“How do you know this guy?”
“We was just talking and he said that he had all this dope. I mean so fucking much of it he couldn’t even manage to sell it off, you know? So I told him to tell the other Bloods that I had my boy who had opened his bar not that long ago, you know? I got your back, man. I got your back, you know? That’s all me, baby.”
God! I thought. He was in deeper than I had hoped. That painted me into a corner. If I didn’t take care of him, then I could appear to be compliant in his lunacy. And if the Bloods, and whoever was behind the Bloods, seemed hell-bent on taking a piece of Hochelaga, then they would come after me if they really wanted the territory. Julien or not, they would do it if they wanted to.
But that territory belonged to the Hells until proven otherwise, so my only option was to bring this imbecile to them so they could deal with him. They could beat him, run down his wigger friend, run down their supplier. They could do whatever they wanted to him; I didn’t care. All I wanted was to brew good beer.
“Get in the car,” I told him.
“What for?”
“You wanna sell? You got to talk to the boss.”
“I thought you were the boss.”
I looked at him. “We all work for somebody.”
“Right. Let me just bring her back to my place,” he said, talking about his guitar. “It’ll only take a minute, man.”
“Put her in the trunk,” I replied as I walked back to my car. He didn’t move. “In the trunk, Julien. And quit fucking around.”
I didn’t like Rivière-des-Prairies, and not only because the borough had a bad reputation — I was from Hochelaga after all. No. I didn’t like RDP because I didn’t know RDP. I didn’t know whose house not to piss on when I walked home drunk at night. I didn’t know whose wife not to fuck or whose daughter not to stare at. I didn’t know whose car not to scratch or who to vote for in order to keep the ball rolling.
That’s what made it dangerous for me.
As dangerous as Hochelaga was back in the day, I knew how to deal with the danger, and that counted for a lot. I didn’t know anything about RDP except that some of Montreal’s most powerful criminals had homes there, as well as some of the city’s highest-ranking officials. This combination could explain a lot about the corruption in Montreal.
We took 25 north, headed toward an address on Perras Boulevard. I only knew the name because it was the last exit before the toll bridge into Laval.
Julien tried to play it cool, leaning his arm against the open window. He had old, dirty jeans on, and some Sons of Anarchy — type T-shirt. Such a goddamned fool, I thought. He looked so bad I felt like it might have been a mistake to bring him. Was I really bringing such a poor offering in order to appease the gods of crime? I didn’t know, but I couldn’t exactly back down now, could I?
I put my shades on and lit up another smoke because I didn’t want to make conversation. I was about to sell out the biggest idiot in Hochelaga. What the fuck do you say to that?
We found the small bakery in a dilapidated shopping center. There was a dry cleaner, a day care, and, at the edge of the parking lot, an old Italian bakery.
We were welcomed by a bouncer dressed in all black: black boots, black pants, black jacket, black-framed sunglasses, and black-ink hand tattoos. He didn’t pat us down. He didn’t need to.
A middle-aged Italian man wearing a white shirt with an unbuttoned collar and tan pinstriped pants sat at table, having a brisket with his coffee. “Welcome,” he said warmly.
Julien sat down at his table. He leaned forward, arms resting against his knees, head bobbling for no apparent reason.
“Would you like something to eat before we begin?” the Italian asked. “You won’t find anything like this in Hochelaga.”
“Maybe in Mile End?” I responded, which was risky.
“All right, maybe in Mile End.” He smiled.
I returned the smile. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”
“Can I offer you an espresso, perhaps?”
“Latte, if possible.”
“Good.” The man turned to an old woman at the counter; she nodded and walked toward the espresso machine. The sound of steam running out of a nozzle filled the small shop. I looked around the well-kept store: there were pastries, vanilla cakes, Lavazza coffee bags, and the obligatory Montreal bagel.
“Anything for your friend?”
I looked at Julien. Goddamn, did he look stupid. I turned back to the Italian. “He’s all set.”
“Sit down, sit down,” he said to me.
As I settled into the wood-backed chair, the old lady handed me my coffee, smiling as she departed. It was the most honest smile I had ever seen. Something in the way she moved, the way she rested the cup slowly on the table, her old hands still soft from years of care and patience, moved me. If she was this Italian man’s mother, then the apple fell far from the tree.
“I assume you are aware of the circumstances leading to our meeting today,” he said. “Let’s have it then.”
I took a sip of the latte. I enjoyed it for a short moment, but then it was time to get down to business. I pulled an envelope out of my jacket. “You will find eight hundred dollars in here as a gesture of good faith, to cover expenses pertaining to your men’s time, as well as yours, of course.”
He nodded in approval. Eight hundred was a good number. Less than that would have meant we were either broke and expendable or that we didn’t know how things ran properly in the city. Any more than that meant we couldn’t hold our ground and, therefore, why would they even care about us? Right?
He waved toward his bouncer, who approached and accepted the envelope.
“Now,” I said, “as you know, it has come to our attention that certain, shall we say, rival organizations, have taken steps to trade illicit products within our neutral establishment.”
“I am aware, yes.”
“And I want to assure you that my brother and I have had no involvement whatsoever in these arrangements The person next to me, Julien, had, in fact, single-handedly decided to contact these criminal circles so that they could provide drugs to sell in our establishment.”
The Italian man listened in silence. He looked pleased. He glanced at Julien and said, “You have the necessary contacts to initiate such a trade?”
Julien beamed, as if he’d been handed the keys to the fucking city. “Yeah, man! I mean, my man here didn’t even need to ask, yo! I’m holding him down, man. I’m holding him down, you know? I got shit covered. My main man’s a Blood, I mean. And he said he could provide anything we needed. Weed, coke, E — just ask and I’ll call him and shit’s done.”
“This friend of yours,” the Italian said to Julien, “what’s his name?”
“Turcotte. Pete Turcotte.”
The Italian looked at his bouncer.
“Rings a bell, vaguely,” the bouncer said. “I’m guessing he’s from Saint-Vincent-de-Paul.”
“That’s it. That’s him. Saint-Vincent-de-Paul in Laval.”
The bouncer continued: “Probably pushing a little weed to his welfare friends, nothing more, but it rings a bell.”
“I see. This complicates things,” the Italian said, sipping his coffee. We peered at each other. “And you know this man?” He nodded toward Julien.
“I’m afraid we grew up on the same street. Our relationship is merely due to geographic proximity, and has nothing to do with the actual business or friendship.”
“Hey!” Julien said. “What the fuck’s up with you all of a sudden?”
The idea that he was the scapegoat for this whole thing might have just started to sprout in his dumb fucking head. I could have asked for the Italian’s lenience. I could have mentioned how stupid he really was. Hell, I could have gotten the guitar out of my trunk as proof. But Julien had fucked with my livelihood, and that required retribution.