Race (10 page)

“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.