Face/Mask, page 15
“As you know, the butcher shop run by Antonio Cirillo, was investigated years ago, with no actionable information being uncovered. It could be some sort of internecine fighting between rival activist groups, but we haven’t seen anything that would lead to what Janus did.”
“All right, then,” Prescott snapped. “Allen Janus is even a worse heel than we thought possible. My sympathies go out to his wife. What do you plan to do now?”
“We’ll be arresting the uncle and this Cirillo tonight. At minimum, they’re involved in quite a bit of black marketeering. And I suspect that Cirillo has also helped certain elements smuggle contraband into the Laval camp. Perhaps the uncle as well. We’ll interrogate them, and I’ll bring you up to speed on whatever we learn.”
Sévigny had barely finished speaking when Prescott hung up. He’d heard enough. Sévigny would have nothing useful to tell him until after questioning Pizzi and Cirillo.
There were still too many unanswered questions about Janus, and they all began with his visits to the prostitute in Laval. Prescott was sure that Janus was too clever to risk going up there just for sex. And never even covering his tracks? Prescott was reminded of an old expression that described the man’s actions.
“Hiding in plain sight,” he whispered. He appreciated the cleverness of Janus’s ruse. If only he could be sure that it was a ruse.
And now the man has informed on his wife’s uncle. None of it makes any sense.
He’d considered ordering Sévigny to pick Janus up for questioning too, but he wasn’t comfortable doing that to a Director without concrete evidence of anti-administration activity. Of course the questioning itself, if done properly, could provide all the evidence that was necessary to prosecute Janus.
Prescott decided to keep that as his final option. Sévigny was bringing in actionable information, even if it wasn’t as quickly as he would have liked. Sooner or later he’d uncover Janus’s role in these little conspiracies without having to pre-emptively arrest him. In the meantime, Prescott could do nothing but wait for Sévigny’s next update, and shuffle useless info-discs across the top of a desk that was the size of an aircraft carrier.
Patrice Lauzon was 19 going on 30. At least that’s how he felt, being the only bread winner in the family. His father suffered from a deep depression that began shortly after Patrice’s mom died from lung cancer three years earlier. The young man was barely out of high school when he had to hit the job market in order to pay the rent on the two bedroom apartment they shared with his younger sister.
He never complained about the cards that fate had dealt him. In fact, he was proud to shoulder the responsibilities that came with being the man of the house. He’d felt hurt at the expression of shame and resentment that came to his father’s face when he brought home his first paycheck, but eventually he shrugged it off. It was part of the price of growing up. And, after a while, his father’s medication removed most expressions from his face altogether, leaving him a silent shell of a man who stared at the Vid-bot all day.
On this cool September night Lauzon was keeping his eyes open for the brown sedan with administration plates that he expected to come through his checkpoint, as it had on countless Thursday nights. As one of two sentries at the checkpoint it was his job to note the plate number of every car which entered Laval. Of course, that job was redundant, since cameras on the off-ramp from the bridge could record plate numbers of every vehicle on the bridge.
Still, sentries like Lauzon were needed to speak directly to the drivers and passengers of these vehicles, to look into their eyes and detect tell-tale signs of lying, of attempting to smuggle contraband in, or activists out. His armed presence was also supposed to be a visible reminder that passage through the checkpoint was limited to those whom the administration sanctioned.
The unintended consequence of having human guards there was that they could be bribed, unlike machines or computers. So the driver of the brown sedan, like so many before and after him, felt secure in the knowledge that a little cash slipped discreetly to Lauzon with his cit-card gave him access into the restricted area. What this driver didn’t know was that Lauzon dutifully inscribed the names on the cit-cards of everyone who paid him off, as well as the dates and times of their entries and exits. This information was passed on to his immediate superior in the RCMP, Inspector Robert Sévigny.
Sévigny knew that guards assigned to this post would be offered bribes and various favours to allow certain people into Laval. His policy was that sentries could keep those bribes and accept those favours. In return, they were to keep him informed in detail of who was offering them.
Lauzon had been happy to learn that he’d be allowed to keep these “tips,” and that he didn’t have to be worried about the repercussions of taking them. Without this added money he couldn’t pay the apartment rent or put food on the table.
He looked forward to the arrival of certain very generous drivers, many of whom came through on a regular basis, most of whom used different vehicles, and even a variety of forged cit-cards. Not the brown sedan’s driver, though. For as long as Lauzon could remember he’d come in the same car. The administration plate confirmed that it was lent out to Monsieur le directeur Allen Janus for the night, with a matching name and photo on the cit-card. The man, he’d told Sévigny, was clearly a naïve fool.
“Perhaps he’s just in love,” Sévigny had replied with a laugh. Then he’d told Lauzon to let him know as soon as Janus showed up that night. Lauzon would engage in a bit of small talk, as he usually did, and report everything the driver said or did. Lauzon told himself he’d really lucked out at getting this job straight out of high school. On top of all the financial extras, he figured that getting along so well with his boss might lead to an early promotion one day.
Allen was at his late night planning committee meeting, as he was every Thursday. Terry guessed that this was why the Cons chose that moment to come. Of course, if they simply wanted to spare Allen the embarrassment of having his house-guest arrested in his presence they could have come during the work-day. But they liked to come at night, she’d heard, because of the psychological effect on suspects and witnesses alike.
The police van pulled up in front of their house with a loud screech. Its red lights were reflected on the heavy, grey-green flakes of the year’s first snowfall, the flakes melting into putrid puddles once they hit the street. When the policemen banged on Terry’s front door it was loud enough to wake up everyone in the house, as well as the families next door. They clearly wanted to make a public example of the miscreant they were arresting, so that everyone would know what they were facing if they flouted the many laws that had been passed to ensure national security.
Terry was reading in bed, and she jumped out as soon as the banging began. She was at the door before it occurred to her to wonder who it could be at this hour, and she paused before turning on the outside vents. Footsteps behind her caused her to jump, but it was only Uncle Joe, wrapping his bathrobe around himself against the night’s chill.
“Who it is?”
She was about to reply that she had no idea when she noticed the flashing lights shining through the living room window. Cons? Had something happened to Allen?
She quickly turned on the vents, counted to ten under her breath, then unlocked the door and wrenched it open. She found her herself face to face with three black-suited men, their faces hard even under their air masks.
“We’re looking for Giuseppe Pizzi,” the first one declared, his voice amplified by a speaker in the mask, much too loud considering Terry was within two feet of him.
She was still thinking about her husband, and her uncle’s name didn’t sink in fast enough for the impatient agent, who shoved past her and stepped toward Joe.
“Mr. Pizzi. We have a warrant to arrest you. Please come peacefully so that this family will not be disturbed any more than is necessary.”
Terry finally reacted, remembering that she was the wife of an administration director and therefore used to being treated with a certain amount of respect.
“Just one minute,” she said, stepping between Joe and the officer. “Do you know whose house this is?”
“Oui, madame. Monsieur Allen Janus, Head of Electrical Infrastructure. We know very well who your husband is. And we also know that he has had living with him one Giuseppe Pizzi, this man here, who is charged with conspiring against the administration contrary to Article718-”
“Conspiring?” Terry interrupted with a shout. “What are you talking about?”
“Madame, that is one of the several charges against Mr. Pizzi.”
“Several…? I don’t understand. Conspiring with who?”
The policeman let out a small sigh of impatience then raised his left wrist and read off his pod.
“Mr. Pizzi is alleged to have conspired with one Antonio Cirillo-”
“That’s my friend, Tony,” Joe blurted out.
“The butcher?” asked Terry.
“He’s one of the people your uncle conspired with, along with others who are still unnamed.”
“There’s some mistake. The man is a butcher, not a trouble maker.”
“You’re referring to Antonio Cirillo, owner of the Boucherie St. Laurent? Then there is no mistake. His shop is a known meeting place for anti-administration agitators.”
“Agitators? He sells us some fresh lamb, better than the grocery store. He brings it in, I…I don’t know how, and he doesn’t charge all those damn stamp taxes. I know that’s wrong, but we’ve been going there for-.”
The look in the policeman’s eyes told Terry to stop before saying anything more. He turned to his two colleagues who were standing a few feet inside the door that had automatically closed behind them, and motioned with his head for them to step outside. Once they’d backed out the door and past the fans that were rattling loudly in the vents he turned to Terry and spoke more quietly than he had up to that point.
“Mrs. Janus, I would suggest that you make no more comments like the one you just made. Another officer, someone who was less concerned about political sensitivities, could misinterpret you to mean that you and your husband were party to this man’s illegal activities. This gentleman here–”
“He’s my uncle,” she half-whispered.
“This gentleman,” the policeman continued, “has been seen attending at this underground butcher on numerous occasions, and meeting with suspected members of various dissident movements. These are people who are actively plotting against the administration’s interests. You have all contravened several sections of the Products and Services Rationing Act as well, but that is not why we are here today. Nobody else, not you nor your children nor your husband, needs to be investigated in this matter, if Mr. Pizzi will come now with no further trouble. I think I’ve made myself clear, yes?”
Joe shuffled forward and placed his hand on his niece’s shoulder.
“It is fine. I go. Do not worry.”
The policeman reached onto the table behind Joe to pick up an air-mask and, with a gentleness that belied his earlier brusque manner, slipped it over his prisoner’s head.
“I don’t think I need to cuff you, do I?”
“Wait,” Terry jumped forward. “It’s freezing out there. Can’t he at least get dressed?”
The policeman looked at the coat tree that stood near the front door and randomly chose an overcoat that looked masculine. It was Richard’s, making it a foot too long for Joe. The policeman draped it over his shoulders and walked him to the waiting van. Joe’s slippers were instantly covered with slush, but the old man took no notice of the cold.
Terry slipped on her own mask and stepped out after them, finding several of her neighbours looking out from behind their windows. Even through the thickly falling snow she could make out their expressions, and what she saw were smiles and shaking heads. They’d gotten a good show, and the outcome seemed satisfactory. She restrained herself from giving them the finger.
The van pulled away as quickly as it had arrived, leaving no trace of its presence on the empty street except wet tire tracks. She turned back inside and closed the door, leaning against it for a moment to gather her thoughts. She had to call her husband right away. She wasn’t sure what he could do, but there had to be some benefit to his official position.
She put a com to her ear and listened as it whistled on the other end. It seemed to go on forever, and she was about to cut off the link when Allen’s voice answered.
“Terry? What is it?” He sounded out of breath and irritated at her call, so she didn’t even pause to wonder why he had turned off the video feed.
“Allen, you have to do something. They arrested Uncle Joe.”
“What? Who arrested Uncle Joe?”
“Cons, who else? I can’t believe it. They came right into our house and took him. Three of them.”
“They came inside? Did they have a warrant?”
“What? I don't know.”
“Jesus, Terry. Didn’t you ask to see it?”
“No, I didn’t ask to see it,” she said trying to keep her emotions from spilling over. She couldn’t believe that with her uncle arrested her husband was going to criticize her for not taking the time to analyze the warrant. “Allen, there were three policemen banging on the door, and they had a van with flashing lights outside our house and I was scared out of my mind so please don’t you yell at me.”
“OK, OK. I’m sorry. But what did they arrest him for?”
“They said there were several charges. The only one they mentioned was conspiring with Tony the butcher against the administration.”
“Conspiring with the butcher? You must have misunderstood them.”
“I didn’t misunderstand, Allen. That’s what they said. I thought it was because he bought meat on the black market, but the Cons said no, Joe was conspiring with agitators!”
“This has to be some sort of mix-up. Maybe this Tony was up to something that we don’t know about. And they think Joe’s involved because he’s there all the time and…”
“Allen, can’t you do something? You have to get to the police station now.”
“Terry, I’m in the middle of…of my meeting.”
“The hell with your goddamn meeting! Uncle Joe is in jail!”
“Yeah, OK, OK. I’ll get out of here right away. I’ll make some calls to find out where he is and try to see him.”
“Please, Allen,” she tried to get herself under control again. “They didn’t even let him put his shoes on. You have to help him.”
“I will. I promise, I will. OK?”
“OK.”
“Terry, are you going to be all right?”
“Yes. I feel better now because...because I know I can trust you to help. Thank you, Allen.”
“You don’t have to thank me. What’d you expect? I’m not going to leave the guy hanging, so you just take care of yourself and the boys.”
“I will.”
“Maybe wake Richard up. He should stay up with you until I get home. I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s going on. You better let me get on it now. Bye.”
When Terry hung up she felt a little better. Allen, for all his faults, was reliable. She could hear his concern in his voice, even as he questioned her. Surely he’d find out why they’d sent three Cons to arrest an old man who’d done nothing more than buy unlicensed lamb.
Conspiracy? What could they have been thinking?
Allen would soon straighten them all out, of this she had no doubt.
Janus sat back on the sofa and held the com to his bare chest, as if letting it listen to his heavily beating heart. They’d finally arrested Joe. It was what he’d wanted, after-all, but now what? He hadn’t really given much thought to what he wanted to happen beyond that. And if Terry was right, the charges were much more serious than he thought they’d be. He wondered just what it was he had set in motion. From the bedroom he heard Sahar’s voice complain.
“Allen, if you are going to take calls from your wife maybe you should go home and let me sleep.”
He walked back to the bedroom, his bare feet shuffling across the thick carpet, and started to pick his clothes up off the floor.
“They arrested Joe,” he said softly.
“Your Joe?”
“Yes, my Joe. The RCMP showed up at my house and arrested him right in front of my wife.”
“Well, that is good news, isn’t it?”
Janus stopped buttoning his shirt and glared angrily at her, but she opened her eyes wide and tilted her head to one side.
“Allen, you are not going to be hypocrite with me now?”
He went back to buttoning his shirt, and turned his face away from her. She was right, of course. But even if this was what he had wanted, he felt no happiness. The sound of Terry’s voice begging him to help had guaranteed that.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “It’s serious.”
She laughed and clapped her hands once, jumping out of the bed. Her small breasts bounced as she landed on her feet.
“You are very funny man, Allen. You dream and plan of this day, and now you look like you will cry.”
“Stop it.” He searched for the words to explain, but found none. “You don’t understand,” he repeated.
“I do understand. You come to fuck me while the Cons bust into your house and arrest your wife’s uncle. They do this because you want them to do it. And now you hate yourself for it. Do I understand right, Allen?”
Janus sat down on the armchair where earlier that evening she’d sat with her legs spread, wearing nothing but an inviting smile. He tried to look up at her but her expression, her smile that was somehow full of anger, was hard to face. How could he expect Sahar to understand what he was feeling when he himself didn’t understand it?
“I know I wanted this. It was something that had to be done. But now that it is done…Well, Terry and the children are going to be miserable, and I have to deal with that.”
“But you knew they would be miserable, Allen. Yet you did this so that you would be happy.”
