Albertson walks in Louis’s direction. Why are judges such big shots? he wonders.
Louis sees him and smiles. Albertson stops. He has to confront the man. The breeze shifts, the smoke from the grills swirling around him, and he finally realizes that this festival is serving horse meat.
The people are here to eat horses.
Albertson thinks: So what? You can find horse meat all over this city. You can find the stuff in the grocery store. On menus in not-particularly-ambitious restaurants. People eat horses here. People eat everything here because people like to eat. There are no foie gras protests in Montreal.
“It’s quite something,” Louis says, surveying the park with a father’s pride.
“Those horses I saw...” Albertson says.
“You did not see horses.”
“Let’s not play that game anymore.”
“You saw a run for freedom, perhaps.” Louis is still smiling. He’s won.
Albertson doesn’t know what Louis thinks he’s won, but the smile is the smile of a winner. Albertson feels hands on each of his arms, and he is slowly being led away. Two very large men in black T-shirts and dark sunglasses lead him behind the grandstand. “What is going on?” he asks.
Louis, who has followed them, stops smiling and sighs. “My wife visited you?”
Albertson sees Bertrand. He is walking toward them, a glass of red wine in hand. He puts the wine down and extends his hand. Albertson shakes it. “Your wife visited me, yes. But you knew that.”
Frank Sinatra plays over the loudspeakers, “My Way.” Albertson wants to laugh. At this touch. “No media,” he says. “Nothing. How are all these people here with no publicity?”
“Look at all the television cameras,” Louis says.
“Why didn’t the television networks cover the horses, then?”
“The horses you didn’t see?”
“I have proof I saw them.”
“And how is it that no one else saw these horses? How is it that no one in your entire neighborhood saw these galloping horses that you claim to have seen, Mr. Albertson?”
Albertson doesn’t know. He can’t even pretend to know. “My question is why you’ve gone through all this trouble.”
“Did you read the papers this morning?” Louis asks. He knows Albertson hasn’t. He’s asking rhetorical questions to prove he’s in charge.
Bertrand takes a page from that morning’s La Presse from his back pocket and unfolds it. Right there on the front, the headline reads: “The Police Cavalry Has Gone Missing.”
“We had a problem with a supplier,” Louis says. Bertrand refolds the page and puts it back in his pocket. “Not a major problem, but enough of one. And one of our sponsors said he could fix it. He had storage space too. One of his projects.”
Albertson wants to go back to sleep. “Your wife has a shit-covered shoe as well.”
“I never liked those shoes,” Louis says.
Bertrand cracks his knuckles. Albertson does his best not to flinch.
“I have discussed your situation with many people, obviously.” Louis’s tone has changed. Now it’s business. Now Albertson thinks that perhaps he will die. Right here. Surrounded by well-dressed families eating horse burgers, steaks, and sausages. “We have made some decisions.”
Albertson knows he can’t run.
“We have wondered how best to purchase your silence.”
“Who would believe me?”
“This is true. But still. We are fair people. I am, after all, a judge of the Superior Court.”
Albertson waits for laughter.
“You have been the manager of that store for... how long?”
“Almost ten years,” Albertson says.
“You know shoes. Ladies’ shoes. My wife is very fond of you, of your expertise.”
Albertson wonders what has happened to Mrs. Sen, or if she has always been off. He can’t recall now.
“We don’t want trouble.”
Albertson expects to die any second now.
“You will get your own store,” Louis says. “A boutique. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Montreal doesn’t need another store selling ladies’ shoes,” Albertson says.
“We have picked out a spot. It’s very well located. Near all the new construction in Griffintown. Or, if you would prefer, there is a spot on Laurier, on the Outremont side. But that’s a tricky street, and it’s not so good for your customers.”
“I don’t even have a store.”
“No, but you already have clientele.”
Albertson understands. It has all been fixed. Not only is he going to live, he’s going to own a business. It’s going to be patronized by some wealthy women. Louis has secured everyone’s freedom. Except Albertson does not feel free.
“All the paperwork is done and awaiting the relevant signatures. All the legalities and financials. All the construction permits.”
Albertson feels like he’s about to shit his pants.
“You will combine your contacts, your skills, with certain contacts that my people bring to the table. It will be a massive success. The media will be tremendous. We will make sure of it.”
Albertson just wants to faint. He wants to be tough and he wants to yell for help. To scream. “All that for horse sausages?” he asks.
Louis smiles again. Bertrand steps forward and punches Albertson in the face for the final time. Or maybe not. One never knows in the shoe business.
Part II
Bloodlines
Driftwood
by Ian Truman
Hochelaga
“He started saying shit like he knew Bloods or something.”
I was in my brother’s kitchen. It was a Hochelaga kitchen, which meant the counters hadn’t been changed since they were built in the thirties; the old windows let cold air in throughout the winter, and the wood walls were about to crumble under the weight of chipped paint. I couldn’t even imagine how many people were dealt with, how many deals were brokered, and how many problems were fixed in a kitchen just like this one.
That’s why I was here: to fix things.
My brother and I were in trouble. Not that we were the ones who caused it, but growing up where we did, you often ended up with friends who dragged you down on their way to hell. There’s that saying, You don’t choose your family. Well, sometimes you didn’t choose your friends, either. Sometimes an idiot sticks with you whether you want him around or not. Julien was that kind of friend: too useless to make it and too stupid to get rid of.
“How the fuck does Julien know any Bloods?” I asked my brother.
“He doesn’t. At least not really. He said he knew a full-patch one, though.”
“Bloods don’t have patches.”
“That’s what I told him.”
“Well, even if Julien does have connection with the Bloods, why is that bad for us?” I asked.
“Because he ran his mouth off to the wrong people. He was bragging about how he knew us, how he could sell drugs out of our bar, and how he could use his Blood friend to provide him with the dope.”
“But why would the Hells forfeit their power in Hochelaga?”
“That’s the thing: they didn’t. I got a visit from the Hells today. They wanted to know what the fuck was going on and why they were hearing these rumors. They asked if I knew the guy yapping his mouth, and I had to say yes, because I do.”