Hazardous Goods (Arcane Transport) (32 page)

“We looked into it. Nothing to worry yourself about.”

He waited for me to say something more. I placed the package on the reception desk, letting the silence stretch.

“How’s business?”

“Oh,” now he handed me the clipboard. “It’s okay. Always has been a tough business, from the very start.”

Right. Another Omega on his wrist – this one different from the one he had worn last time. Initials on the cuff of his custom shirt. And on my way in I spotted his car, parked at the end of the alley – a metallic beige BMW 760Li. More than a hundred grand tied up in a car that to my uncultured eye looked like any other sedan. Tough business, my ass.

“Sorry to hear that. Listen, our Accounts people were telling me that your bills are running quite late. Would you be able to bring them into good standing in the next week or two?”

That got his back up. His chin raised ten degrees, head tilted back in order to emphasize the sense he was looking down his nose at me in disdain. A bit goofy, considering I was five inches taller than him. I ended up with a terrific view of his nostrils, though. Trimmed regularly, from all appearances.

He sputtered.

“Haven’t I just told you how difficult things are for us?” That elicited a snort from his receptionist, who quickly turned her attention to a cabinet she had already polished. Twice. “We’re barely able to pay the rent on this store! I’m afraid I can’t pay you any earlier. It would be devastating to our cash flow.”

Three grand. I had asked John Vranic to confirm the balance owing by Bindings a few days ago. That was when he told me they averaged one hundred and fifty-eight days on payments. Six months, to pay an average bill of five hundred and fifty dollars a month. It was never going to be enough money that I would lose sleep over it. It was the principle of the matter. That, and the guy pissed me off.

“Maybe you could put off one of your other suppliers? Maybe your tailor?”

She snorted again, and this time made no effort to hide it. Instead she marched to the back of the room, hands to her face and her back convulsing in silent laughter.

“Is this a joke for you? Our financial situation?”

Nervy bastard, I would give him that. Apparently he was determined to play this gambit to the hilt.

“Listen, no offence intended. But we’re running a business too.”

I stared him down, but he seemed determined not to let it go. I guess he was used to bullying people into getting his own way, just didn’t realize I didn’t take kindly to bullies.

“Well I can’t imagine how your superior will respond when he hears how you’ve treated us. Clay Jarvis would never do such a thing.”

“Nice try. Clay said I should just move the account to a collection agency.”

“What? Then it sounds as though we will no longer be doing business. I will not have anyone treat me this way.”

What way? Requesting payment for services rendered?

“Fair enough. We’ll send you a closing statement. I hope business improves for you.”

I turned and walked out, ignoring the smug look on his face. I had mentioned Galt to Clay the night before, in one of our update calls. Without any prompting at all Clay had said Galt was one of those clients we might be better off without – small account, high maintenance, slow payer. I got the feeling he would have liked to see me put the good doctor in his place.

I was running up so much phone time with Amy I was thinking she could run a 1-800 service, maybe 1-800-SEXYCOP. She’d be retired in three years.

She’d been calling me twice a day with updates on the bust and Niki’s trip through the justice system, and I was eating it up. It was like my own episode of Law and Order, delivered by a sexy narrator.

“The lab guys are just drooling over this stuff. They didn’t have enough samples to figure out the chemical makeup of Rev before, and now they’re handed a full lab. Turns out it’s fairly close to meth – ammonia, lye, lithium, battery acid. All nasty shit. Even some weird plant,” I could hear the sound of pages turning, “get this – black fringed bloodroot. It’s a rare poppy, native to just a few areas of Northern Ontario and Quebec. Sounds like something one of your customers would come up with.”

Yes it did, which is why I had pulled a pad of paper in front of me and written the words
black fringed bloodroot
in capital letters, then drawn a frame around the words. Could be worthwhile checking into that one.

“So you think the bust’ll keep some of this crap off the street?”

“Oh yeah. Rev sells for twenty, maybe twenty-five bucks a point. We figure there was half a million dollars of finished product, maybe three times that much in production. And that assumes they were delivering pure product. You could cut this shit by as much as fifty percent and still sell it for full value.”

“One other thing – the paper trail is looking real promising. Seems like Mr. Legenko didn’t insulate himself near enough. The Taskforce is leaning on him big-time, threatening to expand the charges and go international with the investigation if he doesn’t cop to a plea.”

“What about Niki?”

“Kuzmenko lawyered up pretty quickly. Some hotshot from downtown. Somehow, he managed to convince the Bail Court that Kuzmenko wasn’t a threat. He’s out on bail already.”

Great. Ah well, I just had to stay out of his way for a short while.

Tuesday of the week following the big bust, I woke to find Ted plowing back a massive bowl of Fruit Loops, engrossed in the front section of the Daily Times.

“Hey. Take a look at this.”

I glanced over his shoulder, then leaned forward when I saw the headline.

RUSCAN INDUSTRIES’ EXEC GUILTY OF FRAUD

Toronto
- CEO Maxim Legenko was lead away in handcuffs yesterday after pleading guilty to eight counts of fraud, money-laundering, tax evasion and obstruction of justice arising from his activities at Toronto-based real estate developer Ruscan Industries.

Legenko’s wife Elena, founder of Ruscan, watched on stoically as her husband was led away to begin his jail sentence.

Prosecutors have confirmed that Legenko was the mastermind behind the embezzlement of tens of millions of dollars from Ruscan subsidiaries through payments to offshore holding companies. He also bribed foreign dignitaries in connection with the apparent transport of illegal substances across borders in Asia and Europe, though details of these shipments remain unclear.

It was widely assumed that the prosecution’s case against Legenko was irreparably damaged nearly three weeks ago, when Andrew Simpson-Doig, former Chief Financial Officer of Ruscan Industries subsidiary Timber Circle LC, was found dead. Simpson-Doig’s death was ruled a suicide by the Toronto coroner’s office. However, rumors persist that his death was a hit sponsored by Legenko.

Under the terms of the plea agreement, Mr. Legenko faces up to fifteen years of imprisonment and a maximum fine of $650,000.

“This case was a brazen example of the manner in which certain corporate executives view company assets as their own” said Crown Prosecutor Barbara Moodie. “This prosecution and the resulting plea serve as notice of our intent to weed out corruption in Canadian companies.”

Little Maxi was going to jail. That was great news. Made me think the whole mess might go away for good.

How wrong I was.

Two weeks later, I found my patience being tested in an entirely different arena.

Fact is, I’m a tolerant driver. Ted is your classic road rage meathead, but I don’t let the frustrations of driving get to me. Not sure I could have worked at Arcane if I did. However, there are some days when you just want to slam on the breaks, jump out of the van, and smash every window on that bubblegum blue Ford Focus, the one with the asexual plump and curly haired driver who was pointing his or her finger at me, demanding to be let into the lane I was occupying despite the fact that I had seen him (or her) race down the unoccupied merging lane to gain as much headway as possible before having to join the rest of us drones. License plate AAVW 774, if you should happen to care.

I had stupidly allowed myself to get trapped on the QEW, just past Park Lawn. Rather than cut off and work my way through smaller feeders into the Core, I had been suckered into going for it – trying to take the whole plate of nachos in one go. Which left me in one of four lanes heading East, bumper to bumper as far as the eye could see, and some shemale trying to gain a twenty foot advantage (sixteen feet and nine inches, to be exact) by sliding in front of the van.

Over my dead body.

I stayed the course, never allowing more than three inches between the front of the van and the back bumper of the Subaru hatchback in front of me. Didn’t seem to be helping the stress level of the driver in front of me, who was clutching her steering wheel so tight her hands were shaking from the strain. I’m sure it also didn’t help that every few seconds a plastic toy projectile was hurled from one of the two baby seats in the back of her car, just clearing her head rest and thumping off the back of her skull with enough force to make her question whether it could be considered infanticide if you were to stuff six bath toys into a three year old’s gaping mouth.

But by God, I was not giving up the fight.

Terry, or Pat, or Morgan, Jamie, Taylor or whatever Gender Neutral Person called itself, was now beginning to realize the quandary he or she was in. Closing fast on the right side was a three and a half foot high concrete barrier which already bore battle scars from a tussle with one or more front quarter panels. Based on the lack of any damage to the barrier, it appeared to me that Mr. Barrier tended to win such battles. The Focus was now inching along in a space no more than six inches wider than the vehicle, three to a side, with one side narrowing ever so gradually with every foot of forward movement.

Curly was near apoplectic now, finger stabbing out the window and prodding the side of the van. But finally, the Focus stopped.

I pulled forward, foot by foot, and when my back bumper cleared the front bumper of the Focus, it pulled into a space kindly provided by the elderly couple in the Oldsmobile behind me. So for the next forty minutes, I was able to enjoy the sight of the sexless wonder shrieking and miming various anatomically impossible acts. All in my rearview mirror.

It was at the end of this saga, as I exited the Gardiner at Lakeshore, that my cellphone rang. I bulled my way across two lanes and pulled into the front drive of one of the waterfront condos, hoping my reception would stay clear. Whenever possible, I pulled over for calls, even with my wireless earpiece. I couldn’t face Clay if I ever got into an accident while on the phone.

“Arcane Transport.”

“Donnie? It’s Kara.”

“Hey.”

“A call just came in for you, from Elena Legenko.”

Interesting. Or should I be worried? Maybe worried was the more appropriate state.

“Did she say what she wanted?”

“No. Just asked that you call her back.”

I debated for a moment. What was better? Call her back now, or make her wait? Part of me wanted to put it off as long as possible, maybe even the next day. But as usual, my curiosity got the better of me.

“You have her number handy?”

I spent two minutes waiting for her assistant, only to have to wait another three minutes waiting for Elena herself to take the phone.

“Mr. Elder?”

“Mrs. Legenko.”

“I will get to the point. I would like to meet you in person. Today, if possible.”

Hm. My worry meter was moving rapidly to red.

“Can I ask why?”

“I would prefer to discuss it in person. Would you be available to meet me in my office at seven o’clock this evening?”

Her office. No way was I going to meet her in her office. I had no doubt that if she wanted to, I could be killed on the premises, sliced, diced, and put out with the organic waste green bins without a soul finding out. I needed neutral ground. Somewhere I could get to easily.

“How about we meet at Queen and Bay, instead?”

“Downtown?”

“Yeah. By the fountain.”

“You do not want to meet in my office?”

“No.”

“You do not need to be afraid, Mr. Elder.”

“Neither do you. But I prefer City Hall.”

“City Hall it is. I will see you this evening at seven o’clock.”

The line went dead, and once again I was left wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.

As I completed my rounds downtown, I was on my cell. First with Clay, to let him know of the planned meeting. He made it clear that, doctor’s instructions or not, he was going to be there. So my next call was to Sol Irving, who once again came through, agreeing to pick up Clay from his home and accompany him downtown.

Next to Kara, to let her know I would not be returning to the office that evening, though I hoped to be able to return the following day. Fortunately Jamar and Harold were on, and she was able to divvy up the rest of the dailies.

I had just hung up on Kara when my mother called. Despite caller ID, I answered the phone. Clay had told Harper, who had called my mother. She in turn had called Ted. I could expect him at six o’clock, at Union Station.

I wasn’t thrilled with that, the memory of Ted in the hospital still fresh in my mind. But she insisted he be there, to observe at a distance at least. Last call was to Ted, who was mystified by the whole damned thing but would do as he was told.

I met Ted at Union just after six, as he disembarked the 5:30 from Port Credit. He had a camera bag under his arm.

“Good idea.”

“Wasn’t sure, but I figured you might want a video, just in case.”

“Can’t hurt. You have your Epi-Pen?” They had prescribed an Epi-Pen for Ted’s anaphylaxis, just in case. If his breathing became labored, he could self-inject epinephrine, at least give himself a fighting chance. The doctors thought it was for a vicious peanut allergy, but what the hell. They would have wondered if they ever saw Ted vacuum a bag of beernuts, though.