Race (11 page)

“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.

EIGHT

Ms. Zee came back to find Joey in one piece.
  
“Good, Kong, you behaved yourself,” she said, walking past him.

Kong didn’t smile. His features stayed the same: empty and devoid of any emotion.

“Ms. Zee,” said Martin.
 
“We are still missing a chemist.”

“I have already solved that problem.”

“How?”

“Armand worked for Bantam Pharmaceuticals before he was fired, right? At Bantam, Armand worked in a team.
 
He said there were others who influenced the design of the painkiller.
 
Like him, some were also let go.
 
We find these people and persuade them to continue our research.”

Martin thought about this.
 
If Ms. Zee had an idea she rarely went against it.
  
“How do you suggest we do that?”

She turned to Kong.
 
“With Influence.”

There was renewed energy in Kong’s eyes now.

***

After having retrieved my car from Central Command Headquarters I drove back to Parking Enforcement Headquarters.
  
I found Sergeant Motley in his office.
 

He was glad to see me. “Jon, how did it go?”

“Good, I guess,” I said.
 
“Sir, I have an important question to ask you?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“Can I still write parking tickets?”

“Um…No.”

“Not even part-time?”

“No.”

“On weekends?”

“No.
 
Jon, what is really on your mind?” he said.

Motley could always sense something was bothering me.

“Do you know Phillip
Beadsworth
?”

“No, I can’t say I do.
 
Why?”

“He’s my new partner.”

“You have a partner?” he asked, shocked.

“I’m not too proud of it.
 
I don’t tell many people that.”

“Of course not,” he said..

“How about Andrew Aldrich?” I asked.

Motley’s brow furrowed.
 
“I met him once at a charity event.
 
Good man.
 
Believes in authority.
 
He doesn’t like those who disobey him.
  
There was something about him and the drug squad but I can’t remember what that was all about.
 
How are you two getting along?”

“Great,” I said.
 
“I’m like a son to him.”

Motley didn’t believe me.

“What about Ronald Garnett?” I then asked.

“That name sounds familiar,” Motley said searching.
 
Then his eyes lit up and his face went pale.
 
“Jon, of course.
 
I’m so sorry.”

I raised my hand up.
 
“That’s all right.
 
He and I will work something out.” It was more like he’d work me into a pulp.
 

“Who’s taken over my shift?” I asked.

“Calvert.”

“George Calvert?” I exhaled.
 
“That man is no good.
  
He’ll mess up all my clientele.”

The telephone rang and Motley looked at me.
  

“Have you heard of a group called the RACE?” I asked.

He shook his head.

I thanked him and let him answer the phone.

***

I didn’t know what else to do, so I went home.
 
I turned on the TV and flopped on the couch.
  
I flipped through the channels.
 
Flip. Soap Opera.
 
Flip. Crappy show.
 
Flip.
 
Soap Opera.
 
Flip.
 
Soap Opera.
 
Flip. Weather channel: chance of everything.
  
Flip.
 
Flip.
 
Flip.
 
Shopping channel: a butt sculpture was on sale.
 
I made a mental note of the item number.
 
Flip. Reruns.
 
Flip.
 
Soap Opera.
  
Flip. Sports: nothing good on, only figure skating.
 
Flip. Cartoons:
 
seen this episode but will watch it again.

In the middle of the episode where the anvil was falling on the helpless coyote I fell asleep.

My cell phone rang.
 

I opened my eyes and checked the time. It was after 6:30 p.m. “Jon
Rupret
,” I answered.

“Officer
Rupret
.”
 
It was
Beadsworth
.
 
“Am I disturbing you?”

I lowered the volume.
 
“No, driving my car.”

“I thought I heard the television.”

“No.
 
I’m in my car.
 
It’s probably noise from outside.
 
Let me roll up my windows.”
 
I paused.
 
“Yeah, now that’s better.
 
Everything okay?”

“Noel, my son, he broke his arm during a soccer game.
 
He’ll be all right.
  
Thank you.”

“Good.” I was actually glad to hear from him.

“Where are you right now?”

“Um…sorry?”

“What part of the city are you in right now?”
 
He meant where I was driving.

“I’m almost near my house.”
 
That was roughly the truth.

“You live on
Gerrard
Street.
 
Correct?”

“Yes…”

“I’ll be there in a short time.”

“Where you coming from?” I asked.

“Forest Hill.”
 
He hung up.

Forest Hill?
Didn’t the rich live there?
 

I shook my head and quickly washed up.
    

***

The doorbell rang and I rushed down to the main floor.
 
I took
Beadsworth
upstairs to my apartment.

“Hi, Mike,” I said, passing Michael Jordan, but then stopped.
 

Beadsworth
looked at me oddly.
 

“It’s a family tradition,” I began.
 
“Never mind.”

I offered him something to drink but he declined.

“Do you live alone?” he asked.

“For now,” I said, as if I was in a serious relationship.

Beadsworth
didn’t take a seat.
 
“On my way I made a search of Max Vernon and Vernon Max through CPIC and it came up empty.”

The Canadian Police Information Centre is a database used by the police, corrections and immigration officials, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, to track dangerous criminals.
 
As a PEO, I had used CPIC to track stolen vehicles.
 
The problem with CPIC is that it does not record summary offences—minor crimes that range from fines to six months in jail, crimes that do not require fingerprinting or mug shots.