Your Friendly Neighborhood Criminal (4 page)

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Authors: Michael van Rooy

BOOK: Your Friendly Neighborhood Criminal
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T
he three men around the table looked vaguely at each other before talking. The guy nearest to me on my right was in his fifties, a very deeply tanned white man wearing khaki pants and a safari jacket that had seen better days. Although old, his clothes were ironed and showed signs of careful stitching and repair, repairs that in places crossed old blood and oil stains. His hair was some indeterminate colour between brown and nothing and his eyes were a light brown framed by many smile wrinkles. When he opened his mouth I could see that his teeth were immaculately white and even, and I wondered if they were fake. He held out his hand and I took it.
“I am Don Morris, and I own a farm northwest of here. I’ve fished and hunted the Aulneau peninsula since I was a kid.” He spoke very quietly with a slight accent I didn’t recognize.
The man beside him, younger, in his twenties, was aboriginal with lustrous black hair and dark skin. I couldn’t see his pants but he was wearing a jean jacket with the sleeves ripped off over a black T-shirt. Above the neckline of his shirt I could
see a tattoo of parallel tears in the skin with some kind of monstrous claw coming through. On his other arm an Apple iPod was attached with an elastic band and from it a thin cord led from the port to his breast pocket. He sat in his chair backwards and turned slightly away from me, which gave his right hand free access to his waist and hips. His left hand held a battered and chipped enamel mug full of whitish coffee. His eyes focused on my face and revealed nothing.
He looked vaguely familiar.
“I’m Greg Whitefox. I live on the rez south of here.” He was much louder than Don and his voice had a cigarette-and-whiskey harshness to it that was also familiar.
The third man was also native, somewhere between thirty and eighty, with face and hands that had been seared by wind and sun. His hair was long and grey and gathered in a ponytail, which was then gathered in a club and held with a pair of pink-and-sparkle scrunchies. His eyes were dark brown and very calm and I glanced down at his hands to find them crisscrossed with thin white scars and twisted. I’d seen hands like that before down in Florida and they’d belonged to old time net commercial fishermen who’d gotten the scars handling nets in surging waters. He wore blue jeans studded with copper rivets, rubber boots, and a thick black sweater with leather elbow patches on his thin body, and his voice was the softest of all. “I’m Al and I’m a fisherman.”
I shook hands all around and drank some coffee (which was toxically strong) before starting, “So, Don, why are you involved with Marie?”
He shrugged. “God’s will. Enough people have suffered all across this poor planet; here there is space for them all. Let them come.”
“Even if it’s against the law?”
He drew heavily on a filterless hand-rolled cigarette until it turned mostly to ash and then crushed it on a piece of rock on the table before dropping it in an empty can of Maxwell’s coffee. “Fuck the law. God’s law is to do good and it was first.”
I turned to Greg, “And you?”
His left side went up an inch. “Money. Marie there promises me a hundred a head to take them across. I can use that.”
Al spoke up then, “And I’m here because I like Marie.”
I looked at her and to my surprise she blushed and he went on straight-faced, “And if I help her maybe she’ll marry me and we can stop living this life of sin.”
Everyone laughed and Marie said dryly, “In your dreams.”
Al just nodded and everyone laughed again. I waited until they stopped and asked them their smuggling plans. Don had a series of aerial photographs which he dealt out on the table. As he did so the area started to take shape. When all nine pictures were out he took out a box of Redbird wooden matches and shook them into his hand.
“We’re here …” A match went down and he went on, “And the delivery point …”
Marie interrupted him, “Seamus doesn’t need to know more than where it is, Don.”
Don nodded and moved his fingers before putting another match down. “Is about here.”
More matches followed, a line to show the border and more to show the locations of towns and cabins. When he was done he stood back and looked at Al and Greg. “What am I forgetting?”
Al shook his head and Greg spoke up, “Nothing.”
“What’s your plan?”
Greg answered, “We load the Lunds; they each can carry about 600 kilos. Then we wait until there’s no moon, use
paddles to move us out onto the water, then buzz across, shut the engines down and land using the paddles again and zip back. We can use a GPS unit to make a perfect landing every time. It’ll be simple and take maybe six hours; the round trip will be about eighty-four klicks.”
I stood up. “Can I think about all this?”
Everyone looked at Al and he shrugged, “Sure.”
Don and Greg pulled out a deck of cards and started to play something while Al went to start a fresh pot of coffee. Marie came with me outside and I walked over to the canoes. She waited a few minutes and then spoke up, “Why did you ask why they were involved?”
“I wanted to know. Cops worry about who and what. Good journalists are concerned with who, what, where, when, and why. Bad guys just care about why. ‘Why’ opens everything up.”
“How do you mean?”
I stood there with my back to the cabin. “I’ll give you an example. Back in the thirties Dillinger was betrayed by a woman in a red dress who was being pressured by the cops with threats of extradition to some country she didn’t want to see again. Dillinger had paid her to provide a hideout and thought that was that; he didn’t understand her real motive; he didn’t understand her personal ‘why.’ If he had he could have dealt with the problem. So I like to know why people are doing what they do.”
“What about me? What’s my motivation?”
I looked at Marie and chose my words. “You’re a fanatic. A do-gooder and a fanatic. You’re scary.”
“Scary?”
“Scary. You’re capable of lots of things most people won’t even think about. Most fanatics are like that.”
“I see.” She thought about it and then said confidently, “I prefer to think of myself as an altruist. Well? What about the plan?”
“It won’t work. It’ll work once or twice, sure, but not more than that.”
“Why won’t it work long-term? That’s what we want.”
The canoes were in good shape, especially the birchbark ones; someone had put those together with love and skill. As I ran my fingers down the gunwale I answered, “Anyone travelling at night without lights on a lake is going to stick out like a whore in an Anglican church. Noise travels five-six times as far over water as compared to land so everyone around will hear the engines; trust me, those suckers are loud. Also, if anyone has radar the boats are going to show up clear as day, slab-sided aluminum reflects radar like you wouldn’t believe. Also the boats will leave a great big wake if anyone is taking pictures from above, like from a surveillance drone, a military helicopter, or a satellite. And a GPS signal can be backtracked easily if you have the technology, and guess who owns the tech? It’s owned by the US military who own the satellites. And here you are crossing their border.”
She swore and I answered, “Yeah. Who came up with the plan? It’s kind of half-assed smart.”
“Greg.”
I scratched (carefully) around the edge of my fake scar and walked down to the dock to look at the two boats. Stencilled prominently on the side of both of them was “Lund 1660 Classic Tiller.” The one on the right was pointed towards shore; the other was pointed towards the lake.
“Greg what?”
She seemed confused by my questions. “Greg Whitefox.”
The boat on the right was full of a strange mixture of
things: bulging plastic bags, neatly tied sleeping bags (one in pink with a Barbie theme), a small-frame mountain bike, and about thirty fishing rods of various types, all of it jumbled together. I walked on and saw a scratched and dented butt stock of a rifle sticking out of a blanket on the right side of the boat near where the driver’s leg would have been. For the moment I ignored it and kept walking. In the bow was a tiny rectangle where the serial number of the boat should have been, but there was nothing, it had been torn free and shards of brass still showed around the tiny bolts in the aluminum.
“Is this Greg’s boat?”
“Yes.”
I looked over the other boat and found it full of nylon dip and seine nets, neatly rolled and clean and ready for use. In the middle of the boat were two hand-made wooden tubs full of water and covered with hinged tops for minnows. All the normal stuff a man who fished for bait would carry.
“And this is Al’s boat?”
“Yes. Don came with him.”
“Is Greg at the window? I want to look around.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw her shift around and look. “No.”
With a long reach I managed to grab the rifle from Greg’s boat; it was a Ruger 10/22, a classic semi-auto rifle. The safety was not on so I clicked it into place before I pulled the rotary magazine out and emptied the small solid-headed rounds into my pocket. Then I worked the bolt and found an eleventh round which I also confiscated. With the gun completely safe I replaced it in the boat where it had been.
I had noticed a few other things. The serial number, which should have been on the side of the gun, had been filed off. There was rust where the bluing had been ground off and a
few more spots showed up on the barrel as well. Marie waited until the rifle was back and then said, “What are you doing? It’s just a gun; Don says lots of folks around here carry guns.”
I grunted at Marie, “Well, it’s a twenty-two rifle, a real light calibre, some people think it’s a toy. But the serial numbers are burned off, which is majorly wrong, a felony I think, and I don’t knock twenty-twos. More people are killed with twenty-two-calibre rounds than any others, and the Ruger there is a really good rifle; the Israelis use a silenced version of it to shoot Palestinian legs during riots.”
I unhooked the gas line from the engine to the tank; five quick pumps pushed all the fuel into the big Yamaha outboard. I reattached the line, leaving a huge air bubble in place, and grinned up at Marie. “They also use that kind of rifle to shoot guard dogs during covert operations. Then it’s called a hush-puppy or a dog-be-cool.”
“Yes, but …”
“You can kill a moose with a twenty-two, or a man. Just aim for the eye or the ear, it’s not hard; the rifle is really accurate out to about fifty metres. A solid bullet like one of these goes in and doesn’t have enough velocity to penetrate the skull on the other side, so it bounces around for awhile and turns the brain into hamburger. A hit that penetrates the ribs does the same thing to the heart and lungs.” She was silent and I went on, “And the stuff in his boat makes me think Greg’s been burglarizing cabins around here now that the tourist season is winding down.”
She was stony-faced. “So.”
“So indeed.”
We walked back up to the cabin. Just outside the main door I pulled out the two rolls of quarters from my pocket and fitted them into my closed hands.
I
nside Greg and Don were still playing cards and Al was watching and drinking more coffee. The smoke in the room, the old and the new, made me gag a little but I covered it up. When Marie was inside and off to the side a little I said, “Hey, Greg!”
Greg looked up with his mouth half open and said absently, “Yeah?”
“How long have you been robbing cabins around here?”
“I’m not!” He sounded offended and Al and Don looked at him curiously.
“Sure you are. I just took a look at all the shit in your boat.”
He shrugged and pushed back a little from the table. “What do you care? I need the money.”
I looked him over and spoke slowly, less for him than for Al and Don and Marie. “You’re robbing cabins and selling the stuff. The Ontario Provincial Police will become involved if you’re stealing on their side of the border and the RCMP will
become involved if you’re stealing on the Manitoba side of the border.”
“Fuck them.”
“Fuck them yourself. And how will you be getting rid of the stuff? Through pawnshops? They keep records, by law they have to keep records of who sells what.”
Greg sneered, “No, I’m not stupid.” He looked uncomfortable but sounded belligerent. “Maybe. What the fuck do you care anyway?”
“I care because I am a pro. E-Bay keeps records and can be searched in half a second. Fences always have real tight relationships with the cops; it’s the only way they ever stay in business.”
“Fuck you!”
The quarters in my hands were getting heavy and the conversation was going nowhere good. I looked directly at Marie. “But the most important reason of all why I care is that you’re ripping off cabins and that will attract attention.”
He started to say something but I just talked right over his words. “It attracts attention from cabin owners. It attracts attention from any locals who might see you. It attracts attention from cops. And, when you sell the stuff, it attracts attention from them.”
“Fuck you, I’ll do what…”
“Shut up, Greg, or I will hurt you. Last warning.” I was calm but he wasn’t backing down and I needed to be in charge if this was going to go right.
Greg’s mouth opened again and I didn’t want to hear his excuses anymore. Any restraint I might have had had vanished when I considered the filed-down serial numbers on the rifle. That one single fact meant he was a bad guy or a wannabe bad guy, and in both cases he was stupid. I wound up
my right arm and threw the roll of quarters at his torso, the biggest target.
I used to pitch baseball in prison. Playing baseball was a good way to burn off stress (you are allowed to hit something), acquire an emergency weapon (the bat), and smuggle drugs (thrown over fences during games and retrieved by the outfielders). In Drumheller they had a laser speed tracker and my best throw was clocked at twenty-five metres per second, which is not bad. A baseball weighs 190 grams and a roll of quarters weighs around 230 grams, so they’re close in weight at least. And the throw I made at Greg was pretty good. Power from the belly and hips, first with my elbow and wrist all loose and snapping. To my surprise I actually hit roughly where I was aiming at, which was Greg’s upper stomach. I suppose it was the equivalent of getting hit with a pool cue at full swing. Something like that, anyway, because Greg said “OOOF” loudly at the same time as he farted.
“I’m tired of you interrupting me, asshole,” I went on as though nothing had happened.
He leaned on the table gasping and Al said something that sounded like “stop,” which I ignored. “You’re doing penny-ante shit that might net you a year in the provincial jail and attracting attention to crimes that will net EVERYONE at this table ten to twenty years in a federal slam with a fair chance of doing time in an American pen. All that for a couple of hundred bucks.”
There was silence and I said coldly, “Which means you are truly stupid and I do not work with stupid people.”
Greg caught his breath and pushed himself away from the table and pulled a small framed pistol from the front of his pants at the same time.
I admit I was surprised. I was even shocked and amazed.
I was also moving, because in a fight you always keep moving. I was diving across the table with my right hand scrabbling for his gun and my left driving directly towards his face. The impact drove Greg back into the wall and a cascade of small, dead animals rained down upon us as his gun hand wriggled free. Before he could aim, my left fist hit him squarely in the top of his head, and the
bonk
noise would have been funny in any other circumstances.
The roll of coins in my hand split open and clattered to the ground, adding a note of psychotic merriment to the fight.
Behind us Al and Don were yelling while Marie was trying to take cover, but everyone shut up when the gun went off with a pathetic-sounding pop and a tiny jet of fire. Where the bullet went I have no idea, but everyone except for Greg stopped moving. Then he dropped the gun and shrugged me off to dive over the table. His landing was awkward but he was immediately on his feet and tearing through the screened-porch door. And then he was outside.
I followed and behind me by a few seconds were Don and Al and Marie.
At the base of the dock I slowed down, looked back, and saw that Al had an iron-headed hatchet with a long handle in his left hand and Don had a fifteen centimetre skinning knife with a blade about a centimetre wide in his right. They both stared at me and then past me to where Greg had reached his boat and was scrambling for something near the stern.
Before we could do anything Greg turned and we could all see the rifle in his hands. When he spoke his voice was hoarse, “You dumb fucks!”
No one moved.
“You guys think you are all so smart.”
He gestured a little with the gun, there were maybe ten metres between us.
“This is what’s going to happen: I’m in charge of your little charity now. You can still carry over the niggers and the Chinks but you’ll be carrying my shit on the way back.”
Marie’s voice was cold and controlled. “Like what?”
“Like whatever the fuck I want.”
I spoke up, “Like crack and guns. That about right?”
“You’re so fucking smart …”
He had taken a couple of steps forward on the dock and was holding the rifle at waist level, pointed in our general direction, as he repeated himself.
“Here’s what’s going to happen; I’m going to get in my boat and take off. Don’t follow me. Tomorrow or the next day, Marie, you’ll get a call telling you what happens next. Got it?”
Greg’s eyes narrowed and I turned to Marie. “Heard enough?”
She nodded and I started to walk towards the gun which came up and went “click.” Before the trigger was pulled again something flew by my ear and suddenly Greg had the iron hatchet buried deep in his right thigh.
His screaming went on and on and I turned to see Al recovering from the effort.
“Good throw.”
He shrugged, “Thanks.”
“His gun was empty.”
Al shrugged again, “Didn’t know that.” His face was pensive. “Don’t care.”
“Yeah. Me either.”
Don moved past us and behind him I saw that Marie’s face was very pale indeed. He lumbered down the dock and asked in a conversational tone, “Shall I kill him?”
He sounded serious and I thought about the Christians during the Crusades and the words of the Papal Legate, the Abbot of Citeaux in 1209 during the taking of the city of Béziers: “Kill them all. God will know His own.”
Fanatics, they were all fanatics.
 
It took two hours to straighten everything out. Two hours to shut Greg up, two hours to rock the hatchet out of his leg and to stop the bleeding.
And then it took another hour to carefully explain to Greg that he was being given a free pass. He would be dropped off in Kenora by Marie with $200 and an invitation to travel far, far away before finding a doctor to look at his injury.
It was an invitation I thought he would take.
While I was doing it I wondered about just killing the little shit but I knew that would freak them out—no matter how hard core they pretended to be, the truth was that they weren’t. That meant that killing Greg was not an option.
Although it was the logical thing to do.
When everyone was off working I went to the kitchen, borrowed a tarnished stainless steel tablespoon that had seen better days, and approached Greg again. He was sitting on a cheap folding chair, holding his belt wound tightly around his thigh to control the bleeding. I knelt in front of him and looked at his pain-filled eyes that brimmed with tears and asked, “Who’d you tell?’
“What ’cha mean?”
His voice was rushed and sharp but I answered calmly, “Who did you tell about the smuggling plan? You told somebody, probably more than one person, who was it?”
“I didn’t.” He lowered his voice when he said it and narrowed his eyes.
“Do you know what I’m going to do with this?” I showed him the tablespoon.
“No.” His throat convulsed and he repeated himself.
“Last chance, who did you tell?”
He started to speak and I put a finger on his lip and kept the spoon visible. “If you tell me you didn’t tell anyone, I know you’re lying, and I will take your eye out with this spoon.”
Greg’s face became green and pale and I went on, “I will slip it into your left eye under the eyeball and scoop it out.”
He swallowed convulsively and couldn’t stop looking at the stained utensil in my right hand. I leaned forward and told him lovingly, “The last thing you will see is the bowl of the spoon coming towards your eye and then it will be gone. Then your right eye will be able to see the left one, up close. If I do it right you’ll still be able to see through the eye even after I’ve taken it out, won’t that be interesting?”
Greg tried to slip away from me and I grabbed his injured leg with my left hand and squeezed.
He vomited off to the side and wiped his mouth. Then he spoke quickly and I ignored the sour smell of his breath. “I told a girl I know, Samantha, she deals meth and crack in the city. She told me she’s always looking for new routes for her stuff.”
I nodded and bounced the spoon on his knee. “You told no one else?”
“No.”
He hesitated and I used the spoon to hit the hole in his leg, “Don’t think about it, just answer.”
“Fuck! I only told her, she’s pretty tough. A guy ripped off one of her dealers and she fucked him up; shot him in the stomach with a load of twenty-gauge bird-shot. It took two surgeons eleven hours to pull 400 lead pellets out of his crotch
and belly.” He swallowed loudly. “I just told her and she gave me two rocks on account.”
“On account of what?”
“On account of me being stand up.”
He was proud and there was no answer to that so I took the spoon back to the kitchen and left it in the drawer.
 
Marie drove Greg away with Don sitting on the rear seat and resting his feet on his prone body. While they were doing that it took Al and me a full hour to clean up any trace that Greg had ever been at the camp, wiping down the surfaces he might have touched and packing his boat. We used about 120 metres of twine, rope, and baling wire along with an old net of Al’s to anchor everything in place.
“Where’re you going to dump it all?”
Al thought about it and answered, “I know a seventy-metre-deep fishing hole out in the lake where the boat will go easy. I’ll do it tonight.”
“Don’t.”
Al looked at me while he tied the ropes down. “Why?”
“The boat will show up on depth finders and if people are looking for a fishing hole they’ll have the depth finders going.”
“So?”
“Dump it someplace where no one runs a depth finder. Someplace shallow with no fish.”
“Ah.”
Al talked about islands and channels and ice dams for a few minutes, musing out loud, and then he looked up. “Trust me.”
I did.
When no one was around I looked over the wallet I had
taken from Greg. In it he had some ID along with $420 in cash; he also had four small scraps of paper with five phone numbers, two cell and the rest land lines, judging from the first three numbers. He also had a single-edged razor blade in a “secret” compartment that was really obvious.
While I was standing there Al brought me the gun Greg had pulled in the cabin and I looked it over gingerly. It was a real zip gun, a plastic starter pistol modified with duct tape and a file to fire one .22 short round. I added it to the boat load and waited for Marie to come back so she could give me a lift home.
In the Tacoma I told her, “This’ll cost you more.”
“So you’re in?”

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