Shmucks (6 page)

As he waited there for the light to change, a man and a woman came out of the corner apartment. The man motioned to him. The couple approached the cab and got in. The man mumbled something very rapidly in French to Pelzic.

“Pardon?” Pelzic replied using one of the half-dozen French words he knew. The man quickly repeated the same sentence.

This time Pelzic managed to pick up the word St. Catherine and assumed the man wanted to go somewhere east since St. Catherine was a one-way street going east.

The light changed. Pelzic put on the meter and headed for Stanley Street where he turned right. He continued down Stanley. Halfway down the hill, the man in the back seat suddenly said, “Ou vas-tu?”

Pelzic nodded, not understanding the man's question.

“Qu'est-ce qu'il fait?” the woman asked in surprise.

“Sais pas,” the man replied.

“Ou vas-tu, estsi?” the man asked.

“Okay, monsieur, oui,” Pelzic replied, smiling and nodding his head.

“I asked where you are going, my friend,” the man said angrily.

“Oh, of course. You said St. Catherine Street,” Pelzic replied.

“Tabernac. I said Motel St. Catherine which happens to be in Laval.”

Just as the man said this, Pelzic crossed Sherbrooke Street.

“Stop the car, estsi!” the man said curtly.

“Why?” Pelzic asked, slowing down. “I'll turn around in the lane.”

“Colis, I said stop the fucking car tabernac.”

Pelzic brought the car to a halt.

“Here, estsi. The meter is fifty cents. I give you fifty cents. I don't give you no fucking tip, estsi.” He threw two quarters onto the front seat.

“How you get your fucking license if you don't speak no fucking French, eh? Mon estsi de colis de tabernac de moods criss de calvire.” He opened the back door and got out, holding his hand out to help the woman.

“I speak French,” Pelzic protested.

“Tu parle français tway?” the man asked, derisively.

Pelzic looked back blankly.

“Siss mes gosses,” the man said laughing, and slammed the door in Pelzic's face.

Pelzic didn't know what the man had said with his parting words, but he suspected it wasn't something nice.

What did they want from him? he wondered. He wasn't good at languages. He had tried to learn French but he wasn't very successful at it. He still had trouble with English, and he wasn't even that fluent in Romanian, his native tongue.

So I can't speak French very well, he thought. Does that mean they have to shout at me, to insult me, to get out of my cab?

He sat there at the side of the road for a few minutes trying to relieve the anger that seemed to be recurring. Then he decided to cut through the alley that connected Stanley and Peel. He'd make a pass by the Mount Royal Hotel. He turned into the alley. The moment he entered it, he had to hit his brakes.

The driver of an outcoming car had also applied his brakes and stopped about thirty feet away. Pelzic sat there for a moment, waiting for the other driver to back up. He didn't know why he expected the other driver to back up, but somehow he thought it would happen momentarily. After about twenty seconds, Pelzic realized that the other driver had no intention of backing up.

As soon as this thought registered in Pelzic's mind, he felt a rage explode inside him. This anger rose up so suddenly and so violently that for a moment Pelzic didn't think he had any control over himself and didn't seem to care. He was on the verge of screaming–and the thought of accelerating his car and crashing full force into the other vehicle flashed through his mind.

Then, in an instant, he became very calm. He knew he wasn't going to move. The only person who would move him at that moment would be a policeman with his revolver drawn. Nothing less. He couldn't take it anymore. It was as though everywhere he went, everything he did, someone or something was there to frustrate him, to push him around. It had to stop. He was going to stop it here, now. Once and for all, he was going to take a stand, to hit first and ask questions later. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair.

He wasn't going to back up. He was going to come out frontwards onto Peel Street if he had to stay there all night, all week, all year!

Pelzic shut off his motor, closed his lights and stretched himself out on the front seat. As he did this, he felt a surge of pleasure such as he hadn't experienced in years.

CHAPTER 3

LEVIN LIT ANOTHER CIGARETTE
and looked at his watch. It was 12:30. They had now been parked in the alley for an hour and a half. It seemed more like five or six hours. The time was passing so slowly.

Levin sat up and changed the radio station. It was going to be a long night. His adversary in the taxi hadn't shown even the slightest sign of moving from his prone position. He must be some kind of fanatic, Levin mused, a dangerous rival. Levin shut off his car lights, figuring he had already repaid the taxi driver in full on that score. He turned off the car motor. It was suddenly very quiet in the alley. The only sound now was his own radio. He turned it down low. He wanted to leave.

It still bothered him that the girl had left. Maybe she had gone back to the club to find another guy. If he hurried there, perhaps he might catch her. He forced these thoughts out of his mind as he invoked the sensation of shame he knew he would feel if he left the scene. No, he would stay–all night if necessary.

He reached into the back seat and took the
Montreal Star
out of his briefcase. He turned on the courtesy lights and spread the newspaper. The headlines were basically the same as the lead news items on the radio. He skimmed over the front page and turned to page two. It was mostly a continuation of the first page. He peered down at page three and scanned a synopsis of several cases which had come up that day in criminal court. Then his eye was attracted by a small box at the bottom of the page:

LOSES NOSE–GETS IT BACK.
Rome–Police went to an apartment here yesterday to look for a woman's nose, bitten off by her husband during a quarrel. They found it in a corridor and drove with it, sirens blaring, to a hospital, where surgeons immediately sewed it back on. Police arrested 37-year-old Salvatore Cali for biting the nose off. His 40-year-old wife Veneranda was expected to remain in hospital for about four weeks.

Levin couldn't help chuckling for a few moments. Crazy, he thought. Nuts. That's all you read about, all you see on TV, or hear on the radio. Violence, killing, rape. It's unbelievable. He was sure that if he closed his eyes and placed his finger on any page, it would settle on an article dealing with some sort of unpleasantness.

Just to test himself, he did that. Closing his eyes, he opened the newspaper at random and put his finger down at what he thought was the centre of the page. He opened his eyes and read:

GIRL, 10, GIVES BIRTH
—Buenos Aires—A 10-year-old girl who gave birth to a six-pound, eight-ounce boy sat up in her hospital bed today and cuddled her son. Doctors said she was in good condition. The baby, named Ramon Marcelo, gurgled happily as the mother, Mirta Fontora, held him in her arms. Dr. Roberto Pezzoni, who delivered the baby, said Mirta was born in the northern semi-tropical province of Misiones and had advanced physical development. He said she began to menstruate at the age of nine. One newspaper quoted the girl's mother as saying Mirta was a timid girl “too shy to undress even in front of me.”

Incredible, Levin thought. It seemed from reading the papers, there was violence and craziness everywhere. Even Montreal, which had always been a safe city for non-criminal citizens, was being affected. Every other day someone seemed to be getting shot or stabbed in some midtown bar. Only a few years before, shootings and other hard violence had been confined almost entirely to the Main. Now it was commonplace in the posh clubs in the centre city. Levin had felt the potential violence growing over the last few years. When he was still married, it didn't affect him. He didn't go out to clubs and discotheques looking to pick up women. He enjoyed spending time at home; and when he did go out with his wife, it was usually to a movie and supper.

But that was two years in the past. After his divorce he had gone back into circulation with a vengeance. He began to frequent the swinging discotheques and bars. It was then that he became distinctly aware of how the city had changed. He found himself getting involved in hassles and confrontations with other hustlers. Some of his competitors were in their early twenties. At thirty-three, Levin wasn't in the greatest of shape. He was still very strong, and at 165 pounds was probably only 15 pounds overweight; but his wind wasn't what it used to be and he wasn't as fast on his feet as some of the younger studs. He got into a few fights and did alright, but on several occasions he thought it due only to luck that he managed to hold his own. Because he wasn't going to let anyone move him–and since six months of being back on the scene had taught him that there were a lot of aggressive individuals who might try–he decided to do the only sensible thing: he took up Karate.

Some months later he had occasion to test the efficacy of this discipline when he saw what appeared to be a burglar attempting to break into a neighbour's apartment.

In the ensuing struggle, which was short and brutal, Levin laid him out with several quick blows to the windpipe. Later it turned out that the apparent burglar was in fact a well-known Montreal rabbi. He had been visiting his daughter, who was Levin's next-door neighbour. After that Levin had been careful with his Karate.

He stopped thinking and continued reading the paper. He came across an interesting article on the South Vietnamese National Assembly. The item described how the latest session of the assembly had commenced with one deputy offering to drop his pants in the house. Apparently another deputy had said something disparaging about his virility and the first deputy was anxious to disprove these assertions. It looked as though the politicians in South Vietnam were even crazier than their Quebec or Canadian counterparts.

The Canadian prime minister had told certain people to fuck off in the House of Commons, and of course he had also publicly told certain individuals to eat shit–but he had never offered to flash his pecker in the house, or at least it had never been reported in the press that he had.

It seemed as though everyone was affected by the syndrome of the times–anger. Everyone seemed determined to vent his rage whenever the occasion arose. How could a simple average guy like himself be expected to act normal when everywhere world leaders, heads of government, were acting like maniacs. He remembered a saying by someone, “In a sick world even the healthy are sick.”

He sighed deeply and pushed the newspaper away. Aside from his success in meeting the girl, everything had been lousy that day–and even the one good thing had come to nothing.

He hadn't been able to accomplish a thing. His whole day had been wasted in useless meetings. He wanted to take Friday off and head up north for a long week-end of fishing but he was behind in all his work. He hadn't even had time to open his mail or dictate a word of correspondence.

He hated the correspondence. That was the most difficult thing of all. Administering twenty million dollars of high-class commercial and residential real estate wasn't easy. The majority of his residential tenants were people who had been spoiled by wealth and had to be handled at worst diplomatically, at best with kid gloves. They were used to demanding and receiving.

Levin found that in dealing with them, even on the most trivial matters, he had to choose his words very carefully. He figured since he was probably in for a long night, he might as well try to do some work so that he could be completely free for the coming Friday.

It would be good to take the long week-end. Perhaps he'd take Monday as well.

He had his dictaphone in the car. He could go over his mail and dictate his correspondence as well. He leaned over into the back seat and pulled his briefcase over into the front. He opened it and took out his mail. He placed it in a stack beside him, and pushed the briefcase away. He picked up an envelope, tore it open and pulled the letter out.

Dear Mr. Levin:

I felt I must write to you on what I consider a very serious matter. The tenant directly across the hall from me (Mr. John Martin) is making things very difficult for me. As you know from previous discussions on the telephone, I was never very happy about his taking occupancy in our building. I have lived here at the Grosvenor Arms for thirty years and he is not our kind of person. He works at a night club and is continually coming home in the morning hours. I can hear him getting off the elevator at four o'clock every morning and am constantly being awakened. Once up, I am unable to fall asleep again.

He is a most inconsiderate person. I approached him one day and asked if he wouldn't mind taking the stairs at night instead of using the elevator but he objected to climbing the ten flights of stairs each night. I don't think I was being unreasonable. At his age I would have found ten flights easy to climb. He replied to my request in a very nasty way saying “_uck you lady.” (If you know what I mean). I don't think this was called for, under the circumstances. In general I find him a very rude and ill-mannered type, certainly not of the calibre of tenant we are used to here at the Grosvenor Arms.

However, this isn't the main problem. Last week he bought a rather large dog, a mastiff I believe. It is the size of a small lion and apparently only six months old. I have nothing against dogs as such; however, I found that he allows the dog to make wee wees in the elevator.

This is something I simply will not tolerate and I don't expect you will either. I confronted him with the fact the other day but he denied it was his dog that had done it. His reply was, “Lady, my dog only _hits in the elevator, he never takes _isses there.”