Nick passed his plate of half-eaten burger to the waitress. He was not hungry.
“But then this red Corvette cruises down the street and two mean-looking Asian guys get out and check out the carpet cleaning van. I got a bad feeling about that, I can tell ya. Then when two more guys climb out of the car with ammunition belts and semi-automatics over their shoulders, I figure guess what, guys, we’ve lost the element of surprise. And less than a minute later, we hear bullets ripping out the windows of parked cars in the back alley where our other guys were.
“So I give the signal, and the SWAT team blows through the front door, returning fire. Then it was all over. A damn miracle, in my book. None of the shopkeepers got killed but all four Lo Chien gang members who returned fire are dead.”
Nick sighed. In his opinion the raid had been a big mistake, and Dubois, who was hearing about it for the first time, looked as if he agreed.
Kappolis was doing his best to placate Nick. “No worries, Nick. The precinct’s got a reward out for snitching on the community. Stuff will come in on the Flying Dragons. Give it time.”
“Problem with that sketch of Li Mann is that he looks like every and any Asian man,” said Dubois.
The conversation paused when the waitress appeared with a pot of fresh coffee. They watched her refill their cups. As soon as she left, Nick said, “All we’ve got is Gee Tung. At this point I’m prepared to plea-bargain with him. Offer him a deal if he betrays his friends.”
“Nick, I wouldn’t trust the quality of his information.” Dubois scowled. “Maybe he led us astray with that sketch of Li Mann. I mean, how else to explain a country-wide arrest warrant on both sides of the border, and we got diddly squat. I wouldn’t trust him. What makes you think scum like that are gonna help us indict their own people?”
Nick threw up his hands. “Then what the fuck have we got? At this point I’m prepared to try anything.”
“When’s the Mandarin Club owner coming in to see you?” asked Dubois.
“Tomorrow morning at nine sharp, with his hired gun.”
“That should be something,” said Kappolis, lighting a cigarette.
“I never count my chickens until they’re hatched.”
“Okay, Nick, I’ll talk to Gee Tung when I get back to Ottawa. But don’t hold your breath. I’m willing to bet good money that composite he gave us was pure bullshit.”
“Even if he’s prepared to deal,” said Kappolis, “how the hell do we know that he isn’t stringing us along just to avoid deportation back to Vietnam? We’ve all seen that script before.”
“True. But why don’t we get the information and then assess the quality of it?” Nick was annoyed and his voice was starting to rise.
“Nick, we ain’t deaf. No need to be shouting the place down,” Dubois said testily.
“I want a conviction in Walter Martin’s death. I want Gee Tung to testify as a key witness in a prosecution case against Li Mann and his cohorts for Martin’s death, smuggling illegals into the country, abusing immigration permits, the drive-by shooting and other triad activities. I’m prepared to cut a deal.”
“That’d be a real deal with the devil, Nick. You want to turn loose one of the snakeheads who killed?”
“I’m not turning anybody loose! It’s a twopronged strategy here, Dubois. You put the squeeze on Gee Tung. I’ll put the squeeze on the Mandarin Club owner. Let’s see what we come up with. That’s all I’m saying,” said Nick, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
Just then the national news came on the TV over the bar. The police raid was the lead story. The restaurant owner turned the sound up slightly and the two men turned to watch. Store windows blown-out. Police cruisers pockmarked with bullet holes. Body bags wheeled into ambulances. Nick couldn’t take any more of it. He got up and changed the channel on the television, pissing off a handful of pub patrons.
“So much for trying to squeeze the competition for information on Li Mann and Sun Sui. Couldn’t your boys have taken one of those Lo Chien thugs alive?” asked Nick.
“When the bullets are coming at you, you don’t think about saving one thug for later. All you want to do is get out of there alive, go home and see your kids.”
“In other words we’re doing our best and still coming up zero,” Nick said. “I’m back at square one.”
The offices were empty. The civil servants had long gone home. The building was quiet, almost spooky, except for the hum of the ventilation system.
Grace swivelled her chair and hiked her feet on the window ledge. She opened the file and reviewed her notes for a pre-hearing conference. The Federal Court had overturned the deportation order of a Tamil Tiger and he was claiming refugee status. According to her notes, he had been involved in two bombings in Sri Lanka eight years ago, and feared political retribution if he returned. He had lived in Canada since then, under a deportation order and without refugee or landed immigrant status. On the other side of the coin, through eight years of a lengthy appeals process, he had married and fathered two children. In many respects, he was a model citizen, volunteering his time as a church janitor and doing community service, while working days as a dishwasher and cleaner in a restaurant. The restaurant, church and his community supported his application to stay. The petition ran to over five thousand names. Nick’s office had rejected his request to remain in the country on humanitarian and compassionate grounds.
She sent an e-mail to scheduling for a hearing date followed by a second e-mail to Nick’s office, asking if they wished to revisit their department’s decision in light of the fact that the claimant had not committed crimes in this country, taking into consideration the interests of his wife and children. What Grace really wanted to do was call Nick. But this case was the wrong pretext. She knew exactly what he would say. We have repeatedly denied him permission to remain in the country as a refugee or landed immigrant. He was issued temporary minister’s permits, and now the permits have expired. We don’t offer asylum to people who are facing prosecution back home. The asylum process isn’t meant for criminals on the run. Getting married and having Canadian-born children is a ruse. Seen that before. Sorry, Grace. Time’s up. The claimant must go home and face the music. End of story.
She imagined Nick saying those words. Then she remembered him saying other words, looking at her with love in his eyes.
The phone rang, ripping the silence like a torpedo and pulling her back from her private grotto. She jumped, upset the file on her lap, and scattered paper all around her.
“Ms. Wang-Weinstein?”
“Yes?”
“This is Rocco Corvinelli. I just read your e-mail and no one in scheduling is picking up. I want you to know that your hearing date isn’t convenient with us. Could you move it forward by another two weeks or so? Our plate is very full at the moment. After Labour Day would go better for us.”
Grace flipped through her docket. “Fine, I’ll send another e-mail to scheduling.”
Swell. Another complication in mending their relationship. After the phone call she couldn’t concentrate. Time ticked by as she sat at her desk, frustrated and undecided. Her professional and personal lives were colliding, and not in the way she desired. Collapsing the files and dumping them back into the filing cabinet, she closed her office and headed for the bank of elevators.
Outside the building, the sky had deepened to the colour of prairie rose. The humidity had dissipated. Checking that Crosby’s address was in the pocket of her suit jacket, she set out to walk over and drop in on him. She was an hour early, but there was a marvellous bookstore along the way. She could stop and vanish into a book for an hour any time. And right now, she needed to be in another headspace.
BJ