Grinder (7 page)

The fat man told me his name was Louis while he pulled off the headband and unplugged the soldering iron. He said he'd always been into computers and after his parents died he just moved up from the basement into the rest of the house. The shop sprung out of the constant piles of circuitry he accumulated around the house. He locked the front door and flipped off the open sign then led me into the back room to a desktop computer.

Louis brought the computer out of sleep mode with a fat finger. He opened an icon and entered a password I noted to be a random sequence of letters and numbers. He was right, if I had choked him out, the computer would have been useless. Once Internet Explorer was working, Louis took a step back and opened his hands in a gesture that said, “It's all yours.”

I stood in front of the computer and called up the site Paolo had scribbled on the piece of paper he gave me. A black box appeared on the screen with a play button in the centre. I clicked the button and watched the file load, and do something it called buffering, in a matter of seconds. Beside the loading screen, I saw thumbnails of other posts by the boys — there were at least fifteen. Fifteen times at least, Army and Nicky had put themselves out on the Internet and let their mouths run.

“Fast connection,” I said.

“Oh yeah. Once you go high speed, there's no going back. I can download a song in thirty seconds —” The computer interrupted him as it began to play the file. “Who are they?”

Two teenagers appeared on the screen in the little play window. Army and Nicky were brothers who were only a year apart, but they could have passed as twins. Both boys had tall over-gelled hair that stood in shiny triangular peaks. Their white teeth gleamed in their almost identical acne-speckled faces. Both boys got their father's pointy nose and their mother's full lips. The boys were pretty, not handsome.

All of their prettiness ended when their mouths opened. They spoke in loud profane street language that all at once sounded inauthentic. It sounded as though they were mimicking the way they thought a real hip-hop gangster might speak.

“Holla at your boyz! The Donati crew is back on the air,” Army said. “We still be bringing the thug to the world and ain't nobody going to stop us, ya heard.”

“Nobody gonna stand in the way a tha' Donati crew, we gotz mad guerrilla tactics, yo.” Nicky brandished a gun, which came into view when he added his two cents.

Army went on, “We got the roots everywhere — in the Hammer, even in the U fucking S. We the princes of the city. All of it gonna be ours. It's ours by blood. We own this rock.”

“I'm gonna get me a blinged-out crown,” Nicky chimed in while mimicking putting a crown on his head.

“Those goombahs won't be able to hold on ta what is rightfully ours. Fuckin' Bombedieri thinks he's big shit running numbers. Oh the ‘Bomb' is the man all right . . . with his calculator. Dom the Bomb is a real Texas Instrument kind of gangster. He's got a long way to go before he gets respect.” Army made a gun with his index finger and thumb and shot the camera when he mentioned respect.

Nicky spoke up again, building on Army's revelation about Bombedieri. “Shit, Perino thinks he's big time 'cause he pimps shit out of that store of his.”

Both boys stopped and did a silent sign of the cross, their faces suddenly angelic, before they started laughing.

Nicky continued, “He hasn't pulled a trigger on a gat since he killed Carerra four years ago. He thinks he's gold 'cause he shot that fucker into his soup. But gold gets tarnished, yo.”

“Bitch,” Army yelled.

“Bi-atch,” Nicky confirmed.

“Rosa is tough,” Army said. “I hear that boy pulled the trigger nine times last year.”

“I hear that boy pulled a lot of triggers last year . . . with his teeth.” Nicky delivered the joke with all the glee of a child telling his first knock-knock joke, and then both boys laughed at their apparent outing of Rosa while making dick-sucking gestures with their hands and cheeks.

“It's our time,” Army said. “It's time the Donati crew showed the Hammer how real thugs do.”

Nicky pulled off his shirt to expose a tattoo across his chest. It read “gangster” in big black Gothic letters. “We ain't into playing, we into being. 'Cause that's how we roll.”

Both boys high-fived. “It's our time,” Army said again and then he reached forward off the screen. Suddenly, booming rap music pounded out of the computer speakers. The music was too distorted with bass to be understandable. After a minute of music and on-screen posturing by the boys, the screen went black. The site offered the option to view the other postings by the boys. I scrolled down the screen instead of opening more of the videos. There were comments from viewers all the way down the screen. Most thought the boys were a joke; many were scathing in their hatred of Army and Nicky.

“What a bunch of douche bags,” Louis said. I nodded in silent agreement. “I mean . . . they're white kids. They look like such posers. No one could take that crap seriously.”

This time I didn't nod. Louis was wrong; someone took these boys real serious. These two morons crossed a line. Crossed it so far that even genetics couldn't save them. They didn't just slip up and say the wrong thing at the wrong time; they broadcast names, crimes, and gossip for the world to hear. And here I was having to put it all on the line to find these two jokes.

“Why did you pay forty bucks for this?” Louis asked.

“I had to see it before I started,” I said as I clicked the tools folder and erased the browser history.

“Started what?”

I didn't answer Louis's question, I just got up and walked to the door.

“Do you know those kids?” Louis asked.

I didn't answer as I opened the door. I didn't know those kids, and after seeing the video I was pretty sure no one who did would ever be able to recognize them again.

In the car, I sat with the air conditioning on while I fiddled with the radio and used my thumb to loosen the muscles in my jaw. The rough massage gave me a break from the constant grinding of teeth I had since I met with Paolo. I passed stations pumping out unfamiliar music by even more unfamiliar groups. Music had become even more artificial since I dropped off the radar. I spent too much time on the boat listening to the rhythmic beat of a fish finder, out of range of anything that could transmit the changing popular culture. I turned off the radio, realizing it was keeping me in place when I should have been moving.

I pulled the car back into traffic and drove the Hamilton mountain. I found Stonechurch Road, which ran the length of the city, and settled into its stop-and-go rhythm. While I sat at a light, I powered up Johnny's phone and called Paolo. He picked up without saying a word.

“Can you talk?” I asked.

“Not now.”

“I'll call back in ten minutes,” I said. I heard an animal grunt before the line disconnected. Paolo was angry that I gave him an order. He was even angrier that he couldn't do a thing about it. Once Paolo was off the line, I dialled another number from memory; it was a number I knew would still work.

“Sully's Tavern,” Steve's voice said after two rings.

“Do you ever take the night off?” I asked.

The reply came immediately. “Some of us can't pick up and leave at a moment's notice.”

“How you doing, Steve?”

“Good.” His surprise was over, and he was back to his usual short responses. “You in town?”

“Yeah.”

“I have your money and those tools you told me about. I took it all after Sandra and I cleaned the place up.”

“You took Sandra to clean up the office?” I asked.

“I told her where I was going, and she said she wanted to come.”

I marvelled at Steve and his relationship with Sandra. I spent every waking moment trying to stay off the grid, trying to keep every interaction transient, and here was my only friend, a person connected at the hip to his wife. He told her everything and didn't even think about a need for secrets. For a quiet second on the phone, alone in my car, I envied his attachment like a paraplegic envied a sprinter.

“Any problems?”

“Nah, wife thinks you need help decorating though. You working?”

“That's why I called.”

“Where?” Steve was ready to meet me, to do whatever. In his mind he could never repay the debt he thought he owed me.

“It's not like that. I got found, and someone we know pulled me back here for a job.”

“How did you get pulled?” It sounded as though Steve was suddenly speaking through clenched teeth. Steve knew what I was like; he knew there was very little that could force me to do anything. He knew he and Sandra were about the only leverage someone could use on me. He was starting to see red, and I had to derail him before he put down the phone. Steve had the capabilities of a dirty bomb. He could absolutely destroy everything around him, but worse than that, the carnage left from his explosion would be felt for years to come.

“Steve,” I said to no response. “Steve . . . Christ, Steve, listen to me. I'll tell you how I got pulled back, but you have to hear me out. Are you listening? You can take care of this but you have to hear me out.”

“Tell me.”

Steve's quick response fazed me for a second. He was listening more than I thought. Maybe things had changed since I had been gone.

“I thought you would have been out in the street by now.”

“Things change,” he said, reading my mind.

“So you'll cool it and let things play out my way?”

“Things haven't changed that much. Tell me.”

“A guy came to see me; he told me to come home. After a long talk, I found out why.”

“Tell me straight — no one is listening.”

“You don't know that,” I said, thinking of Paolo.

“I do, Wilson. Now tell me straight.”

I figured I owed Steve the truth. “Paolo found me,” I said.

“You were fishing on film.”

I pulled over to a chorus of honking horns and punched the dashboard. “That fucking picture,” I said.

“Ben saw it. He loves fishing and he showed me the fish when he saw it on the front page. Big guy didn't even know who the politician was. I saw the fish and I saw you. The beard looks good.”

Ben was a giant of a man who grew up on a farm in rural Ontario. He still clung to his roots, often wearing overalls to tend bar. Steve hired him after Sandra was kidnapped. Ben's job was to keep her safe when Steve stepped out. Ben was capable; I had seen him break up brawls alone. The brawlers weren't punks either — they were hard men. Ben blasted through them with giant fists like Thor with two flesh-and-bone hammers.

“Paolo saw the picture and sent a guy out to see me.”

“He dead?” Steve asked.

I didn't answer the question. “I got in touch with Paolo, and he told me he needed me for a job.”

“Doing what?”

“Job doesn't matter. What's important is he said he had a man watching you.”

“Yeah?” Steve's answers were getting shorter. Soon it would be grunts then blood.

“Whoever it is, he's watching you to make sure I play ball.”

“When?”

“Over the next day or two.”

“No. When can I deal with this?”

I smiled. “You have changed. Two years ago you would have your hair up, and you'd have been in the street already.”

“I am in the street — phone's portable.”

“Don't do anything yet. I can fix it.”

“When?”

“Give me a day, two max. Find whoever's watching and keep tabs on him. Wait for my call before you do anything. I can fix this, and then he'll be gone and everything will be cool.”

“I think I already found him,” Steve said.

I pressed the phone harder into my ear out of fear that Steve could instantly make the situation infinitely worse. “Will you wait for my call?”

I heard traffic digitized through the phone lines. Then Steve sighed and answered. “Two days. Any more, and I can't promise anything.”

“This guy can't get beaten to death on the street; that will just bring more heat. If he goes, it's got to be quiet, like he didn't exist. Once I handle my end, no one can know what your stalker was up to. That means no one can find him.”

“Call me when I can move.”

I said goodbye and hung up the phone. I nosed the car into traffic again, hearing fewer horns than when I pulled over, and moved back towards Upper James and the Mediterranean restaurant I was at an hour before. Traffic had come to life since I had been online. The roads were clogged like the tunnels in an ant farm. It was like the mountain was channelling downtown just for me. I looked around at the frustrated commuters and smiled. I enjoyed the feeling of being back in the city. With each breath, I felt like I was uploading what I was, one file at a time. I felt more like myself than I had in a long time. The only problem was the scraggly reflection in the rearview. I didn't look like me — which wasn't a bad thing — but I didn't look like anyone else from around here either — which certainly was. I would stand out in a crowd to almost anyone, and I wasn't about to go up against just anyone; I was going to tamper with the lives of dangerous men. Dangerous men who would notice an unkempt loner in their periphery.

At the third red light, I rolled down the window so I could smell the black diesel leaving the bus in front of me. I lost myself in the smell of the city in some sort of grey-concrete zen daze. The fumes mingled with the roar of the bus engine, dulling the cell phone chirp from the seat beside me. I got my head in the window and opened the phone on its third ring.

“You want me to call you back, stay off the line,” Paolo said.

“I saw the video,” I said.

“Something, ain't it? Stupid kids are like parrots repeating everything they hear.” Paolo never stopped comparing people to animals. He loved to show everyone how low they were on the food chain compared to him.

“Parrots are smart, though, aren't they?”

“Being capable of speech doesn't make anything smart. Let's see a parrot make me an omelette. That would be one smart fucking bird.”

Traffic picked up and I stayed right, riding the slow lane back to the plaza. “The video, they mention three names,” I said.

“Figlio,
I gave you all the information you need. Did those two years make you soft? You never needed me to hold your hand before.”

“I never had to wipe your nose before,” I said, and instinctively moved the phone away from my ear to avoid what was to come.

“You little fuck!” Paolo screamed. “You think because I asked you for help you're worth all this trouble? I let you go as long as I did because you were on the back burner. You never got out, you never left; I just put you on pause. If you want, I can finish this myself, but if I do then I don't need you. And if I don't need you, what the fuck do I need the bartender for? Not to mention those nice people who own the boat you were working on.”

I knew the threats would come and I still walked into it. I cursed myself for being so hotheaded. Deep down, though, I wasn't mad at Paolo, or my temper. I was scared that I wasn't what I had been anymore after being away for so long. If I couldn't do what needed to be done, it wouldn't be Paolo who killed my friends, it would be me.

I could still hear Paolo seething on the phone. I decided to ignore the outburst. “I never needed you to hold my hand before because I knew all of the players on the board. I don't know these names that well.”

“You only fuck over people you know? That why you screwed me over for the bartender?” Paolo was still acting petulant after two years.

“Who are they to you? Are they important?”

“After you whacked the Commie bees' nest, they swarmed all over us. They knew our people and our business. They had been planning to take us out for a long time, and someone had fed them current information. A lot of people died or just disappeared. Those Russian fucks tried to take all the leaders away so the family would just fall apart. I had to promote prematurely to fix all of the holes. Bombedieri, Perino, and Rosa got an early leg up, but they were eager and they were workers. We hit that bees' nest back hard. Bees calm down around smoke, so we lit a whole lot of fucking fires.”

“How important are they to you?”

“They're family, but they're not
family
. They got to move up pretty high pretty quick and so they never spent the years making connections or learning how to act. They're a rough crew — not at all like their predecessors, but they earn in spades. They're big players, but they got no real support. They could be gone tomorrow and no one would cry about it. They made enemies out of a lot of the people they left behind when they became management. People who were none too cheery about their sudden advancement. No one comes right out and says it, but I heard whispers.”

“From Army and Nicky?” I interrupted.

“I never talked business with them because they were never going to take over.”

“Anyone tell them that?”

Paolo was silent for a moment, then he spoke quietly. “They were never in this life. They went to private school, for Christ's sake.”

“So did you.”

“These kids ain't me. They don't have the instinct. Even back then, in those schools, I had it — everyone knew. My nephews never even showed interest in this life. They liked the money and the respect, but any sign of trouble and they'd cry to their mother. I never told them no 'cause everyone knew they were never going to go to work.”

“Everyone but them,” I said, more to myself than to Paolo. “You saw that tattoo, heard that music. They thought they were in the life already. They acted like they had a crew and they were the up-and-comers.”

“Stupid parrots,” he said.

“What I want to know is, who is the most likely to move on your family?”

“None of them. They're made. They know the rules.”

Rules. There was a time when I tried to speak to Paolo about rules. “You told me there were no rules, only the law of the jungle.”

“There are rules if I say so.”

“Fine,” I said. “Who's got the most balls, and the most pride?”

Paolo thought about it for a second. “Bombedieri,” he said.

“Army and Nicky said he was just a numbers guy.”

“And I told you they were never involved in the day-to-day business. That shit they said on the Internet was garbage. You don't get to
just
be a numbers guy — we aren't the Ontario gaming commission. Dom Bombedieri spent a lot of time getting everyone in the neighbourhood on side with how he runs things. Everybody: the police, the Russians, even those Chink gangs stay clear of his rackets. But there was a time they didn't, and he made sure everyone knew where he stood about that by making a lot of people lay down,
capisce?
That's how he got the name ‘Dom the Bomb.' My nephews would have had no idea about what he was into, or what he did to get into it.”

“So he's not the pushover Army and Nicky said he was.”

Paolo laughed. “I don't promote pushovers. Bombedieri's as bad as they come — more so now that he works quiet. He's like a pike. You ever see one of those? Ugly fish — all scale and bone. But it comes up under bugs on the surface and takes them without warning. That's what Dom the Bomb is like now that he's in charge. No one sees him coming.”

I wondered if Army and Nicky saw him coming when they disappeared. If it was him at all. “The address you gave me for him. What is it?”

“His uncle Guy runs a cleaning-supply store. Dom uses part of it as his office. He's got his own entrance out back and he and his crew run their business out of it. He is in charge of everything west of James Street.”

“Big chunk,” I interrupted.

“I told you, I don't promote pushovers. He took over that part of town when Lolli and Porco disappeared. It was a lot of territory to take over, especially with those Ivans hitting made men, but Dom made it work. He runs that part of town for me, and he does it real well now that he's learned a thing or two.”

“Who's his number two?”

“Figlio,
I gave you a list. The list had all the information you need. I didn't bring you home so we could play phone tag like a couple a fruits. Use the list and get the fucking job done.”