throughout the plant. Anywhere employees went-offices, storage areas, the manufacturing line-they had to swipe their way in. Ryder could track who went where and when, make sure the guards were patrolling where they were supposed to and not napping in a warehouse. One day he saw two people entering the sealed area where the export cigarettes were being stored prior to incineration.”
“McNulty and Tice,” Ryan said.
“Yup.” Gene McNulty was a shift supervisor in warehouse security; Christopher Tice a security guard.
“Ensign brought me in as a security guard and put me on the same shift as Tice. One day I followed him out when he went for a smoke and caught a whiff of weed. Guy was getting high at ten in the morning. I called a friend in Toronto and had him courier me an ounce of top-line B.C. bud. My boss shit a brick when I expensed it.”
“A friend with weed is a friend indeed,” Ryan quoted.
“You bet. I got Tice high a few times. Took him out for drinks after work. Hinted I was hard up for cash. Told him I’d once held a Class A trucker’s licence.”
“Did you?”
“No. I’d driven plenty of trucks but nothing over Class D. Late one night, we’d had some beer, a joint, and Tice, as you know, was a pathetic, insecure shit who needed to impress people. Talk tough. He let a few things slip. Including the big name.”
“Marco.”
“None other. I passed it on to Ryder and my boss next morning and they called in the Task Force on Traditional Organized Crime.”
“Tough Talk? How’d they come riding in?” he asked. “On white horses with their thumbs up their butts?”
“Hey, they were good at getting warrants,” I said. “McNulty’s home phone… Tice’s… they listened in on calls to Marco.”
“So you knew everything?” he said with a smile.
“Up yours, Ryan.”
“What?”
“Don’t give me that innocent look. Did we know everything… you know goddamn well we didn’t. We only thought we did.”
“You knew the plan,” he teased.
“We knew three trucks were going to the incinerator but only two would unload. The third would go to Marco’s.”
“How’d you get on as his driver?”
“The OPP wanted eyewitness testimony all the way, but Tice was slated to guard the load. Driver’s seat was my only way in. Only McNulty had already hired someone.”
“The big guy with the glasses, Arthur Read. Him, Tice, McNulty, they all knew each other from Hamilton.”
“Our plan was to have Read picked up just before the incineration regarding a supposed theft from the Ensign warehouse. They’d keep him long enough to force McNulty and Tice to find another driver.”
“You.”
“Me.”
“But the Class A thing was bullshit.”
“Ryder set me up at the Road Scholar Institute near Belleville. I crammed sixteen weeks of material into six hours at the wheel.”
“That’s it?”
“I told the instructor I didn’t need to learn maintenance, freight handling, fuel economics, weight restrictions, first aid or the subtleties of the Motor Carrier Act. I just needed to know how to take a tractor-trailer on one haul and manoeuvre it backwards and forwards at a loading dock.”
“Lucky he didn’t think you were a terrorist. Like the guy who wanted to fly the plane but not land it.”
“He might have but Ryder vouched for me. I learned how to handle a ten-gear transmission, use air brakes and get through an obstacle course. My ability to back up left a little to be desired, but I was only going to have to do it twice. Everything was golden until the weekend before the incineration.”
“What happened?”
“What always happens?”
Ryan took his eyes off the road-a rare thing for him to do-and looked at me, an impish spark in his dark eyes. “What was her name?” he asked.
“Camilla Lauder. The lovely Camilla. I won’t go into our relationship, which at that point was dying faster than a fruit fly. We hadn’t been seeing each other much while I was undercover. I’d work in Belleville all week and go home weekends, usually to a frosty welcome. She didn’t care anymore whether I was around. With one exception. Saturday the 22nd, we were invited to her boss’s house for dinner.”
“What’d she do?”
“Financial analyst at a brokerage firm.”
“And you expected warm and fuzzy?”
“I’m not taking relationship advice from a guy living in the Aerosuites Hotel.”
“Ow. Touche.”
“Her boss lived out in Etobicoke. It was the first time he’d invited spouses and significant others and we had to be there six o’clock sharp for drinks. I told her no problem, because the incineration was scheduled for Monday. I would work a swing shift Friday and drive in first thing Saturday morning. Be home by noon at the latest. Be showered, shaved and on my best behaviour in time for dinner. It would have worked out perfectly, but you gaping assholes changed the date.”
“We didn’t, actually,” Ryan said. “Monday was a smokescreen. It was always going to be Saturday, ’cause the incinerator only had one shift, eight a.m. to noon, and it was never that busy after eleven-thirty. The Ensign trucks were supposed to roll in at five to twelve when there was no one around but the intake guy, and we had him bought and paid for.”
“Our wiretaps didn’t pick up the change until Friday night. Ryder called me at midnight. I should have called Camilla right then but she had chronic insomnia and if I woke her she’d never get back to sleep and blame me and be pissed off, as usual.”
“Christ, did she sleep in a coffin?”
“Maybe she should have tried. So I didn’t call. Read was arrested at dawn Saturday and by eight o’clock, Tice was banging on my door, asking if I wanted to make a quick thousand to drive a truck to Woodbridge.”
“A thousand? The cheap fuck. Him and Read were splitting ten.”
“I never collected anyway. By eleven o’clock, we were loaded up and on the road. We followed the other trucks to the incinerator. I managed to dock mine without maiming anyone. We had fifteen minutes to kill to make it look like we were unloading. Tice made a call on his cellphone-to you.”
“I remember. We were pulled over on the highway just past the on-ramp, waiting to escort you to Marco’s.”
“Tice finished the call and went for a smoke,” I said. “I took the plunge and called Camilla on his phone. Saturday mornings she usually went to Pilates, so I figured I’d get the voice mail and leave a quick message. I never dreamed she’d answer.”
“How manly of you.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew her. Turns out she’d skipped Pilates because of a headache. She was in a pissy mood to begin with and when I told her I might be late, she flipped. Absolutely flipped. A longshoreman would blush at the names she called me. I was trying to calm her down when I saw Tice coming. So I hung up on her. Like throwing gas on the fire, right, but what could I do? Tice got in and told me to roll. When we were a half-mile from the 401 on-ramp, he called you with a heads-up. Being a lazy sonofabitch, he hit redial.”
“Because his last call had been to me.”
“Only now he gets Camilla. He’s not expecting a woman, so he says, ‘Who the fuck is this?’ And she gives it right back: ‘Who the fuck are you?’ I could hear it right through his other ear. She must have seen the 613 area code on her caller ID, because she asks, ‘Are you with Jonah?’ He goes, ‘Yeah.’ And she blows me out of the water. Like a killer whale. Like a depth charge. She says, ‘Are you undercover too? If you are, or even if you’re not, tell Jonah if he’s not home by five o’clock he can go fuck himself because he’ll never fuck me again as long as he
