An Ordinary Decent Criminal (24 page)

“Well, we can finish cleaning up after they leave.”

I nodded agreement. “Right. So I declare a holiday for the rest of tonight.”

“Before we do that, let’s check the house for anything that shouldn’t be there.”

“Like anything planted?”

“Right.”

So we did. Claire found it in the garbage pile in the back by the alley: a slightly torn, ziplock bag of white oblong tablets and cracked crystalline pebbles. We both stared at it for a moment and then I put the garbage bag back on top.

“Leave it?” Claire was biting her knuckle.

“Yeah.”

We found a piece of particleboard and put it on top of the stuff before going back into the house to look some more. The last thing we did was both sign our names in marker on the board, along with the time and date.

Then we sat and listened to the rain for a few hours until we fell asleep.

The first person arrived at exactly two minutes before 9:00. When I opened the door, there was a big man in an expensive suit standing along with the Crown prosecutor, McMillan-Fowler, and Thompson. Behind them, and looking sodden in the rain, were three Mounties in their patrol uniforms.

McMillan-Fowler spoke first. “Mr. Parker? Good morning, I am here with Inspector Atismak of the RCMP and these other officers to serve a search warrant. Your lawyer, Mr. Thompson, is here as well.” She tried to walk past me but I didn’t let her.

“One moment. May I see the warrant?”

She had it under her coat and handed it over as Thompson crowded up to read it as well.

“. . . search the premises . . . address is right . . . firearms, narcotics and biker paraphernalia. . . . What the hell is
biker paraphernalia
?”

McMillan-Fowler gestured expansively with one hand. “Patches, literature, signs, stuff like that.”

“Oh.”

I turned to Thompson, who was holding his own copy of the paper.

“Looks okay?”

“Looks fine.”

I stepped away and made a grand gesture. “Come in, come in,
mi casa es su casa
. Coffee and donuts are on the kitchen table. And there’s what looks to be some crack cocaine and some kind of tablets planted in our garbage pile by the alley.”

Everyone froze at that but then the big cop and McMillan-Fowler went out the back while the others stood staring at the table and at me. Claire had gone out at 6:00 that morning before I had woken up and the pastries were arranged on little napkins along with a big urn of coffee in the dining room. The big RCMP officer stepped back in and slung his jacket over his left arm. He didn’t mention the stuff outside and gestured at the table.

“Looks familiar.”

McMillan-Fowler came in and the cops scattered through the house while Thompson scurried after them to keep them honest. Claire and Fred were sitting together on the sofa by the window and playing with
a bit of string. I’d chained the dog up outside and he barked every few minutes, more curious than angry.

I turned to the Mountie who’d commented on the coffee and donuts. “It should. I got the idea from
Twin Peaks
.”

He looked blankly at me and I continued defensively. “Obscure social referent.”

“Yes, I was just remembering. The table in the rear of the town’s cop shop, the flaky secretary set up a spread like this every day for the local police.”

I was impressed. “You’ve got a good memory.”

He nodded politely and faced me silently before walking back into my home. The front door was still open and I could see a big, black panel truck parked just down the street. Leaning against it were five men wearing black uniforms and carrying heavy-assault weapons. With difficulty I ignored them and Claire came up beside me, still holding Fred. “Whatcha thinking, love?”

I motioned at the cops with a twist of my neck. “Two Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine guns, blow back action, very accurate, reliable, prime; five thousand dollars each. One Colt M-16A2 or assorted variants assault rifle, full or semi-auto; two thousand dollars. One Remington 870 pump shotgun with extended magazine; about five hundred dollars. One Remington M-700 accurized rifle with variable scope, probably in 7.62 mm or 7 mm magnum, maybe point 300 Winchester; about twelve hundred.”

“Hmmm. So, in other words, college for Fred?”

“Yep. Or you.”

She kissed my lips and we turned back into the house before answering.

“Not me. Been to college.”

“You dated frat boys, there’s a difference.”

She held my hand and responded, “You’re probably right.”

“Sir? Sir?”

One of the cops from upstairs came racing down the stairs, holding a big plastic bag. In it was the Mauser bayonet that I had left beside the bed, but before I could say a word, Atismak spoke.

“What is that?”

“A sword. I found it upstairs.”

The Mountie was young and had barely grown into his black walrus mustache and he looked very happy indeed. Atismak, however, did not look happy, he looked very tired all of a sudden.

“May I see it?”

He took the bag and held it up. “Not a sword. Not a knife, either. A bayonet?”

Claire was tense but I was watching Atismak’s face when I answered. “Right. From a Mauser rifle, model 1871. I bought it in an Edmonton pawn shop. They used great steel back then, keeps a good edge.”

Atismak handed it to me. “Right. Now, Officer . . .”

He turned to face the cop, who kept his eyes on the bayonet. “Did you read the search warrant I gave you yesterday?”

“Yes.”

Atismak didn’t wait. “That’s, yes, sir.”

“Right, sir. Yes, sir.”

“Good. The warrant read ‘
Narcotics. Guns. Biker paraphernalia.
’ Is that bayonet you grabbed narcotics, guns, or biker paraphernalia?”

The cop was silent and Atismak went on. “So, it’s cutlery. Why don’t you wait outside and we’ll talk later.”

The young Mountie went and I brought Atismak one of the mismatched pairs of coffee cups.

“Coffee? Cream and sugar are over there.”

“Thank you.”

He limped over in considerable pain to doctor his own cup and I squeezed Claire’s shoulder gently through her blouse. “That is a smart cop.”

She blew into Fred’s belly, which made him squeal, and answered in a monotone. “Contradiction.”

“Well, that’s that.”

McMillan-Fowler had come back down with Thompson as the other cops trooped out. Atismak had never left my side and now he put down his fourth cup of coffee, shrugged into his coat, and gave me a barely perceptible nod, like he was thanking me.

Before they could go, I asked, “Now that it’s all over, can I ask why you searched my house?”

Atismak looked at McMillan-Fowler, who made a polite face, before answering. “I don’t see why not. I can’t see that investigation going anywhere.”

I looked at both of them. “Right. Okay, ignoring the stuff out back . . .”

I had seen Thompson and McMillan-Fowler debating beforehand. They both nodded and Atismak took over speaking.

“. . . which we will be investigating, although not in relation to you folks.”

He smiled briefly and went on. “The provincial tip line received a call indicating that firearms and narcotics were stored here. The call was very specific and believable and we had to check it out.”

Claire looked at me, it made sense to her. Me too. “Can my wife and I listen to the recording?”

Atismak shook his head and shrugged. “Sorry. But it wouldn’t matter even if you could, whoever it was disguised their voice. They mentioned a Glock pistol along with considerable quantities of crack cocaine and crank speed, along with PCP and Viagra. Frankly, Mr. Haaviko, considering your past history, the call sounded credible.”

Thompson was trying to say something but we all ignored him and finally he just blurted it out. “Viagra?”

Atismak looked amused so I answered. “Yeah. It goes for twenty-five
dollars US per pill in Russia. It’s smuggled to Churchill, put on ships, and offloaded in the Black Seas ports.”

I turned back to the Mountie. “Let me guess, it’s the details in the call that raised flags for you. That’s why you gave me warning of the search and let me have my lawyer present?”

Atismak smiled. “We also put some watchers on you with long lenses last night in the hope you’d move something, which you didn’t. You didn’t even touch the drugs back there.”

His smile was cold and smart. “We’re not all bad, Mr. Haaviko.”

Then they left, except for Thompson, who walked to the door and looked down the driveway at the cops by the van. His face flushed bright red and he fumbled in his jacket pocket for a silver flask about a pint in size. With trembling fingers he unscrewed the top and took several swallows before putting it away. When all the cars outside had left, so did he.

Claire came over and threaded her arm through mine. “You look concerned.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Someone tried to set me up and didn’t care if you and Fred got in the way.”

“Who?”

“Walsh, maybe. Robillard. Whoever it was called the cops and claimed we were armed and running drugs for bikers. All in exquisite detail.”

“Oh.” She held on to my arm and kept a smile on her face but I could feel her whole body go rigid.

“Fuckers.”

“Yeah. If we’d had a slightly dumber cop than that Atismak, we would have had the whole riot squad down here. Local cops and not the Mounties.”

She turned to face me. “And they would have found something, right?”

“Sure. They would have come down like the wrath of God, and those weapons outside would have been in here with us. Someone would have started shooting and no one would have been able to prove afterwards it wasn’t me or you. Clean, simple, elegant, and some cop becomes a hero, the city gets to avoid embarrassing questions, the world goes on.”

We were quiet and she turned and went back for Fred. When she came back, her voice was artificially calm. “So. What are we going to do?”

I shrugged and now I was trembling too. My hands vibrated and my vision tunneled as the adrenalin pumped through me. “I don’t know. We tried. I tried, I mean. I really did but I don’t want to try anymore.”

I was pleading and she kissed Fred on the forehead and he turned to look at me. “Cry havoc,” she said.

“Huh?”

She put Fred between us and we made a sandwich hug.

“It’s a line from a bad movie with Christopher Walken, ‘cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war.’ ”

“Right.”

Neither of us was smiling and she went on. “Or a song by Pink Floyd after Roger Waters left.”

“Right, or even a comic book hero.”

She squeezed closer and I put my head down to her ear.

“Woof.”

Claire answered just as softly.

“Woof.”

When the cops were long gone, I took a quick walk around the neighborhood and found a pay phone in the back of a bowling alley. The Red River Community College administration office answered on the third ring.

I said, “Hello, this is the alumni association. We’re checking the mailing
address of one of the graduates for a pamphlet we’re producing.”

“Ummm. Yes, hold on.”

There was a pause and I crossed my fingers, I was playing percentages but that often works just fine.

“Name?”

“Enzio Walsh. Computer course graduate.”

She gave me an address in the suburb of Transcona and I thanked her and then held my head against the glass frame of the booth to feel the coolness.

“Woof.”

No one was around and I walked off with my head full of vague thoughts, strung-together memories, and ideas. It was free thought, the same way it had been when I’d been stealing. Elements of ideas, concepts, free floating, diffuse, they would spin together and form something in time, as long as I let them alone. Robillard and Walsh, Walsh and Robillard, but Walsh first.

About a block away, I had the parameters down pat. He was an enemy I couldn’t and shouldn’t kill but could and should ruin. An enemy full of pride like a frog full of fart and armed with arrogance in his reputation. An enemy backed by his organization.