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?"
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