Poison (10 page)

Walking toward them, two grocery bags in his arms, was Dhillon, Parvesh alongside him holding one bag. Dhillon used the opportunity to berate Gurmej, confident that the two wives and the little girl would insulate him from a real fight. He marched purposefully toward Gurmej, put the bags down on the pavement. “
Teri ma noo
. I’ll kill you. You bring your slut wife to protect you?”

It was too much. Gurmej felt fire in his chest. He met Dhillon’s approach, cocked his arm, and swung. His knuckles cracked against Dhillon’s eye socket. Dhillon staggered, and Gurmej chopped down on his nose like an axe. Dhillon was on a knee when Gurmej swung again, and now Parvesh said, forcefully but composed, “
Veerji
! Brother! Don’t hurt him!” Gurmej paused. Parvesh was a gentle woman, honest, a hard worker. He respected her so much. “
Veerji
, let’s talk about this, let’s talk this over in the community,” she said.

“He won’t talk,” Gurmej muttered. “He won’t listen to anything.”

Dhillon stood, blood flowing from his nose over his lip, yelling at Parvesh, his voice a guttural, raging shriek. “Call my brothers and get them down here! We’ll kill him right here, right in the parking lot!”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Parvesh said.

“Do whatever you want,” Gurmej said.

“F—ing bitch!” Dhillon screamed. “Call my brothers, call my f—ing brothers!”

“No,” Parvesh said evenly.

Monday night at 7 p.m., Gurmej answered his door. It was a police officer. Dhillon had pressed charges. Gurmej was taken to the station, sat four hours in a cell. He filed counter charges. Later, Dhillon dropped the charges and a man named Budh, a leader in the Indian community, served as mediator between the two.

“
Veerji
,” Dhillon pleaded with Gurmej, “I am sorry. You were a good friend in the past. When I broke my leg, you drove me around, took me to the doctor’s. It’s—it’s those guys, at work. The others, they forced me to say that stuff, told me what to say.”

They made me do it
: it was a refrain Dhillon used time and again. He was not to blame. He was a simple man. A victim.

Dhillon stopped making an honest living on February 18, 1991. That day, he told his boss that, while working on the paint line, he had fallen off a moving trolley and hurt his back and head. He applied for and received Worker’s Compensation benefits. His back was killing him, he claimed, and he couldn’t bend over. That year, he received $18,838 from the Worker’s Compensation Board. The next year, he received $19,000, then $22,554 in 1993. The following year, 1994, he began selling used cars but continued collecting compensation, a total of $9,353, then $8,047 in 1995, and $8,111 in 1996. Meanwhile, Dhillon’s family in Ludhiana sent money each year, and so did Parvesh’s. The combined value was about $10,000.

He had learned other ways to make extra cash. Soon after arriving in Canada, Dhillon heard of a scam. In the summer of 1984, he claimed he was in a fender-bender in his Oldsmobile 98 and filed a claim in the physical damage/collision category. He was paid $4,726. Five years passed before the next auto insurance claim. On October 5, 1989, Dhillon said, his 1980 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale was in an accident. He was listed as not at fault. He claimed disability benefits from that, was paid $2,704, plus an additional $165 in collision/physical damage, and more cash in medical expenses. Six months later, on April 4, 1990, came the next claim, this time for $358 for collision/physical damage to his 1983 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham. On June 12, $868 on a 1982 Buick Century. This time Parvesh was listed as being at fault. Part of the payment was for collision, the rest for property damage. The next claim, five months later, was $1,869 in “other claims” and “special perils” on the Cadillac. Two months after that, on November 9, 1990, there was another small payment, for $336 in damage to the Cadillac. By December 19, the date of the next accident claim, the Cadillac jackpot: a claim that it was stolen and damaged netted Dhillon $10,034.

Great deal, insurance. Much easier than factory work. Word of Dhillon’s dubious insurance claims got around in the Indian community. Even insurance agents talked about it and, ultimately,
official memos were circulated warning agents to watch out for Sukhwinder Singh Dhillon.

There were rumors that Dhillon purchased used cars, scratched them up with keys or a screwdriver, made damage claims, and that he reported his car stolen in Niagara Falls, even as it sat in a friend’s driveway in Hamilton. More outrageous still, Dhillon arranged for others to damage his cars. A taxi driver he knew ran into him. He invited a friend who lived in England to visit Hamilton, rent a car, and ram his vehicle. The friend left the country; Dhillon got the money. Dhillon was crazy, some thought, willing to risk his personal safety to make a bit of insurance money. Gobind, his mother, cringed at such talk. Nasty rumors. They could not be true. Sukhwinder was a good man. Was he not friendly with everyone? Did he not give gifts to everyone, all the time?

Early in 1991 the claims continued: $879 for a February 25 accident in his 1982 Buick Century, and $2,632 for an April 5 claim on a different Buick. On January 30, 1993, he filed a claim on an Oldsmobile; the payout was $2,688. Then two more claims, for an accident on October 20, $2,326 on the Olds again, and five months later, on March 8, 1994, for $2,850 on the same car.

Less than a month later came the biggest payout yet, an accident in the 1984 Chrysler New Yorker. He cashed in a claim that grossed more money than any of his family or friends made in an entire year. The accident, he claimed, occurred on April 6, 1994. Dhillon was listed on the claim as 100 per cent at fault. He received $96,706 in eight claims from the accident:

Nearly a hundred thousand dollars. He never got that much again. Five months later he filed a $13,170 claim for a September 9, 1994, accident involving the Ford Aerostar van he reported stolen and which was damaged when found. The year Parvesh died, 1995, there were no claims filed. He was in India for several months. On May 10, 1996, came another claim on the van, for $5,951 for collision and property damage, and $1,274 for property damage to a third party. Three weeks later came the final claim, on May 31, 1996, a $579 claim after Dhillon reported a 1992 Ford Tempo stolen.

In an eight-year span, Dhillon was paid $145,389 in insurance money on 15 claims involving seven vehicles, an average of $18,000 a year. The jealous ones could say all they want, but Sukhwinder Dhillon was right—there was an easier way to make money. He might be an uneducated man, but even he was smart enough to see that.

“
Heblah-heblah-heblah-heblah
—Five-seven—five-seven—five-seven? Hey! Do I hear six? Six-six-six! Six? Sold! For five-seven! Hey! It’s your car, Bob!” The next one was ready. The Impala. Words and numbers rolled together as they rattled off the auctioneer’s tongue. “
Heblah-heblah-heblah-heblah
…”

An assistant knocked his elbow on the window. That was the signal. The Impala inched ahead on the oil-stained, concrete floor toward the yawning doorway and the pale light of the overcast morning. The auctioneer’s voice pounding, the floor man’s eyes met those of the East Indian man as if to say, “Well? Are you in?” Sukhwinder Dhillon nodded, and the floor man placed one foot on the back bumper, grabbed the back window frame, dragged his other foot on the floor, holding the moving car in place like Superman.

It was October 1994. Dhillon had fallen in love with the used-car business, buying autos on his own, selling to friends, buying more on credit, selling to try to catch up. In 1994 he had incorporated his own used-car dealership, naming it Aman Auto after his youngest daughter. He could fit eight cars in his driveway and up the side of the house on Berkindale Drive. That was the beauty of a corner lot, he said. He dreamed of running his own dealership on a private lot, having an office. For now, he wheeled-and-dealed right out of his home. As a registered dealer, he qualified to attend the auctions. They were like a drug for him. Used cars are worth whatever you can get for them. A game of chance. Dhillon loved it.

Early in the morning he picked up his young protégé, Ranjit Khela, for the 45-minute drive in his Ford Aerostar van with his yellow seller’s licence plate to an auction in Kitchener. Whenever Dhillon arrived at an auction he greeted the young women behind the counter. They thought he was odd. Sometimes he wore those shoes, pointy white shoes, you know, like the ones you see in the Walt Disney
Aladdin
movies. Dhillon colored his hair using black shoe polish, one woman was certain. She had seen him do it out in the parking lot, actually wiping shoe polish on his graying head. And it was comical how he talked about his cars, rambling in his rapid-fire, nasal-toned English slang. “Great deal. Loaded. Loaded!” Car talk was some of the first English Dhillon learned.

The used car auction system would eventually change, become regulated by processes and procedures through The Insurance Bureau, government regulations, and agencies. Today it’s a tight ship. But back in 1994 the game was different. When a car rolled through on the block, there were no computer printouts documenting the vehicle’s history. Instead, the seller would merely tell the auctioneer a car’s history: “Bit of frame damage years ago. All fixed. Good shape.” You could get away with it.

Between 300 and 400 dealers attended each week. The big dealers were there, even agents representing sellers in the United States. There were mid-size dealers with long histories and loyal clients. And there were new upstarts nobody had heard of, small operators trying to get ahead in a game where, like in Las Vegas,
you never really stayed ahead. Inside the auction garage, Dhillon could see it, feel it. The anticipation. The tension. This was what it was all about.

“Hey, everybody!” boomed the auctioneer over the loudspeaker. “It’s auction time! We have an unbelievable selection of vehicles today!” The smell in the garage was a medley of exhaust, cigaret smoke, and cologne. From the huge lot in the back, auction staff drove the cars to the doors, sprayed them down with power hoses on the way. There it was in the program: Chevrolet Impala. Sedan. Blue. 234,676 km. fm/at/ht/ac. (stereo, automatic, hard top, air conditioning). Starting price, $7,555. Buy? How high should he go? There was little time to waste. Mileage, the condition of the car. The mileage was not good. Tough to sell with that kind of wear. Something would need to be done about it. No problem. A quick job. Anyone can do it. Disconnect the odometer cable from the transmission. Take a doctored odometer from the junkyard. Clip it to the cable. The guy says he can take out the old one and put in the new one in a half-hour. Easy.

“Sold! The car is yours, Sukhwinder!”

The stars of the show were the auctioneers, great mouths perched high on platforms. It was theater. A car inches into place, a floor worker behind the wheel. Black Pontiac Grand Am. Dealers mingle, the bidding begins. Two minutes to complete the deal. Haggling? Test driving? No. Two minutes. Start the bidding. “Wake up!” bellows the mouth. “I have a car to sell! “
Heblah-heblah-heblah-heblah”
—Three! Three-one, three-four, do I have three-four? FOUR!” A floor man dances across the lane, claps, eyes partners in the crowd and grabs hold of cars as they pass through. You? Are you in?

“Four-one,” rolls the mouth. “Four-two, four-five! FIVE! Five-five-five-five-five! Five-seven? Do I hear SIX! Six? Six-six-six-six-six? SIX! Six-two? Six-two. Six-four-four-four-four. Three? Three-three-three-three! Sold! For six thousand, two hundred to—Gary! It’s your car, Gary. And a good buy, too. And now here we go, boys: a Ford Ranger.” The noise, suffocating, intoxicating, revving engines, drone of the mouths melding into one voice over the loud speakers
. “Hebuh-hebuh-hebuh-sold!-hebuh-hebu-he
…
Hey!
Hebuh-aaar-hebuh … aaar
Hey!
Hebuh-hebuh-hebuh-sold!hebuh-hebu-hebuh
…” A hypnotic chant. Easy money. The cars rolled through like dice.

Late in 1994, Dhillon sensed success. He just needed more cars to get Aman Auto off the ground, to make a name. Parvesh earned steady money at the textile factory. He had money from the insurance scams. He declared making $38,500 from October 1994 to September 1995. But in September 1994, Dhillon started bouncing checks. The first one for $4,000. Then another. And another. Ten checks in all, over four months—in December, one bounced for $18,521. Later that same month he started talking to a real estate agent about buying a bigger house. And he was also planning to take a trip to India. By January 1995, Dhillon had personally run up the credit line he shared with Parvesh close to its $20,000 maximum.