determination. Do you have any idea where my incompetent brother is currently hiding?” 
“I might be the victim of a rare form of Alzheimer's disease that only targets poor uneducated Black teens. Make a generous donation to the Gargarine Institute for Memory and the board of directors will evaluate your request and see what can be done.” 
“You, arrogant bony swollen eyeballs thief. What you need is a classic beating that will teach you how to show some respect to adults and society in general. You're lucky, I’m in a hurry. Can you break a hundred in five twenties?” 
“So I'm now a freaking bank, you, stupid fuck. I'm a homeless orphan, remember? I was going to open my cakehole for five bills, but now that I'm informed you're loaded…” 
“Just wait till I get both hands around your tiny neck, you son of a crippled bitch! I'm going to circumcise you with a rusted hand saw.” 
“The doors of the ambulance are closed, Copernicus. Put the Benjamin on the hood and walk away from the truck. I'll tell you where to find Lordy Five Thumbs as soon as you do just that and only that.” 

Léopold de Grâce ended up, minutes later, on the doorstep of Mélissandre Présumé's residence, full of shame and sweating as if he had just run a marathon. The managing director sprinted nonstop roughly half a mile, after being royally ripped off and chased by Gargarine. The minor was possibly armed with a toy gun, but Léopold de Grâce didn't have the opportunity or the time to analyze the piece from up close. While pursuing the frightened executive, the licentious teenager kept on threatening him to put a bullet in his spinal cord and repeatedly insulted the terrified man's completely blameless and irreproachable mother. 

“I must have a talk with my little brother, Mrs. Dutervil. It's extremely urgent. Let me catch my breath… pfff, pfff, pfff... this is a matter of life and death... period.” 
“Hmm, I see. And... ahem... what makes you think that Lordy No Money might be hiding in my house, does it say loser's parking or rest area for hobos and barefoot vagrants on my front porch?” 
“Do you mind if I take a look inside?” 
“Well, be my guest. And while you're at it, you might want to shave your pubic hair and cut your toenails on my new carpet in the living room.  It's on the left. Who do you think you are, Mister? The reign of the Zinglins is over, pal. We have a President now, not a governor, a King or an Emperor.  Democracy is the new cool. People have rights nowadays. And let me tell you something else…” 

“Shut up! Ma’am, please, my head. I'm sorry. Listen, Mrs. Dutervil, with all due respect, if you meet with Lordy before me, you tell him that his money is in the hands of Gargarine, that evil little brat working at Elzéar Michelet's garage. The kid robbed me at gunpoint. It's a five hundred thousand gourde check and a ten thousand dollar bonus in U.S. currency. As for the task Lordy was supposed to do for He Knows Who, tell him to hurry up and finish the damn job before an inspector is sent by He Knows Who to confirm the results.” 
“If I hear you right, all that greenback honey belongs to my Lordy Honey Bunny?” said Mélissandre Présumé, her voice suddenly jolly, dramatically respectful and at least three octaves higher than her usual pitch. “My late husband never came home with more than thirty dollars and a handful of coins. That failure of a man disappeared with the wind just seven days after subscribing to a life insurance contract. Can you believe that? Do the math. The selfish hog left me with nothing. I kept our crumbling shelter, of course, but look at me? I'm wearing used clothes and my perm is three months overdue. People think I'm repressing my emotions when I tell them what I feel deep inside of me. That roving dog is still alive and well somewhere. The moron is waiting patiently for the insurance check to be signed and approved by the company before he comes back from the dead. That is what's keeping me from starting a new life. Do you understand? And don't get me started on that spineless weakling brother of yours. That no good lying macaque won't leave his wife because that would infuriate his pastor. Lordy Honey Bunny doesn't want to make our union official outside my bedroom. He dreads to be seen with me in public or in broad daylight. When it's time to snuggle, on the other hand, that mama's boy keeps spelling my name loud and clear and in every tongue spoken in the Americas. For instance, last Tuesday, after we took a baking soda bath with vetiver grass, aloes, coconut oil and...” 
“Whoosh! Ma'am! Please! Just turn off that lithium battery charger plugged in your vocal cords. Stop babbling, for Christ's sake. Damn! Do I even look as if I'm listening to you right now, be honest? Now that I've caught my breath back, let me repeat the very simple and clear message I want you to share with my brother. The canny little punk who works at Elzéar Michelet's garage is strolling around with his entire wages. Tell Lordy that I spoke to Archibald, the regular chauffeur of the limousine. The menace is real. The people who work for that shady employer  of his don't own what we call a soul. I heard they've killed babies inside the womb, crucified lads, drank maiden's blood and burned grannies alive to demonstrate the seriousness of their warnings to insubordinate hookers and disobedient mercenaries within their own squad. Ever heard of Dante Alighieri's Inferno? That shit is real! Those butchers are not part of the human family. Lordy must respect his part of the contract and finish the job on that goddamn car before sundown or leave the country before dawn. Do I make myself clear, Mrs. Dutervil?” 
“Call me Melissandre, handsome. Just to let you know, my birth name, before meeting Mister Dud, was Présumé. Why don't you stick around and tell me more about Lordy's financial situation? I have some lamb in my roaster, dipped in okra sauce, fried plantains and some sweet potatoes. I don't mind a little company once in a while.” 
“Did you hear what I've just said? Here I am talking about maniacs setting people on fire and harpooning the unborn, blood-thirsty psychopaths looking for my brother to cause him harm. There's a local thief teenager walking around town with a loaded gun; and you, you are subtly trying to sweet potato me? You must be completely disconnected up there.” 

“Lordy is all grown up, Sweetheart. He'll manage. In the meantime, you might want to make sure I get reconnected properly.” 
“I like my food spicy. Do you have red peppers?” 
“Pepper is my middle name, Good-Looking; and I have kilos of Habañeros from the Artibonite for your pleasure only. Peppers so hot that you'll have trouble keeping your shirt on.” 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda 

 Sequence 15a 

(Cell Seven) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 15a 
Cell Seven 

Captain Pintado and Police Chief Malvenu block off the entrance of the municipal jail of Mizerikod with a squadron of UN Peacekeepers. Pintado sent Lieutenant Menendez to the south side of the Jacques-Roumain bridge. Two heavily-armed platoons are backing him up. Captain Pintado ordered Lieutenant Menendez to wait patiently for his instructions and just stay alert until his return. The captain wrote down three simple questions on his notepad. Three important issues he surely would like the mysterious French Canadian detainee from Rimouski to help him clarify. The answers provided by the Quebecker will reveal if he is indeed a danger to the stability of the State of Haiti or just an additional victim of Moïse Berri's mercurial criminal mind. 

According to his written testimony, Réal Couture thought all along that he was only doing his job, performing solely as an actor, playing the role of a fictional character, a benefactor and NGO director named Moïse Berri. He had no clue about the scale of the plot being hatched around him. A phone call to the Provincial Police in Quebec exonerated Réal Couture almost immediately from multiple accusations. His reputation as a lady's man, a binge drinker and an extroverted artist did not match the typical pedophile profiling. Local police even confirmed that the locks of his residence were forced during his absence and his personal computer broken into. The conspiracy theory Réal Couture repeatedly denounced began to make sense. The Sûreté du Québec also admitted that Couture was reported missing by the RCMP for two months, according to a municipal police report filed by Couture's impresario, a new beneficiary of the Canadian Witness Protection Program. 

Mayor Amédée Fleurinor welcomes Captain Pintado and  Police Chief Malvenu in the insalubrious office of Oscar Perceval, the prison warden. Mayor Fleurinor offers some hazelnut flavored coffee and sweetened cassava bread. Strangely enough, his wardrobe seems to have quadrupled in price and quality. His watch is indicating eastern Atlantic time with accuracy, his brand-new designer shoes clearly fit and he smells like an emirati sheik. The head of the city council has no objection to the interview that the UNPOL wants to conduct with the prisoner in cell number seven. But before they proceed, he would like to have a word in private with the commissioner in the corridor. 

“You are from now on my official successor, Yves-Arnold, my trusted and long time loyal friend. I am leaving the presidency of the municipal council as of today. Only one man deserves to inherit that lucrative and secure post and that man is you.” 
“You said the elections were not before May.” 
“Change is progress. I'll speed them up and arrange them to your advantage.” 
“Just last month, you were planning to illegally prolong your term, Mr. Mayor. I'm a little bit lost here.” 
“The position of the stars in the sky recently shifted, my esteemed comrade. I am now a businessman. You can call me, O.D., that's for Oil Driller.” 
“You're leaving the country?” 
“On the contrary, my very close ally, I have never felt such a powerful attachment to my homeland. Black gold is right under our feet, Yves-Arnold. It's been there forever. I am since dawn the proud owner of one third of the commune's soil, as the newly self-named CEO of Ayiti Oil Fleurinor and Associates. The Associates means you and a lucky chosen few, but unfortunately, I cannot make you an executive in my drilling and distribution enterprise at this point; that would look too suspicious. Let's face it; you don't know squat about fossil energy. However, I can make you a strategic partner by electing you the commander in chief of the municipal council. I will organize your election campaign like a Mexican wrestling bout. I'll count the ballot boxes myself. Let me assure you that there will not be a breathing opponent. We'll select several names from the tombstones of the old cemetery. What am I saying? That was done yesterday. I am over qualified when it comes to organizing stuff and making things work. Your future assistants have already been picked. There is Herman Rodrigue Latrimus, dead in the seventies, and Jules Gilbert Calemard, a dude with no official deceased date, which is perfect for us. You think that's all? No way, Amédée Fleurinor likes to go to war fully equipped. I just hired Leopold de Grâce; an experienced white collar thief you cannot trust, but that miscreant speaks five languages and holds a MBA in finance from the Berkeley Haas School of Business. Stop me when you think we're strong enough. Victor Gourdet is also part of our team. Consider Victor the Hexagon our secret weapon, our kryptonite. Victor controls the local information and he is so TV-friendly with that bow tie, the khakis, his tobacco pipe and the made-up Parisian accent. Both men will be briefed on their duty and salary real soon. Listen, Yves-Arnold, my dear loyal sidekick, you guarantee complete immunity for two or three of my employees with a gangrened past and I make you richer than your imagination can picture in your wildest dreams.” 

Mayor Amédée Fleurinor and Commissioner Malvenu head back to the office of Oscar Perceval. Captain Pintado is now in the company of the night guards: Picot and Albin; and two notable bandits of the town of Mizerikod: Jim Falafel and Jeff Sprinter. The hoodlums look like a pair of hardworking scientists, with their spotless lab coats, latex gloves and protective glasses. Mayor Fleurinor only hopes that they kept their mouths shut about his personal businesses. Jim Falafel is supposed to be a Nigerian chemist with a hearing problem and Jeff Sprinter, an Angolan geophysicist who only speaks Mbundu. Amédée Fleurinor tells them in a botched Bantu to return immediately to their laboratory upstairs in order to pursue their cutting edge experiments. Chief Malvenu observes the whole thing with stupefaction. The mayor then asks the two prison guards to lead them to the French Canadian's prison cell. 

“What were you talking about with the foreign officer?” the mayor asks Albin in Creole. “Do you think I'm paying you to socialize with strangers?” 
“We just wanted a taste of the cassava,” Albin explains. 
“Don't you worry, Boss, we didn't invite him to chat personal stuff,” Picot says. “Do you remember Pamphile Dutervil, Boss, the cross-eyed cook, the jealous husband of Melissandre Présumé? The rumor in town says that he is not dead like everyone thought. Vidal Gascon and the guys from housekeeping at the clinic claim that Pamphile Dutervil is returning to Mizerikod to kill all the perverts that touched his wife during his long absence underground. Our friend, Albin, King of Viagra and Duke of the Dildo, right here, being one of his potential victims, I was laughing my ass off thinking about a public fight between the two. On the left corner, Pamphile Dutervil with his set of kitchen knives, on the right corner, my man, Albin the Stallion, loading his pneumatic nail gun.” 
“I never went past friendship with Melissandre Présumé,” Albin protests. “Absolutely everything Vidal Gascon says is in medical term a potential fabrication of his tormented mind. I mean, can you really swim to Key West back and forth in the same afternoon just to grab some tacos?”
“You'll have to explain that to that loony lowlife Dutervil around the coffee table while he is sharpening his kitchen equipment,” Picot teases with a big grin on his face. 
“Do you sometimes stop talking nonsense, the two of you?” the mayor erupts. “Open cell number seven, presto!” 
“Uh, we have all the keys except the one for cell seven and the private bathroom on the second floor,” Albin says. “Oscar insisted on keeping them for himself after his shift.” 
“So you don't have a double or a master key? What are the procedures in case of fire or flooding?” 
“There is none. One would be the unluckiest bastard in the world, being a prisoner in here and a disaster victim at the same time. On a positive note, you can speak to the suspects through the slot we use to pass them food. You bend down like this and, voilà.” 
“You call that positive, you feeble-minded orangutan? Is that okay with you, Captain Pintado?” the mayor asks in English. 
“What is okay? I wasn't following your conversation.” The captain replies. 
“I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Captain, but you must converse with the captive without visual contact, right through that metal slot down here at knee level. Those two brainless mollusks don't have the key for cell number seven, even if it says prison guards on their dirty shirts.” 
“I've been through much worse since my arrival in that country, Mr. Mayor.” 

Pintado kneels down carefully,  holding his lower back and immediately starts pounding on the iron door of the jail cell. 

“All right, Couture, we know more about you than both your parents, your doctor, the credit agencies and Revenu Quebec combined. I've got a couple of questions for you. You can forget about evoking your right to remain silent, no one knows that you are trapped in that muggy hole. If I don't get your entire collaboration, I cannot guarantee that you'll ever see the light of day again. Do you read me, Couture? The people running this jail ignore the existence of the Human Rights Declaration. Question number one: how did you get your hands on a passport bearing the name of Moïse Berri?” 
“Quiet!” a convict complains on the other side of the door. “Is it too much to ask for some silence when I'm trying to sleep?” 
“Answer the question, Couture; we don't have much time at our disposal.” 
“Your White man is gone, Spaniard! Give us tranquility or give us our liberty.” 
“Whom am I speaking to?” 
“Las Vegas.” 
“What?”
“Las Vegas.”  
“Uhh! Okay. How many men are sharing this cell with you, Mr. Vegas?” 
“Two… three, if you believe that the cannibal is still part of the human race.” 
“What about the Quebecker?” Mayor Fleurinor asks. 
“Gone with Oscar Perceval,” the inmate known as Las Vegas answers. 
“How is that possible, Albin?” the mayor panics. 
“I don't know. I got here ten minutes after Oscar left.” 
“And what about you, Picot?” 
“I punched in after Albin, but I saw Senator Fleurant's limousine leaving the premises. I didn't think it was somehow unusual, because the old man comes and walks around here as he pleases all the time since I started working here as a prison guard.” 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda 

 Sequence 14c 

(The Ghost) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 14c 
The Ghost 

Lordy de Grâce used most of his free time on this sunny day to find and buy a green stone talisman. The mechanic even weaved his own juju, using the fabric of an old pillowcase. He then locked himself in the guest bedroom of his three-story colonial house on Oswald-Durand Street. Lordy is now sitting half-naked, right in the middle of a circle on the wooden floor using yellow chalk, surrounded by diverse fetishes and altar candles, reciting a formula that is supposed to protect him against the evil eye or any other curse. Lordy thinks it's Latin, but his magic book is obviously written in Sicilian. 

Earlier this afternoon, Lordy de Grâce learned something that scared the hell out of him. While the mechanic was in the process of dismantling and pulverizing a limousine for an important client, Victor Gourdet, aka l'Hexagone, the local newspaper editor, came up to him with a highly destabilizing scoop. Pamphile Dutervil, Melissandre Présumé's husband, the woman Lordy de Grâce was regularly committing adultery with, had been seen alive somewhere near Saint-Marc. Many witnesses confirmed his presence on board a bus from the Legitime Tours Company, travelling from Cap-Haïtien to Port-au-Prince. One particular lady, who actually went to school with Pamphile and knew his godmother well, even added on her profile, via Facebook Mobile, some very disturbing comments: Pamphile Dutervil smelled like rotten meat, spoke in tongues and was carrying a suitcase filled with a complete set of Schumann kitchen knives. 

“That is impossible, Victor!” the mechanic screamed, visibly shivering and battling a sudden and peculiar hands-to-face rubbing spasmodic tic. “You're talking nonsense. Pamphile Dutervil was buried in Basse-Plaine... that was months ago. His name was listed in the obituary of the Quartier-Morin's local paper.” 
“That's one more reason for me to write an article about the man, my good friend. I don't believe in zombies, but stories about them walking around and buying bus tickets sell very well. Who is going to feed me, if I don't know how to hunt? What's good for the advertisers, well... is good for me. And like the Latins say in Sicily, Ciao!” 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda 

 Sequence 14b 

(The Limo) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 14b 

The Limo 

Cyril Lavache has been the center of attention of the Port-au-Prince bus terminal for the last three hours. The cobbler showed up at the station at the wheel of a black Lincoln Town Car limousine, wearing a flamboyant lemon-yellow suit with a white gardenia flower in the pocket, cream shoes one size too big and flashy Mickey Mouse orange socks. He came out of the stretched vehicle, holding a box of freshly baked patties and a magnificent bouquet composed of multi-colored frangipani, pendilous ylang-ylang and radiant white night-blooming jasmine. When the transport hub was still crowded, people who recently ate were pointing fingers at Cyril, blaming the shoe repairman for that insupportable blue cod smell. The starving ones, on the other hand, saw a potential hero in him. Someone who could definitely make a concrete change. Now that there are only three people left on the platform, Cyril Lavache is wondering if he is indeed at the right place. The shoe repairman by day, and policeman by night, is expecting a coach, carrying his adoptive daughter, Violette, to arrive at any moment. He came to the capital to intercept the young woman and prevent her from committing the irreparable. It might sound very selfish, but if Violette gets twenty-five years for the murder of Rondall Jérémie, the rice vendor, slash, rapist, slash, thief, Cyril will automatically be condemned to raise her future kid alone. Who else will do the job while the poor girl will be busy breaking rocks or do whatever they do to kill time in a hard labor penitentiary? 

The old cop found out the hard way that he had very few friends, when he started looking around to borrow a car for his excursion to Port-au-Prince. Cyril Lavache's intentions were noble and his despair immense, but everyone he asked for that small favor was more preoccupied by the risk of damage or theft of their machine than by the tragic and urgent aspect of the situation. Dorion, the florist, saw no problem lending his motorcycle to Cyril, but the thing needed minor repairs that would have taken way too long. Ludovic, the slow itinerant patty vendor of Capois-la-Mort Alley, offered his bike to the cobbler, unaware of the great travel distance between the two cities and the dangers of the road, partly flooded by mudslides and blocked by storm debris left by Cyclone Sandy. Cyril Lavache finally bumped into Pastor Louis Éloïse. The cleric advised him to take a chance with Elzéar Michelet, owner of Mizerikod's only auto repair shop. The minister said that a limousine with its engine running was parked in the yard, left totally unattended. So the shoemaker went there after buying a bottle of Barbancourt aged rum, thinking that was a wise move destined to increase his power of negotiation with Elzéar Michelet, a certified boozer. 

“I'll bring it back scratch-free and the gas tank back on the letter F.” Cyril Lavache promised once the deal was done. 
“I've got a better idea, Cordwainer. When you get to Port-au-Prince, I want you to bring that ride directly to Saint-Clair Auto; that's on Paul VI Street. I already discussed the price with the boss over there. Now, you keep five per cent for yourself. That should be more than enough to get you some new shoes, something decent, something your mother would be proud of, and a bus ticket back home.” 
“What's wrong with that elongated sedan, Boss Elzéar? It doesn't look like a junker to me.” 
“That Lincoln Town Car is two tons of bad news and bad luck, Cobbler. Do you remember Mortimer Nordin, a skinny jack with two missing front teeth, William-Anne Dumortier's hunchback henchman?” 
“Killed in Turgeau, I believe. It was in Victor Goudet the Hexagone's newspaper.” 
“Wrong! Even jacketed ammunition with a steel core cannot harm that kind of creature. Something we cannot see rides on his back at night. The use of silver bullets that were soaked at least seven days in holy water is necessary if you want to stop it. And you must wait for the full moon. Mortimer Nordin came here with the chauffeur of that limo and asked my main employee to crush it completely. Is that a normal request? I instantly smelled trouble. You know, sulfur? Why destroy an automobile of such value, when you can make a fortune selling the spare parts separately if you really want it gone for good? I also noticed that the limo driver was not comfortable in the presence of Nordin. In fact, I could tell that Archibald was terrified by the man. I thought he was going to faint at one point. The car works, it will bring you to Port-au-Prince, no trouble. A good cleaning and a quick tune up; you're good to go. Changing the shock absorbers would be a good thing also, but I'll leave that to the new owner. I'm fed up with that grease monkey business. My senior mechanic took the job without my permission. Can you believe that? Such a thing is not acceptable in my enterprise. Lordy knows my rules. They're written. The bastard showed up late like always this morning and left early. Trust me, Lordy de Grâce will never find another employer after I show him the door. You'd think his brother Leopold could find something for him, now that he is almost government, but using a pen seems to be his only talent.  Between you and me, Shoemaker, the key was in the ignition. My eyes were closed. I didn't see shit. That Lincoln disappeared during my nap. Are we clear?” 
“Thank you, Boss Elzéar. Write me the address of Saint-Clair Auto on a piece of paper.” 
“Here is their business card with the phone number and address on the back. The Earth sometimes shakes without any warning, Cordwainer. The Market has created a new species of men. Homo Placesbursarius is provoking Big Blue with all that digging and hydraulic fracturing under the sea bullshit for cash. He wants to experience Her reaction when She's had enough. Were you aware of that?” 
“What are we going to do against Dame Nature, Boss Elzéar? Looking for trouble is engraved onto their genes. I read the other day that they were looking for advanced alien civilization all over the universe, like blind crippled rodents chasing really fat starving raptors. Enough about that, heard any news about my grandchildren at the police station?” 
“The search is still on, Colonel.” 
“Here,” said the old man, handing a partially burnt notebook to Cyril Lavache. 
“What is it?” 
“That's a gift for Violette. It's an alternative to murder if your daughter's head is just too hard. It's on the way to the capital, in Grande-Saline, just before you hit the Bay of Grand-Pierre. You stop at this address and ask to meet with Bonne Suzette or Master Pantaléon. When you show up at their residence, be very careful. If the door is open, don't enter or you're dead. If the door is closed, knock on it using your left fist. That's essential and technically vital. They know all the secrets of that extremely toxic poison you can find in the liver of the parrotfish. That thing paralyzes a strongly built man in ten minutes. As soon as your daughter gives it to the demented loser who attacked her, the metamorphosis will begin. Once he is tamed and convinced that he is a walking dead, Violette may smite him whenever she wants and even cut his balls with a spoon. That way, she can savor her sweet vengeance over a long period of time and avoid a lengthy and unpleasant incarceration.” 

Cyril Lavache is now the only person left at the bus terminal. The ticket agent has been busy talking on the phone for the last two hours. Cyril goes straight to him and tells the young man part of his story with a touch of wrath in his voice. He asks for some explanation about the bus delay. The employee apologizes on behalf of the company. The bus from Cap-Haïtien broke down near Saint-Marc. The passengers were transferred to another bus line that will drop them at the bus depot in Petionville. The old shoemender gets really upset. Cyril tells the clerk that he should have informed him of that major issue a long time ago. The young station agent answers that he didn't do so because he was numbed by fear. He explains to Cyril Lavache that he recently fled his hometown of Petite-Anse, on Gonâve Island, because he was unable to pay his gambling debts due to the wrong people. When he saw Cyril step out of that black limousine, without a passenger at the back and not wearing a chauffeur's uniform, he thought that his life was over. Lincolns like that one are usually driven by Willy Bossal's cold-blooded butchers. All this time spent on the phone was to confess one last time to the priest of his parish and say goodbye to the people he loved, one by one. 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda 

 Sequence 14a 

(The Warrant) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 14a 

The Warrant 

Captain José Camillo Pintado and Lieutenant Salvatore Paco Menendez are back in town at sundown. The two well-groomed Uruguayan officers kept their word. The police forces of the United Nations hold Mizerikod in a tight grip just like they promised to Pyram Malvenu. An impassable roadblock made of tree trunks and tire shredders blocks the access to Route Nationale 2; a coast guard task force on board four patrol boats and a thousand-ton corvette prevents anyone from leaving the city by sea. To deter further rebellion and discourage resistance, a highly menacing organic armored unit rides through the partially flooded streets of the commune. Those military tanks are supported on both sides by half a dozen off-road vehicles equipped with a set of three loudspeakers, two machine guns and twin rocket launchers. On the outskirts of the city, a CH-146 Griffon helicopter, loaded with powerful searchlights and four air-to-surface missiles, flies over the hills. Its presence is clearly a message aiming to dissuade the population from attempting any escape through the woods. 

Captain Pintado was hoping to get a hundred men under his command to cordon Mizerikod and take control of the region. It seems that an anonymous hawk, with lots of leverage inside the Minustah, decided to give him five hundred and forty men to reduce the risks of failure to zero. Putting an end to the reign of the city's thugs was not urgent for the Department of Peacekeeping Operations, but keeping the existence of the commune of Mizerikod secret and liberating Moïse Berri from the Diabbakas were. Twelve battle tanks move at a very slow pace on Capois-la-Mort Alley, heading in the direction of the Jacques-Roumain Bridge. The main artery of the town is completely deserted. The citizens of Mizerikod understood the urgency to find a shelter before the imminent start of the turmoil. 

On the other side of the bridge, the reaction of the people is completely the opposite. Instead of hiding, the disaster victims of the neighborhood camp begin to form a loud and unruly crowd. Oblivious to the danger and the many threats lurking around, a bunch of carefree children see these shielded rigs as giant toys; the sick and the afflicted hope that what they're seeing are in reality pharmacies on wheels filled with medications and antibiotics; the hungry ones wish that the military cars will transform at the last minute into food delivery trucks from the USAID agency. The optimists want to believe that the war machines have something to do with the reconstruction projects. They tell themselves that they're like huge bulldozers, probably brought by the Minustah to get rid of the hazardous debris left by Hurricane Sandy. The hardcore pessimists slowly begin to gather their belongings. They mentally prepare themselves for a massive exodus; because tactical assets in urban areas are rarely associated with peace of mind and sedentary living. 

The police station on Lysius-Salomon Avenue is besieged by the UNPOL. It looks like Chief Malvenu completely forgot about the joint operation he planned with Captain Pintado in the morning. In need of a quick nasal irrigation, because he sniffed too much coke and bled abundantly, the police commissioner sends his son Pyram to greet the Uruguayan officers. 

“Where are the dogs?” the sergeant asks bluntly. 
“Dogs, I am sorry, what dogs?” Lieutenant Menendez wonders. 
“You told me you'd bring a pack of molossus and mastiffs with you. What about the guns with laser pointers, did you forget them too?” 
“Can we speak to the commissioner,” Captain Pintado demands, well aware that he is in the presence of a lunatic. 
“I am the only one in command when my dad is not running things,” Pyram Malvenu declares with authority. “So, what's the plan; when, how and where do we launch the attack?” 
“Our warrant clearly stipulates that we must work with Chief Yves-Arnold Malvenu or take matters into our own hands, Sergeant.” 
“You think you're better than me, right, Moustache? Dad! Come on out! I need you to deal with Himmler and the Grand Dragon from the Klan in here.” 
“When was your last stretch of eight hour sleep?” Menendez asks Pyram, sincerely concerned. 
“Why do you give a damn? Is it my lazy eye that bugs you? Dad, hurry up! There is Sonia and her sister, Sandra, in their well ironed uniforms, here. They want to put us aside and do our job. Aryan supremacy, South-American style, am I right, you permanent tourists? Why don't we bring back colonization to civilize the Black man? Let's finish Cristoforo Colombo's great plan. Am I wrong, Menendez, am I wrong?” 
“You don't have to disrespect us, Sergeant. We're not racists and we're not here to boss you around.” 
“Why don't we switch roles? I go down in Uruguay to guide you in the risky barrios of Montevideo. My only qualification is my Spanish language certificate. How do you feel when I start to subjugate you like a young cadet?” 
“Some of us are not happy to be here, Sergeant, believe me.” 
“What do you dislike the most, Menendez, our male prostitutes, the five stars hotel you live in or your all included holidays with an additional paycheck ten times more than the amount you'd normally get, back in your village on the Rio Negro? Back home, you had to paddle like crazy to go get your mail. Here in Haiti, it's the Land Rover supplied by the state to do the peafowl dance downtown, the five service dishes in all the good restaurants, the free cocktails, the pictures for the photo album and all the promos. Who pays for the gas in your tank? We don't care. Why all those privileges? We don't know.” 
“Pyram!” 

Police Chief Malvenu comes out of his office at the right time. Lieutenant Menendez was a split second away from putting all protocols aside. His left fist was ready to punch the sergeant right between the eyes. The consequences of being reprimanded and demoted were totally accepted. 

“Captain Pintado, what a pleasant surprise. I was so eager to meet with you again,” Malvenu lies, acting all cheered up and welcoming. “Lieutenant Menendez, you look like a shiny gold bar. I wish my men were all spick-and-span like you. You have no idea how proud I am to be part of your team. It is a privilege, really. There, I've said it, but enough with the ass-kissing. Let me go straight to the point. I gave a lot of thought today to the different types of intervention we should use to put an end to that annoying masquerade. To tell you the truth, I even pictured us on the evening news and on the cover of Haïti Observateur. You and I, Captain, can you visualize it? Our chests thrown out with pride, wearing flashy clothes and why not a couple of civil decorations and military medals. Ha! ha! ha! Chuck Canada made us look bad and incompetent for way too long. The Diabbakas must be eradicated like a disease. Those rabid dogs must be imprisoned forever and be erased from our list of hassles for good. By the way, Captain, that will be part of my speech. I wrote it myself. I have a certificate in creative writing.” 
“How interesting,” Captain Pintado replies with a shaky and barely audible voice. “We definitely have to put a stop to the criminal activities of this man, you call the Shock.” 
“Chuck!” Sergeant Pyram Malvenu corrects. “You have to put more emphasis on the C, but you must pronounce it like a T. Like in Tchaikovsky, for instance... Chuck. Purse your lips together like a duck.” 
“Of course, Sergeant… we're not suggesting that the armed gangs and the fugitive prisoners are a less important problem in our eyes than the hostage they are holding captive. However, getting our hands on the man that was kidnapped from Senator Fleurant's villa last night is crucial. It is a priority for the State of Haiti; it is also one for the international community.” 
“Good, then, we'll be hitting two targets with one bullet,” Police Chief Malvenu says with gaiety. “And behind the curtains, Captain Pintado, hi! hi! hi! Under the carpet, you know, under the sheets, between you and me… I'm not talking about accepting a bribe or becoming extortionists, blackmailing people around, but we must remember that the victim is a real nabob. I'm talking rich enough to wipe his ass with genuine American dollar bills. One scenario, I had in mind… you tell me what you think, don't be shy. Here it is. We free this fucker like as we were the Marvel Avengers and then quickly ask him for a mandatory donation. While he is still grateful. We could encourage him to sign a check for a charity organization or directly to us, his liberators. You're following me?” 
“Are you trying to corrupt us, Commissioner Malvenu?” 
“Not at all, Captain. Where do you get such infamy, don't you understand English? I can switch to French if you are more comfortable with Molière. Let's get back and focus on the operation. Now, do you have a plan?” 
“Yes… Lieutenant?” Captain Pintado says, inviting Lieutenant Menendez to elaborate. 
“The man these bandits are holding is a human time bomb,” Salvatore Menendez reveals in a whisper. “He is a public menace and a threat to the stability of your humble and proud nation. You see, that disreputable individual knows some very disturbing stuff, a mix of truth, disinformation and plain lies that could really damage and even ruin the reputation of many occidental politicians and highly influential decision takers of the western hemisphere, including the President of the United States and the Secretary General of the United Nations. We're here to make sure that doesn't happen. You mentioned television and the media earlier. Well, we prefer to travel in the opposite direction. If you know what I mean? We must act and work in the shadows. Let's not forget that the city of Mizerikod doesn't officially exist, according to the CIA and the World Factbook. There is a reason for that. For the sake of your national security, it must remain that way by any means.” 
“Wait a minute, now. I have the funny impression that we are not talking about the same guy,” Chief Malvenu says, giggling, trying hard not to explode in laughter. “The bloke these illiterate savages abducted is a real legend around here, the most charming dude of the island. He comes second only to Jesus of Nazareth if we're talking about lunch time conversations and small talk. Have you noticed that all the children in the area are happy; despite the disasters and the catastrophes they've witnessed with their innocent eyes? It's all thanks to him. Because the man loves them silly kids ad if they were his own. He finds new excuses all the time to spoil them. Nike, Reebok, 50 Cents, Bieber and Lady Gaga, iPad, iPod, my God, they have them all. There's even a tattoo place now. And don't you fall sick, young or old; this man will come and nurse you himself. And he is not even a doctor! Ha! ha! ha! But, hey… his detractors will certainly say that things could be done faster, concerning the reconstruction process, of course. Have you heard about the Haitian Space Program, he proposed? His enemies would like to see him step on the accelerator and put everything back into place with a magic stick. Those idealists will also condemn the fact that a lot of money seems to have gone in smoke since our man is commanding the ship. Now, take a good look around you. You can testify for yourself. There was nothing left here on January 12 of 2010. If we put aside the complete devastation caused by Hurricane Sandy this past week, it's not too bad. Who are we to oppose a river from overflowing?” 
“That's very far from the image we got of that man in our latest briefing. We were told that this gentleman is in fact a spy of Mossad, a rogue agent from the NATO or worse, maybe a Home Office saboteur. He started working for his own interest, according to many, for an enemy nation of the region we will take the precaution not to name.” 
“You don't need to go in the details, Lieutenant,” Captain Pintado intervenes. 
“Our Chief of Staff thinks otherwise, Captain.” 
“That dissident agent broke into our computer network and messed up our main server,” Captain Pintado reluctantly admits. “He deliberately destroyed a large amount of our local database. He then proceeded to attack a number of high ranking officers of the Minustah and Senior Officials of the UN, using degrading spams that were made public and accessible to many bloggers worldwide.” 
“What do you mean by degrading?” Commissioner Malvenu asks, very curious and also surprised. 
“Well… mostly senseless profanities, bad taste jokes and absurdities,” Lieutenant Menendez continues. “It's as if our suspected mole had regressed in age. We're talking about evidently altered pictures of our Commandant engaging in sexual activities with various farm animals, blurry videos showing people pretending to be members of the UNPOL, participating in orgies inside what many believers consider sacred sites and buildings. There are also tons of photocopies exposing false bank statements and made up contracts. And finally, a dozen of short filmed interviews in which the dialogues were modified and dubbed in Creole, in order to make devoted workers pass for immoral thieves and barbarians with no values.” 
“I find all this quite strange and hard to understand. You're probably mistaken,” Chief Malvenu estimates. “The man I know is a lighthearted and cheerful lad, always ready for a rum bottle or two. And horny like a rabbit, I tell you. He does play chess like a Grand Master and poker like Stu Ungar, but he is no digital genius. But what a dancer, women adore him. I just can't picture him as an intelligent cyber spy with knowledge of computers and political powers. Not too long ago, he needed help to find the alarm on his own phone. Now, let's get back to the plan, time is running. You said that you wanted to act unseen, away from the media, far from the spotlight. I am listening.” 
“That's why we insisted on bringing so many men,” Captain Pintado points out. “We wanted to make sure we outnumbered them. We wanted to show we mean business, rule number one if you want to have a dissuasive effect on the enemy. We hope to accomplish our mission without a blood spill.” 
“May I ask who is officially in charge of the operation?” 
“You and I, Commissioner.” 
“Let me stop you right there, Captain. This is first and foremost a local situation. I am not saying that you come here as a colonizer, like my stupid son said earlier, but I find it important to show, to the entire population of Mizerikod, that the Haitian National Police is leading the way and conducting the orchestra. You get what I'm saying? So, on paper, it is you and I, but in front of the future voters, you must treat me at all times like your superior. There, I've said it; I am running for Mayor on the next elections. The image I want to maintain and project is the one of a stalwart leader. You dig me, Captain?” 
“Anything you want, Commissioner. I can also add Imperator-Pontifex-Maximus in front of your name, if that makes you feel good, as long as the intervention is a complete success.” 
“Tell him that we're already working in close collaboration with Interpol,” Pyram Malvenu suddenly throws from nowhere. “We're far from being second class police.” 
“Interpol?” 
“Don't listen to my son, Captain, he fell on his head several times when he was a toddler. Our thing with Interpol has no link with the highly tactical job we're planning here. I'll take care of that other thing tomorrow. Let's proceed.” 
“There's not enough space between us to stack secrets, Commissioner. The sharing and transfer of information has to be mutual. That's an order from above.” 
“It's about a pedophile ring. What does it have to do with us and our future fame? It's the kind of international scandal that will feed journalists for weeks, not hero material. That's why I was talking about television and newspapers. That guy, a friend of mine, Victor Gourdet, that's his name, the editor of the Mizerikod Daily; he knows enough of that explosive story to write a complete article about it. If you don't like being under the spotlight, I advise you to stay away from all this. To name just a few: CNN, the BBC, Al Jazeera and France 2 are all on their way down here. Someone has made Mizerikod's geographical coordinates public and available on the Web.” 
“We won't let them in, that's all. We have tanks and missiles, for Christ's sake! Have you made any arrests in that case yet?” 
“Actually, yes, the leader of the pedophile ring is languishing in a cell of the municipal jail as we speak. The problem is that nobody read him his rights before the incarceration. The nitwits who booked him are not real officers. I beg you not to judge me or throw the book at me. I'm keeping that beast in his cage anyway. I am not letting that monster go free because of bad procedures; it's out of the question. Do you have kids, Captain?” 
“Six.” 
“I have nine,” Lieutenant Menendez says with a defying glare directed at Sergeant Pyram Malvenu. “Four with my ex-wife, three with my current girlfriend, a boy out of wedlock... I used to play drums in a band; and recently, an adorable little Haitian girl that lost her parents in the quake and that we intend to adopt soon.” 
“So you do understand my anger, gentlemen. I admit that it's against police ethics, but tomorrow, I'll make sure that this ogre escapes from his jail cell. I'll arrest him afterwards, following the normal rules of law. I'll read him his rights, all right. Maybe I'll slap the thick book on his head a couple of times to make things clearer to him. I won't forget to seize the fake passport of that slimy toad, this time. The guys from Interpol have no problems with that. They do have kids too. The voters will label me a champion. With the help of a good printed article with a picture of me lifting something heavy and looking at the horizon, things should work fine. My political image will certainly get a boost and the world will be freed from an abominable creature that should not have been born.” 
“How do you know for sure that the passport of your prisoner is a fraudulent one?” the captain asks. 
“Pretty simple, it says Moïse Berri on it, but with the picture of that pig. That dirty swine has been running around town pretending to be the king of Mizerikod on many occasions. Nobody knows how often he did it; nobody knows how long he has been doing it.” 
“Did you just say, Moïse Berri? That's the name of the spy that we came to liberate from the Diabbakas! Ho-ho-how is that possible?” Pintado stutters. 
“Let me explain. That deranged freak looks like a lost twin of Billionaire, aka Moïse Berri, our beloved benefactor; the man in charge of the reconstruction, the guy you say is a renegade spy. We did a background check. That laughing dude in cell number seven is some kind of country singer with a honey business on the side in Quebec. Believe me, he is not a secret agent. We even have copies of his last fiscal declaration.” 
“There is no way that can be a coincidence, Captain,” says the completely stunned lieutenant. “Two John Smith, I say yes. Two Hussain, I can live with that. A duo of Chang and Nguyen in the same area, that's mathematically possible; but two men claiming the identity of Moïse Berri in Haiti at the same time and in the same commune? I say no, no and no. There is something wrong here.” 
“I'd like to have a talk with that prisoner as soon as possible, if you don't mind,” Captain Pintado mumbles, suddenly a little uptight. 
“Whenever you want, Captain. I even give you the permission to thrash him a bit. You know? Tenderize his meat, squeeze the juice out of his main joints and bones before I start cooking him at the right temperature. Don't you leave any marks, though: Amnesty International refuses to remove my name from their shitty report. That oddball is a Canadian citizen and under the protection of Senator Fleurant. So just make sure no one is around if you decide to give him a Rodney King special. But seriously, gentlemen, time is really flying fast, we should focus on tonight's raid. Hand me the list with the arrest warrants.” 
“Lieutenant?” 
“There you go, Commissioner.” 
“You managed to get Judge Campbell's real signature,” Chief Malvenu notes, running his reading glasses over the document. “That's a good start. So... by the power invested in me... I, Zilerion Mathias Servile Campbell, blah, blah, blah, bullshit and rubbish... as a representative of the Supreme Court and whatnot... We really don't care, greasy hair dumbbell Campbell; let's jump to the next page... There it is. Voilà. Il Sacro Graal. Complete list of escaped prisoners and known fugitives, following the passage of Cyclone Sandy on Thursday, November First, 2012... Come to me, Baby. Wanted for being the leader of a known criminal organization and also for kidnapping in Grande-Rivière, Port-au-Prince and Miragoâne; for sequestration in Marmelade and Dondon, armed robbery in Ennery and Plaisance, identity theft in Anse-à-Galets, fraud in Île-à-Vache and racketeering in and around Lake Azuei; also wanted for manslaughter against several law officers of Pétionville, Limonade, Croix-des-Bouquets, Jérémie, Cayes, Chantal, Camp-Perrin and Tiburon. Good, good, this is what I'm looking for... Charles Henri Veriquin, also known as Chuck Three-Brothers, Chuck Canada, Chuck Rasta and various aliases beginning with the first name, Chuck. That's even better than a good start, we're talking hole-in-one, Captain, and that thing is so rich in details. I love it. All right. Yvon Baudouin-Lacroix, aka Cherokee, called Titon in his father's family, respectable members of the Petit-Goâve commune; Yves Baudouin-Lacroix, aka Loverboy, called Vévé in his mother's family, respectable members of the Grand-Goâve community; Wilner Frantz Maillebranchon, aka, Tit-Will, known by many under the name of Will Smith Superstar, Hollywood and Fanfan in the commune of Saint-Marc; Vernon Benoît Badellin, aka, BMW Ben, known as 735 and Six Speed in Gonaïves and l'Arcahaie; Jean Louis Portal, aka Tête Fè or Iron Skull, identified by countless people as the brain behind the straight-six engine car thieves currently operating in Petite-Rivière-de-Nippes; Virgile Cléophas Jean-Pierre, aka Grimaud, possibly the same convict known as Saint-Juste Jean-Pierre by the Miami-Dade police, but referred to, as The American, in Plaine-du-Nord; please note that the respondent regularly uses whitening creams from Taiwan on his skin; François Marc Thiercelin, aka Le Boucanier or The Grill, a registered pyromaniac and sex offender, wanted for questioning in the pending case of the uninsured boats belonging to Involean Industries in Môle Saint-Nicolas. Thiercelin is also wanted for the recent water scooter affair in Tortuga and several episodes of vandalism in the seaside resort of Labadie. Paul Sylla Marie Roger Row, aka Jason, like the movie character, denounced by his accomplices as the masked chainsaw burglar; Row is wanted all over the north coast between Fort-Liberté and Port-de-Paix; be warned that Row tends to bite anyone who tries to arrest him; the results of his blood tests are incomplete and unavailable; Pierre Ferdinand Henri Gireaud, aka Djolè, meaning Blabbermouth in Creole, a former plumber turned journalist, fired from Le Nouvelliste for substance abuse, extortion attempts, equipment theft and false testimony in a rare case of human kidney heist on a living person at the municipal court of Marigot ; Jean Hubert Rodriguez Champignon, aka Banban White Powder, nicknamed Tit-Buzz in Carrefour, Coca and Bogota Branded in the capital, Border Crosser and Powda G. in Ouanaminthe, El Comerciante Haitiano in Dajabón and in the Baoruco Mountain Range; Armand Baptiste-Derode, aka Calgary, possibly a Canadian national wanted by the RCMP for human trafficking between Shanghai and Vancouver under the stolen name of Chief Officer Floyd Bram Anderson; Kenneth Cerisier, aka Mandela in Mirebalais, called Elevenpercentordeath in one word by the law abiding people of Hinche; finally, George William Osmond-Ferraille, aka Jòj Doubleyou or 43; the fugitive escaped from the psychiatric hospital Défilée of Beudet; he is the prime suspect in many strange cases of corpse desecration in Torbech and Aquin. Before he vanished, Osmond-Feraille was awaiting trial for witchcraft and evidence forgery in Cavaillon and in Port-Salut.” 

“Is that all?” Sergeant Pyram Malvenu asks his father. 
“Well, it seems so.” 
“Are you sure there is not a second list at the back or at the end of the document?” Pyram insists. 
“Is there another inventory of contemptible sleazebags we should be aware of, Captain Pintado?” Chief Police Malvenu inquires. 
“Not that I know of.” 
“So where the hell is the real name of Jim Falafel!” Sergeant Malvenu yells, ripping off the pile of papers from his father's hands. 
“Ask that question to Judge Campbell,” Menendez says. “We don't know any of the men listed on that statement.” 
“Half of those filthy jerks are not mentioned on that document,” Pyram points out. “What kind of shit is that? I was expecting to learn something from this, like finding out the legal names of Jim Falafel, Jeff Sprinter and Jones Flatbush. Why did that old donkey judge forget to put those three outcasts on this declaration? There is zero mention of the police station incident, the damages done in my dad's office. I don't see Robin Monarque's name anywhere?” 
“The court order was signed this afternoon,” Captain Pintado explains. “The prosecutor's report was not ready yet.” 
“Add the missing names yourself in cursive.” 
“Are you serious, Sergeant? That would automatically invalidate the legal power of the entire document.” 
“All right then, I will add them in my head… that way no one can take them out and erase them.” 

Pyram rushes to his father's office and slams the door. He starts throwing chairs, printers and other hefty objects on the walls, yelling like a peppy soccer midfielder who just scored a winning goal. The Uruguayan officers cannot believe what they are witnessing. Chief Malvenu finally interposes himself between a desk and his very upset son when the noisy racket stops. 

“I feel your pain, my little Pyro. You're still haunted by her disappearance… Amelia was a good girl.” 
“I'm going to dismember that hog, father, ooh, yeah. I'm going to look him straight in the eyes, plunge my fist in his thoracic cage and pull his heart out. Maybe I'll take a bite out of it.” 
“Hisssh! Okay, son, you do all that and more, but not in front of our guests. They don't need to hear everything your brain is saying.” 
“Did you hear those sissies, dad? Oooh, Lord, la-di-da-di-da, hand me a fan, please, turn on the air conditioner and cover our eyes, we can't stand the sight of blood. What's the use of carrying weapons if we have to work with that kind of cops?” 
“I don't see why Judge Campbell would plot to protect Jim Falafel and his despicable clique. It smells like corruption and dirty money, my son. That nose on my face is experienced. Let's go sit back with the Hispanics on the other side. Get a hold of yourself. Wipe your tears. Don't show them your weaknesses. I want to keep a close eye on Pintado and Menendez. You team up with Cyril Lavache and young Evans. Is that all right with you?” 
“The cobbler is nowhere to be found. People saw him roaming around Elzear Michelet's garage this afternoon. He may have left with a car, a Black limousine, a Lincoln, I was told. Others saw him with Dorion, the florist, all dressed up à la British, smelling Fendi and speaking Standard French. Evans said he was discussing media, politics and war with Ludovic on Capois-la-Mort Boulevard. The shoemaker bought a dozen patties from the kid and put them in what looked like a gift box. I think Cyril Lavache is having a nervous breakdown. This morning's shoot out put him in a state of shock. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he is planning to leave the country to go get some real mental treatment in Cuba or Canada.” 
“Your eyes are still red. Stay in here for a while. I'll send the little Black Quebecker to help you clean the mess in my office. It's important that the UNPOL officers don't see you like that. And wipe the corners of your mouth, you look dramatically insane.” 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda 

 Sequence 13 

(The Ransom) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 13 

The Ransom 

Gustave Amaury Quick has been managing the Legitime family's finances for the last forty years. The distinguished counselor was born in the same hospital as Sixte Osmer Legitime.  They became best friends since kindergarten, couldn't be told apart in high school and went through higher education as inseparable roommates. Quick later became Sixte Osmer's alter ego, his bridesman, the godfather of his first born son and his main business partner. Following the death of his lifelong buddy, the widow and the eldest son of the regretted tycoon put Gustave Amaury Quick in charge of the funeral. The Boston financier is the author of Sixte Osmer Legitime's eulogy and the chief administrator of the imposing estate the late philanthropist left behind. 

Thirteen minutes ago, Gustave Amaury Quick received a telephone call from Suleiman Abdel Aziz, a Cairene computer scientist he recruited at Cambridge. Early this morning, Quick had given him the difficult task of finding the hacker or the electronic device that kept withdrawing and transferring large amounts of money from the Heritage Legitime Funds to a private offshore bank account located in Grand Cayman. Suleiman strongly advised his employer against discussing the matter or any new developments over the phone. The engineer urged Amaury Quick to come and meet with him in his laboratory on the seventh floor of the Century Bank and Trust building in Downtown Boston. 

Gustave Amaury Quick is an octogenarian widower. He lives by himself in a five-bedroom house located on Boylston Street, in the town of Brookline, since his butler and chauffeur retired. Forbidden to drive by his own physician and the State of Massachusetts because some of his medications might cause severe drowsiness, the financial advisor takes a train and two buses to reach the business district of the capital. 

Suleiman Abdel Aziz describes in detail the overly complicated puzzle he successfully solved. A malicious computer whiz broke into the Quick Holdings server using a powerful PC based, according to its IP address and integrated GPS, in the Montreal metropolitan area. The guilty machine is registered under the name of Deodas Demosthene Legitime, an important client and longtime friend of Gustave Amaury Quick. A first illegal operation allowed the computer pirate to transfer fifty-one per cent of the holding company's real capital into a ghost bank account at the Royal Bank of Canada, located on Shedden Road, in George Town, Cayman Islands; another unapproved procedure froze the funds of every single client of the financial investment division and the assets and the economic resources of all shareholders of the establishment; a third and final computer-controlled assignment, that is still currently in progress, withdraws roughly a thousand dollars per minute from the employee's retirement trust and deposits the money in different tax-free savings accounts of a co-operative credit union institution operating in Rimouski, Quebec. 

A couple of months before the beginning of this disconcerting debacle, three suspicious transactions of lesser importance were made with that same device without the consent and approval of the company's accounting department. These fraudulent maneuvers were executed from the headquarters of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation of Mizerikod. They were authorized by none other than Leopold de Grâce, head of human resources, with the green light of the finance general controller of the organization, Mr. Kennedy Fleurinor, Esq. Two million dollars in gold bars from the TD Bank were paid to Replica Entertainment, a casting agency based in Westmount, Quebec; a Canadian bank draft of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars was granted for services rendered to Rachel D. Eisner, a plastic surgeon of Outremont; and finally, a certified check of fifteen grand, issued by the Comanche Red River Hotel & Casino, was cashed by a small airline company of Ville Saint-Laurent, Quebec. 

The veteran banker immediately contacts his longstanding associate, experienced barrister and ally, Philbert Hans Orville Grosbois Sr. Gustave Amaury Quick gives a summary account of Suleiman's inquiry to the New York lawyer. Mr. Grosbois Sr. has been the judicial consultant of the Legitime family for nearly forty years. He met with Sixte Osmer Legitime at a Haitian Students National Union meeting in 1959. During the dictatorship, they founded, edited and distributed Peuple Libre, a clandestine newspaper. Six months after the first arrests and forced exiles, Grosbois introduced Sixte to Eudoxie Angélique Fleurinor, his future wife. When came the time to choose a godfather for their daughter and third child, the name of Grosbois was the first to come out. The patriarch of the Legitime family rarely took any business or personal decisions without consulting him beforehand. At one point, people used to call Philbert Hans Orville Grosbois, Porthos, Gustave Amaury Quick, Aramis, and Deodas Demosthene Legitime, Athos. The day of the funeral, Grosbois and his two compeers were carrying the casket of Sixte Osmer Legitime, their regretted d'Artagnan, over their frail and delicate shoulders. As everyone expected, Grosbois Sr. was chosen by Sixte Osmer to be the main administrator of his will. The lawyer was very reluctant at first to assume the role of principal executor of that extremely complex document; a somehow interactive testament that gave the deceased complete control over his widow and heirs for an indefinite period of time. 

“I knew about half the information your computer kid gathered, Gus,” the New York lawyer says after listening to the troubling revelations of the financier. “I just received an electronic message on the subject, sent from an undisclosed address. It revealed most of that mess to me and even more. That means we are not alone anymore. Somebody, somewhere, knows about our implication in this financial mishmash. Someone in Canada is aware that we are deeply involved in this global scheme. I'm heading to Montreal tonight to fix things up and hopefully get back home before my clerk wrecks my place. Can you believe this? I had to rent my Park Avenue apartment to that ill-mannered greenhorn for the rest of the month, with permission to party, for a mere five thousand bucks. I had no choice but to borrow money for food this afternoon. I could not even afford a chili dog. If my luck comes back, I'll depart from JFK at 10 PM. My ticket is a last minute deal in coach. I am that broke, my old friend.” 
“You used to hide banknotes in every available pocket when you were a young lad, Phil. I guess we're both becoming less cautious and losing our ability to foresee trouble as we age.” 
“I found a couple of bills in a raincoat my aide was supposed to bring to the dry cleaner last week, but it wasn't much. The key to the safe of my Manhattan office is somewhere on top of a shelf in the library of my East Hampton house, which is still under renovation. Everything in there is upside down and the electricity is not back yet. With all the turmoil and the traffic jams caused by Hurricane Sandy since Monday, going there by car would have been a very bad idea and a major waste of time. You just can't find gas in New York City if you don't have two hours to spend waiting in line.” 
“I know for sure that Deodas did this to us, Phil, but I find it hard to imagine him capable of organizing such a complicated heist.” 
“He probably hired a bunch of young computer geniuses and gave them different chores without telling them much about the big picture. The information contained in the email is all verifiable. The statements I read are highly incriminating and they all blame Deodas. That dirty scoundrel clearly betrayed us, Gus.” 
“I'm not ashamed to say that I'm scared, Phil. Deodas is nowhere to be found. Even his close relatives don't know where he is hiding.” 
“I did my homework, don't worry. The old scallywag recently crossed the border. He is now in the Montreal area. I've got people working at customs that confirmed this to me. And guess what? I am meeting with his official Haitian representative tomorrow morning.” 
“You mean, Burns Breton?” 
“Affirmative. I have reasons to believe that the anonymous email came from that fraud.” 
“I don't know about this, Phil. Maybe we should back off a little. Burns Breton is a ribald fellow and a gun powder lover with a lot of evil in his heart. He is reputed to be extremely dangerous.” 

“I'm aware of all that, but we must stick to him for now like lice on a dry scalp. We will use Breton to get full access to the residences and businesses of Deodas Demosthene. Burns Breton is very confused and shaken as we speak. He told me that his boss tried to kill him, back in Mizerikod, because he knew too much about the causes of our financial meltdown. He decided to jump the fence and join our side once in Canada. Burns Breton wants to help us unmask, expose and terminate Deodas. I am carrying all the necessary documents needed to write a procuration letter in my suitcase. If we react quickly and with a good strategy, I do think that we can correct the situation ourselves. We might not even need to alert Canadian Intelligence. Can you make it to Montreal tomorrow morning with your computer guy?” 
“What are you talking about, Phil? I'm not going anywhere. Are you nuts? You're mistaking me for Indiana Jones, my friend. I'm eighty one years old. Every single bone in my body hurts. I am almost deaf and I swallow more yellow pills nowadays than I eat green peas.” 
“Do you want to celebrate your next birthday in Bora-Bora or at Sing-Sing in a filthy cell? Our electronic fingerprints are all over this jumble. If the FBI puts a wise ass on the case, you and I will be breaking already broken rocks for the rest of our short lives under the South Carolina sun.” 
“Where do you plan to stay?” 

“At the Fairmount The Queen Elizabeth.” 
“You could have chosen something more discreet.” 
“And raise the curiosity level of the authorities by renting a budget room in a cheaper place? That, my friend, would have been a big misstep. We must work in the shadows, incognito, but we are still two very rich American businessmen. Find a way to cross the Canadian border with a maximum of cash; half a million dollars at the least.” 
“Good grief! Are you delirious or on some recreational drug? Why so much money, Phil, you can't be serious? You just suggested that we shouldn't draw the attention of the law enforcement agencies.” 
“We need a lot of greenbacks to buy time and pay for our protection, Gus. Three hours after getting that email. I got a very disturbing phone call from a certain Duarte Sanchez. The president of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation has been abducted early this morning.” 
“Impossible! That man is the most protected executive on Haitian soil.” 

“It gets worse, Gus. The kidnappers are asking for ten millions immediately and one hundred thousand dollars of interest for each additional day. Those idiots think we're the Federal Reserve. On the bright side, however, fortune is on our side. We're dealing with a team of amateurs; and they seem extraordinarily stupid. We're talking about reptilian brain capacities.” 
“How did you come to that conclusion so fast, maybe they're just playing dumb?” 

“The clown on the phone got out of character. He was speaking Spanish at first with a bunch of street English words. But when it came time to give me the transit number of the financial institution in which we should deposit the money, he suddenly started speaking French like they do in Quebec and Hallandale. You know, with the la-la's at the end of every sentence?” 

“Is that bank a cooperative and in the town of Rimouski?” 

“Bingo! the noose is tightening. It's probably the same establishment that has been sucking us dry for about a thousand dollars every minute for the last fourteen hours. Professional thieves would have opted for a bank in Switzerland or any other American state with a fiscal secrecy policy. Canadians will collaborate with us as soon as we mention the words international and scandal in the same sentence.” 

“One thing I don't get, Phil. In what way does the liberty of the president of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation affect or concern us? Ten million American dollars is quite a lot of money. If those freaks think I'm paying, they might as well cut that unlucky bastard in slices right away and send some to his mom.” 

“Well, how do I put this? Moïse Berri is the only individual on this planet who masters the computer programs running the Heritage Legitime Funds central server. Berri is also the only soul who can decrypt its encoded passwords. All our secrets float in binary codes in that darn machine, Gus.” 

“Does that mean we have no choice but to pay?” 

“Of course not, but I'm still worried about Moïse Berri's sudden disappearance. That kidnapping story doesn't make any sense. It's pretty obvious that it was all staged. The victim clearly organized his own abduction to create the crisis. Otherwise, there would have been at least a short period of stability in our finances before that speedy fall into complete disarray. One of our accountants, associates or business partners would have seen or noticed something or smelled a small anomaly; someone should have panicked and rang the alarm. The brokers at Berkshire and Morgan call the Department of Treasury for less. I find it strange that because one man is missing, economic anarchy is triggered in three different countries without any warning or red flags. I maintain that it is simply impossible. Even my credit cards from the cheapest stores you could imagine are not working. What the hell is this? Some of these cards were not even activated yet. That heist was plotted by a criminal computer whiz, I tell you. And I doubt he acted alone. Moïse Berri probably works hand in hand with Deodas Legitime and Kennedy Fleurinor. I say, we make him think that we are falling for his story by initiating the negotiations with the kidnappers, whoever they might be. After we free Moïse Berri, we simply pay a discreet hit man to silence him for good.” 

“That's crazy talk, Philbert. I don't want a death on my conscience, not at my age. I still believe in my chances to enter paradise. Moïse Berri is certainly not the brain behind that major swindle. He is only a puppet of Deodas Demosthene, the real extortionist, the only man with enough money and information on us to conduct a robbery of that scale. You see, Moïse Berri could have sold us to the American government on many occasions. He never did. On the contrary, he always protected us by sending the investigators the other way every time. Without Moïse Berri on our side to misinform Port-au-Prince and the IBRD since the beginning of the reconstruction process, we would have been caught a long time ago. To me, the ultimate goal of that meticulous mise-en-scène, designed entirely by Deodas Demosthene, is to make us sing and suck all of our hard-earned money.” 

“So, what do you propose, Gus?” 

“Nothing comes to my mind right now. But we cannot take the risk to put Interpol on the case. We can't tell them about Moïse Berri vanishing into thin air, because if they find him before us, they'll probably force him to talk.” 

“Moïse Berri knows too much about us, Gus. I don't like that situation one bit.” 

“You know, Philbert. We're talking about Moïse Berri like an old acquaintance, but to tell you the truth, I can't put a face to the name. I close my eyes and I see a big blank and a wide shadow.” 
“I went through the exact same thing. I even thought something was wrong with my memory. I do remember Sixte Osmer working with Moïse Berri on a number of special projects since 9/11. I must have met with the man on various occasions. I know for a fact that Sixte was very close to that young man. He used to brag about him like people do for a brainy nephew or a talented godson. You know? Sixte really loved that young fellow.” 

“Hold on now, Phil. Are you trying to tell me that our brother Sixte was a closet homosexual or something?” 

“I'm not saying that. I just find it very strange that Moïse Berri's name was on the main list of beneficiaries in Sixte Osmer's testament. Remember that Sixte Osmer had few friends and was very close to his family. I respected the man, so I followed his last wishes. I handed all his archives and a ton of confidential documents to the current president of the Foundation, just like he asked. I gave just about everything... I gave it all to that total outsider.” 

“How did Moïse Berri get to the top of the pyramid so fast? Who is that guy, Philbert, some kind of magician with hypnotic powers?” 

“Don't play the fool with me, Gus. You're the one who put Moïse Berri in charge without a vote, my advice or any form of consent. And you chose to do that, three days before the reading of Sixte Osmer's will.” 

“You're dead wrong, my old friend. I named Ulysses Hercules, the sole commander of his father's legacy, while Sixte Osmer was still alive, way before his death. Family first, you know how it goes in our culture. I learned, months later, that Ulysses Hercules had given that responsibility to his preacher brother because of his problem with germs. He was scared to travel to Haiti, thinking he would die of an infection as soon as he’d step foot there. That was after the first cholera outbreak.” 

“Let me guess what happened next? Achilles Hector had to take care of his church and his lost sheep in New Jersey; Jeanne d'Arc-Victoria wanted to get her star on Hollywood Boulevard as soon as possible; and the widow certainly did not have the qualifications to do the job. Deodas Demosthene was number five in the order of succession. Knowing that we would stick to his every move, he brought that human virus among us.” 

“It's vague, but it comes back to me now. When Deodas introduced me to Moïse Berri, as the ideal candidate for the post, I told him that his daughter had to officially refuse the position before any stranger could occupy it. Deodas told me that day about his daughter Evelyne being reported missing by her expedition team in the Chinese Karakoram, just like you'd mention an oil spill to your mechanic. Deodas barely spoke to Evelyne since she revealed her sexual preferences during her drunken speech at Ulysses Hercules wedding. So, I didn't insist on his choice to designate a newcomer. I hired the best investigators to search the past of that Moïse Berri, but I never read their reports. I was overworked in that period. My wife was not responding well to her chemotherapy, may she rest in peace, and the surgeon wanted to replace my artificial hip with a new generation titanium prosthesis. I didn't have the time or the strength to fight Deodas anymore.” 

“I understand, Gus. I remember. You were completely exhausted. You accepted to install that unknown intruder on the throne of our empire without even thinking.” 

“We're getting too old for this, Philbert. Don't be too harsh on me. My memory is really not so good anymore. I swear. Normally, people our age are already fifteen years and counting in their retirement. I have zero recollection of meeting that character, not even once. In fact, I sincerely thought that the kid in question was your inside man, that you had total control over his every move.” 

“Gus! Gus! Gus! Come on, Amaury, it's your own signature that literally catapulted Moïse Berri behind the wheel of everything we've built. You were, and still are, the chairman of the board of directors and the chief executive officer of the conglomerate.” 

“And you were, and still are, Sixte Osmer's main executor, the lawyer of the entire Legitime family and ultimately the lord of all their paperwork. Nothing happens without your initials and your approval. So don't try to put all the blame on my shoulders. To me, you and that Moïse Berri clown were good pals, communicating regularly, exchanging information and planning stuff together. I've been cashing my paychecks as an administrator of the Heritage Legitime Fund for the last two years on top of all my commissions. I had no reasons to worry about anything. I had no intention to fill a complaint about being overpaid for doing absolutely nothing.”  

“What a major mess, Gus. Let's stop accusing each other and unite our forces and intellects to find that troublemaker and erase him from the equation. Moïse Berri is also the top executive of the Vilaj Espwa project. In fact, to put it shortly, that young dude is technically the boss of all our businesses in Haiti; construction, production, reconstruction, corruption and money laundering included.” 

“Who put so much power in one man's hand, Philbert?” 
“You and I, Gus. Am I being fair, now? We are in this together. So, can I count on you for tomorrow?” 

“Do I have a choice? Of course, I'll be there. Just don't start anything or make any important decisions on your own before I arrive. Burns Breton is always packing heat. You must remember at all times that you are just a fragile old man and that you are alone in this world.” 
“I'm never alone, Gus. I am a Christian. I never was alone and I never will be.” 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda