Midnite Moving Co

George had given the cell phone with the business number to Jesse. At 10 a.m., it rang and Jesse let it go to voicemail, since he’d been in bed for two hours after a job the night before. Strangely, that hadn’t been a move at all, but giving guerrilla filmmakers some assistance with a fly-by-night shoot. 

He was exhausted and elated, after a conversation in front of a 7-11 in East Van with a certain Paddy Norland. She was a challenging individual with a very clear voice and direct gaze. Within ten seconds she was the most attractive woman he’d ever been this close to. She resembled one of the actors on the television show Orange is the New Black, he couldn’t remember her name¹, and immediately he promised himself that he would never acknowledge the similarity, ever, even if she brought it up.

There was a problem with the lights, and they were taking a short break while the tech wrangled with it.

“You aren’t going to ask me for my phone number?”

“We’re colleagues,” Jesse said austerely. “Not really appropriate.” It was stretching it, but he was secretly thrilled and preferred to stay calm until he had a clearer idea of her intentions. ‘You’d be perfect for my girlfriend!’ was only one conversational tripwire. There were others.

“Colleagues — yuppers,” Paddy said. “I’ve never seen you before! Can I give you my phone number?”

“I won’t take your number, not until you hear the pre-existing conditions speech.”

“You have a pre-existing condition? What, like being gay?”

Jesse realized that he’d gone Sixer; he felt the pressure of her questions in ways that seemed foreign to him.  George don’t fail me now. “Affectional and sexual orientation can change, but I’m convinced I’m straight.”

“Like, straight no pegging? — or straight no homo?”

“I’m happy to take Dan Savage’s advice to straight boys on the subject,” Jesse said, keeping his face calm as a middle path between a Cernunnos-style over the shoulder ravishing and a childish giggle. What subject, exactly, they were talking about now seemed clear. It took all of his childhood training to keep his face relaxed and open.

She absorbed his comment with an expression of thoughtful agreement. Taking a breath, she continued to throw down questions. “What do you do when muscle worshippers hit on you in clubs?”

“I say, ‘Thanks man, I play for the other team’. If they offer me money, I recommend a guy I ran into once who’s a specialist.” He reached for his wallet and extracted a card. It was a sex trade worker’s business card, all right, and rather scuffed. She looked at it, and her eyebrows popped up in surprise, and then down as she made a scowly little smile.

“You must have some clue how fucking gorgeous you are, though, eh?” She handed the card back, touching his fingers unnecessarily. 

“I wasn’t 10 years ago.  Keep telling me how gorgeous I am,” Jesse said, putting the card away and bringing his palms toward his face like a celebrity accepting plaudits, —”it don’t get boring.”

“About your pre-existing condition….”

“No, not herpes. I have solar urticaria; I’m allergic to the sun.”

“And you live in Vancouver,” she said with amusement.

“If the sun hits me, my eyes swell up and then my throat closes and I die.” He brought up his forefinger, closed and crossed out his eyes, and stuck his tongue out sideways.

“Holy shit. Do you have any other allergies?”

“Aspens, latex and bullshit.” That line of patter came out easily, after helping train all those med students.

“Your honesty is suspicious, ya know? I don’t really see a problem though.  I’m nocturnal myself – I got turned around in film school and never really came back.”

Jesse slowly allowed his happiness at this remark to command every muscle in his face. They looked at each other, smiling. A man emerged from the 7-11 and, while paused to light a smoke, said, “Get a room!” to them. 

“You paying?” Jesse said, without thinking.  The man blew a raspberry and walked away.

“Charm City North,” Paddy said.

No fun city.

Jesse smirked, and then Jesse became solemn, because another trap lay ahead.

“Dealbreaker number two: I’m poly.  Getting involved with someone new means renegotiating previously existing relationships.”

There was a short but not hostile pause.

“Plural.”

“Roger that.”

“How do you find time?” This with envy, irritation, admiration.

“You seem like an accomplished and focussed person. I don’t have to explain it to you. “

“I’m punctual, too! – and please do explain it to me,” she said, grinning her face off. “I gotta know if you’re really polyamorous, or you’re just a dog with mad time management skills and a Plenty of Fish profile.” She was cough-laughing as she said this.

“I don’t think I feel safe talking about my partners to you,” Jesse said, after a long pause. He knew Lark would have broken into a slow clap, hearing that. “How’s this. You give me your number, I’ll text you where and when the next poly meet is. I’ll go to the meet and you can make up your mind about whether I’m poly or ‘just a dog with a calendar’.” Jesse’s tone was soft and his face unthreatening.

 “I just completely fucked over any chance of getting with you.”

Jesse was about to say something that was a Jane Austen scale masterpiece of sense and tact, and then the tech came back with his thumbs up. Their eyes met, Jesse’s expression saying, ‘Well?’ and Paddy’s saying, ‘Big oops’. Paddy sucked on her teeth and returned to their business.

Load out ran late, and he had to put his mask on, which he hated, because it stank no matter how and how often he washed it, and the sweat from his face would wick into the fabric.

Paddy reappeared in front of him, marvelling at the mask.

“I’m glad you think it looks cool.” Jesse sounded muffled.

“Here’s my number,” she said. “First beer’s on me,” and the fiery trails her ass left in his imagination as she departed kept him company on the ride home.

He was almost happy the phone had woken him up. 

He texted Paddy.

“I didn’t grow up with a cell phone and I prefer IRL so expect me to be terse, slow to respond and unclingy. Really, really, want the opportunity for anything from a balloon ride to a movie. Tell me when to show up and what gear I should bring.”

Then, because he wasn’t an idiot, he turned the business phone off, and his own phone too, so he wouldn’t be lying there with his heart pounding and the possibility of four hours’ uninterrupted sleep migrating south with the mountain jays as he listened for that fucking ping to tell him that he’d won a free plastic coating for his car, since it probably wouldn’t be her anyway.

Having acted, he could sleep.

His happiness on seeing that it was almost suppertime when he woke up — the longest stretch of sleep he’d had since he’d been possessed by a god — was snuffed when he checked for messages. There was a text on the business line from someone wanting to interview him for a local weekly.

“No — thanks!” Jesse said. He was going to erase the message, but who knew, perhaps George would see things differently, so he kept it. And nothing from Paddy.

¹ Natasha Lyonne, if anybody cares.

He’d put away the dishes when the phone pinged.

“I asked around. You seem to have a reputation.  The cops frickin hate you but at least one of your clients thinks you’re awesome.”

Jesse’s heart thudded.   

She’d sent a link. Sighing, he clicked it.

There was, on a social media page, an earnest four hundred word wall o’ text, crammed with ellipses and emojis, from someone called 44liy4h2oo0. She described how a dreamy guy named Jesse had saved her sister from two Sikh gangstas with guns.

“Oh, Aaliyah,” Jesse said. It always comes as such a shock when brown people don’t get along, but when Poles hate Germans nobody’s surprised.

He texted Paddy.

“A great recommendation. Too bad nothing apart from the move happened as she described.”

The phone rang. “I thought I’d call.”

“Awesome,” Jesse said.  It was stupid, and George had commented that his use of the word came closer to being a vocal tic than true communication; or that it was like birdsong, but not as charming. Michel was a jerk about other things.

“So you’re a local hero,” Paddy said.  Jesse could feel her winding up for more questions.

“George identified the need.  We charge a lot of money, so heroic is maybe not quite the right word.”

“I was thinking of filming a five minute documentary about Midnite Moving, something you could use to raise awareness that could also serve as an ad. Also, you’re very well-spoken, you should think about TED-X.”

Jesse burst out laughing.  Then he sobered and said, “I think it’s a fantastic idea.” Subtext: If it means I get to hang out with you. “My colleagues, on the other hand, will probably say no.”

“I knew you’d say that. You want to get together and bang out a script?”

“I barely finished high school and I can’t really type,” Jesse said, avoiding the question.

“Fine, I’ll sit cross-legged with my lap top and play scribe,” Paddy said.

Naked, I hope.

Aloud, he said, “We broke a lot of laws, doing this work.  If we bring attention to ourselves, I’m the one that will go to jail.”

“For what?” she asked in disbelief.

“Theft over,” Jesse said, thinking about the furniture from the British Properties move. He and George had gone through the entire Criminal Code of Canada, and it had been very disturbing to realize how fast he’d become blasé at the prospect of another charge. “Assault, robbery, forcible confinement, stealing a cop’s service weapon — sorry, I don’t know the statute — breaking and entering, being unlawfully in a dwelling place, disguise with intent, possession with trafficking — of stolen goods, not dope — theft from mail, bringing into Canada property obtained by crime, various false pretences charges, pretending to practice witchcraft —”

“Whoa, whoa! Who pretended to practice witchcraft?”

“Not me, but I’d probably get blamed for it.”

“You’re serious.  You’ve done all those things.”

“Collectively we did, and the police when they’re laying charges throw everything they can.  I only did about a third of all that, and I don’t assault anybody, mostly because I’m a very devout coward with no martial arts training.”

She made a noise of disbelief.

Jesse said, “We almost rustled cattle, but dude sold it before we got there.”

“This is incredible.”

“That I will not deny. Do you want the rest of the list?”

“What, did you memorize it?”

“I wanted to; we kept adding to the list of charges,” Jesse said apologetically. “Fraudulently obtaining transportation, falsifying employment records — there are other crimes but I can’t remember them and I think you’ve gotten the point.  George knows them all.”

“You are a bad boy,” Paddy said.

“You really wouldn’t say that if you saw my face when someone pulls a gun on me.  Fortunately my colleagues have the badassery covered.”

“I should meet them.”

“You think so now.  You’d regret it later.”

There was a long pause.

“Are you protecting them or me?”

“Ha. I’m in no position to protect anyone.  It’s friendly advice.”

“Can you set up a meeting?”

Jesse’s heart sank. “I’ll ask them, but I don’t think you’ll get much traction.  Michel will start lying the instant you meet him, and George’s ability to not answer questions is almost godlike.”

“You really don’t want me to meet them.”

“I’d love you to meet them.” Michel’s googly admiration and hijinks would be something to see.  “If they don’t see any good coming from the meeting, you won’t get the chance.”

“Give me their contact info, I’ll deal with it.”

See, this is the point where being poly is very, very useful.  If I was super lonely and desperate to make an impression, I’d say sure even though I know it’s a bad idea. But I can say no.  I can say no and mean it. I can say no!

He softened it, a little. “I’m sorry, but no.”

“I’ll turn you in to the cops,” she said.

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

“I’ve been truthful, with the intention of building a relationship, and your response is to make threats. Now that I know what kind of person you are, buh-bye. Lose my number.” He hung up. She called and texted non-stop, and he blocked her. It was probably time to get another burner phone. She filled the voicemail on the business phone, which put the nail in the coffin.  If her self-regard was so high she thought nothing of preventing other women from getting access to Midnite Moving Co., she was the type of asshole Jesse did not need in his life.

Jesse emailed his poly partners separately, saying that he was feeling gross and could use some company in the next couple of days, and went downtown to get as drunk as he could without injuring himself. At one point he remembered walking out of the Cobalt toward False Creek and heaving his phone into the water. He somehow got home safe before dawn, which was good. He was so upset he’d left the house without his sungear. 

“Something’s wrong,” Michel said. “My hairs are wiggling, they won’t lie flat.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jesse said. They’d just pulled up to the house in their brand-new used truck.  Jesse parked it close to his apartment at night, like half the tradespeople in Burnaby.

“They tell me things,” Michel said.  “But sometimes they whisper to themselves and sometimes they yell.”

“What do they say about Kima?” Jesse asked, amused. He wasn’t concerned about something being wrong. He was never concerned about anything when he was with Michel. It was, now that they had a working understanding, very relaxing. Afterward, he realized that relaxing around Michel was a mistake — and that it was no longer possible to pretend he didn’t need treatment for his PTSD.

“I think they like her even better than I do!” Michel said enthusiastically. “But there’s still something wrong,” he added. “There’s smoke that isn’t a house fire.”

Jesse got out of the truck and banged on the door.  It was a small, elderly, overgrown house in that strange part of Burnaby between Marine Drive and Marine Way.

There was a loud scraping noise, a thump, and then he heard heavy footsteps on the way to the door.

An intense looking man opened the door.  He saw Jesse, and the moving truck beyond him, and slammed it closed again.

Heart pounding, Jesse yelled through the door, “Where’s Melissa!?”

His chin out like Mussolini, Michel abruptly appeared beside him on the front step.

“We could call the cops,” Michel said. “But that’s never any fun. Give me a second.” Then he grabbed Jesse and threw him to one side, since whoever was on the other side of the door was about to discharge a shotgun through it. The buckshot tinkled harmlessly to the concrete, from where it had struck Michel. Jesse, deafened, didn’t notice at first that he’d been grazed. It was no worse than a bad cat scratch, but it was the first time he’d ever been shot.

Michel, enjoying himself, said, “Calice, what a welcome!” and vanished. Jesse meantime stood to one side at the bottom of the steps while Michel effected ingress by shoving his hand through the hole in the door and snapping the locks open. He then leaned on the door and as it opened said, “Nope nope nope you don’t get to reload.  Get one that takes more rounds next time! I don’t think you heard my young friend. Where’s Melissa?”

There was a squawk, but no words.

“Please don’t kill him,” Jesse called, chiding. “He can’t talk if he can’t breathe.”

He approached the door and saw Michel restraining the man from behind, one enormous hand over most of his face.

Squatting, he said, “I’m Jesse, and this is Michel.  Michel used to kill people for a living.” This, to encourage the man not to squirm too much. Michel dropped his hand so their unpleasant new acquaintance could talk.

“He’s too late,” the man rasped. “I could have used him, but the bitch is already dead.” Unseen by the man, Michel dropped his jaw about a meter, and then closed it up again.

Jesse, panic-stricken, tore through the house, upstairs and down, but apart from the torn-apart and spilled cardboard boxes, and a tiny amount of bloodsmear from what looked like a hurried shower, there was no sign of her.

“Trunk,” Michel said, and tossed Jesse the man’s keys.

He got out his Maglite® and, after apologizing to every atheist who ever lived, asked Cernunnos for strength. As if in response, a lilac bush shed some water on him.

He realized he’d tracked through her blood on the way to the door and his mouth filled with saliva.  He could smell the blood now in the damp, chilly air.  He paused and tried to control his breathing and nausea. George could probably smell it half a mile away, and Michel must have known before he even got out of the truck. There was blood, smeared and sticky, all over the bumper and trunk, and a small pool of it where it looked like someone had set down a body.

Jesse started to shake. Part of him wanted to flee, but the other part, the part that Raven said was the best part of him, opened the trunk in hope she hadn’t lost too much blood.

Melissa Rodrigues’ sightless eyes looked back. The shotgun blast that killed her had destroyed her neck and some of her chin. Likely she had died more or less instantly.

Jesse gently closed the trunk without securing the catch and called 911.  He moved away from the car and composed himself so he could be as useful as possible.

“Hi. My name’s Jesse Silver. I’m at the end of 14^th Ave southwest of Willard in the flats,” Jesse said, when the operator answered. “A woman named Melissa Rodrigues has been murdered here. I’m really sorry, I walked through the crime scene without knowing.”

“Are you safe?”

“The man we think did it is in the house, being sat on by my friend, so unless he has any friends showing up — ” And here Jesse paused.  If you’ve just murdered somebody in the middle of the night you don’t open the door unless you’re expecting someone.  He looked up the street, but saw neither movement nor light. “Yeah, I think so for the time being,” he added.

“Did you witness the murder?”

“No, but I found the body and the guy who confessed to it is still here.”

“If you have a vehicle please remain in it until the police arrive. What’s your friend’s name?

“Michel Calabria,” Jesse said slowly.  He realized they had big problems; they’d be wanting fingerprints for exclusion. “Shit,” he said. Then, “Sorry.”

“What’s happening?”

“My friend’s no fan of the RCMP,” Jesse said, prevaricating like mad, “So he probably won’t be here when they get here.”

He smelled disgusting smoke. He continued to answer the operator’s questions, confirming that the weapon in the house had been secured. Phone in one hand and flashlight in the other, he slowly circled the house, looking for the source of the smoke.  There was bloody clothing in a burn barrel.  Jesse, looking around, found a hose and, putting the flashlight in its holster, doused the fire to preserve the evidence and told the operator that’s what he was doing. He learned the cops were minutes out and got off the phone, although the operator offered to stay with him if that’s what he wanted.

Doing his best to stay out of the worst of the scene, he went back inside. Michel read his face, and had likely heard the phone call too — he and George seemed to be able to put ears on the ends of their tentacles and then stretch them out a long way. 

Michel gave his now-gagged captive a little squeeze, which nearly popped his eyes out. Michel kept the long white skinny zip ties on his person, and had used them lavishly, binding knees, ankles, elbows and wrists. As he said, “They hurt a lot more,” and he mocked George for using the more comfortable ones.

“Did I ever tell you,” Michel said softly, “that I only killed guys who deserved it?”

“Don’t, Michel, just — don’t,” Jesse said. “It won’t bring her back and this witless, violent, drunken fuckface should stand trial.”

The man’s phone rang and Jesse’s 230 pounds jumped into the air like a startled hare. Michel made a face at his cowardly response, and mimicking his captive’s voice perfectly, picked his pocket and answered, “Yeah.”

“Ignore the truck, I took care of them,” he growled. He hung up.

“He should stand trial along with this waste of skin,” Jesse said. “He’s obviously coming to help dispose of her body.”

Michel stood over their captive and gave him a light, almost affectionate kick.

“You’re gonna be mad at me, seeing as how you’re almost puking, but I’m having a really good time.  Keep an eye on him. See you in a minute!” He bounded off across the lawn and vanished, heading toward the closest intersection to await their visitor.

Jesse righted a chair and sat looking down on his client’s murderer. Her face kept being superimposed over his. He blinked.

“Michel’s going to collect your friend,” Jesse said. “You’ll both be in custody by morning.”

Two squad cars arrived, sirens blaring.  Jesse moved slowly down the front stairs, hands well in the air.

“On your knees,” bellowed a white cop in his thirties, drawing his weapon and pointing it at Jesse.

“I called it in!” Jesse said. It didn’t matter. They put him on the wet ground and frisked him. “Thanks a pantload, Michel,” Jesse said.

“Who’s Michel,” the same cop barked again.

“He’s the poor slob who’s trying to catch the friend of the murderer who is driving toward us right this instant to help the clown inside this house bury his wife,” Jesse said bitterly.  “By showing up, sirens blaring, you probably scared him off. Now you’ll have to actually do some police work to find him and question him.”

“You’d better adjust your tone,” the cop said.

His partner, whose ancestors had likely hailed from some part of India, sighed, and said flatly, “Where is the deceased.”

“Car trunk.  I left it unlocked,” Jesse said, glad to be dealing with a human being. “Can I get up now?”

“What happened here?” said a third cop, calling down from the front door. 

“Shotgun blast,” Jesse yelled back.

They had found the shotgun, an ATA Etro 8 Tactical, and Mr. Rodrigues.

“Who tied him up?”

“Michel,” Jesse said.

“Is he coming back?”

“Not likely. If you point a gun at him, you’ll wish you hadn’t,” Jesse said mutinously.

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“It’s my opinion, based on my observations of my coworker,” Jesse said, with less ire. “Can I get up now?” A hand on his shoulder said no.

“What were you and Michel doing here in the middle of the night?”

“There’s a dead dog with a gunshot wound back here,” Jesse heard the fourth cop yell.

“Christ,” Jesse said, realizing he’d probably walked right past it on his way to the burn barrel.

“You have something to do with it?”

“Nossir, but you, me and a civil suit are gonna have a go if you don’t let me stand up, Sir.” When it became obvious that cop number one was a large diameter douchenozzle, Jesse chose the saner course and answered an earlier question. “My coworker and I were hired to help Melissa with a household move, and to provide material and emotional support if the fucking dirtbag who just murdered her showed up.”

“You stay put until the scene is secure,” said cop number one, in a fine, offhand tone, as if he hadn’t believed a word Jesse had said.

Jesse puked on his shoes. Technically it wasn’t assault and the cop’s partner turned away, shoulders shaking, so Jesse figured it was all good. That burger and shake hadn’t been sitting right since he’d opened the trunk, so he let it go in two mighty heaves. The cop groaned in disgust and jumped back to avoid the second wave.

“I just saw a horribly injured dead body for the first time sir,” Jesse said, and spat, and then made a noise like he might hurl again. “And being yelled at and drawn on kinda finished me off.”

“Ya punk! You could have aimed somewhere else!” — this while shaking his pantlegs.

“Came on real sudden, sir,” Jesse said. 

Michel’s voice whispered in his ear.  “Look down the road and look pleased.”

“Well well,” Jesse said, doing exactly what he was told.

His attention got the cops’ attention.

Michel whispered, “Tell ’em to turn the cop lights off.”

“Turn the emergency lights off, he’s coming,” Jesse said.

They refused.

“Fuck me,” Michel whispered. “I hate it when I have to improvise. I’ll be out of range. Trust me and stay down.”

Jesse gave a strangled little cackle, which nearly triggered his vomit reflex again. “What the hell’s so funny,” said cop number one.

“That’s Michel out there in the dark,” Jesse said. “If I can’t predict what he’s gonna do, you’re pretty much euchred.”

After the longest two minutes of Jesse’s life thus far, Michel appeared out of the gloom walking down the road abreast a glassy-eyed man in his late thirties, whose gait was so unusual that both of the cops standing next to Jesse stood taller and craned their necks. “What the hell is wrong with that guy?” cop number two said.

“Is he walking funny?” Jesse asked. He couldn’t see from where he was kneeling.

“I’d say so,” said cop number one, with bemusement.

Jesse tried really hard not to laugh, since it would only end in him dousing his upper alimentary tract with a fresh coating of bile, an outcome he wanted to avoid. He held it back to one brief muffled noise, reminiscent of an old man coughing up a gob into a wadded handkerchief.

He could only imagine what Michel was doing to the man now, or what he planned when he arrived.

“Look dumb, stay motionless, say nothing,” Michel whispered.

The perfect job has found me! Why can’t it be like this all the time.

The man abruptly stopped walking funny and walked straight up to a cop.  “I’d like to assist the police any way I can,” he said.

“I’ll take your statement,” said cop number two. Looking beyond him, he said, “Where’d the other guy go?”

“Michel?” Jesse said.

“Took off and left you to deal with the mess. What a pal.” Cop number one was gloating.

“That’s okay, I was expecting it,” Jesse said. His knees were so cold they felt like they’d gone sledding with Amundsen.

Two more cops in plain clothes arrived. They went inside to chat with Rodrigues after confirming who everyone was.

“Can you explain why the buckshot is all lined up in a row on the front step?” said the third cop, approaching Jesse from behind, which was unpleasant, and then dropping into a squat next to him to scowl into his face.

“It realized it was being fired into Michel and fainted in terror,” Jesse said. George had said he’d never spend a night in jail as long as George had anything to say about it. Whether that useful promise had any legs, or tentacles, or any other organic means of locomotion whatsoever, was not clear. He remained hopeful.

The medical examiner and the forensics people arrived.

“Look, I was called here for a job, and a man tried to murder me and I found a dead woman who turned out to be my customer.  Can you arrest me, detain me for questioning indoors or release me please?”

Cop number three got up in disgust and walked away.

Michel chose that moment to arrive — except it wasn’t Michel. 

“Jesse!” Michel called.  Reassuringly, it was Michel’s voice coming out of the strange face.

“Michel,” Jesse said obediently.

“I called the lawyer with our location.”

“Really?” Jesse said, pleased.

“Also all the media, and your supervisor, you braindead anchor on the taxpayer’s ass,” Michel said, giving a little wave to cop number one. “With a little reminder about how not to treat people when they’ve called in a murder.”

“Now can I stand up?” Jesse asked.

“I took pictures of them all, too, since it’s not illegal to take pictures of officers from the street unless there’s an active shooter (I don’t see one) or an evacuation order (nope, nothing around here like that), or there’s a national security issue (nope, plain old everyday femicide) but even then judges can be fussy when they think the cops are bringing the administration of justice into disrepute.”

“You can’t wet a river,” Jesse said.

“I hear ya, kid, I hear ya,” Michel said, nodding thoughtfully.

“Would you try to focus sir,” — the word sir nearly imploded under the weight of his contempt — “and tell us what happened?” cop number one said.  His partner took notes.

“Jesse banged on the door. I heard the shotgun while I was coming up behind. I used a battering ram to shove Jesse to one side and the blast hit the battering ram.”

“Why would you take a battering ram to a client’s house?” cop number two asked, pausing in his dictation, appalled by such barbarism.

Michel was dismissive. “You think this is our first trip to Playland? We’ve both had guns pulled on us by unhappy exes, and had to get into places that had been barricaded by paranoid hoarders and crazed boyfriends and whacked-out landlords.”

“Don’t forget the pimp.” Jesse was not going to forget that night anytime soon.  George had turned up for that one.

“Where’s the battering ram now?”

Michel looked around, eyes wild and dubious. “Should be here somewhere.” Jesse tsk-tsked.  Michel was obviously pranking the cops, who would never find what had never been there.

“No record of Jesse Silver in the system,” cop number one said, coming back from his car. “How about you, Michel?”

“Here, have some ID.” The change in appearance made much more sense now.  He’d lifted some poor soul’s wallet and was skin-walking his way through the encounter with the cops. He felt sorry for whoever it was had parted with his wallet. Or maybe Michel had squirrelled it away well in advance. 

“The ID doesn’t say Michel.”

“It don’t when you were born a man and your true name is Michelle,” said Michel, softening his voice and raising his pitch a smidgen, “And you can see how much I look like the picture,” he said, presenting a profile and then replicating the blank expression on the driver’s licence. It was all Jesse could do not burst out laughing, so he looked down.

“Where’s your BC I.D.?” cop number one asked, eyes narrowed.

“I only just moved here from Montréal! Jesse can confirm,” said Michel. “I got three months, you officious dough head.”

Jesse said, “Can I please stand up now?”

Cop number two did something with his face, something Jesse couldn’t see.  Michel snickered. Cop number one, surly to begin with and angered by his partner’s apparent lack of support, said, “Sure. But don’t move.”

Jesse was sorely tempted to break into a two person conga line and motor away into the darkness while Michel allowed a week’s allotment of RCMP 9 mm ammo to rain down on his ass. Giving up the truck hardly seemed worth it, and he had to wait for the lawyer, now anyway. He was amazed that Michel, with George’s assistance, seemed to have had no trouble rousting out a lawyer at two a.m. It took a little under an hour for him to arrive. Michel mentioned he was coming from North Van.

When he pulled up, there was a stir. Supported by a slender young man a few years older than Jesse, a very pink and white old man in an expensive black suit slowly made his way to him.

“I’m representing you, it appears,” he said.  His voice was frail and breathy, but the intellect behind his eyes seemed unimpaired.

“My name is Cyrus Armbruster. You can call me Cy.  This is my son Colin.”

“Grandson Colin,” the young man corrected gently.

“Yes. It’s your father’s fault for naming you after himself.” This appeared to be a gag of some standing, and Colin sighed but did not speak.

“Sir, aren’t you a retired B.C. Supreme Court judge?” cop number three asked hesitantly. Cop number two, realizing this was true, slipped inside to warn the others.

“Why, yes, I am!” the old man said, delighted to have been recognized. Colin gave Jesse a lopsided grin. “So young man, have the police been harassing you? My understanding is that you reported a murder and now they’re treating you like you did it.”

One of the detectives could be heard yelling, “What?” through the open front door.

Cop number one looked like he wanted to chew on some Tums®.

“I just want to go to the station house to get my fingerprints done for exclusion and go home,” Jesse said, suddenly realizing that even if he did get home within the next couple of hours, sleep would be impossible.

“Well, gentlemen?” the retired justice asked, smiling with welcoming calm.

“Don’t leave town,” growled cop number one.

“Jesse, will you undertake not to leave town?”

“I promise I will not leave the Lower Mainland without informing the RCMP for the duration of this investigation,” Jesse said promptly.

“Michel?”

“Nah, I can’t do that.”

“Michel.”

“Nah, I can’t do that.  I won’t leave town or go more than 20 k out in the water. Love fishing you know.  It’s why I moved to BC!”

“I’m not letting them leave until I search the truck,” cop number one said.

“Got a warrant?” Michel asked.

“Michel, your steadfast defence of your hard-won liberties is a credit to you, but in this case, there’s no harm in the police searching your work vehicle. Unless you think there’s a reason not to.”

“It’s not my truck, it’s the company’s. Your say-so, you’re the company lawyer.” Michel turned aside with apparent indifference.

Jesse took out the keys and opened the cab and the back doors. The old man and his grandson went back to their car to wait it out.

Cop number one, assisted with obvious distaste by his partner, took his sweet fucking time, but after about twenty minutes he realized that he would probably have to dig his career prospects out from under a disciplinary letter — or worse — if he kept it up.

While they were waiting, Jesse went over to the judge’s car. Colin rolled the window down. 

“Do you know about our friends?” Jesse said.

“I only met George before tonight,” Colin said, not misunderstanding. “Michel is something else.”

“Do not talk about it,” said the judge, in a voice that had once commanded a courtroom.

“Colin, old buddy, I just replaced my phone and I lost your number,” Jesse said, winking badly.

Frowning, the judge decided to ignore the rest of the conversation.

“Sure.” They exchanged contact details and a knowing look that promised alcohol-fuelled revelations.

Emerging from the truck, cop number one looked at Jesse and Michel with a contempt that did not dare express itself in full, and said, “I’m keeping my eye on you. I don’t know what you’re doing here but I know you’re up to something. Kids like you don’t have pull like this.”

“Colin and I are drinking buddies,” Jesse said.  The lie came easily, and Colin’s number was now on his phone.

“All we do is move furniture while complaining about the police, sir,” Michel said. “Last I checked none of that was a crime.”

“Get lost,” cop number one said.

“Get fucked,” Michel said, waving, as soon as the door closed and Jesse had started the truck.

Jesse was inclined to agree.

A news van turned onto 14^th just as they were pulling away, which was lucky for them since they now had a nice big parking space in front of the crime scene.

The man whose identity had been purloined was asleep, and he would have been startled to hear that he’d been stopping buckshot in Burnaby while sawing logs in Côte des Neiges.

Michel ground up the ID later that night. He had spares, of course.

Thirty seconds after their departure, the detectives emerged from the house and told everyone not to sweat it.  It was open and shut.  The phone calls proved it.  The asshole friend gave up Rodrigues, the gun matched, the bloody clothes in the burn barrel were his, and each of the four discharges had a matching hole. One in Melissa, one in the door, two in the poor dog.

The weird ballistics at the front door weren’t an issue. The movers had gotten lucky, that was all.