covered with little colorful stickers. I looked down; my feet were stepping on a
“So, you got kids?” I said, turning to him.
“Excellent observation, officer,” he said.
“How many?”
“Two.”
“Wow, two kids,” I said. “I have one myself.”
“No, you don’t,” he said, turning the GM left and into another street.
“How do you know that?” I said, offended.
“I read your file.”
“How come you get a file on me and I don’t on you?”
“You’re under me.”
I blew my top. “I’m not under you. I’m your partner.”
“You’re my responsibility.”
“I’m no one’s responsibility,” I said. “The last thing you want is to take responsibility for me. You could get into serious trouble for that. ”
“Thank you for the information,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
The Lincoln was moving one hundred kilometers per hour on Highway 401 when Martin’s phone rang.
“Yes,” he said. He pulled out a pad from his briefcase and began making notes. As he wrote, he laughed harder and harder.
“What’s so funny?” asked Ms. Zee.
He hung up. “The police are on to us.”
She wasn’t smiling.
“Your informant has told me that they’ve established a new unit to locate and stop us.”
“What was so funny about that?” she said.
“They call this new force Operation Anti-RACE.”
She didn’t understand.
“They call us RACE. Radical Association of Criminal Ethnicities.”
This made her laugh. “The police always need unusual acronyms to do their job.”
“But that’s not all. They’ve also made up a name for our product.”
“A name?”
“Yes. Nex.”
“Nex?”
“Yes, something to do with the stock market.” He laughed.
“Nex.” She thought about it. “I like it. Nex it is, then.”
I stared out the window. After a short while the station wagon began to slow down and I realized where we were.
“Regent Park?” I said, turning to him.
“You’ve never been here?” he said.
“Um…of course I’ve been here. Many times. I live here, man. This is my ’hood.” I lowered myself in my seat.
Regent Park is one of the poorest areas in the city and maybe in the province. Poverty equals crime and Regent Park is known for that. With narrow alleys and pathways leading in and out, it is designed for drug dealers. They consider it their territory. Shootings are common in this neighbourhood. What were we doing here?
Beadsworth circled and parked.
“Do you want to stay in the car?” he asked.
“I think it’ll probably be safer if I cover your back,” I said.
From the trunk, Beadsworth pulled out a plastic bag.
We walked up to a building. A group of teenagers looked across at us. This sent a shiver up my back. We went inside and up the stairs to the third floor.
Beadworth knocked on a door. The door slowly inched open and a black boy peered through.
“How are you, Theo?” Beadsworth said.
Right away Theo opened the door. Beadsworth handed him the plastic bag. We went in.
“Who is it?” came another voice farther way. A man in his early twenties, wearing a white undershirt, black pants and no shoes, appeared down the hall.
“Voshon, how are you doing?” Beadsworth said.
“Good,” replied Voshon, smiling. “Come in.”
We went down the hall and into the living room. There was a sofa in the middle, an old table to one side and an even older TV with knobs in the corner.
Theo came up behind me holding the empty plastic bag and a pair of Reebok shoes. His eyes were glowing.
“Voshon,” he said. “Can I wear ’em?”
“Yeah, sure,” replied his older brother. “But go watch the window.”
Theo quickly laced up the shoes and went to the window.
Voshon leaned closer. “Thanks, he’d been asking for a pair for a long time.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Beadsworth. “This is Officer Jon Rupret,” he introduced me. I shook Voshon’s hand.
“Can I get you anything?” Voshon asked.
“No,” replied Beadsworth, looking in my direction. “We ate on our way here.”
“Have a seat,” he said, dusting whatever dirt might be on the sofa.
We sat down. Voshon grabbed a chair opposite us.
“How’s college?” Beadsworth inquired.
“Good.”
“And work?”
“Good. I do most of my reading after I make my rounds.”
“Good,” said Beadsworth. He paused and then spoke again, “Do you have any information for us.”
“There’s this is one guy you can talk to,” Voshon said. “I think his name is Max Vernon or Vernon Max but he goes by the name of DJ Krash, with a K.”
“Where can we find this Mr. Krash?” Beadsworth asked.
“He’s a DJ at the club House of Jam. He plays there on Fridays.”
I then remembered the picture Garnett had put up in the front. The three guys were standing outside a club-was it the House of Jam?
“So you think he might be involved in this?” I said.
“I didn’t say he was involved, only that he might have some information,” Voshon said.
“How do you know?” I said.
“I worked some night shifts there and I heard some stuff, you know.”
Beadsworth got up. “Thank you, Voshon. Anything you hear you let me know.”
“Sure.”
We walked down the stairs and were out again. Beadsworth looked up and waved. Theo waved back and disappeared from the window.
“What was he doing?” I asked.
“Watching.”
