XIX Dragon E The Chauffeur

19d The Chauffeur 

A police blockade cuts the access to Capois-la-Mort Boulevard at the corner of Lysius-Salomon in the business area. The kids have decorated the streets with multicolored banderoles and prismatic pennons. They also put heavy-duty waterproof loudspeakers in every corner. A block party is announced. The prisoner transport vehicle must slow down in front of the Scotia Bank to avoid a tragedy. A desperate group of people slept on site and in the middle of the road, hoping to be the first to profit from the reopening of the financial district. Guito and Djon Djon are among them, walking barefoot and swathed in rags. 

The two homeless scoundrels are still trying to sell insurance policies for their Petit-Goäve Life unregistered company. They are collecting account numbers and personal information from imprudent citizens who are too indisposed by exhaustion and hunger to think straight. Guito and Djon Djon do not give any guarantee to anyone, but they keep telling suckers who trust them they found a digital way to get inside the vault of the bank on the Dark Net. Albin honks them. He waves at Guito, who comes running. 

"We want to go to Fresnel's barbershop, Guito. What is the best way to avoid any more roadblocks and reach Céligny-Ardouin Street fast?" 
"Keep going forward until you reach Place Edmond-Laforest, then make a left on Thomas-Madiou. Don't go on René-Despestre even if it looks quiet. A twisted individual has been distributing free liquor and gas tanks to the most ruthless delinquents of the commune since morning. Drive around the open-air market and go across the cinema's parking lot. You will end up on Boisrond-Canal. From there, impossible to go anywhere on four wheels, a bunch of ex-cons have erected a tribunal on Place Charlemagne-Péralte, so they can hang opponents to their newly acquired freedom. Guess what? People are watching executions like if they were sporting events. The judge in charge is a wanted cattle thief and the bailiff a known arsonist. That gives you an idea of what is legally going on there. Keep driving until you pass George-Anglade Street. You just have to jump the fence behind Cyril The Cobbler Lavache's house and you'll technically end up in Frenesl Beltias's backyard. I say technically, because the barber never came up with the documents to prove that this property really belongs to his family since the era of Antoine Simon. Failing to find those said papers would automatically make his oil bonds worthless. I see that you are carrying some fresh meat in our regular van. What have they done? I can serve as their lawyer if they have none. I have been arrested so often that I've become a self-taught legal eagle."  
"They are not prisoners, bonehead. These are two well respected civil servants. People you normally see on television."  
"We must hurry, Albin," the auditor general urges. 
"I recognize that voice, Guito says, managing to get his head inside the prisoner transport vehicle. Goddamn! It's Missionnaire. Djon Djon! bring your dumb ass over here. Guess who's been arrested for fraud?"  
"They are not criminals, you idiot," Picot says. 
"So what are they doing in the back of our regular truck?"  
"Who got busted?" Djon Djon asks from accross the street. 
"Missionnaire!"  
"Get out of here, Guito. Don't you know, Missionnaire is deceased? Vidal Gascon swore last week, he's the mysterious philanthropist who wrote Missionnaire's eulogy and paid the burial flowers from his own pockets." 
"Vidal Gascon also claims to be Blanket Jackson's father and the designer of Windows 7, Djon Djon. Come over here and see for yourself, he is right here. My eyes don't lie. So, Missionnaire, you came back in town to regain control of the River of Hope NGO? It is indeed difficult to turn away from a vocation. This country needs more men like you and I, devoted people, ready to come back from the dead to achieve an unfinished job." 
"I'll put River of Hope back on its feet when I'm done with the investigation," the auditor general says. "I give you my word."  
"You're losing precious time, Mr. Gingras," Picot warns the comptroller. "Guito's breath tells me he won't remember a thing of that conversation in an hour."  
"I live in the streets," Guito reminds Picot. "You do know it is the best place to gather information. I always respected you, Missionnaire. We know how to identify heroes from where I come from. If you need me for anything, you just call me."  
"Call you on what?" Albin asks with scepticism. "Show me your phone." 
"It's not on me at the moment."  
"We're looking for Moïse Berri, the auditor general reveals. 
"The guy who juggles with torches on the Dessalines wharf? No, that's Maurice Déry. What does that Berri-Berri cat do with his life to make him sound so special to you?" 
"He is the president of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation."  
"Aaah! you mean, Billionaire? The world is so small. Djon Djon and I spied on Chief Police Malvoisin and Mayor Amédée Fleurinor for Billionaire in the past. The pay was really good, many times in five-star bottles. Sometimes, when Pyram would get me out of jail too early, I had to come up with a reason to get rearrested on the same day, in order to pursue my task and be able to fill up a decent report and get paid." 
"I am here to put this international thief behind bars, where he belongs. Do you know where I might find him?"    
"Billionaire is walking around town with Victor Gourdet and his newly created new steam. If you go by the Our Lady of Seven Sorrows church, you'll probably bump into them. Last time we met, Victor Gourdet was planning to overthrow the corrupted municipal administration. But you must hurry, Hollywood wants a piece of them, now that they went viral on YouTube. We thought Billionaire was a shy boy. But in front of the cameras, he is a talking beast, a fairly eloquent speaker, I tell you."   
"You said Moïse Berri paid you to spy on the mayor and the commissioner. When was that?" 
"Don't believe everything that drunkard states, Mr. Auditor," Albin intervenes. 
"What can you tell me about Malvoisin or Fleurinor, I don't already know?" the newly appointed chief audit executive asks Guito. 
"Billionaire paid me in abundance to hear me sing. If I start giving singing lessons and throw away valuable information with my sexy voice just like that for free, the laws of the market will be greatly affected." 
"Just tease me a bit. We'll see the reaction from my wallet after." 
"All right. The drugs and and the weapons business in all the Department? Well it's all him; Malvenu Senior is a.k.a. the Big Boss. The commissioner works with Willy Bossal and Burns Breton. Do you think all the caskets in the cemetery have corpses resting in them? If you do, you're dumb, I'm blind and a lot of people with missing family members have lost their mind. I saw things you can speak out loud, Missionnaire." 
"I knew about all that," Rogatien Gingras lies. 
"Really? What if I told you, Mayor Fleurinor is planning to sell a good chunk of the area and its newly discovered oil to a Uruguyan conglomerate that infiltrated the MINUSTAH at the highest level? How much are you willing to pay to listen to the rest of the song and hear the bridge and chorus part where I name names in C major?" 
"How much do you want, Mr. Guito?" 
"The way you're holding that briefcase, I'm afraid to ask you what it contains. But the watch will do. I smell cinnamon, vanilla and rose gold. Is the movement Swiss?"  
"I have a better idea, Mr. Guito,"  the auditor general replies,  suddenly cold and very distant. "We are in a hurry right now, but I promise to get you arrested before sundown. When I'm alone with you, I'll find all the information I need inside your ascending colon with the right sharp stainless steel instruments." 

The unexpected reappearance of Rogatien Gingras in the messy backyard of Frenel Beltias after months of absence is a jaw-dropping surprise. Vidal Gascon told the barber a while ago, that the French-Canadian known affectionately by the barbershop's clientele as Missionnaire was killed in Tanzania by a pack of wandering vagabond hyenas, during a safari that went horribly wrong. Isidore Mullet was told on his part by the same Vidal, Missionnaire died near Bassora, after voluntarily drinking a suspicious and malodorous mixture, probably poison hemlock with a pinch of sodium cyanide, during a game of truth or dare with a team of Blackwater mercenaries, Kurdish translators and Baghdadi defectors. But once their debilitating fear and astonishment gone, the two besties conclude, zombie, miracle or White man science, it doesn't really matter, the most important thing is having their beloved and whimsical client back to life and thirsty for a drink. 

When the booze hits home, Rogatien Gingras tells Isidore and Fresnel about what brings him back in town. The auditor general informs them about the goal and the object of his investigation. Fresnel Beltias and Isidore Mullet are out of words when they learn Director, the guy people respectfully called Billionnaire, Brainiac or President, was in fact the legendary Moïse Berri, not a former actor named Lee Van Cleef, like Vidal Gascon kept repeating. Fresnel and Isidore both spied on the president of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation on many occasions and for various employers. There was a time when Fresnel Beltias only went to Club Kompa Lakay so he could report to Chief Police Malvenu about Director's every moves and every words. Fresnel worked for Malvenu, so he could reimburse the retro style barber chairs the Commissioner had him shipped from Flatbush Avenue, Brooklyn, New York. Isidore Mullet glued a GPS emitter under Billionaire's limousine for Amédée Fleurinor, so the mayor could erase all his unpaid fines. Fresnel Beltias remembers from his short experience that Director acted just like a puppet, like if everything he said or done was written on a script he followed religiously. Isidore thinks likewise of the pattern-like itineraries Billionaire's limousine would always take. It seems to him every trip the president of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation took in that car was carefully programmed by a third party, other than the driver.

"So, Missionnaire, how about you get rid of that dead rodent on your head, and I give you the usual cut, short on the sides and long in the back?" 
"I didn't come here for my hair, Fresnel. That wig is in fact a computer headset, it's part of my work equipment. I have to meet here with a former employee of Senator Fleurant on neutral ground. He knows things that could be very helpful to the inquiry." 
"Could it be Archibald?" 
"We were not introduced, but I was told he regularly  drove Moïse Berri's limousine."  
"Shit! Archibald was just here with us. God is my witness. He left five minutes ago. When he told me about that auditor general story, I thought he was pulling my leg or trying to get a free hairdo. Let's face it, Auditor General is not the most popular title in this country. I don't think it exists in the ACS Union. It sounds so Canadian and G7. I was not aware such a profession existed." 
"Archibald is still here," Isidore Mullet signals, pointing his index fingers. "He is hiding under the ruins of the front steps of the house. Archie said he would not leave until he spoke to you. He's convinced someone out there is planning to kill him. Sent by someone who prefers the shadows to prevent him from shedding light on certain issues. I thought he was high on magic mush and ganja because of his dilated pupils, unusual fervor and pinkish eyes. I understand now that Archibald was just terrified. Let's go get him. He is all hunched over himself, shaking like a leaf and conversing with imaginary friends." 

When he hears Rogatien Gingras whisper his name behind him, the driver automatically comes back to his senses and pulls out a polymer pistol from his waist. Archibald aims the weapon at the head of Picot. Albin puts his right hand on his forehead for security and prevention measures. Picot tries to look elsewhere, ignoring the Walther P99 pointed directly at his cerebrum. 

"Have you lost your mind?" the chauffeur thunders, "What are you doing with these two Judas, Mr. Missionnaire?"  
"Well, Picot and Albin are my bodyguards," the newly selected financial controller of the Heritage Funds clarifies. "You can lower your weapon, Mr. Archibald. That nice lady is Madame Prospérine, the interim president of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation. Her brother is Boss Elzéar's mechanic, Lordy. You know Fresnel the barber and Isidore the Wi-Fi guy. We're all a bunch of friends here, everybody cool." 
"Those two monkeys right here work for the enemy. They lure people into believing asylum means sanctuary; that it has something to do with human rights or political oppression. You wake up one day and realize, asylum means they lock you up against your will with a bunch of mentally ill odd birds and feed you sour candies or poke you with needles day and night until saliva drops from your mouth and American B movies with subtitles make you laugh; normally. What's up with that blood sample scam? What have they done with all those vials of hemoglobin they took from me? Were they sold on the black market in Puerto-Rico? Anemia is what they left me with. That explains the whispers behind my back whenever I close my eyes. Why do I constantly feel persecuted, watched and followed? There talking about me right now as we speak. Enough said, bottom line is: you should have hired professionals, Mr. Missionnaire, complete strangers. We don't want to experience more of that confusion business, now, do we?" 
"I... I don't know what to say, Mr. Archibald. I'm sorry for the torments they put you through. My bosses picked them for me. Picot and Albin only drive me around and take care of my protection, nothing else, nothing more." 
"So the people who gave you that job must also be part of the whole damn conspiracy, Mr. Missionnaire." 
"You seem a little bit on the nervous side, Mr. Archibald. If you put down the firearm, which is loaded with the safety switch off, we could throw some good old common sense and light on this unfortunate situation in a calmer atmosphere. Why don't we go back inside the house?"  
" So you think I'm completely detached from reality? That's a quick diagnosis. Tell me, Mr. Missionnaire, where do you see a house, exactly? There are three walls and a yard filled with garbage, rocks and bricks. The two  vintage barber chairs and the beer cases give us the illusion that we are indeed in a barbershop, but when you take the time to analyse things in details, there is absolutely nothing. Do you hear me, Mr. Missionnaire? Void, void, void, there is unquestionably diddly!" 
"Okay, that's it for me," Prospérine de Grâce mutters, trembling.  "He's going to shoot us all. My legs feel like springs. I am going to faint. Please protect my skull when I hit the ground. Saint-Joseph! Why is it dark so early?" 
"I need more oxygen, people!" Fresnel Beltias screams before he blacks out and go full horizontal. 
"Please put that handgun away, Mr. Archibald, I beg you. See what kind of emotions you are fuelling, feeling the bad vibrations?" 
"The equalizer stays close, Sir, my index on the trigger, the cannon cold and ready. You and me; we find a quiet corner to sort things out and do some beauty-parlor chitchat. The barber, Mullet Dot Org and the stylish semi conscious lady can stay, but everybody looks at their own feet. Some people read lips like they read lies in tea leaves. How about those two stray dogs you brought with you, I can hear you think? Well, I want them out. Woosh ! You can't be trusted if you've followed any orders from Oscar Perceval on a daily basis. Go take a walk on the other side of the street, Picot. Go on, bring your affectionate boyfriend with you. That's right, Albin, I'm talking to you. It's normal if you feel like shitting in your pants right now. A message from my nine millimetre Saturday-night-special : you come back one sorry second before I'm gone and I shoot you both. Bang! bang! bang! the third bullet is for me or for whoever has a problem with the program." 

While a concerned Prospérine and a spooked Isidore Mullet are attempting to bring Fresnel Beltias from dreamland, using slaps on both cheeks, leg pulling and brutal kicks to the ribcage, Picot and Albin goes for ice cream cones, two streets further at Les Glace Arc-en-Ciel. Rogatien Gingras is left alone with Archibald, sitting side by side on the faux antique barber chairs. 

"Are you certain we are not being filmed, Mr. Missionnaire? Are you sure no one but you touched that briefcase?" the edgy chauffeur asks the comptroller for the fourth consecutive time. 
"Once again, I am positive, Mr. Archibald. We should try changing subject; focus on something else." 
"They are everywhere, you understand?" 
"I only see broken stones, debris and a lot of junk around us, Mr. Archibald. There's simply no strategic place to hide a microphone. Tell me, Mr. Archibald, do you think the other employees of the Senator are aware of the surveillance system at the villa?" 
"I don't believe so. I never talked about it because I didn't know who to trust. How do we know who's working for them?"  
"Who is them, Mr. Archibald?" 
"Don't play stupid with me. Them, means the people you are investigating. I won't mention any names because you already know who I'm talking about. One thing I'm sure of; if you interrogated a member of the staff who knew about the cameras, he lied to you or said what he was ordered to answer in order to please you know who."  
"You are very hard to follow, Mr. Archibald. How did you come to the conclusion all your moves were watched and all your words heard or recorded by... them?"  
"Pure coincidence. You see, I was, and still am, single for a couple of months now. Playing with my yoyo while surfing on pornographic web sites has turned into a standard procedure for me. It's biological. Who controls the testosterone levels in my blood? Not me. So one morning, I decide to open my emails spams instead of sending them straight to the trash. Here I was, all alone with a collection of nude pictures of chicks from Ukrain and Romania. Breasts were everywhere and pictured in every imaginable sizes; small, plunging, gigantic, pearced and even tattooed or spray painted. Some of them were looking at me and speaking in lust. Some were plastic like my handgun and others made out of silicone. I tried to resist, but little Archie was already out of control, standing hard and going left. I fought and prayed not to sin, mind over matter, until I got to work. My job that day was to go get the actor playing Moïse Berri at club Kompa Lakay, were he had fallen the night before, totally wasted and sleeping in his own vomit, and bring him back incognito to the villa. My task done, I ran to the washroom on the second floor and started to think about Elektra@21kinky, Miroslava@pussycat and all the other tities I had seen earlier that morning. This is between you and I, Mr. Missionnaire, you keep that with you to the grave. Don't ask me why I do this, but when I come, it's stronger than me, I dance like Chuck Berry, I do the Duckwalk and talk dirty to my dick. I say stupid things like: bad, bad, boy, you've done it again; or I sing a Beatles song from the psychedlic period. So while I'm going: Coo coo coo choo coo coo coo coo choo coo coo, I hear two or three people giggling. One of them even hums: I am the Walrus. I panic. I turn off the lights, trying to understand what the hell is going on. I automatically think about a television show like Punk'd or a movie like The Truman Show. But why would they choose me, I am a nobody? When my eyes got used to the obscurity, I realized the mirror of the bathroom was in fact an opaque window. Can you believe this? So I got out of there after washing my hands like if nothing happened. Three days later, I had located enough hidden microphones in the house to fill a giant container. My attitude at work changed drastically. Since that day, I have the impression of behind observed and followed everywhere I go. I knew a psychologist, but she died when the Montana Hotel crumbled in 2010. I know that most mental health experts are hiding because there is too much work, to many unglued individuals out there with no money or possessions. I have dealt drugs on the side, so I saved some dough. If you happen to know one a shrink, hook me up. Hurry, no one is watching. Write me the number using the letters of the alphabet. A means zero." 
"I'll bring you myself in a place where they'll take good care of you for the rest of your life if you want to or if they have to, but I have to finish this investigation first. You said you went to Club Kompa Lakay to pick up the comedian; does that mean the other man with the dull skin, the one who barely went out under the sun, was the real Moïse Berri?"
"Him too was just some puppet. Listen carefully, Mr. Missionnaire. Moïse Berri, the one and only… Probably the Devil, according to many unlucky souls who has dealt with him. Well he was killed on Tuesday, the night of the hurricane. How can I tell he was the real thing? His stinky perfume, my friend, a smell designed for women or men with a decision problem. I drove him around a couple of times this year and each time, he would leave that insupportable odour on the leather seats of the car. That man slapped Judge Zilérion Campbell right in front of me. That fat corrupted mandrill didn't move and inch and did not have the balls to reply. Do you know why? Because he was so scared of Moïse Berri that he completely froze; paralyzed. His brain was clearly telling his muscles to forget about it and move on. The judge's survival instinct was lying to his own flesh, ordering it to fake a coma. Saying something meant receiving another blow; hitting back meant death or maybe worse. I am ready to testify if you garantee my safety and a plane ticket for Des Moines, Iowa. New York is way too obvious. Let's go, show me where to sign."  
"So, if I hear you right, Mr. Archibald, you witnessed Moïse Berri's assassination on Tueasday?" 
"Indirectly... yes." 
"What do you mean, indirectly? What's next, you're going to tell me Vidal Gascon or one of his buddies in housekeeping told you that so and so saw the Boogyman or Chucky do something bad?" 
"Wednesday morning... are you listening? I show up to give her weekly shampoo to Penelope, that's what I call my limo. Who is there on his knees in the garage, wearing a green apron with flowers, scrubbing the interior of the Lincoln with soap and chloride? That's right, Mortimer Nordin, the assassin. He tells me we have forty-eight hours to get rid of Penelope, not by selling her, but by crushing and reducing her into a small cube. There's a big red stain on the back seat. ImI not dumb, so I avoid asking hired gun Nordin any more stupid questions. I analyze things like Colombo or Poirot would; real fast. We have a hit man working for Willy Bossal trying to erase fresh blood from the President of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation's car. If it doesn't smell like murder, what does it stink like?"  
"We'll need more proofs than that in a court of law to prove an homicide," the auditor general says. "The Judge will ask for a motive, a weapon and a body."  
"The motive is right there. The Senator wanted Moïse Berri eliminated so he could appropriate to himself the money laundering system Berri built. The weapon is simply Mortimer Nordin. Everything that snake approaches dies on contact. And I bet that the body will soon be found floating in the river or tucked in a coffin in the cemetery."  
"What tells us that body will be the one of the real Moïse Berri, Mr. Archibald?"  

XIX Celcius E The Investigation

19c The Investigation 

The foursome arrives at the top of the hill called, Morne de la Gloire, in the prisoner transport vehicle of the municipal jail, driven by Albin. The magnificence of the villa is a terrible insult to the poor. Its garden are inspired by Versailles and its fountains by Rome. The central alley that leads to the main entrance is lined with stone monuments and wood sculptures. The massive front door looks like a medieval cathedral gate. Church bells weighing hundreds of tons are scattered randomly on the front lawn. They are covered with lichen and eaten away by rust. These bronze idiophones give guests the impression of walking into an open sky sophisticated museum. 

The residence is surrounded by the UNPOL. The orders are clear and specific: no one or nothing can enter or exit the senator's mansion without Captain Pintado's authorization. The junior officer in charge of guarding and protecting the imposing house refuses to bargain with the pleading auditor general. When Prospérine de Grâce tells him about the underground gallery, the young man immediately warns his superiors in Port-au-Prince. 

A short time after, Rogatien Gingras and Prospérine are given permission to enter the place and proceed with their investigation. But they must go in alone, meaning without Picot and Albin, but be escorted at all time by two french speaking soldiers. 

Just like they anticipated, Senator Fleurant and Judge Campbell are gone with the wind, but the staff of the manor gladly offers their help and assistance. All the employees have been deprived of salary since Friday, so everyone is eager to collaborate with the investigators. They all expect some sort of compensation and surely hope that justice will be applied without discrimination. 

The newly appointed financial controller sets up a temporary interrogation room in the librairy of the villa. The list of witnesses he intends to question includes the housemaid of the senator, his butler, the villa's chef and the driver. The names of Fleurant's gardener, washerwoman and interior decorator are scratched off; a cross, a smiley face and the letters R.I.P. are added to their signature. The available employees sit quietly in the study next door, a vast antechamber filled with portraits and paintings of the Fathers of The Haitian Independence. 

The first witness is a graybeard with melancholic eyes named, Noé Saint-Germain. He has nothing helpful to say and claims that a very aggressive neurodegenerative disease will soon kill him if he gets too upset. Rogatien Gingras tells the old butler the reign of terror instituted by Senator Fleurant is over. Once he is arrested, the fake political strongman will be extradited to the United States for him to be judged. The same destiny awaits Judge Zilérion Campbell. The destitution and condamnation of the magistrate are inevitable. The auditor general wishes to compile some incriminating information on the operating methods of the swindlers trio formed by Fleurant, Berri and Campbell. Rogatien Gingras would like to get his hands on the accounts of their reunions, know their duration and be able to establish a list of the senator's regular visitors. He would also like to understand the extent of certain foreign governments implication in the embezzlement scheme put up by those thieves. 

Rogatien Gingras hits a wall of silence. Noé Saint-Germain doesn't want to talk by fear of reprisal. In his forty years at the service of Louis Edmond Fleurant, the old butler has done a lot of reprehensible actions he would like to keep under a thick rug. "I would not survive a cross-examination," he shamefully admits, eyes closed, filled with guilt. The chief audit executive explains the judicial immunity concept to Saint-Germain. When the latter finally seize the principle, the old man suddenly becomes prompt and voluble. 

Thus, according to Noé Saint-Germain, Senator Fleurant was controlling the local media, the police department and the municipal council of Mizérikod with an iron fist. Commissioner Malvoisin, Mayor Amédée Fleurinor and his councilors were puppets and pawns under his payroll. Up until Friday, Victor Gourdet had to get the senator's approval before editing his newspaper. Judge Campbell and Moïse Berri were answering directly to him. The modus operandi they used to pump the money out of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation was very simple, but stunningly efficient. Moïse Berri went hunting for unscrupulous carreerists, ambitious investors and generous donors with low self-esteem issues within the local and international socio-political elite. Berri would then identify the corruptible ones amongst them and quickly make them an accomplice of a financial offence with the help of a third associate working abroad. Moïse Berri would finally threaten his victims, menacing to denounce them to a team of dubious prosecutors hired by Judge Campbell, with irrefutable proofs of their participation in the crime and pre-signed counterfeited extradition forms in his possesion. Facing prison and dishonor if they refused to cooperate, the offenders would generally chose to shut up and accept to cash in their cut of the dirty money. Moïse Berri made use of three look-alikes for three strategic purposes: firstly, to terrorize his scapegoats by making them believe he mastered ubiquity; secondly, to have a permanent and solid alibi, because he always asked from his double to adopt a flashy an noisy attitude wherever they went to attract maximum attention; finally, to dispose of a real corpse when the time would come to organize his own funeral and have the opportunity to vanish into nature. For some very strange reason, Noé Saint-Germain continued to explain, instead of grabbing one of the impersonators, the incompetent soldiers of Chuck Quebec apparently kidnapped the original Moïse Berri, the one who played chess and spoke Hebrew. 

"Now, just wait a minute. If the Diabbakas are detaining the real Moïse Berri," Rogatien Gingras cuts, "who is the bozo conspiring with Senator Fleurant and Judge Campbell, the man who supposedly fled the country with them?" 
"Frankly, Sir, I don't have a clue. I was not even allowed to speak to the man. I was told by the senator to ignore his existence for my own safety. Senator Fleurant would sometimes give some slack to the poor guy. He would let him go in town once in a while for the sake of the documentary, but he was mostly kept in a cage like a laboratory animal. That man was also older than the real Moïse  Berri; short-sighted, with a pot belly, and his skin was pale and lifeless like a freshly arrived tourist from the North." 
"Was he paler than me?"  
"Definitely, Sir, that man was a walking cadaver."  

The man in charge of the villa's kitchen seems more open to denunciation and ratting on his colleagues. In fact, the dude has the attitude and the stance of an experienced prison snitch; arms opened, the nose up high, the mouth half closed, constantly shaking his head in approval to remind his interlocutor that he's changed side and is now ready to send everybody to the gallows in order to save his ass. "Either this guy hates Senator Fleurant, either he believes we're going to give him a bonus or a medal for vilifying his boss," the auditor general thinks. Before being invited to say anything, the nervous guy enumerates a list of offences done by Senator Fleurant to Rogatien Gingras, a bunch of unsignificant petty crimes. Notably, diverting the high tension electrical line from the power plant to his residence, and also pumping the underground water table of the region for commercial ambitions without an exploitation permit. According to the man in charge of the kitchen, hard drugs an animal abuse were common and part of daily life inside this house of debauchery and madness. Rogatien Gingras learns about things he could have live without on the hygiene and personal habits of the senator. The newly named chief audit executive feels obliged to stop the young man, when he begins to mix fantasy and reality while describing an occult ceremony lead by Louis Edmond Fleurant and a masked medicine man from the town of Gressier. 

"Whoa! hey! You stop it right there, young man! Wait a second. The judge and the senator got butt naked and did what with the pig?"  
"Exactly what I've told you, Mr. Controller of Financial Stuff and Things, but it was a sow, a female pig. If you know what I mean?"  
"Did you really witness such an abomination?" 
"Indirectly, yes, because I heard it all. The walls are on the thin side between the kitchen and the living room." 
"We are investigating a major and extremely serious crime. I am not calling you a liar, but I ask you to be careful with what you are insinuating. Everything you say might end up in a court of justice. What is your official position in the house, anyway, Mister... Godefroy? Your name does not appear on my list. It says here that the chef's name is Pamphile Dutervil." 
"I am an experimental and applied physicist, valedictorian from the M.I.T., class of 2005. I work here so I can afford a car and a girlfriend. I am waiting for a big subvention from the government so we can rebuild the launch base of the Haitan Space Agency." 
"The what of the what?" 
"The earthquake destroyed everything, throwing our nation down back to square one. The Mumbai Posse and the Guangdong Secret Society both believe they'll get to Mars before us. We won't let that happen. The Haitian Space Program is more than a dream. It is our reality." 
"I see. And... I guess you must go through a medical... I mean... physical and of course mental check up before you do all these astronaut floating and researching and all?" 
"The doctor comes for a quick visit on a monthly base. We also get pills. On my hiring contract, it reads errand boy, but since the precipitous departure of Doudou, I've climbed the ladder at my own pace. I'm the one who decides what comes in and what comes out of that kitchen now. I even cook sometimes, when Ma'am Consuelo's restaurant is closed or the delivery man unavailable or acting out. He has two girlfriends." 
"Wait… don't go to fast. Who is that Doudou you've just mentioned, another amateur of pig fornication or another spaceman?"  
"Doudou is the former cook of the house, the Pamphile Dutervil on your list. A nice guy, but stubborn like a mule, you have no idea. The senator had been clear. No one was supposed to socialize with Moïse Berri while he stayed here, specially not during his meditation seance. But because Berri had been good to his community, Pamphile felt obliged to go on and thank him in person in the name of the poor and the sick of Mizérikod. The boss heard about it. Doudou vanished the next day. A good friend of mine, a trained colleague who works in the housekeeping department at the Foundation; his name is Vidal Gascon, but we call him Tartufe. Well, he told me Fleurant made his goons cut Doudou in thirteen equal pieces, put twelve in a coffin and then spread some white powder and affixed a mirror and a plastic crucifix on top of it all. The senator then sent the box up north to a village near Quartier-Morin to be buried without a prayer in a public dumping ground." 
"Those are extremely grave accusations. Do you have the slightest piece of evidence to corroborate what you are claiming, Mister... Godefroy?"  
"The old Fleurant and the Devil? Same person, Mr. Auditor in Chief. Have you ever flipped the pages of the Holy Bible? The old man fits the description. When you gaze him long enough, you can even see the roots of the horns on his cranium, impatient to come out before Judment Day. If you work for Lucifer, disobey th Serpent and then disappear, it is the logical and normal course of things. It's like in quantum physics: you don't see the particle, you have never even seen the particle, but you know damn well that it exists. You know when it is operating and you can pin point the exact moment where it chooses to get out of the equation. In mathematics, we call this simple deduction. You're looking for Moïse Berri at the wrong place and at the wrong time, just like the people who wants to capture quarks and neutrinos with a magnet. That charlatan left us a while ago, disintegrated like a beta decay, probably in Zongo or in Bangui on the Ubangi as we speak." 
"I was just told by the butler Moïse Berri had been kidnapped Thursday night or Friday morning by the local gangsters." 
"Hogwash! Noé is gaga. Between you and I, the dinausor wears a reusable diaper and cannot swallow his meat anymore if I don't take the time to cut it in little squares. The real Moïse Berri was transfered to a safer place on Tuesday because of the hurricane. The senator had him chained in a special cell at the municipal jail. He was under the constant surveillance of a maniac who hears voices and executes their sadistic suggestions on whoever has the bad luck to fall under his yoke. After the planified kidnapping of his double, Berri, the senator and Judge Campbell came right back here to pack their things up and leave for Mother Africa. They are many secret passages in this house. When the police arrived, the three of them were long gone."  

Rogtien Gingras needs a pause after his peculiar exchange with Godefroy. The auditor general must take a couple of deep breaths to calm himself down and avoid the migraine he feels growing behind his left eye. "A secret space program and undisclosed Haitian Space Agency?" 

The housemaid, who also holds the positions of gardener, laundrywoman, interior decorator and letter writer, is a close friend of Prospérine de Grâce's eldest daughter. The newly appointed comptroller entrust the reins of the investigation to the interim president of Zanmi d'Haïti and heads to the washroom to empty his bladder and snap out of it for a brief moment. The military men split up to keep an eye on both Prospérine and Rogatien. The two soldiers are visibly tired. Their puffy eyes indicate a lack of sleep. 

The chambermaid is categorical, Moïse Berri did not set foot in the villa since december of last year. He was too busy drinking Champagne wine with Ambassadors, CEO's, Heads of States and Royal Families of this world. The Quebecker everyone called Brainiac, President or the Architect was just an actor hired for the sole purpose to play Moïse Berri in a documentary on the reconstruction and a film on his charity work and philanthropy activities. In fact, that French Canadian was replacing another actor, a true French from France, kicked out of the production because he was a bad comedian and gained too much weight between shots. The principal photography team, the cinematographic equipment, the producer and the director, all of that was quite real and documented on Reconstruct Haiti Dot Org's website. According to the housemaid, the Maghrebian nicknamed Billionaire and sometimes, Director, the man the Diabbakas came to drag out of his bathtub was a double, a mere extra working on the film. When Billionaire opened his mouth on set, it was mostly improvisation. Even though people say he was a genius actor, he never got out of character even when he was off the set. 

"Come upstairs with me, Prospérine, I'm going to show you a picture of Moïse Berri. He is way more handsome than those three parasites who crashed here for months, all expenses paid."  

Prospérine and the chambermaid are soon standing in front of an oil portrait of Joe Dassin, painted by a Polynesian dauber in 1977. Rogatien Gingras and his military escort rejoin them. 

"Anything new, Prospérine?" 
"Ursuline thinks the man on this canvas is Moïse Berri, the authentic, the one and only," the interim president of the Foundation answers with a grin. 
"That's not funny, Prospérine." 
"I am not joking, Mr. Rogatien. She doesn't know who this is."  
"Champs-Élysées, l'Amérique, l'Été Indien?" the auditor general enumerates to the disconcerted housemaid. 
"Et si tu n'existais pas," Prospérine hums, "dis-moi pourquoi j'existerais?" 
"That's what I am beginning to believe about that elusive Moïse Berri character," the comptroller says with dismay. "The men who hired me got caught in the same game. Ursuline is too young and them too old to be Joe Dassin's fans. Now let's go, Prospérine. It's time to bring the inquiry to the streets. We need to question the construction workers, the business owners, the people on the terraces, passerby and taxi drivers. We will certainly find someone out there who can put us on the track of the real Moïse Berri."  
"We haven't spoken to the chauffeur yet, Mr. Gingras."  
"That won't be necessary, Prospérine. Let's get out of this place immediatly."  
"That man was driving Moïse Berri's limousine seven days a week, Mr. Rogatien. The trips to the airport, the appointments in the capital, the long distance runs in the rural areas... That's a lot of time spent with one man. The chauffeur might be very helpful if he befriended or got comfortable with Mr. Berri." 
"Look deep into my eyes, Prospérine,"  the auditor general mumbles, blinking and winking profusely. "Let's get out while we still can, Prospérine... right away, please." 

Back in the prisoner transport vehicle, now driven by Picot, the chief audit executive tells Prospérine why he felt the urgency to leave the villa. When Rogatien Gingras was in the bathroom, he saw a moving shadow behind the mirror above the sink. He found that very strange, so he nosed around a little bit. It took him five minutes to locate three cameras and two clumsily concealed microphones. If someone took the time to put so much surveillance in a toilet, that same person probably wired the entire house, the auditor general thought. Before he went back up to warn Prospérine and meet with the housemaid named, Ursuline, Rogatien Gingras wrote the address of his former barber on a piece of paper and gave it to the chauffeur of the house, standing at the entrance of the library. The man quickly hid the note and went in a dark corner of the room, obviously to evade the cameras. He read the message and then, with sign language and mimics, he basically told the Rogatien Gingras he would leave the villa using a secret tunnel and meet him later at Fresnel Beltias barbershop on Céligny-Ardouin Boulevard. 

XIX Beta E The Conference

19b The Conference 

The meeting is considerably delayed, due to the lack of discipline, the disarming immaturity of the crowd, their pathological impatience and a variety of mental health issues plaguing at least one third of the  participants. Seven minutes after the announcement of the extraordinary conference for the employees and volunteers of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation, some very irritable attendees started complaining, saying they were being stacked like stale sardines in the overheated cafeteria and ignored by management. The fact there was no air conditioning or running water in the place to quench their thirst made the crazier ones more talkative and hyperactive. 

"The evil souls running this institution have zero respect for us," a receptionnist declared on a dogmatic tone. "They treat us like slaves. That kind of behavior is intolerable, two centuries after the abolishment decree read and signed by Polverel and Sonthonnax in the name of the Republic." 

Seven unionized workers, known to be extreme YouTube users, Anonymous fans and lovers of books on secret societies, slowly began to spread their own conspiracy theories. 

"Someone up there is planning to kill us all and leave no traces behind." 

A group of laid-back and soft-spoken individuals gifted with a minimum of common sense; the kind of blessed souls who usually survive volcanic eruptions, stock market crashes and popular insurrections, perceived a slight change in the atmosphere. They somehow felt and smelt the sudden imbalance and subtle variation of the hormone levels within the confines of the non-ventilated room. They sensed an obvious increase of adrenaline and testosterone; biochemical changes that generally lead to violence when a bunch of angry people are not contained by law enforcement. Those wary people instantly located the emergency exits and found a seat close to the front door or next to an opened window. 

A loudmouth from the housekeeping department named Vidal Gascon, a compulsive liar and missing patient from the capital's largest mental health clinic, needed a bigger audience to listen to his crap. So he rushed to the front stage and grabbed the first microphone within his reach. It seemed Vidal Gascon came to the conclusion that the public had the full right to learn more about the hidden truth; and watching him hyperventilate, they were going to get that information from him. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, one-two, one-two, test, test, microphone check... I ask for a moment of your attention, please. My name is Vidal Gascon, third of the name, your humble host." 
"We can't hear a damn thing!" instantly yelled, Balthazar, the cloakroom attendant and mop specialist, a one-legged man wearing glassless spectacles. 
"That goddam microphone is Chinese made, Balthazar, put the blame on the N.P.C., you ugly crippled pink flamingo." 
"Try to plug it in the P.A. system, you half-breed booze abusing fucktard." 
"Since when are you familiar with technology, Balthzie, or should I call you Mister Ignoramus by Choice like most do behind your back? Who owns a brand new phone that can surf the World Wide Web in his pocket, you or me, you dark-skinned hairless unwired  macaque? The power failures never held me back. My first name is Vidal and my nickname, Merlin, liquified shit head. Can you hear me all the way back there if I speak louder, everyone?" 

Vidal Gascon tried to connect the microphone base to a XLR cable, but quickly lost his patience when he realized both ends where female. Vidal had no idea what he was going to say anyway before becoming the center of the attention, so he opened his brutal interruption with a devastating and fallacious declaration. 

"The conference will soon begin. The speaker is a delegate from the environment ministry, sent by our insanely corrupted government to convince us, the willingly brainwashed voters, to leave this oil-rich city filled with our beloved oil and rare earths... voluntarily. I overheard the creep say that a citizen who bends over when asked is a citizen who doesn't mind being rectally maltreated. I don't know what he met by that. Was it a figure of speech? Who knows?" 
"Sweet Micky wants to keep the oil and the rare earths for his gang of crooks and for himself," the broom reparator rapidly deduced. "Remember when I kept saying, Yvon Neptune or Jude Célestin were the best picks for the presidency? You can all go to hell, now! Kiss the sphincter at the end of my bowels with balm on your lips." 
"Don't listen to, Mister I Never Learned Cursive Cause I Stink, Gascon," Balthazar, the mop specialist, warned. "Smell Vidal's thermos; the one he stole from the psychiatric ward from which he escaped. There is no tea in that thing. And there never was! Where did you get that piece of information, Vidal, from the spy you put in Langley or from your special agent inside the Oval Office? My dear friends, everything Vidal says is mostly wind and bull dung. The man we are waiting for is a White dude. I saw him enter the building with Albin, the municipal jail guard. That White bureaucrat is probably an European-American tycoon or Wall Street chemist sent by Chevron to negotiate the extraction procedures, the crude oil transportation, the distribution of the dividends and the pay mode that will fit us all." 
"You are all blind and off the track!" Agénor, the man in charge of the cleaning products, protested. "Why do you think they packed us in that double-locked cafeteria with no fire exits, if it was not in their intention to gas us, Austwitz style, big time?" 
"What the fuck did he just say?" a young man yelled as he began tying his shoes. 

Agénor is a known weirdo who speaks Castilian and nonsense fluently. People usually ignore him, but nothing seemed usual at that moment because of the intensive stress everyone was experiencing. Agénor's  words created a major panic reaction in the assembly. Most of the attendees just stood up and ran towards the doors and windows. Some terrified dudes were even seen digging their way out with their hands, where the ground was more dirt than concrete. The ensuing stampede cost several bruises, a great deal of broken teeth and irrecuperable losts of good front seats to many participants. It also allowed the brave women to separate the gentlemen from the boobs who fled first and came back last. 

Prospérine de Grâce jumped on stage at the right time to kick Vidal Gascon from the tribune and cool down  the crowd.  

"The man who came here for you is neither a government official or a fossil fuel industry vampire. In fact, you all know him as Missionnaire, the former head of River of Hope." 
"River of Hope? That ONG is defunct and Missionnaire dead and buried," Vidal Gascon declared without any hesitation and a lot of confidence. 
"Missionnaire is alive?" the lady in charge of the cafeteria trays asked with a certain apprehension in her voice. 
"Alive as the living Christ!" Prospérine de Grâce howled. 
"Hallelujah!" 
"Amen!" 
"We're all saved!" a group of pious employees started chanting. 
"Repent and confess your sins! Jesus loves you," sister Jeanne-Hildegarde and sister Orphée-Lyne began singing. 
"The Kingdom is at our door!" brother Ferdomin  Cincinnatus thundered. 
"That man is or was a hero," the Catholic nun running the kitchen claimed on a dramatic tone, wiping her tears with an immaculate handkerchief. "When he was leading River of Hope, Missionnaire used to starve himself and work twenty four seven for the sake of his pensioners. What would he ask in return? A simple smile or for you to pray for his soul." 
"He offered his bone marrow to save a sick child," the nutritionist asserted. 
"That's a bloody lie!" an unidentified stranger screamed. 
"You're not even from Mizérikod or from anywhere around here." the nutritionist replied. 
"So what? Free speech gives me the right to share my personal opinion. It's in the Constitution." 
"They say Missionnaire is Roman and a close relative of Benedict XVI," the nutritionist's assistant added, agitating her rosary and trembling of joy. 
"He proposed to marry me so I could obtain my American visa," a cashier revealed, apparently sharing that information for the first time. 
"Missionnaire was just a genocidal racist and we're happy he died and went to hell," Vidal Gascon fired, exaggeratedly acrimonious and full of disdain. "When that piece of stool was among us, Missionnaire once said right to my face that Black athletes ran faster than White ones." 
"There's nothing racist about that, Vidal, look at the final eight at the Olympics?" the mop specialist said.  
"Beware of the flattering wolf, Balthazar, my good old friend," the guy responsible of the brooms and curtains whispered. "I get Vidal's vibe even if he is completely nuts. When a White man affirms Black People dance or run better than White People, they also mean White People makes better vaccines and spaceships than Black People. It is pure racism by ricochet." 
"We are in the presence of a master thief," corrected Agénor, the guy responsible of the cleaning products. "I heard from a trusted source at the Kompany Lakay nightclub, that Missionnaire... Does anyone here know his real name? I didn't think so. That guy told me Missionnaire left our impoverished country with a suitcase loaded with antique gold coins, three asymmetrical inverted crucifix and dozens of frozen bags from the blood bank. Who's blood was it? Nobody knows. But they say in Miami, and all the way up to Cocoa Beach, that Missionnaire's house in Quebec is built on a non-organized territory, administered by a RCM. I challenge you to go out there and find out what all this means." 
"Royal Canadian Mafia," Vidal Gascon instantly decoded. "I searched it on Wikipedia." 
"You are all so wrong, it makes me puke, you bunch of one eyed fishes," Boris Pale-Pierrot, the dishwasher in chief, hammered. "You take rumors for facts and your neighbor's delirium for reality. Missionnaire suffered a rare disease, some incurable shit. That's why he flew back home to Canada, so he could follow the treatments recommended by doctor Steiner. I read the requisition. I saw the treating specialist's signature and looked it all up." 
"And how do you know all this, Boris Greasy Hands, where you recently taught how to read in coffee residue?" 
"Rachel D. Steiner is on Google, Fart Face. And for your information, I was sleeping with a medical archivist from the Jean-Metellus Hospital, which happened to be your sister." 
"What have you done with profesional secrecy and family respect, Boris? That kind of low blow is not cool at all, man." 
"Bite me, Edwin. Profesionnal secrecy is the root cause of the Aids problem in this country." 
"Google Images show me a woman wearing a judogi with a red belt on the entire first page," Vidal Gascon says, showing his smartphone's screen so that everybody can see. "Even Professor Boris Washes Dishes can make a mistake, despite all his dish washing diplomas and certificates." 
"Shut your hole up, you damaged chromosome pointed ears donkey. Rachel is Canadian, she could be a rodeo clown during her spare time and still be a doctor and martial arts expert. What's wrong with you, having trouble adapting to the twenty first century? Women are free in that big whole Canadian territory. Missionnaire was sick, I tell you. Who consults a radio-oncologist for fun? Vidal calls him a racist and that's wrong. Missionnaire was my cousin Marguerite's boyfriend for quite a long time. They even got married so she could put her hands on a Florida work permit. Would a thief risk his own money and reputation to save the business of a man he barely knew, Agénor? I know what I'm talking about, because that man was me. So, show some respect and help the others finish with the preparation of the cafeteria for the general assembly." 

The volunteers who arranged the room for the reunion naturally took the best seats, the ones near the stage, to make sure they would not miss a word from the Auditor General's speech. A junior executive of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation politely asked them to leave their cushioned chairs to the important people at the top of the organization. The gutsy fellow told them solid wood chairs and boxes were available in the back, with the housekeeping and kitchen crews. The ushers followed the principles of the bystander effect theory and continued to seat people wherever they wanted, while the courageous administrator was receiving a great classic beating worthy of the class struggle; a victim of plying chairs, closed fists, opened fists, vicious knee kicks, leather sandals and marxist slogans. The latrine and wastes manager gave up the idea of pouring bleach in the young man's eyes because of the nuns who began to cry and implore the mob to stop the bloody pounding in the name of Jesus. Miraculously civilized by the power of the prayers, the mob stopped and the latrine and wastes manager proposed something less cruel, but still illegal; a general search.  

"We are here to find a solution to our money problems, but the security of the auditor general should be a priority. What if someone hiding among us is here to execute him before the man delivers?" 

The extremely wise and preventive procedure started really well, but a group of citizens who were conscious of their rights decided to resist and protest vehemently, refusing to be pampered in public, not keen on the idea of seeing the content of their pockets and handbags shown in the open. Thus, a metal detector and wooden blinds were found and put to use in order to respect the confidentiality of all clients of the pharmacist, the bush doctor and all the newly exposed VIP repeat customers of the very discreet Zob Electric erotic boutique. 

The conference finally begins. Rogatien Gingras stands in front of the microphones with Picot on his left and Albin on his right. Everyone keeps their mouth shot, but not Vidal Gascon, because Vidal Gascon constantly believes he is an exception. A part of his brain controls his need to speak before thinking. Imperturbable and full of himself, Vidal keeps laughing at the people who asked for a little intimacy during the search, yelling with a baritone fake voice: "Dildo! dildo! dildo!" 

Rogatien Gingras takes a deep breath. The comptroller's eyes are sparkling, full of expectations, like the eyes of a starving lion hunting a weak antelope. He talks with great authority, explaining to the attendance the hell he went through since the River of Hope scandal; the false accusations, the death threats, the assassination and extortion attempts, the theft of his computers and his forced exile. Rogatien Gingras swears he never betrayed anyone during all those tribulations. He rejects the racism, fraud and treason allegations and convinces the entire assembly of his integrity. Rogatien Gingras describes himself as a lighthouse, guided by the Holy Spirit to show some light on the ongoing tragedy; as a mathematician with a solution for a very complex algebra problem. The auditor general urges the employees and volunteers of the Foundation to take an active part in the search for truth by joining the inquiry. The sooner Moïse Berri will be unmasked, the sooner their money troubles will be resolved. 

Most people in the cafeteria believe in the honesty and transparency of Rogatien Gingras. Finally a man who fights on the side of the neglected. They are very impatient to ask the new chief audit executive a couple of important questions. 

"What happened to your hair?" the official photographer and identification cards clerk of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation asks, unable to withhold his laughter. "You shouldn't let Fresnel Beltias crop your mane or propose any new style when he is drunk."  
"Why are you handcuffed to that briefcase? questions the human resource coordinator, a sweaty woman with a mean glance. "You cover that thing like if it was a dodo egg. I smell a ton of fish and lies. What are you carrying in there, gold, gemstones, radioactive isotopes?" 
"Either you've lost a lot of weight, Mr. Gingras, either your new suit maker needs an optometrist," the auditor general's former tailor jokes, trying to hide his  disappointment.  
"Can you please be more pertinent with your questions? My hair, the briefcase, my weight... come on, make an effort, people. I came here to talk about the real things, not about futile stuff." 
"All right then, Mister Rogatien, why don't you tell us everything we need to know about our money?" the latrine and wastes manager asks. 
"Give us our money or just kill us all!" automatically screams Agénor, the guy in charge of the cleaning products. 
"Take it easy, now, Agénor, we can talk about cash and becoming americanly rich without having to bring the Grim Reaper in the negotiations." 
"I say we disembowel that demon before he escapes," Agénor replies. "That beast is not what it pretends to be. I warn you, my friends. Behold! the Book of the Apocalypse, chapter 13, verse 18, remove that repulsive wig and read the number on his skull." 
"What the heck? Will someone please cover Agénor's nose with a cloth damped in chloroform?" Albin begs the crowd. 
"How much is the cost of the crisis since Friday?" a letter carrier from accounting cleverly asks. 
"There we go, congratulations, young girl," Picot applauds. "You see how basic it is to come up with a simple and intelligent questions, the rest of you?" 

Rogatien Gingras is more than glad to answer such a fundamental question. The auditor general's response is short and simple. He does his best to avoid the use of complicated concepts and long phrases. Gingras takes the time to unravel all the steps he made and decisions he took for the good of the community, explaining each move he accomplished extensively to facilitate maximum comprehension of the information to everyone young and old. The financial expert even throws a bit of Creole in the explanations when the equivalent French term might lead to confusion. But despite his tremendous efforts, the comptroller is interrupted, when a skirmish that started in the third row worsened to the point of becoming uncontrollable. 

The fight began when Balthazar, the one-legged self-crowned mop authority, declared that the numbers and statistics brought up by Rogatien Gingras, concerning the loss of revenues linked to the stock market investments during the week-end, were completely wrong. Agénor, the gentle fruitcake from the cleaning products, yelled, looking down at the floor, that Balthazar never finished elementary school, despite the regular beatings from both his parents, so spending any amount of time explicating the Nasdaq to him was like attempting to cross the desert without water and a compass. Most people in the assistance fully agreed with Agénor, so the auditor general continued with his clarifications. Balthazar started making bizarre noises with his throat and rubbing his abdomen. Realizing no one was giving any attention to him anymore, Balthazar's face became purple and remarkably deformed by anger and chagrin. He suggested that Agénor's seventy year old mother was a lazy low cost prostitute with no exceptional talents, unless kleptomania was one. Instead of getting mad at him, Agénor simply replied: "That's exactly the problem with your oversized mouth, Balthazar. You know absolutely nothing, and when you do know something, everyone is already updated or no one gives a damn." 

The entire assembly exploded in laughter. Strangely enough, Balthazar didn't lose his cool. The mop master began fuming against the new comptroller of the Foundation, who kept on going with his speech. Overwhelmed by the rage burning his insides, Balthazar remembered the famous shoe attack on George W. Bush in 2008. Now, the mop specialist had only one shoe, for economic and common sense reasons, having only just one leg. Because he didn't want to lose his only shoe, Balthazar decided to throw his Sri Lankian made prosthesis in the direction of the auditor general's head. As the leather and rubber thing flew and took speed, Picot reacted. He made a Shaolin Monk style plunge, defying gravity, in order to protect his valuable Canadian client. Picot's frontal bone absorbed the shock of the projectile, just like James Brady did back in 81 for President Reagan. Albin instantly transformed himself into a human shield. Using his entire body to cover the newly appointed financial controller of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation and bringing him in a safe environment behind the curtains. 

Prospérine de Grâce quickly took the stand and begged the people of the assembly to keep their cool. She also wondered if, by any chance, there was a doctor present in the premise. Rogatien Gingras told her not to worry about him. Insisting he was doing just fine. After a glass of bottled water and a couple of deep breaths, Rogatien Gingras was ready to switch back into detective mode. The auditor general summoned Prospérine, Albin and Picot to follow him on the job and go pay a surprise visit to Senator Fleurant, the first witness of the long list of suspects he planned to interrogate in his search for the truth. 

XIX Avian E The Problem Solver

19a The Problem Solver  

Rogatien Gingras arrives at the city limits of Mizérikod by the Darbonne back road on the back of a mule, cleverly hidden in a caravan composed of former residents of the commune, itinerant merchants looking for customers and improvised prospectors hoping to get their share of the unprecedented oil bonds giveaway. The word spread like a river out of his bed, from the Acul to Mazenod, from Jean-Rabel to Jérémie, the twenty-first century Klondike is named Mizérikod. According to that galloping rumor, the citizens of that small town will soon be moneyed and loaded like Arab Sheikhs. Thousands of opportunist peasants are flocking to the Haitian El Dorado, hoping to get their hands on a petrol bond or a false proof of residence in order to cash in. 

The newly appointed chief audit executive and financial comptroller of the Heritage Légitime Fund and the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation is unrecognizable. Rogatien Gingras is wearing a green suede biker jacket, a bright yellow straw hat, indigo blue flannel overalls and red rubber boots. The beard and the bandage on his nose are gone. A pair of purple round sunglasses and a afro wig complete his awkward disguise.  

The civil officer, hired by Gustave Amaury Quick to protect and bring Rogatien Gingras safely to the offices of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation, pops up from the dust in the opposite direction on a battered competition dirt bike. The man in camouflage clothing stops the convoy by waving his security guard card from the Pétionville Golf Club. He is the vigil of the Calvary Baptist Mission NGO and goes by the name of Marvel Saint-Hilien. He addresses the conductor of the caravan with authority in Haitian Creole and American Sign Language. Marvel Saint-Hilien taps on his plastic and brass badge several times while talking to the businessperson. He finally walks toward the new designated auditor general's pack animal. Saint-Hilien tells Rogatien Gingras that all the roads leading to Mizérikod are closely watched by the HNP and the UNPOL. It is practically impossible to enter the commune without being frisked. The soldiers confiscate money, weapons, water, food and all your digital material. 

The financial controller's only luggage is a portable computer. The machine is still linked to his wrist by a pair of stainless steel handcuffs. For reasons of safety and confidentiality, Rogatien Gingras insists that absolutely no one is supposed to touch is rugged Getac. Marvel Saint-Hilien knew about this, so he planned an alternative route to help the auditor general to get into the city. A man is waiting for Gingras in a small wooded area one mile ahead with clean clothes and new shoes; a second one will bring him in town via the Momance River by boat. The new chief audit executive is familiar with both men. Rogatien Gingras hired Picot and Albin on multiple occasions to watch over and defend River of Hope, his now defunct NGO, from paid vandals and arsonists.

Picot did not want to disappoint or be reprimanded. The night watcher of the municipal prison shows up at the rendez-vous with a bag of old clothes, various amateur spy accessories and a bunch of knick-knacks; notably a make-up kit, a cane, false teeth and some high heels sandals. Rogatien Gingras opts for sobriety by choosing a pair of khaki pants, a white shirt with a restaurant logo on the pocket, a navy blue blazer with walnut buttons and mismatched trek shoes. Albin is also very efficient. The pirogue he rented is entirely covered with plantain leaves to make it less visible; and it is propelled by a small noiseless electric motor. To the auditor general's surprise, they are not the only people trying to reach the town of Mizérikod by waterways. Some people are just swimming their way up there, some are simply lying flat on a piece of furniture or nestling in a pneumatic inner tube. The ultimate goal is to reach that hypothetical Nirvana of the poor and desperate by any means necessary. 

The new comptroller of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation enters the commune by a footpath that cuts through the poorly surveilled cemetery. Mizérikod seems appeased. Could it be because the sun is too hot or is it because they are more cops and news people than they are citizens walking around? Pacific protests lead by recently founded associations are being held all across town. The Coalition for Oil Rights Equality and the Women Against Pollution are fighting each other on Place Michaëlle Jean using solid arguments on the advantages and drawbacks for Haiti to become an energy superpower. The C.O.R.E. foresee a net improvement of the conditions of living for the people of Haiti, but the W.A.P. fear an imminent invasion by the United States of America. The Students for Free Superior Education march on Capois-la-Mort Boulevard, proud, defiant and rebellious. The duct tape on their lips and the blindfolded eyes of their mascot are symbolic. They denounce governmental censorship, but they also give rise to a bitter feeling of guilt and shame. 

A loud fanfare made of locals with no specific claims is heading towards the business district. Troublemakers are hiding amongst them. They are easily identifiable because they are unusually calm, eyeballing the police officers with contempt and not carrying any instruments. Rogatien Gingras, Picot and Albin contemplate the scene, evaluate their options and react promptly. They spot a pile of trash in front of an abandoned house, run to it and start digging and searching. They soon join the noisy brass band and the hooligans with a piece of lumber, a computer tower, three glass bottles, a car door and two cardboard boxes. The Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation is on their path on Lysius-Salomon Boulevard. That's exactly where the crowd is heading. 

The building housing the Foundation's headquarters is surrounded by a MINUSTAH military company and several tanks of the UNPOL. The producers of the Reconstruct Haiti Now documentary and employees of Legit Imco Media Corp are confronting the heavily armed policemen and the soldiers, with mechanical and agricultural tools like reinforced 4-way lug wrenches, rusted pitchforks, sickles and scythes. Some of them are also carrying cooking tools and commercial kitchen equipment like coffee grinders, pepper mills and meat tenderizers. The workers want to have a peaceful talk with the Vilaj Espwa managers on the spot. An anonymous source asserts that the abrupt disappearance of the organization's president is a sham, just another unfounded hearsay fed by undisclosed conspirators. Moïse Berri is said to be hiding with the money he owes the production, in the small space between the acoustic tiles and the suspended ceiling of his office. The odious villain is apparently fed through a gastric tube and uses a PVC sewage pipe to defecate. The head carpenter, the costume designer and the property master of Legit Imco Media Corp would love to have a chat with Mr. Berri in private if they could find his hideout. They're asking whoever is in charge for concrete and immediate actions to be taken against the crook. They want guarantee the pay checks already in their possession are valid and that all the financial institutions of the commune will soon reopen. Most employees of the production house have been on a empty stomach for more than forty-eight hours. It is visible in their eyes and on their faces, strained by hatred and despair; their impatience has reached a critical limit. 

The police forces would really love to charge the protesters, break some kneecaps, realign their chakras using their expandable batons, soften their unprotected skulls with their steel toe boots and put a quick end to that illegal and ridiculous siege, but the cameras are watching, therefore paralyzing the decision makers at the head of the MINUSTAH. A high-ranking officer told Suzanne Malvaux, from the Cable News Network, off the record, the crisis would soon be over, with no bloodshed, police brutality or massive arrests. 

Colonel Diego Pérez Salazar is currently giving a press conference in front of City Hall from the bed of his pickup truck. Newspapers from all over the world and global news networks are facing each other like on a chess board. On one side, playing the card of impartiality, stand Al Jazeera, France 2 and the Jerusalem Post, on the other side, showing partisanship and aggressiveness in their approach, camp Haïti Libre, Reuters and the Washington Post. The Europeans want to know the whole truth about the French speaking pedophile from Quebec. The Americans are focusing on the anticipated economic boom the oil exploration will provoke. The Israelis require a live an interview with the apostate Jew. The Haitians are drooling over the thought they might soon get richer and more powerful than the Qatari sheikhs and Emirati princes if the oil and rare earths discovery rumours are found to be more than just trivial urban legends. 

Near Place du Président, a freelancer who looks like a lady-killer is giving away tee-shirts bearing the MTV logo. He swears to the young and hysterical teenage girls around him that the return of Wycleff and Sean Penn is almost confirmed. His very immature film and sound editor tells to children Iron Man will come to meet them all wearing his indestructible exoskeleton. The kids want much more than that, so he promises a quick visit from Batman the Batmobile and Wonder Woman with her Lasso of Truth. A correspondent from the Huffington Post tells a group of men debating politics, a possible flash visit from Clinton and Carter, backed by Chinese investors and experienced carpenters is to be expected. 

"What's the matter with the other presidents?"one debater inquires. "They must think they're better than us." 
"Of course, Hermane-Dan, and they have a extended list of good excuses," another one answers. "W. Bush still feels unwelcome since that famous handshake he cleaned off on his predecessor's shoulder; and Obama has to deal with an overloaded schedule due to the elections and the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy in New Jersey." 

A little bit further, but much closer to reality, a local reporter shares her powdered milk and dry biscuits with some visibly starving teens. 

Picot, Albin and the auditor general approach the besieged edifice. They make their way through the fuming crowd by elbowing everyone on their path until they reach the main entrance. Rogatien Gingras shows the letter of authorization that makes him the new man in charge of the destiny of the non-profit organization to a nervous Corporal. The Vice-President of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation is immediately notified.  

Prospérine de Grâce welcomes Gingras like a gift that fell from the sky. The acting chief executive of the institution is a fashionable and gracious lady with grayish hair. She walks with a lot of confidence and her smile is inviting. Prospérine collaborated with Rogatien Gingras in the past. They worked side by side on a micro-finance project in Hinche years ago. It takes her a few seconds to recognize her former colleague. Prospérine takes Rogatien Gingras to the abandoned office of Kennedy Fleurinor. She speaks with confidence; life if she was told everything about the new finance controller's plans.  

"Amaury Quick informed me of your presence in the country, Mr. Gingras. I feel relieved now that you are among us. I am ready to go to war." 
"Did you to speak to an operator before establishing the communication with Mr. quick?" 
"I spoke to an old lady with a South-African or Australian accent. The line was riddled with parasites, but we finally got a conversation despite the frequent interruptions. I see that your precious computer is in your possession again. You can use the room of your  choice to put the rest of your equipment. Moïse Berri's office is by far the biggest and safest place, but because he barely used it, there is no air conditioning, no router and he never installed a telephone socket. The walls are also covered with mildew and you would need a knife to get rid of the spider webs."  
"Any room will do, Prospérine. Forget the comfort, my laptop is all I need."
"Your simplicity will save us from disaster, Mr. Gingras. Now, I don't want to rush things; you just landed. I understand you must be tired, but all the employees of the Foundation are going to ask me the same question. When can we expect a return to normality? You have hundreds of contracts awaiting revision and loads of incomplete reports that need to be verified and approved. You also have to go through the list of past and present people who worked for the  Foundation. Moïse Berri's straw men must be identified and neutralized like cancer cells. We would need ten clone copies of you to finish such a chore in so little time." 
"Call for a general meeting in the main cafeteria in one hour, Prospérine. I have good news for the staff. I intend to act quickly and hit the problem at its core. Paperwork can wait. I am this close to get my hands on Moïse Berri. The money that was taken from the inhabitants and the honest workers of this commune will be retrieved and given back to them. But we must act now. We don't have a minute to lose." 
"I wasn't expecting anything less from you, Mr. Rogatien, actions right now, procedures later." 
"It feels good to be back, Prospérine. How are your mom, your daughters and your brothers? And what about Damian, your husband?"  
"My daughters are well. They're staying at my aunt's in Camp-Perrin with all their offsprings. Damian went to join them with my mother. The electricity comes and goes since the explosion at the power plant. Mother was convinced that the sporadic power failures was affecting the content of her oxygen tank. My auntie owns a store with a warehouse at the back. She stocked enough food and commodities in there to subsist at least one year after a global cataclysm. Life is not as good for my brothers. It seems that my older brother has lost his mind. Leopold's sudden delusion of grandeur made him the ideal leader of this preposterous insurrection. If he was brandishing some kind of red book or manifest, I would understand Leopold's influence on the population, but in my opinion, his nudity makes it very hard for me to take him seriously. Lordy's mental state is also a subject of concern. My younger brother refuses to get out of his bedroom because he truly believes that a deceased jealous dude is planning his assassination." 
"What?" 
"You heard me. Madness has somehow became a contagious disease around here. Rational people are seriously asking themselves whether the enemies of the nation have created a weapon capable of making individuals go nuts. Some think they are pointing a cosmic ray from space on our heads or poisoning our rivers and water systems." 
"Do you have any similar cases in your staff?" 
"I wouldn't say they completely lost it like my two brothers did, but some of them have been acting very weirdly lately. For instance, at least twelve have committed incoherent actions, like stealing while being observed or filmed. The Chief Engineer of Vilaj Espwa set his own house on fire Sunday morning. That man was a known car collector we were planning to visit with a bailiff and a court order. Everything he owned went into flames. We found out afterwards that his name does not appear on the pay list of the Foundation, but he managed to cash in nine checks a week under eight different identities. The manager of the storage department is said to be sailing to Montego Bay in a damaged recreational craft. We lost contact with his radio signal this morning. The man in charge of maintenance is walking around in circle in his backyard, holding a gas tank and a Zippo lighter. He swore to immolate himself if he hears his name being associated in any way to the ongoing scandal. Closer to us, our computer specialist, Hildegarde Narcisse, is nowhere to be found after she decided to pour two gallons of hot coffee in our server. After a quick inquiry, we discovered that eleven per cent of our charity sales takings ended up in the PayPal account of her fiancé, Kenneth Cerisier, a wanted criminal known as Mandela by his peers. What else? Let me think. Yes! Fritz Alphonse Maillebranchon, our transportation and heavy machinery coordinator; all the equipment bought over the last six months were done using the name and fake credit card of his younger brother, Wilner Frantz Maillebranchon; a bandit from Saint-Marc who goes by the name of Will Smith Original, Tit Will and sometimes Fanfan by his close relatives. A mobile crane operator holds Mr. Maillebranchon prisoner at his residence, tied to a lemon tree, while two skilled workers went hunting for his designated heir. And let us not forget the president of that list of eccentrics. Nobody on this planet can pretend to be stranger than Moïse Berri. Besides the short phone conversations I had to struggle hard to have with him, it has been nearly impossible to meet face to face with that insensitive imbecile. May I remind you the absenteeism rate of the president during the current year was close to a hundred per cent? More often than not, I had to speak with that arrogant primate through the close door of his office, constantly guarded by two uneducated alcohol smelling brutes. Between you and I, Mr. Gingras, I believe Moïse Berri's disappearance has something to do with drug money he owes to the wrong circle. I am not a fool, that enemy of the people was definetely using illegal drugs on and off work. I am not talking about funny herbs that makes you hungry or plunge you into deep philosophy, I am talking about laboratory stuff that transforms a person into a walking tomato plant with no specific goals. Back in May, I saw him get out of his stretched Lincoln. The man was plump, with a healthy glow, smiling and distributing candies to the orphans. A movie crew was filming every move he made. Mr. Berri waved at me, to my great surprise. We spoke about many different  topics, including a plan to prevent a new cholera outbreak. Moïse Berri asked me about every single member of my family. He even knew the name and the breed of my dog. Three weeks later, that was in June, Berri was skinny as a rake, coming out of Senator Fleurant's villa, pale like a ghost, an empty and forlorn look on his face. I tried to approach him. Mr. Berri's bodyguard told me to keep walking. I yelled out little but important parts of our recent talk to Berri, hoping to reach his heart. It was useless, the man clearly had no idea who I was. I demanded to know what was going on. Berri's goon showed me his pistol. I told the animal I was not scared, but it was too late. Berri's chauffeur stepped on the gas pedal and fled away." 
"Moïse Berri has been using body doubles to fool us for years, Prospérine. That would explain the dramatic weight drop and the memory problems from one time to another." 
"I am happy to learn I am not the only one who believe I've dealt with two different men. I am really concerned for your safety, Mr. Gingras. Danger is in the air. They are several members of our staff working undercover for Moïse Berri and guns are available everywhere in town. I don't want to freak you out, but if you are not carrying a handgun yourself, stay close to Picot and Albin at all time."