SEVEN


Everyone immediately stood up and began to leave the room. I got up and went over to my new partner.

“Hi, I’m Jon Rupret, R before E,” I said.

The man did not look up, nor did he respond. He continued going over the file. He was carefully going over each page. I looked around the room and it was empty.

I coughed, hoping to get his attention. I did not.

I looked at the file and on top of it was the name: Jonathon S. Rupret.

He was reading a file on me.

He closed the file, got up, and looked at me.

With an arm extended he said, “Detective Phillip Beadsworth.”

I shook his hand, “Officer Jon Rupret-”

“-R before the E. I heard you the first time,” he replied in an accent I still couldn’t figure out. It was a mixture of British and American.

“Follow me, Officer Rupret,” he said, leaving the room.

“You can call me Jon,” I said, following behind.

“I suppose you’d like to call me Phil,” he said and stopped.

“Yes,” I said. “Just to be informal, y’know.”

“Don’t. It’s Detective Beadsworth.” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Excuse me for a minute.” He went to the end of the hall and spoke for maybe two minutes. He came back and we moved to the elevators.

We went down.

“Where we going?” I asked.

“For a drive,” he said.

Outside we walked to a blue GM station wagon.

“We can take my car,” I said.

“When you drive we take your car.”

We eased out of the parking lot and into the main road. I scanned the interior of the GM. The dashboard was covered with little colorful stickers. I looked down; my feet were stepping on a Winnie-the-Pooh mat. I looked up and a Mickey Mouse figurine hung from the rear-view mirror. I casually looked back and my mouth fell open. There was a baby seat.

“So, you got kids?” I said, turning to him.

“Excellent observation, officer,” he said.

“How many?”

“Two.”

“Wow, two kids,” I said. “I have one myself.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, turning the GM left and into another street.

“How do you know that?” I said, offended.

“I read your file.”

“How come you get a file on me and I don’t on you?”

“You’re under me.”

I blew my top. “I’m not under you. I’m your partner.”

“You’re my responsibility.”

“I’m no one’s responsibility,” I said. “The last thing you want is to take responsibility for me. You could get into serious trouble for that. ”

“Thank you for the information,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”


The Lincoln was moving one hundred kilometers per hour on Highway 401 when Martin’s phone rang.

“Yes,” he said. He pulled out a pad from his briefcase and began making notes. As he wrote, he laughed harder and harder.

“What’s so funny?” asked Ms. Zee.

He hung up. “The police are on to us.”

She wasn’t smiling.

“Your informant has told me that they’ve established a new unit to locate and stop us.”

“What was so funny about that?” she said.

“They call this new force Operation Anti-RACE.”

She didn’t understand.

“They call us RACE. Radical Association of Criminal Ethnicities.”

This made her laugh. “The police always need unusual acronyms to do their job.”

“But that’s not all. They’ve also made up a name for our product.”

“A name?”

“Yes. Nex.”

“Nex?”

“Yes, something to do with the stock market.” He laughed.

“Nex.” She thought about it. “I like it. Nex it is, then.”


I stared out the window. After a short while the station wagon began to slow down and I realized where we were.

“Regent Park?” I said, turning to him.

“You’ve never been here?” he said.

“Um…of course I’ve been here. Many times. I live here, man. This is my ’hood.” I lowered myself in my seat.

Regent Park is one of the poorest areas in the city and maybe in the province. Poverty equals crime and Regent Park is known for that. With narrow alleys and pathways leading in and out, it is designed for drug dealers. They consider it their territory. Shootings are common in this neighbourhood. What were we doing here?

Beadsworth circled and parked.

“Do you want to stay in the car?” he asked.

Stay out here? You nuts?


“I think it’ll probably be safer if I cover your back,” I said.

From the trunk, Beadsworth pulled out a plastic bag.

We walked up to a building. A group of teenagers looked across at us. This sent a shiver up my back. We went inside and up the stairs to the third floor.

Beadworth knocked on a door. The door slowly inched open and a black boy peered through.

“How are you, Theo?” Beadsworth said.

Right away Theo opened the door. Beadsworth handed him the plastic bag. We went in.

“Who is it?” came another voice farther way. A man in his early twenties, wearing a white undershirt, black pants and no shoes, appeared down the hall.

“Voshon, how are you doing?” Beadsworth said.

“Good,” replied Voshon, smiling. “Come in.”

We went down the hall and into the living room. There was a sofa in the middle, an old table to one side and an even older TV with knobs in the corner.

Theo came up behind me holding the empty plastic bag and a pair of Reebok shoes. His eyes were glowing.

“Voshon,” he said. “Can I wear ’em?”

“Yeah, sure,” replied his older brother. “But go watch the window.”

Theo quickly laced up the shoes and went to the window.

Voshon leaned closer. “Thanks, he’d been asking for a pair for a long time.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Beadsworth. “This is Officer Jon Rupret,” he introduced me. I shook Voshon’s hand.

“Can I get you anything?” Voshon asked.

“No,” replied Beadsworth, looking in my direction. “We ate on our way here.”

“Have a seat,” he said, dusting whatever dirt might be on the sofa.

We sat down. Voshon grabbed a chair opposite us.

“How’s college?” Beadsworth inquired.

“Good.”

“And work?”

“Good. I do most of my reading after I make my rounds.”

“Good,” said Beadsworth. He paused and then spoke again, “Do you have any information for us.”

“There’s this is one guy you can talk to,” Voshon said. “I think his name is Max Vernon or Vernon Max but he goes by the name of DJ Krash, with a K.”

“Where can we find this Mr. Krash?” Beadsworth asked.

“He’s a DJ at the club House of Jam. He plays there on Fridays.”

I then remembered the picture Garnett had put up in the front. The three guys were standing outside a club-was it the House of Jam?

“So you think he might be involved in this?” I said.

“I didn’t say he was involved, only that he might have some information,” Voshon said.

“How do you know?” I said.

“I worked some night shifts there and I heard some stuff, you know.”

Beadsworth got up. “Thank you, Voshon. Anything you hear you let me know.”

“Sure.”


We walked down the stairs and were out again. Beadsworth looked up and waved. Theo waved back and disappeared from the window.

“What was he doing?” I asked.

“Watching.”

“Watching what?”

“The car.”

“Why?”

“So nobody vandalizes it.” He looked at me as if I were dumb and stupid.

I quietly got in the car.

When we were out of Regent Park I asked, “What’s the story with Voshon?”

“A year ago we caught him stealing groceries from a variety store,” Beadsworth said.

“Groceries?”

“Yes. He said his younger brother was hungry and he didn’t have any money. Voshon’s a good kid, just in a bad environment. So we acquired him a job as a security guard.”

“A thief becomes a security guard. That’s a first,” I said.

“The security firm is owned and run by a retired police officer. Most of the people who work for him are young offenders looking for a second chance.”

“So when Voshon said he worked night shifts at the club he meant security work?”

“Voshon’s not into drugs. The only thing he cares about is his brother.”

This Voshon guy wasn’t all that bad. Come to think of it, Beadsworth didn’t look like a bad guy, either.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” I shrugged.

“Don’t mention it, officer.”

“But I do think I should be able get to know you, y’know. You already know a lot about me.”

“What would you like to know?” he asked.

“Where you from?”

“England.”

“That explains your accent. But I’ve watched a lot of British soap operas and you don’t sound anything like them.”

“I was born there. But I spent most of my adolescence in the United States.”

“So you’re married with kids?” I said.

“Yes.” Beadsworth was about to say more when his cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said. “Detective Phillip Beadsworth…” He listened. “Yes, dear…where is he now…is he okay…I’ll be right over.”

He hung up and continued driving. I could tell he was thinking.

“Why don’t you drop me off right here,” I said.

He looked at me.

“Yeah,” I said. “Headquarters is the other way. Don’t worry. Drop me off and go, do whatever you have to do.”

For the first time he looked at me as if there was more to me than met the eye.

“Are you certain?” he finally said.

“Yeah. Go. Don’t worry. I’ll call a taxi.”

“When I’m done, I’ll call you.”


He dropped me off and drove away. I looked around; this was unfamiliar territory. I pulled out my cell phone, ready to dial for a cab when I saw one come to a halt across the street. I squinted. It was orange and navy green. The cab plate number looked familiar and the driver did too. I rushed over.

A guy was approaching the vehicle when I intercepted.

“Sorry, sir,” I said, catching my breath. “Police business.” I waved my badge and got in.

“Police Headquarters. Fast,” I ordered the driver in a loud voice. He complied and put his foot on the pedal.

Once the guy was out of sight the driver slowed.

“You always do that,” said the driver in a slight accent. “He called for the taxi.”

“Hey, Mahmud,” I said, shocked. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“Yeah, sure,” replied Mahmud Hanif.

Mahmud always wore a Blue Jays baseball cap, even though he’s not a baseball fan, and below that a plaid shirt and a sports jacket. He once tried to explain to me the similarities between baseball and cricket. Not sure what they were because I don’t know anything about cricket or baseball, for that matter. He’s from Pakistan and he came to our fine land almost three years ago with his wife and four children. Back in his country he was a qualified engineer, but once he arrived here, his experience and education were thrown out the window. He tried desperately to secure a job-any job-in his field, but it always came down to his zero Canadian experience. With a large family, going back to school was not an option. So he started driving a taxi to put roti, so to speak, on the table.

“Mahmud,” I said. “How come I always end up meeting you?”

There are five million people in the Greater Toronto Area and somehow I always managed to run into people I knew. Maybe it was my dashing good looks and sharp intellect-gravitating people toward me. Or maybe it was coincidences that only happened to me. That was the story of my life. Jon Rupret, man of infinite probabilities.

“So where is your car? Towed again?” he said smiling.

“I am ashamed, Mahmud, that you would say that,” I leaned over to the front seat.

“It happened before. Many, many, many times,” he said. “So what are you really doing with no car?” Mahmud asked.

“I’m glad you asked,” I said. “I’m on a case. A covert operation.”

“Covert?”

“Secret, top secret, to be precise. What I tell you must never leave this vehicle.”

“Sure,” he said, humouring me.

“I’m serious. I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Even some people I work with.”

“Then why tell me?”

“You know they have doctor-and-patient relationship? Lawyer-and-client relationship?”

“Yes.”

“You and I have passenger-and-taxi-driver relationship.”

“Yes, that’s very important.”

“So with our special relationship I can trust you. I know what I tell you will never leave this taxi.”

“You are correct.”

“I’m on a mission between good and evil.”

“Which side are you on?” he said. Then started to laugh.

“Very funny.” I said, slightly hurt. “Keep driving. No more of those smart-ass remarks or else our special relationship ends.”

“Sorry,” he said, still smiling.

“Like I was saying. There’s this new evil approaching our city and only one man can stop it-”

“-Sorry, I’m too busy driving taxi. Don’t have time.” Then he exploded.

“That’s it, Mahmud, our relationship ends right here.”

That didn’t bother him. He continued laughing.

“I’m warning you. I’ll find a new taxi driver. Someone who can appreciate our special relationship.”

“No, no. I’m sorry. Special relationship is very important.”

I sat back, crossing my arms. “Man, I was going to tell you everything. Now I’m not.” I pouted.

“No time. We are here,” he said looking at me through the rear-view mirror.

“So how much do I owe you?” I said putting my hand into my pocket.

“Forgot to turn on meter. Maybe next time,” he said.

Mahmud never charged me fare.

It happened eight months ago while I was driving through my usual route. I saw a taxi parked in front of a park with no driver in it. Parking around the park was not allowed. When I approached the vehicle, thinking I might get a tow, I heard a noise coming from the trunk. I pried it open and found the driver in bad shape. His was throat slashed, his palms bleeding, and he’d been stabbed in several places. I rushed Mahmud to the hospital. I guess I saved his life.

“You know you have to stop doing this,” I said.

“I forgot to turn on meter,” he repeated.

“I saved your life because it was my duty. If you keep doing this it could be seen as bribery; that’s illegal in this country, you know.”

“Next time I will turn on meter,” he smiled.

I patted him on the shoulder and smiled. “Thanks, buddy,” I said and got out.



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