When Jean-Paul had first announced them moving away from crime, he’d thought that he was joking. Then when he realized that he was serious, his first protest was that that would simply leave the whole pie to Cacchione: ‘How’s that going to pay him back for what he did to Pascal?’
Jean-Paul calmly explained, almost as if enlightening a naive child, that it was no longer a matter of pay-back or getting even, that would simply continue the cycle and Pascal’s death would have been for nothing; that if that was the cost, then Cacchione was welcome to ‘the pie.’ Jean-Paul had made a solemn promise to their father, and he wasn’t about to budge. That same condescending tone every time he tentatively raised the issue over the next twelve months, as if Jean-Paul’s new quest was based on moral principles beyond his grasp, and whenever that wasn’t enough Jean-Paul would raise Pascal or their father as final moralistic tombstones to end the argument.
No care or consideration or even a minute’s thought that he might not be happy with their new direction. That as muscle-man and enforcer, the guy who took care of all the messy details nobody else wanted to get their hands dirty with, what place was there for him in a set-up without crime? Head of Security? Made to sound important, but in reality he’d been relegated to checking the takings from their pussy clubs and restaurants, with the occasional excitement on the rare occasion someone got drunk or out of order. And meanwhile golden boy Georges was in the hot seat, the Lacaille family money spread like monopoly confetti on stocks and shares or marina and hotel developments across Mexico and Cuba: all eyes suddenly on him to secure their future fortunes.
And, like he’d warned, Cacchione did take ‘the pie’, fill the vacuum they’d left — until the run-in with Medeiros. It was then that Roman saw his big opportunity. Cacchione’s business died as quickly as it had expanded over the last eighteen months. Cacchione tried a couple of times to establish himself with other suppliers — but two middle-men at the bottom of the St Lawrence later, Medeiros’ message was clear: Cacchione was a no-go area, under no circumstance to be supplied. And with Jean-Paul out of crime, the vacuum was once again there.
Roman contacted Medeiros. His story was that he and Jean-Paul had split the business: Jean-Paul would continue solely with legitimate business and, now that their ‘cooling off’ period had achieved its aim of suitably diverting attention, Roman would quietly revive some of their past enterprises. With the accent on ‘quietly’: officially, they were still out of crime. Jean-Paul therefore wouldn’t at any time contact Medeiros or talk to him about that side of the business, all dealing would be with Roman. And for the same reason they demanded absolute discretion: no mention whatsoever on either side that Medeiros was supplying to them.
Medeiros agreed, but Roman knew that for the other part of the equation he’d need Gianni Cacchione’s co-operation: Cacchione wasn’t just going to sit back and let him freely take over his old territory and contacts, they’d have to work together.
Drugs distribution in Quebec and Eastern Canada was a strict hierarchy: the Colombians and Mexicans provided the raw shipments, the import and business arrangements were handled by the local Sicilian, Neapolitan or Union Corse Mafia, who then used the bikers for distribution. The Colombians wouldn’t deal with the bikers directly: they saw them as renegade and volatile, and at times indiscreet. That was why Medeiros had warmed to his approach, in particular the discretion.
Roman checked his watch as he crossed Avenue Jean Talon. He was driving faster than normal, one finger tapping repeatedly on the steering wheel; he was still wound tight like a coil from the session with Jean-Paul. Twenty minutes before his arranged call to Funicelli, but he wanted to squeeze in another call beforehand: he couldn’t go a second longer without getting an inside track on the current state of play at Dorchester Boulevard.
Discretion was also at the heart of his partnership with Gianni Cacchione, and the tight-rope nature of their duplicity seemed to appeal to Cacchione as much as him: Medeiros thought it was the Lacailles, Jean-Paul the Cacchiones; in reality they worked together and split the proceeds 50/50. And they used independents such as Leduc who previously worked for the Lacailles, or some of Cacchione’s old fold who’d also gone freelance since Medeiros shut them down. But apart from the strong insistence on discretion they passed down the line — ‘You don’t want to end up like the last two dealers that fell foul of Medeiros, do you?’ — these were mid-level soldiers with no possible contact with Medeiros and Jean-Pauclass="underline" their secret was safe.
Until the problem with Leduc and Jean-Paul’s suspicion. He’d spent hours briefing Leduc beforehand, getting him to painstakingly fill in details in a little black book. They made sure it gave nothing away, would just send Jean-Paul on a few wild-goose chases. ‘You don’t give the book up too easy though — that would look suspect. Wait until I interrupt and start pressing hard, then finally you pull it out of your ankle sock.’
Roman knew all along that he was going to blast Leduc as soon as he pulled it out. They might have put Jean-Paul off with a smokescreen for a few weeks, but he’d have kept pushing and eventually Leduc would have cracked. Roman was close to breaking out laughing by the third time Leduc wanted to run through the sequence and timing with the notebook, as if it was a dress rehearsal for his big moment. Bigger than he realized.
Then Tremblay, then Savard… now Donatiens. Maybe there should be a definition in mob handbooks. Felucci’s theorem: the size of the fuck-up minus the number of people involved, times the money and gain squared, shall determine how many finally need to be wasted.
His wry smile quickly faded. Fifteen months now he’d sweated that one problem with an iron fist and muscle and blood — how it used to be in the old days before Jean-Paul developed a conscience. And he was good at this double game. What he savoured most was that everyone thought he was so dumb, the bone-headed muscle-man, a Neanderthal ‘Moustache Pete’ symbol of the years they’d left behind; and meanwhile he was playing them all like a string quartet.
But now there was another player in town. One just as sharp at this double game as him — and from what had now happened with Donatiens — obviously equally as willing to bend the rules. Because if he or Cacchione weren’t behind the attempted hit on Donatiens, there was only one remaining option.
DS Crowley decided to give Gordon Waldren one last push. He called at the house without announcement, having already been told by his men keeping watch that Waldren was in: he wanted this to be eye to eye, to see Waldren’s reaction.
Crowley started by just asking straightforwardly if Gordon Waldren had had any contact with his wife or knew where she was. ‘No’ to each, and Crowley grimaced as if he’d bitten into sour fruit. He’d stayed standing, saying he wouldn’t be long, and started pacing as he turned the screw.
‘You know that when I saw you last time, I said that we’d have to put out a general alert on your wife and Lorena. Well, that was finally done.’ Crowley didn’t enlighten that he’d put it out practically the moment he’d left Waldren: at least the next part was the truth. ‘That was just a missing persons alert, not a criminal one. Then we’d pile on the pressure if we received a specific lead.’ Crowley didn’t feel like going into the fiasco in France either; he didn’t want to give Waldren the satisfaction of knowing that the false trail he’d led there had worked. ‘But we are now coming up to the point where we will have to put out that criminal alert, unless you co-operate.’
Gordon shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I see the difference. I thought an alert was an alert, and you’d have either put one out by now or not.’ Gordon hoped that his anxiety wasn’t obvious. He was meant to leave any minute, and his pad with notes was still by the phone along with a fax from the private investigator he’d put on Ryall. He made sure not to even glance that direction and possibly bring Crowley’s attention to them.