Darwin's Nightmare (9 page)

“You got a mouth on you. You talk too much. Always saying something. See what your mouth gets you. You get hurt. Maybe you get killed.”

My mouth moved but nothing came out. A hard voice, cultured by years of smoke, alcohol, and acid reflux spoke out. “Get him over here.”

At once Julian stooped and lifted me over a shoulder. I sloshed around watching the world reel. Inside me the anger was boiling, and for a moment I forgot why I had come. I should have been humble, quiet, and polite, but the rage pounding in my ears erased thoughts and rationality. My body was hanging so that I was chest to chest with the monster of a man. Despite the pain, I straightened my body so that Julian looked to be carrying a load of lumber on his shoulder. The pain in my back hit me and I almost buckled, but I managed to stay horizontal. I drove my elbow back hard, aiming at Julian's eye. He saw the blow coming, shrugged his shoulders, and tried to drop me. My elbow connected with his cheekbone before I was airborne

I landed behind Julian, on all fours, and saw that he had covered his face and turned away. I covered the distance between us in three steps and kicked him hard in the groin like I was going for a field goal. Julian dropped to his knees, and I kept coming. The next two kicks hit the back of his neck and knocked him down. The three stomps to the groin that followed should have kept him there, but he pulled in his knees and got up. He stood and smoothly extracted a large revolver from under his suit coat. I knew from the small distance between us that I was dead. No diving could get me out of range. I stared at him, but no bullet came. Julian waited. Even though he had me cold, he waited. He wanted the order, and it hadn't come
yet. I knew right there that the monster in front of me would be a force soon. He didn't lose his head. As mad as he was, he followed protocol. I waited for a thirty-second year as the gun stared at me without flinching.

“Heh, he's like a dog, Wilson. You get into his yard, and he wants to fuck you to show you he's on top. Down boy. Let him sit.”

Paolo was behind Julian in a booth — invisible beyond Julian's massive frame and his gun.

“I said sit!”

The gun didn't move, so I did. I walked around Julian and sat in a chair facing the lone man in the booth. Paolo was comfortable in the smoky dim light. He wore a tailored grey suit and tie, but he didn't look professional. The lines, the scars, and the ugliness in his face told his real credentials.

“You have nerve to tell me you're coming here. Like I need to wait on you, like you're somebody. This information better be important, boy.”

I did the only thing I could do. I told him what had transpired. During my quiet retelling his face never moved. Only his eyes gave away his feelings. His eyes blazed, and his pupils violently shook. His expressionless face held eyes that forced out an anger that could not be articulated. Out of the corner of my eye, out of earshot, Julian stood smirking. He saw the eyes and knew the order would come. He was happy to be the hand of those raging eyes.

I didn't mince words. I told Paolo everything, but I never explained why I got involved; it would have violated every rule I was ever taught in my second education. My reasons were my own, and I wasn't sharing them with the burning eyes across from me. Paolo knew nothing of my life before I met him, and I kept it that way. I would never give him the ability to understand any part of me. Any
understanding could lead to leverage. I focused on Tommy and the line he crossed to be a role model to his boy. Hassling, strong-arming, and threats were part of life here, but it never escalated to what Tommy had done. Every taboo was broken for money in Hamilton, but some rules had to hold so that anarchy didn't erupt. More important, the rules we had separated us from other organizations more than colours or territory ever could. Organizations from different parts of the globe who settled in the city didn't place any importance on rules. They wanted power and they were willing to push anyone to get it. Paolo and his crew looked down on the new gangs and their methods. Paolo's men saw themselves not as thugs and hoods, but as professionals in a business that had employed generations of families. Everyone who did business outside the law in a different manner was deemed inferior because they ignored the methods established over the years by true career criminals.

The story ended with silence. I stopped talking and stared straight at Paolo Donati. I didn't beg for mercy or plead for understanding. I told him part of what I wanted to say and I waited for the verdict.

“Rules,” he said. “Fucking rules. You have got to be kidding me. We kill people all the time, with guns, knives, shit they force through holes into their bodies. Hell, we even put whores on the streets. Everything we do hurts everybody, and you want to tell me there are rules now?”

“There's always been rules. Some people forget them, but I don't. What Tommy did was out of line.”

“Don't you say his name. He was family, you fuck. Family! You get that? And you, you're like some ungrateful stepchild. You get paid by me. What I do, what Tommy did, made the money you earn. And you have the balls to come to me and tell me you're following rules. Fuck your rules.”

His hand stamped the end of his sentence into the table. I was less worried. Yelling meant the situation was not cut and dried. If he wanted me dead, it would have been done already. The yelling made me think he knew the other half of what I wanted to say. My thoughts drowned out his rage until one sentence brought me back.

“Leave us alone.”

Everyone, even Julian, slowly moved away, leaving Paolo and me completely isolated. “Why did you do it? And don't bullshit me with that rules crap. I know you don't believe in that shit.”

“There are rules . . .”

“Bullshit!” he roared.

I took a second and considered the man who held my fate in his breath. “My reasons are my own. Now, do you want to hear the rest?”

The old man leaned back, his eyes dulled a fraction, and I almost saw a smile. “Tell me,” he said.

“Tommy was more trouble than he was worth. All the brutality with the Russians cost you. He was so over the top that they banded together to fight him. He unified them, made them stronger. He's the reason you didn't take the Russians out. All his bloodshed brought public attention down on you. For a while there Tommy's work was regular in the newspapers. There had to be a truce.”

I paused to see if he was listening. “Talk,” he said.

“Now you have to live side by side with the Russians. You have lines between them and you. Tommy was the guard on your side. He was a reminder of how bad things could be again. Tommy was a guard dog, but he was always behind a fence. You never let him out to work anywhere else because you knew how destructive his presence could be. Now Tommy is dead, and so is his family.”

“So how does your treason help me?”

“It's an act of war.”

“You're right about that. You put a stick in a hornet's nest, and for what? Some greasy mick? This war will swallow you up.”

“Not if I'm not the one blamed. If word got out that the Russians killed Tommy, you would have a reason to take back all the Russians have. You can do it right this time, without Tommy to screw it up. He'd be more useful in death than in life. He'll be a symbol now. He'll be the why. His death gives you a reason to break the truce. You couldn't pull him off the wall before; it would have shown you didn't trust him. That he was wrong. You can't show that kind of weakness to the Russians.”

“Why would I want to go up against the Russians again?”

“They're into things you aren't, and they've already set up a system people are used to. All you have to do is slide in and take over everything they started.” It was true, the Russians had come to town slowly, starting with the local hockey team. The team brought over two Russians to add speed to their second line. The players were given fancy cars as signing bonuses and were paid a good salary. Almost at once, the locals back home kidnapped the players' parents for ransom. After a successful payoff, the boys back home got better ideas. They blackmailed the players into using their contacts with the hockey team to ask for visas for key members of Russian organized crime. Once they were given access to the country, the mobsters set up companies using the hockey stars' names to garner capital and investors. These companies were fronts for gathering more work visas, and for money laundering. In time, we had our own Russian mafia cell in the city. The hockey team had brought speed to the team and even more corruption to the city.

The Russian neighbourhoods were reintroduced to the corruption they left behind in the motherland. The poor Russian immigrants had a hard-wired distrust for authority, and simply slipped back into the pattern of paying for protection. The gangsters called the protection “
krysha,
” which means “roof.” The people who paid were under the protection of a criminal roof — and everyone paid. It wasn't only money that was extorted; the gangsters had been known to become part owners of businesses, or the pro-bono clients of high-paid attorneys. The Russian mob was growing and soon it would branch out again.

“Crows eat their own. Did you know that?” Paolo changed the direction of the conversation at once.

“No, I didn't.”

“Not all crows, but it has been shown that crows have been known to eat eggs and other chicks.”

I said nothing, so Paolo continued. “The crows don't do this for enjoyment. No, far from it. They eat other crows' eggs so that their own eggs have a better chance to survive. They're cannibals. See, those birds kill their own for survival. That is a society without rules. That is a society where anarchy exists. That is the society you want to fucking bring to my doorstep. You want me to watch you eat my fucking family, my people, like I was a crow. I am no bird, you crow. I am the king of this fucking jungle.” His hands gripped the table so tightly his knuckles were white with the strain.

“You aren't a crow,” I said. “But Tommy is dead, and there is no changing it. You kill me and Steve and you get revenge, but then your symbol will be gone and forgotten. How long before the Russians come over the line? With the butcher dead, they will move out to your territory. Do you want that kind of message? People will ask who it was the Russians were afraid of. Was it you or Tommy? And soon
in the back alleys and bars people will say, ‘This never would have happened if Tommy was alive.' When that happens your teeth won't look so sharp anymore, and you'll have to fight your own people while the Russians watch.”

Paolo said nothing; he just stared at me. His knuckles on the edge of the table were still white with strain. Slowly the white faded pink as the hands relaxed and the blood returned. “Listen up, crow. You're done with me. Out of business. I don't want to see you again. I'm not going to kill you yet. You've been loyal — more than Tommy, and that's something, since you aren't family like he is . . . he was.” The boss let out a low laugh that ended in a small cough. “Ironic, isn't it? You're getting saved by loyalty.”

“The business with the bar . . . is it finished then?” I asked politely.

“You got some nerve asking about a shithole bar like that. One word out of my mouth, just one, and I'd blow that bar down like the big bad fucking wolf.”

“I know it and I understand, but I need to know if it's done.”

“Caw, caw, little bird. You don't need to know shit. What I do is none of your business. None. Julian.” With that one word the massive human frame just out of earshot came to life and moved towards me. I stood before he could get next to me.

I walked out past Julian. Neither of us said a word to the other, but I could feel the violence inside me slamming against the side of my skull. I winked at the coat-check girl at the entrance who eyed me, as I passed, with her hand under the counter. The four protectors out front gave a low whistle when I came through the doors. They were surprised to see me leaving under my own power. If they ever found out what I had told Paolo, they would hate themselves forever for not shooting me down when they
had the chance. That was the difference between most people involved in the mob and Paolo. Paolo wasn't ruled by his emotions; he was cold, calculating, and educated. I had put together pieces of who Paolo Donati was from information I learned on the street. His father was the top of the totem pole before him, and he sent his kids to the best schools. Paolo grew up in the best neighbourhood, next to doctors and millionaires, and went to school with the other neighbourhood rich kids. Paolo's upbringing couldn't have been more different from his father's. He didn't have to fight and hustle every day to survive. Paolo had friends, girlfriends, and good grades. He excelled in math and science. People say he was studying to be a veterinarian, but that is probably bullshit invented because Paolo loved to talk about animals. He used them as metaphors to degrade a person. He spoke of the nature of the animal kingdom to show people how close they were to those lower on the food chain. Paolo never did anything with his science and math, except use it to intimidate. His schooling ended abruptly when he was called to the family business at twenty-three. There he encountered animals, but they weren't the kind in books. These animals were much worse, and in time Paolo ruled them all.

Paolo studied people as if they were locked in at the zoo; he analyzed details and missed very little. Nothing I had told him was a new idea to him. He understood Tommy, his behaviour, and the delicate balance his presence maintained. Paolo saw his empire as a vast ecosystem, and he would not allow it to become unbalanced. Unbalance meant he was not in control, and that chaos signalled weakness. For someone who thrived on being in control, being the king of his jungle as he put it, weakness was worse than death. If things were to spin out of control, Paolo would want to be the one doing the spinning.