Darwin's Nightmare (14 page)

An hour later in a remote part of the city, I burned the car we took to the job with my uncle in it. Once the car had charred, I used the switch car to push it into a murky pond. It wasn't a proper burial, but it was much more than other members of the family had gotten. I drove home with the money, the book, and no idea what I was going to do.

I rose the next day and without thinking went to my uncle's coffee-shop office. The newspapers detailed the man-hunt for the ugly bouncer who was wanted for questioning about a murder at the Hollywood Strip as well on several outstanding warrants. There was no mention of other blood at the scene or a ballistics discrepancy. They must have been saving that as a way to identify the real killer.

On my third day in the shop, an older man joined me at my Pac-Man table, sitting down with a coffee and a
doughnut. I stared up at him from the newspaper and watched as he dunked his doughnut into the coffee. I glanced around the room and noticed that there were a bunch of empty tables, but this old guy had chosen mine.

“Help you, old man?” I asked.

Between bites of doughnut the man spoke. “I gotta tell you, kid, you are a hard one to find. That uncle of yours told me nothing of how the job was going to go down, and when he botched it like he did I thought he ran out on me. But I got wind of a partner he used, and a place they held meetings in. Lucky for me I know the owner so I just had to wait for you to pop up.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I'm the guy you owe something to,” the old man said in a cold voice. He went on without waiting for me to respond. “It's like ants. You know ants, kid? No? Well, ants bring everything back to the hill — it's their job. You found some tasty sugar and you're sitting on it. What're you trying to do, make your own hill?”

“I don't know you, ant man,” I said, confused.

“I set up the job you pulled. I gave you all of the details. Now it's time for you to give me my cut.”

“This is some grift. You figure me here alone means my partner is dead, so you try to move in. I don't know you, old man, and I'm not buying any of this. Who are you, anyway?”

He took another bite of the doughnut and looked hard at me. “I don't explain myself to anyone, ever, but you're young, kid, so I'll give you a heads-up. My name is Paolo Donati. The place you robbed was mine. I set it up.”

The name shocked me. On the street Paolo Donati was all kinds of trouble. He was primed to become boss over the whole city. A red flag went up in my head. Something was off.

“If you are who you say you are, then why use us? You got plenty of people who work for you, why not use them?”

He put the last bite of doughnut into his mouth and looked out the window. He licked his fingertips and then spoke as he probed his molars with his index finger. “Like I said, it's like ants, kid. Most anthills have more than one queen. You know that? More than one? Well, if the ants see one queen is not able to function they will feed the other. Eventually it will die while the other takes over.”

I didn't follow right away. It didn't matter because he continued, “That guy in the club was working for me, and it turned out he was trying to build his own anthill . . . without me.”

I got it almost immediately. “He was screwing you out of money and doctoring the books. You used us so no one in your anthill would find out someone was taking advantage. Using us kept you secure in your position.” I felt like an ass speaking about anthills, but the man across from me wasn't kidding.

“Yeah, kid, you got it. Now that we know who's who and what's what, let's get this straight. You owe me money and a book. I'm gonna tell you how much, and you're going to give me what I want. I'm going to pay you double for what you did because you killed that thief and framed that ugly bouncer. That worked out better for me than what your uncle planned.”

“How much?”

He told me, and I looked out the window, screaming inside my head.

“Don't worry, kid, there's more money. I got lots of money, that is, if you want to work for it.” That was the first time I went to work for Paolo. It would not be the last.
After Paolo had cut me loose for killing Tommy, I was left without a job again. I had spent so long living the way I had that there was little chance I could start over fresh. I only knew one kind of life, and that life gave me few options. I couldn't stay in the city — there would be no employment when word got out I was blacklisted, and solo jobs didn't have longevity. Working alone kept the jobs small and the risks high. No one retired from a career of working alone; coffins and cells are lined with cons who thought they could beat the system every time — by themselves. I needed to work my way into another network where I could find bigger jobs with other professionals. I knew of some names in Montreal, so I decided to scout out opportunities there.

I took a week and drove out to Montreal. I spent time in the right places asking for the wrong kind of people. After a few days of looking, the names I asked about sent a car for me. Some of the names I dropped from back home checked out, and I was told there could be work if I proved myself. Proving myself could have meant anything from murder to shooting up in front of an audience. There were all kinds of chest-beating rituals intended to sniff out undercover cops. I didn't trust anyone to set up a job for me, so I said I would think about it and let them know; they gave me a number to call when I had made a decision. I took a cab from the meeting and got out on Boulevard Saint-Laurent. The street, known as locally as “The Main,” was full of bars, nightclubs, and restaurants. Even in the early evening the street was crowded with people trying to get a glimpse of the real nightlife of the city. The bloodbath in Hamilton forced me to operate with greater care because I had no idea when I could become a target for what I had done. A new city hundreds of kilometres away was no exception. I used the windows of every
restaurant to check the posted menus, and to look behind me using the polished glass as a rear-view mirror. It didn't take me long to see that I was being followed by two men. The reflections I saw several times in the windows made me sure they were tailing me. Seeing two men at once usually meant trouble. One person is a good enough tail — if they're good. Sometimes two people worked together, leapfrogging after a target to lower the odds of the target recognizing a face. Two men together meant something else entirely; it meant there was going to be heavy lifting involved. If the two were pros there was probably a driver out there too, so the team could get away fast.

I stopped at a phone on the street and called the number I had been given at the meeting.

“
Oui?
”

“We just met. Do I have reason to think that there are
two
things you want to see me again about?”

The voice on the phone did not betray any emotion; it just shifted to accented English. “We are waiting for a call. That is it.”

I clicked the phone down and kept walking, immersing myself deeper in the crowds. The men I met with denied knowing the two men behind me. It wasn't proof that the men belonged to some other outfit, but it was enough for me to know that they were there to start trouble. I moved quickly and entered the first mall I saw. I crossed the sensors of the first clothing store that appeared and picked a shirt, hat, and glasses from the nearest racks, tore off the tags, gave them to the cashier, and hit the change room. When I came out, I paid for my new outfit and browsed near the front of the store, using the window to look out into the mall. Through the spaces between the frosted letters in the glass I saw throngs of shoppers walking by. I could also see a man loitering by the mall entrance, cell
phone in hand, meaning the other man was searching the mall for me.

I walked out of the store and went to the warm pretzel restaurant three stores to the right. I bought a pretzel and a Coke and sat at one of the tables provided out front. I was out of sight from the mall door, so I ate a few pretzels and waited twenty-five minutes. After the pretzels and Coke I got up and checked the door. No one was standing guard, cell phone in hand. I went deeper into the mall, found an ice cream shop, and ate for another half hour. When I finished the ice cream, I asked a girl at the information kiosk where the closest cabs were located. The girl behind the counter told me of an exit on the other side of the mall. On my way to the exit I spotted a mall rat. She was a teenage Goth kid hanging out by herself. She looked dirty — like one of the many homeless of the city. Montreal had a huge number of homeless teenagers who escaped their parents for the club life of the big city. I grabbed the girl by her arm, forcing her to join my pace.

“Hundred bucks if you leave with me.”

“No way, loser. Get the fuck off me.”

The crazy population of the city made sure nothing surprised this girl anymore. She didn't even seem scared of a strange man offering her money.

“No sex. No date. Just help me get out of here, and you can take the hundred bucks plus cab fare wherever you want to go.”

“Why the hell would I go anywhere with you, asshole?”

“Either come or don't, but I don't have time to waste. One fifty, take it or leave it.”

Her eyes lit up, and she licked her lips. “Fine. Where's the money?”

“You get it in the cab.”

I didn't let her continue the conversation. We walked to
the exit and got into a waiting cab. The watchers were looking for one man in different clothes. All they would see leaving was an unhappy man dragging his daughter out of the mall.

“Airport,” was all I said to the cab driver.

“
Oui.
”

Two blocks into the ride, I told the driver to pull over. I got out and left two hundreds on the seat. I walked away without saying another word.

I wasn't sure who would be looking for me, especially in Montreal. If I had to guess, it would be the cops. Criminal organizations were big business in Montreal; the city had Italians, bikers, even Russians of their own. The organized crime guys must have seen me leave a hot spot and tailed me for an
ID
. I moved around the city for a few more hours, checking for a tail, but I never found one. After I decided I was clean, I took a cab back to my car. I had stashed it at an expensive city parking-garage a block away from the motel I was staying in. I travelled light so all that was in the motel room was a change of clothes in a duffle bag. I decided to leave clean, dropping the motel key down a sewer grate before paying up for the car and driving home.

When I got back into town I checked my office and found only one change: there was a plain unaddressed white envelope on the floor inside the door. The letter contained a piece of paper with a phone number on it. The digits indicated it was a cell number. Out of curiosity, I dialled it.

“I was looking for you.”

The voice registered immediately — it was Paolo Donati. Our conversation was short — all that was said was a meeting place and a time. I had to haul ass to make it out of the city to a small-town restaurant that served all-day breakfast. I got there first and took a corner booth
where I could eye the exit. The booth would also give me a chance to slip into the nearby kitchen if need be. Kitchens are always busy, and fire codes mean they always have exits. I checked before I came in — the kitchen exit was on the right. It was a standard door, which would open easily so the kitchen staff could get to the Dumpster with their hands full. I carried the Glock inside a folded newspaper into the restaurant. I could have cared less about the news; the paper let me blend in, and it hid my gun in plain sight. I looked like any other customer, but I was one who could pull a gun without making any grand gestures.

As I sat, I scanned the restaurant. There was no one looking my way, no one on a cell phone, and no one who suddenly got up to use the rest room. It was an odd choice for a meeting place, but it seemed clean.

Right on time, Paolo Donati made his way into the restaurant. He was an old man, but he looked fit. His hard, pointed nose showed signs of being broken several times. His dark eyes were hard, and they scanned the room, taking everyone in while simultaneously sending out a don't-fuck-with-me message. He wore green slacks and a blue nylon golf pullover. He looked like a golfer from a distance. Up close, he looked like someone who had just robbed and stripped a man on his way to the links. He wore a heavy grey wool cap, like the old-time golfers wore; it covered the immaculate haircut that framed his head in silver.

His eyes spotted me right away but went over the room twice more. A passing waitress saw him looking and said, “Just grab a seat, hon, I'll be right with you.”

He didn't miss a beat; he gave her a sweet smile and said, “I just saw my friend. I'll be fine. Thank you, dear.”

He didn't stroll with the languid gait I had seen on
many occasions. He shuffled like a man his age should have walked.

“Nice walk,” I said as he approached.

“It helps to blend in.”

I shook my head. “You don't blend in. The golfer's outfit is wrong. You'd look better in a casual suit. Like a guy with money who still likes the simple stuff,” I said.

All I got was a cold stare for a reply. We sat silent, waiting to order, then continued to say nothing while we waited for our food. Finally, after the food arrived and the waitress left, Paolo told me why we were there.

“I fired you for good reason.”

“No argument here. It could have been much messier,” I said.

“Everyone thinks you're out with me.”

“I
am
out with you.”

“You aren't out of shit,
figlio
.”

I knew the word
figlio
meant
son
. I heard enough Italian over the years to decipher bits and pieces. Whatever the translation, he used the word like a boot, shoving me down into my place.