The Last Witness

FOURTEEN

‘You just don’t seem to grasp the seriousness of this.’ Roman threw his right hand towards Jean-Paul as if he was tossing dice. His hand gestures had become increasingly volatile as their arguing hit fever pitch.

‘Yes, I do.’ Jean-Paul eyes stayed fixed hard on Roman, had only shifted at moments as their voices raised, as if concerned others might hear beyond his office walls. ‘More than obviously you appreciate. But what I don’t want to do is throw everything away, everything we’ve worked long and hard towards these past three years — over a two minute panic.’

‘He could destroy us, Jean-Paul. And yeah, that’s all it takes — two minutes. Two minutes with the wrong thing said. But he was there fucking hours, and he lied to you about it. And that might be just the tip of the iceberg, who knows what else…’

‘Enough… enough!’ Jean-Paul held one hand up. ‘We went through this chapter and verse yesterday. I thought hard on it overnight, and I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to rake over the same ground now.’ Jean-Paul moved the letter-opener used for that morning’s mail to one side. ‘Besides, this isn’t just about you, me and the remnants of our past activities. Georges is practically family. There’s Simone to consider, and our mother too holds great fondness for him. There’d be a lot of people hurt if we made the wrong move on this.’

‘I know.’ Roman looked down, bracing his right hand hard on his thigh as if to forcibly stop it from gesturing wildly. ‘But that could be part of the problem right there. You know, that was always our father’s main worry with you: that when it came to the crunch, you might shy away from strong action. That you going the more reasonable, diplomatic route, would one day not be the right route to go. This could be that crunch time now, Jean-Paul, and you’re too blindsided with Simone and family to be able to make the right move.’

‘That as may be.’ Jean-Paul shrugged: impatience, as if he’d only half-registered the remark or wished to give it scant relevance. ‘We just can’t be sure yet — which is my main point. And why for the moment I think we should-’

‘I mean, if you’ve got a problem with that, you don’t need to say it straight out. The fact that it’s your daughter puts you in a predicament, but not necessarily the rest of us. Just silently nod or close your eyes for a second — and I’ll take it as understood that you just don’t want to know about the problem anymore, and I’ll take care of it. I’ll take it off your hands.’

Jean-Paul visibly jolted with what Roman was suggesting. He blinked heavily for a second, as if he might have picked up the wrong signal. But seeing the intent in Roman’s eyes, his body arched slightly forward, little doubt remained. Jean-Paul contemplated Roman stonily. ‘You know, that’s the other thing father said — that you were far too rash, impulsive, hot-headed. That’s why in the end he left the final decisions with me, not you.’ Jean-Paul’s tone was cutting, acid. ‘And make that decision I will — when the time is right and we have all the facts.’

Roman met Jean-Paul’s glare challengingly, his jaw setting tight; then finally his eyes flickered down uncomfortably. Hopefully he’d given the intended impression: suitably cowered. ‘Yeah, sure… sorry. I, uh… it’s just there’s a lot for us to lose, that’s all.’ He’d feared just this reaction from Jean-Paul, which was why he’d already started sowing the seeds of his other plan. He’d gone as far as he could pushing Jean-Paul conventionally. ‘And maybe too some rumours I heard about Donatiens at the club, and I’m putting two and two together and coming up with five.’

‘What sort of rumours?’

‘Well, you know, it’s probably nothing.’ Roman tried to shrug it off, but Jean-Paul was looking at him keenly. God, he knew how to play them: Leduc, Georges, Venegas, and now Jean-Paul. And they all thought he was so dumb. ‘Just talk that when Georges does the take at the club, he’s a bit over-friendly with a couple of the girls. But, as I say — it’s probably nothing. Only me getting paranoid in face of all this other shit now.’

As Roman watched the cogs turn in Jean-Paul’s mind, he wondered what was most prominent: if the rumours had substance, Georges cheating on Simone would make it a stronger bet that he was also cheating on them; that it would then be easier to make a move on Donatiens vis-a-vis family; or simple, straightforward concern for his daughter’s emotional welfare.

‘Still, looks like it warrants watching, following up.’ Jean-Paul’s hands had clasped tight together on the desk top. He freed one and gestured to Roman. ‘Which brings me back to what I think we should do for now. He should be watched closely — I want to know his every move. And anything new from the club about Georges, I want to know immediately — not like with this other thing, a month or two later. Right?’

‘Sure… sure.’ Roman struggled hard to keep dead-pan, conceal his inner mirth. Watched closely! He’d had a bug up Georges’ ass the last month without anyone knowing, and now Jean-Paul was personally sanctioning the club sting he’d already set into motion. Which was just how Roman had hoped it would go. Played so well.

And for one of the first times he didn’t feel intimidated in Jean-Paul’s study with its tomes and diplomas; for once, he was in control. He talked about Frank and who else he might need to keep an eye on Donatiens, glancing at his watch as if considering when he might be able to get hold of them. But in reality his thoughts were already shifting to timing the final parts of his sting plan and just how much longer Donatiens had to live.

The full impact of Georges’ story hit Simone halfway through her Plaice Florentine. Her fork hovered, suspended, above her plate. She shook her head and closed her eyes for a second. ‘God, what a mess. You should have said something earlier.’

‘I know… I know.’ Georges said it like a penance. ‘But I was fresh on the scene and so afraid of coming between your father and Roman by telling tales out of school. And by the time I’d waited, hoping meanwhile Roman would say something himself, it was already too late for me to come clean and make good.’

‘But still… Roman… Roman.’ She shook her head again. ‘If the situation was reversed, he’d have been pretty quick to speak out against you.’

‘I know.’ More penance. ‘But I wasn’t aware of that so much then: that I was such a thorn in his side and he didn’t totally agree with Jean-Paul’s new moves with the business. And it was still early days for those moves; I just wasn’t sure how much the old rules of staying silent and not ratting one to the other still applied.’

Simone stayed looking at him levelly and shrugged, as if she only half accepted his rationale. Her fork finally dipped down again to her plate.

Georges continued. ‘Okay, now it’s easy to see I made the wrong decision. But it wasn’t made lightly, I can tell you.’ He picked at an Alaska King Crab claw. His favourite, but he wished now he’d chosen something else. It had been difficult enough getting through this with Simone, and at times the cracking of the claws grated, added an extra flinch. ‘I agonised long and hard over it, and more than a few times came close to telling your father.’

‘So, fine. You’ve got good reason not to say anything early on. But when you were hauled in by this guy Chenouda — why didn’t you say something straightaway then?’

‘There was so much to weigh up. Too much. If Chenouda knew from Savard’s statement that Leduc didn’t have a gun that night, was he aiming for a murder wrap? If so, I felt that was unfair. Because however hasty or stupid, it was an honest mistake by Roman: he thought Leduc had a gun.’ Georges leant forward, keeping his voice low, practically a whisper. ‘Also, would that then make me and your father accomplices: me for being there, your father for ordering the meeting. And what about Savard? Did Roman have him killed to cover his tracks, or was Chenouda just pushing that angle for leverage? And again it would have felt odd just blurting out to your father that I’d been lying all that time. It was all bubbling away: all I wanted was a week or two for it to settle and decide what to do. But meanwhile I started to worry that your father might have heard or at least suspected something — and then with our meeting the other day, I knew for sure.’

‘Did he mention directly that he knew?’

‘No. You know your father — he’s far too subtle for that. He started talking about confiding and commitment, particularly how important this whole change in the business was after Pascal’s death; and how even Art Giacomelli had shown a keen interest because of his own son.’ Georges saw Simone’s brow furrow slightly. He filled in the details.

As he finished, Simone eased out her breath and sat back. ‘I thought you said “subtle”. He tells you that America’s leading mobster is keen too that you perform well. But don’t feel the pressure any?’ She forced a trite smile, but heavier shadows shifted behind her eyes. She paused for a second, as if deciding whether to reveal them. ‘But with Pascal’s death, my father’s not pulling any punches. It ripped the family apart. You know that my grandma is very religious?’

‘Yes… I do.’ Georges decided finally to crack a fresh claw.

‘Well, she always kept a statue of St Antoine in her room: he’s the one you pray to when you want things made right. Things that have already gone wrong, or you fear they might do. But as kids, every now and then we’d see St Antoine turn up in the fridge. And we then discovered that when things went wrong and St Antoine hadn’t answered her prayers — she’d stick him in the fridge. So we always knew when things weren’t going right in the family, because there was St Antoine — out in the cold alongside the milk and butter.’ She smiled briefly, but the shadows were quickly back. ‘With Pascal, she prayed and prayed — you know, there was this period of three days when he clung on in a coma and there was slim hope — and when he finally died, we expected to see St Antoine back in the fridge. But he wasn’t there, nor in her room. She’d smashed him, given up all faith in him, or God for that matter. At least for a while.’ She pulled a stray strand of hair back behind one ear. ‘St Antoine didn’t show up in the house again until fifteen months later, and she didn’t even go to church for nine months after Pascal’s death.’

Georges looked to one side for a moment as the bustle of the restaurant imposed, a waiter showing a party of three to a table close by. Miguel, their usual waiter, smiled over from the bar. It was strange: all the other times they’d come here, their conversation had been so light, carefree. Two young socialites high on the city’s grace list among the throng of yuppies that regularly crowded Thursday’s restaurant, three bars and basement disco, with Miguel invariably leading them straight from their table and past the usual disco queue at weekends. On occasion some of her friends from the agency would be there, or they’d meet up with his old friend Mike Landry and his latest date, but most of the time they’d be alone. They would talk about the week’s triumph’s: her about new agency accounts at the agency, him about fresh business ground broken for her father, or where they might vacation that summer or ski that winter; or, more recently, wedding plans. Now he was concerned not just for his status in the Lacaille family, but also, if Chenouda was right, for his life — and he was dumping on her twenty-three year old shoulders the pressure of bailing him out. It was no light burden, far removed from her normal concerns of what colour to choose for the next sports car her father was buying her, and she was rising to it by filling in all the heartfelt family mosaics that might have led to this problem now.

‘Is that why your father chose Santoine International for the company name?’ he asked.

‘Yes. It seemed to sit right for him: new hope despite the odds he saw stacked against.’ She took a fresh mouthful and waved her fork. ‘But certainly my father wasn’t just playing on your emotions by mentioning Pascal. So much else changed in the family then, like a house of cards tumbling down: grandpa dying soon after, grandma turning her back on religion for a while… and my father finally deciding to move away from the old ways.’

Pascal. Despite the odds. It gripped Georges all the harder just what a heartfelt quest this had been for Jean-Paul, and how much he’d let him down; it felt almost a cheek, a final insult, that now he was getting his own daughter to bail him out, make good. Now he had her tip-toeing through the same minefield, using terms like ‘old ways’ instead of crime in case someone was listening in.

Georges shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t be asking you to do this.’

‘No, no… it’s okay. I want to help.’ She smiled and shrugged. ‘Besides, I don’t know if there’s anyone else who can help you with this. So looks like I’m stuck with it.’

He knew she was making light of it mainly for his sake, to make him feel that he wasn’t burdening her too much. He reached out and clasped her hand across the table, closing his eyes for a second as if in final penance. ‘Thanks.’

She leant across and planted a warm and lingering kiss on his lips, as if she somehow sensed that he needed an extra touch of comfort, re-assurance. But it brought a few glances from nearby tables. God, how he loved her. Both sides of her: fun, flippant Simone with hardly a care in the world, which was all that most people saw; or the little girl who’d grown up before her time under the shroud of a crime family, seeing St Antoine in the fridge next to her milk-shake and flapjacks each time her father or grandfather came out the wrong side of a gang or turf war. The first, Georges was sure, was just a camouflage for the second.

He clung onto her hand a second longer, telling himself that his depth of feeling in that moment had little to do with dependency; even though throughout his life — from his mother dying and the years of abandonment in the orphanage, and even the times his stepfather let the family down financially, his concept of love had often been forged through dependency. He couldn’t face being left out in the cold again: it would be almost as bad as the more ominous threats Chenouda was warning of with Roman. A tingling chill washed through his shoulder blades and the nape of his neck, and as it showed in a faint trembling in his hand, he let go of Simone’s. Almost.

But little doubt remained now that he was dependent on Simone — and as she began to talk about how best to tackle the subject with her father, he realized just how much so. She stressed that it was important she didn’t come across just as the concerned girlfriend doing her duty: she had to sell herself as the right and only person to cover the problem, given the circumstances.

And it struck Georges that for her father to take her seriously and her pull it off, heartfelt, old-before-her-time Simone was needed; yet he didn’t know, nor had ever troubled to find out, how Jean-Paul viewed his daughter. If like most people he saw her simply as a carefree, happy-go-lucky twenty-three year old, then he was sunk.

Roman was in heaven. Having watched Viana writhe in the club half the night, now she was writhing on top of him.

He held his hands by her waist as if to guide her, but her body had a rhythm and purpose all of its own. He tried to match his thrusts to it, but more often than not he’d be a beat out, so would just relax and let her do it all. It was as if she mimed all evening to screwing, just building up to the real thing so that she could let it all go with one final, virtuoso performance.

That’s why he liked to show up half an hour early for the take when he was planning to head home with her. He could look at her dancing and gloat: you guys are just getting the play-acting, I’ll be getting the real thing. The anticipation added to his excitement: that was his build-up.

She’d already had one orgasm, and the second was even more tumultuous, bringing him to a finish at the same time — quicker than he’d have liked. He was trying to draw it out, savour the experience longer. She shuddered with a last few strangled gasps and then lay on top of him, her breath hot in his ear, her chest rising and falling hard as she clawed back to normality.

Her gasps and screams had been loud enough to make neighbours think she was being murdered — except that his nearest Mount Royal neighbours were at least a Cadillac length away behind thick brownstone walls.

Her breathing gradually settled, but he could still feel her heart racing hard. Her body poured out heat like a steam blanket against him, and he could feel her still moist and pressing against his thigh. Another moment to savour — but there was no point in delaying longer. He’d not wanted to broach the topic before sex; he would have spoilt the mood. Now that was over, and time was tight: he still had to get back to the club later with Funicelli. He rolled her off gently, but the jolt in the mood still registered faintly in her eyes. He touched her face with the back of one hand: re-assurance.

‘Babe, I’ve got this little problem… but I think you might just be ideal to help me out with it.’

‘What sort of problem?’ Curiosity rather than suspicion: he’d never before asked anything of her outside of sex.

Roman ran through the story he’d constructed: Georges was fooling around, it was threatening all sorts of problems with Simone and the rest of the family, but the problem was he didn’t have proof. So his only choice left was to set him up and take a few photos, and that was where Viana and an escort agency girl he’d arranged came in. She looked perplexed, doubt starting to set in, so he jumped quickly to the money.

‘This is important to me, so I’m paying top dollar. Eight grand — and don’t worry none about paying for supplies the next four, five months.’ He gently touched her nose. ‘The treats on me.’

Her smile slowly emerged. ‘That’s good of you, Roman. Thanks.’ Her eyes flickered, searching his fleetingly. ‘This must be important to you.’

‘Yeah, yeah, as I say… it is.’ He knew he’d have to be generous: she earned fifteen hundred dollars some weeks. But probably the nose candy was enticing her most.

A sly twinkle suddenly came to her eyes. ‘Anyways, Georges… I always thought he was quite a cutie. Would hardly seem like work.’

Roman sat up, bristling. He reached out and pinched her cheek. ‘Look — this is just play-acting. You’re not there to fuck him for real. Besides, he’s gonna be zonked from what you put in his drink back at your place, so this’ll just be look-good stuff for the camera.’ He gave one last hard pinch and pushed her face away in disgust.

She came sidling up against him after a second, stroking the nape of his neck. ‘Come on… I was just teasing, Roman. But I didn’t know you cared so.’

‘That’s where you got that wrong. I don’t care… that’s why I’m fuckin’ paying you.’ He remained rigid a moment more before finally giving in to her insistent stroking. He shrugged and smiled reluctantly. ‘Well, maybe when you’ve just fucked my brains out like now, I do care just a little.’ Her hand froze on his neck, and he gripped it and pushed her back on the bed, straddling her. Her eyes glared back at him for a moment before realizing from his smile that he was teasing too. But he was glad in a way that she’d chosen to rib him over Georges: it would make what was coming easier.

The tension gone between them, he ran through the rest: Someone from the club that she’d made the mistake of dating. He’d become a bit freaky and possessive, was waiting outside her place the night before, and they’d ended up having a fight. Could Georges run her home, see her safely into her apartment? She was afraid the guy might be waiting for her again that night.

She grasped the plan clearly after only a couple of minor questions, except for one point. ‘A fight? Wouldn’t it be enough just that I’m rattled, afraid?’

‘No, I think we’re going to have to be a little more convincing.’

‘What? I put on some make-up for it to look like bruising or something?’

‘No… I don’t think so. He might pick up that it’s just make-up, get suspicious.’ This was the best part, watching that gradual dawning of realization on her face. He was still straddled on top of her, and her eyes darted uncomprehendingly for a moment before settling on him.

‘No, Roman… no way. My face is my work, my money.’

‘Sorry, doll… I just don’t see any other way round.’ Fear settled in her eyes and she grappled out frantically to push him away. He pushed one arm back easily with his left hand and pinned the other under his right knee. ‘The bruising will be gone in just a week — back to normal.’

‘No, Romy… please… please.’ She writhed and bucked to try and shake him loose, but he had her pinned too tight. Her breath came short with the effort, verging finally into tears and gasping sobs as she realized the futility. She wasn’t going to get free. ‘Noooo… please!’

‘I’ll round it off to ten grand — and just think of all that nose candy.’ He cocked his right fist above her face.

‘No, Roman… don’t do this to me, I’m begging you… nooooo!’ She shook her head wildly, tears streaming down her face. She let out a piercing scream that went straight through him, and he dug his knee harder into her left arm.

‘Shut the fuck up and keep your head still — unless you want to get your nose broken as well.’

Her head stopped shaking and she stared straight up at him, her pupils dark and dilated, full of terror. He drank in that terror for a moment, wallowing in the heady sense of power. Combined with her body’s trembling it told him that finally he was in control, all her resistance had burnt out. But there was a plea beneath her eyes that he found disturbing.

‘Or maybe turn your head a little so that I can be sure of a clear shot.’

She slowly, reluctantly turned her head to one side, tears streaming unashamedly down her face. Her body trembled beneath him like a trapped humming bird, her only sound a muted whimper as she bit tautly at her bottom lip; and with his final, ‘Sorry, babe,’ her eyes fluttered gently shut a second before his fist came down.

Roman let Carlo Funicelli into the club less than an hour later.

Funicelli perched up at the bar, Roman poured them a couple of beers, and they started talking. Aimless chatter, it was all for the sake of the security cameras: if Jean-Paul got sight of the tapes, he’d say that he met Funicelli at the club after hours to talk over surveillance of Donatiens.

After a moment, Roman pointed something out along the rows of bottles behind, and Funicelli came around the bar. They moved along, but as soon as they were out of security camera view — Roman knew the exact position — Funicelli ducked to one side towards the cash register.

Roman had already given him the key, and in just over a minute Funicelli was finished: two sets of codes keyed-in that he knew would disrupt the club’s four linked registers handling both cash and automatic stock ordering.

They moved back into view of the security camera, with Roman pointing out some Sambuca on a high shelf as Funicelli nodded.

Azy would call in a panic soon after they opened that night, and ever-efficient Donatiens would come running: the new system had been his recommendation. Roman knew that he couldn’t wait for Donatiens’ normal monthly till check and reconciliation — he had to somehow get him there quickly.

Funicelli noticed Roman’s right hand clenching and unclenching, and asked, ‘Something wrong?’

‘It’s nothing.’ Roman shrugged. ‘You know, for every bit of love there’s always some pain.’

Funicelli didn’t pursue it, he went back to silently sipping at his beer as Roman glanced at his watch: forty-eight hours for Donatiens left to live, and counting.