Shadow of Death

spliff of marijuana—ganja—were passing a chillum pipe filled with the drug.

Most of the men—all of them black—wore their hair in long, tight ringlets.

Resting on a small stand, with several powerful lights focused on it, was a large menacing knife. The bloodstains had not been wiped from it.

“Death to da Pope! Death to da Pope!”

“Bredren!” An imposing figure of a man raised his arm.

The group fell silent. They continued to draw on their ganja as they looked at the standing man through half- closed eyes and thick smoke.

“Bredren!” he repeated. “Dis day, I and I go up to da church and do da job. I and I strike for Jah. Jah happy now. Da prince of Babylon been striked down. Dis day we do our job.”

“Good Rasta man!” they responded.

“Everyting Irie. It be perfect. I and I strike down de son of Satan. We done done our job. Jah be pleased.”

“Good Rasta man!”

The speaker took a long draw on his enormous, self-rolled spliff. Heavy smoke billowed from his nostrils. He held the spliff high in the air. “Ganja!” he announced.

“Jah be praised! Haile Selassie I be praised! Bless de Lion of Juda!”

The speaker leaned back against the wall and was silent for some moments. A smile played at his lips. Whatever his vision, he was enjoying it in the privacy of his imagination.

“Now, bredren,” the speaker resumed, “it be up to Rastas in de udder parts of de world to take up de knife and strike down de bad satans of Babylon.”

“Good dreads! Good Rastas!”

“Bredren, we be in dis togedder?” The question was rhetorical.

“We be in dis togedder!” They responded with fervor.

“Den pay mind to what I and I gonna do!”

The speaker unsheathed a knife only slightly less formidable than the one on the stand. He approached the stand and stood so near it his head and shoulders caught the full glare of the spotlights. The rest of his body was in shadow. Deliberately, he made a small incision in his wrist and mingled the ensuing blood with that already caked on the larger knife. One by one, each man in the room approached and silently followed suit.

When the ritual was complete, the speaker again raised his hand, although there was no sound to silence.

“Bredren,” he said, “now it be time for de Rastas of de world to strike down Babylon one by one. And den we go home. And den we go wit de Lion of Juda!”

With that, the speaker approached the now blood-saturated stand and slowly turned the knife until it pointed in a southeasterly direction.

The drummer resumed his rhythmic chant. Some joined in the ensuing symbolic dance. All contributed to the dense ganja smoke.

The macabre ritual, at least in its Toronto phase, had been concluded. But, somewhere else, it would begin again.

4.

“Some suite!”

“It’s Canada!”

Don Louis Licata merely smiled. They had been waiting a long time. Too long for the limited patience of his two soldiers. “Now, now, boys,” he said, “this is the Windsor Arms. One of the most prestigious hotels in Toronto. Why, Pierre Elliot Trudeau dines here when he is in town.”

“Maybe we should try the food.” One of the soldiers winked.

“And,” Licata continued, “they say Marlene Dietrich stays here when she comes to Toronto.”

“Now that would change things.”

“What?”

“If a dame like Marlene Dietrich was in this suite.”

“Ha!” The second soldier chortled. “That’s what you need, a villuta!”

“Marlene Dietrich is no prostitute!”

“You don’t need a certain woman. Any one will do.” He laughed again.

“Boys, boys!” Licata raised a hand. “Hold it down. I want to think before the others get here.”

The sitting room held six chairs. Just enough. Three with their backs to the window were occupied by the visitors from Detroit. The three near the door would be occupied by the Torontonians whose arrival was not scheduled for another half hour.

The silence was broken by a noise from the adjoining bedroom.

Each soldier drew a snubnosed revolver from his shoulder holster. Licata cautiously eased the bedroom door open, then stood back as the two men preceded him into the other room.

No one made a sound as the two began checking behind wall pictures, under the bed, through the dresser drawers, in the closet. The sound occurred again. It seemed to come from the wastebasket, across the top of which was lying a telephone directory. One of the men nudged the basket with his foot. The sound was repeated. Warily, he eased the directory off the basket. Weapons at the ready, both men leaned forward to peer into the receptacle.

“A mouse!”

Relieved laughter rang through the room.

“In the Windsor Arms!”

“So much for the prime minister and Dietrich!”

“Now, boys, this is an old hotel. And old hotels are entitled to their mice.”

“What do you want us to do with it, boss?”

Licata shrugged. “It’s not our problem. It’s the hotel’s problem. Call the desk.”

There couldn’t have been that many mice in the Windsor Arms’ recent history. No one seemed proficient in the animal’s removal. First came a maid, who took one look at the small creature, shrieked, and ran from the room to the laughter of the three men. Next came a porter, an Asian who spoke English haltingly. He tried several methods of entrapment before chancing upon a plastic laundry bag, which he pulled over the basket. He then inverted the basket and, with the triumphant visage of a successful lion tamer, exited the room with a large plastic bag containing a very small, frightened mouse.

“Think he’ll kill it?”

“Naw. If he doesn’t eat it, he’ll probably let it out in the alley.”

“Then if the mouse remembers how it got up here in the first place, it’ll probably be back.”

“Whaddya think, boss ... if it comes back, we shoot it?”

“Let’s hope we’ll be gone by then.”

There was a knock at the door.

One of the soldiers opened the door just enough to see who was in the hall. Instantly, he flung the door open. Three men, one in advance of the other two, entered.

“Don Vittorio!” Licata embraced the lead man.

“Don Louis!” The other returned the embrace.

The two pairs of soldiers appraised each other at a glance. Then all six seated themselves. The two dons sat close together facing each other. Their guards positioned themselves on either side and slightly to the rear of their respective dons.

“Our condolences on the recent loss to the Catholic community of Toronto,” said Licata.

“It was a great loss. Cardinal Claret, while not compatriota, might have been Papa. There was talk . . .” Vittorio Gigante’s voice trailed off, as though the others would understand what was left unspoken. “The astutatu was an eminent man in many ways.”

“Is there any progress on the identity of the astutaturi?”

Gigante shook his head sadly. “Nothing more than was in the paper. Black. Probably from off the street. No motive. Possibly high on dope. We’ve been on the streets, but . . . nothing.”

“What will happen now?”