Rectifying Chambly: Killer Confessions

By Leon David Dunn

Two family dynasties. Two different worlds. The last of each line meet in New York. In a small hotel room a retired assassin sits down to tell his story to who he believes is an aspiring author...

Rectifying Chambly is a series of linked conversations between Juan Lopez in his quest to find his father’s killer, and Samuel Linstrom, a retired assassin attempting to leave his legacy with the world. Past events from Montevideo to Michigan have brought these two determined men together.

Set against the downtrodden early nineties of New York City and the struggle of two detectives, self-destructive Berrymere and responsible Weathers, to find the reason for a string of recent murders in their district, the plot races back and forth in real time as each character’s past is graphically unraveled.

Has Samuel, bored with the life of a retiree, gone back to work? Will Juan get the answers he so desperately needs? Will the two detectives solve the spate of kills now plaguing their area?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leon David Dunn
• Release date: Dec 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9780991975600

Leon David Dunn

Leon David Dunn was born and raised in Windsor, Ontario. After studying philosophy at university, he left North America for an 11 -year, around-the-world adventure which allowed him to call home places as varied as England, Scotland, Italy, Australia, and Japan.He now lives in Vancouver, Canada.

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Rectifying Chambly

Killer Confessions

By Leon David Dunn

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Rectifying Chambly Killer Confessions, Copyright © 2014 by Leon David Dunn. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information contact the author at www.leondaviddunn.com

Published by Leon David Dunn

December 2014

ISBN 978-0-9919756-0-0

1.

Samuel fell to the ground after the slug grazed his thigh. Rolling over he expected another bullet, or two; death was near. He saw the two dead bikers just as he had a moment ago, their bodies still, lifeless, a sigh of relief as his gun was empty. Falling backwards he started laughing, a frantic, frenzied, wild laugh of a mad man, not a professional. Professionals didn’t laugh. Not in this business. Samuel Linstrom, a professional, was out, finished. Wanting to get away and to close this gig as fast as possible he pulled himself up and dragged his bloodied body out the door, one leg left almost limp. Looking up, the sky clear, black and starlit left voids both physical and metal, the cool night air chilled his sweaty face. Grabbing a t-shirt and tearing it in two, he then tied pieces around his leg and arm to stop the bleeding. No arteries were hit, of this he was sure. Stretching his neck, pulling in both directions, a pain shot through his entire body. Yep, he was out. Last one. The air, dry and still, was perfect for a fire.

Working quickly, he took each and every utensil he would need from his truck; Rags, lighter, the whiskey bottles from the back seat and the gasoline tank from the bed of the truck. Limping back to the house, he noticed for the first time the drugs spread around the living room. At the foot of the stairs lay between the two slumped figures was a wallet. He would leave it, he would leave everything. He was not a thief. He was a professional with a perfect record. ‘At least I was until today,’ he thought. He emptied the gasoline in each and every room masking the smell of gun powder, sex and sweat. The bodies of the dead he gave a sizable dousing. When his substantial bonfire was ready to be lit, he set alight a Molotov cocktail on the second floor and tossed it into Pierre’s room. Lighting a cigarette, he then leisurely strolled downstairs, cutting the lavender fumes drifting upward from his own hand. He lit another bottle near the bottom of the steps and tossed it into the living room. On his way out the front door he stopped and took one last drag from the cigarette hanging in his mouth. He stared despairingly at the two dead men that were to be his last.

Can I really leave it like this?

The cigarette he then flicked onto the heaps of flesh and they went up like a pyre on the banks of the Ganges. The clubhouse was engulfed in flames before he had reached the end of Rue de Gentilly. First looking down to his wrapped bicep, which hurt like hell, then to his leg which would need attention soon, and finally to the spectacle in his rear view mirror he thought again, ‘well, almost perfect.’

One week before …

Engines roared, demanding attention. Nervous housewives ran to living rooms to peer through windows smudged with children’s fingerprints. Unbelieving eyes darted back and forth as the parade of grease, meat and muscle rambled down the boulevards. Curtains were closed quickly and panicked fingers hovered above telephone buttons unsurely.

In the fall of 1981, the small, quiet community of Chambly, a short drive East of Montreal, received a handful of new residents. At a newly paved corner just before Rue De Gentilly, the five bikes rumbled to a stop and their owners then surveyed the surroundings. One of the men, a large, hairy tattooed beast of a man pointed right, then steered his large motorcycle onto the newly made cul de sac. The remaining bikes followed obediently, as if they were driving themselves. The recently required and just built two storied home was the only building on the virgin street: the main reason these individuals had chosen to purchase it. The five men pulled their motorcycles up on the freshly laid lawn, digging it up with their tires and sending pieces of earth into the air. Hoots, hollers and curses trailed up and off into the wind. Like cowboys from horses, they dismounted their bikes. The largest of them pulled a set of keys from his ancient black leather jacket. On the jacket’s back, a devils face with horns sticking out its sides spread to the man’s under arms, the sinister face surrounded by a ring of red rocks. On his left sleeve, on the upper arm, a set of white, black, and yellow wings, roughly stitched into the worn leather, signified the race of women with whom he had performed cunnilingus. A red star to the right of these wings proudly represented a woman that had been menstruating. On his right sleeve, a number of crosses denoted the times he had used a weapon. There were many – too many to remember. He meandered to the front door, his thick digits scratching at his long black beard.

The house was paneled brown; the windows bare and there were no balconies. The sides of the residence opened to fields, and the back extended to untouched woods. The closest neighbor was on the street they had turned off, at least two hundred yards away.

One hell of a fucking place, he said, then spat a wad of tobacco juice onto the virgin concrete.

At the back of the pack Jaws let out a whoop then opened a beer with his teeth. His trademark.

One by one they followed their leader. Varying degrees of wings and crosses down the sleeves. First was Maurice, who at fifty-three was the eldest, and the most qualified to lead the pack, but too diminutive to assert this qualification. He was always by Guy’s side, the close proximity to him almost counted as leadership. Second was Robby Laporte. Robby was a kleptomaniac. No one had yet to see the connection. Behind Robby came Pierre. Pierre was the youngest of the bunch and had yet to receive a moniker. Nephew to Maurice, he had recently been kicked out of high school. A big boy, but with delicate features, he had only recently started shaving; forever a topic amongst the members. Pierre was in perpetual fear of that first brutal strike that would start the day of reckoning. He knew his time was coming – and coming soon. One day the other members were going to unleash a barrage of punches, kicks, elbows, chains and quite possibly branding to toughen up his look. He hadn’t told anyone, but the mere thought of it had been waking him in cold sweats nightly. He sometimes thought about trying another high-school. In strolled Jaws, the most fucked up and many thought certified insane. Growing up with abusive parents, siblings, nuns and headmasters can do that to a child. He had spent most of his adult life in and out of prison after his first four-year lock up for an assault and battery charge against an ex-girlfriend, and then the police officer who tried to arrest him, and then the second and third. Jaws wasn’t much older than thirty-six year old Guy, and the pair had been companions since their first riding days together with the old club, Death Machine. His head and face were too thin for his bulky frame, and his legs were shorter than would be natural for his large torso. Miraculously, he had been able to do what no other biker in the world had been able to do. He had retained all of his natural teeth. Aesthetically unpleasant, but utilitarian they definitely were. He had munched his way through wire, tin, glass, bone and skin.

Inside, the home was sparse. No fixtures, no appliances, no furniture, dishes or cutlery. Jaws stepped inside the room closest and sat on the floor. He took a swig of beer. Fuck me, he said.

Pierre followed him, his boots leaving a small trail of dirt. We gonna get anything for this place?

Jaws looked up, What do you think you dumb fuck? We’re not fucking bums, we got tonnes of cash. Shit, I don’t know, go ask Guy. He took a long pull from his bottle with crossed eyes.

Guy, Maurice, and Robby surveyed the upstairs. Four bedrooms lined the one long hallway. Maurice and Robby waited for Guy to choose. Which he did, finally, making claim to it by throwing down a dirtied duffel bag and kicking off his muddied boots. Maurice poured some vodka on the rug in another, marking his territory, and Robby, took the smallest of the four, emptying his stolen bag of its contents by turning it over. Out fell three shirts, yet to be washed in over two months, an extra pair of soiled jeans, two bottles of recently stolen Jack Daniels, and two cartons of smokes which he had forgotten how he had come to own. Maurice went into the bedroom next to his and poured some more vodka on the rug there too, for his nephew.

Right, said Guy, stepping back into the hall. We need some shit.

The five members that formed Satan’s Rocks left their new home and headed back towards Montreal. Chambly, small as it was, was not equipped with the necessities the gang members needed. Back down the 112 they rode, their large bikes and selves a fearful curiosity to everyone they passed. In Saint Hubert, south of its own tiny airport, they found a department store with everything they needed. Inside, the five men bought blankets, dishes, cups, glasses, a few pans, some cutlery, light bulbs. They also purchased - which would be delivered the following day - a stove, fridge, couch, large coffee table and one lamp. In a remarkably quick time for even the most speedy of shoppers, they had everything they needed, bought, purchased and tied to their bikes – within seventy minutes.

Boys, tonight we party, said Guy turning his engine over. It roared to life like a dozen caged lions that had been pricked, prodded and beaten for a millennia before being released. The members of Satan’s Rocks followed. Each engine as equally pissed off. A noise that disrupted the conversations of all others for a square mile bellowed throughout the area.

Once back in Chambly, Guy ordered Maurice to call their girls, the ones who made money for them, and have them bring some other loose women to their new digs. At eight-thirty that night the five members of Satan’s Rocks were well on their way into a bender that would last three days. Just before taking a line he looked up and made eye contact with the young kid.

And you tell those fucking bitches that if even one of them does not show up they will all have one serious fucking problem on their sweet little asses. You hear me pretty boy?

Maurice nodded.

Repeat what I just said. Guy bent over and took some white powder up his bulbous nose.

Lowering his voice an octave, Maurice repeated it. He tried to sound hard, toughened. It wasn’t effective.

Good, said Guy, rubbing his snout. And grab another bottle or two of vodka and some more beer. Robby, you go with him. Robby, in the corner of the room rolling a joint, didn’t hear him. Robby! hollered Guy, I said go with pretty boy.

Robby looked up, nodded, then he left the room with Maurice.

When the girls arrived, as instructed, Guy took out another bag of blow and threw it at Tracy, his favorite. There you go sweetheart, that’s on us tonight. Tracy smiled, she loved coke but she hated the men she worked for. The seven girls who had taken a taxi all the way from Montreal shot glances at each other. It was a big bag. Within minutes Tracy had perfect lines on the mirror she had had since high school and always kept with her.

That night, just before three am, Guy pulled himself off the floor and stepped over Jaws who was going down on Michelle, someone who did not work for them, having been brought by Julia, a girl that did. Guy looked down, ‘Nice pussy,’ he thought, ‘she’ll work for us starting tomorrow.’ He saw Tracy sitting on the floor, back resting against the wall, eyes closed, lips moving, muttering. He grabbed her by the arm, his thick fingers wrapping themselves completely around her bicep, and pulled her up. Tracy, often the chosen one for the leader, gave no resistance. Tracy was a pro and had worked for many gangs across Canada and the U.S. Always fucking up in the end, hoarding lots of cash for herself then getting caught out, she came to be a girl working for Satan’s Rocks five months ago, following her last mishap in Chicago. She considered Montreal to be the last stop on her quest for self destruction.

A step before the door Guy saw Jocelyn, a young redheaded woman from Quebec City who was on the run for some offense or other. She had been working in the Latin Quarter of Montreal for the past four months. She was pretty, little need for make-up, and had an unusually dark complexion for a ginger. He liked the way her top fell down to her cleavage, revealing a large rose tattoo. He bent over and grabbed her arm too, pulling her up next to Tracy. The two of them then followed Guy upstairs and flopped on the floor of his room. Guy sat with his back against the wall, under the window. Reaching for the cup next to him he spat some tobacco juice into it, now almost full of spit, ash and butts. Grabbing some more coke, he dumped the white clumps onto the back of a plate. He kept his eyes on the white powder being crushed beneath a ten dollar bill, and as if annoyed at the wait he said impatiently, Go on, get at her. No explanation needed, they knew exactly what they were supposed to do.

For three days the party continued. People came and went and came and went, with a few of the girls lasting the whole seventy-two hours. On the third evening Guy kicked every girl out of the house and ordered them back to work. A few of the gang’s smaller dealers – the ones who sold for them – he let stay; there was a shipment the following day and they needed to get their goods.

A week after moving into their new home, the Satan’s Rocks were visited by the police. A patrol car was sent round the house after someone in the community complained about a recent spate of break-ins. The goods had already been hawked, the Rocks were not worried. Outside, in the back that led to nothing but bush, Constables Richard and Bertrand confronted three of the members. A fire, well over two meters high burned in the center of the yard. Satan’s Rocks mingled about its edge.

Guy spoke first, using his limited French, "Qest est le probleme?"

Constable Richard answered, No problem, no problem at all. We just got a complaint about the fire is all.

Guy continued in French, "Nous ne pouvons avoir un incendie?"

No, you can have a fire, but it must be in a pit, you need a container and it’s only allowed to be this high. Constable Bertrand answered in French and raised his arm a meter off the ground.

Guy nodded. OK. OK. We will fix this. Anything else? he spat a wad of tobacco juice towards the officers, just missing their feet.

That’s all, said Bertrand. The two officers were not going to ask about the series of break-ins. There was no point. They turned and left.

Five hundred miles away an older, graying, assassin stepped out of his sauna. Going towards the barbecue for another sausage, he heard the phone ring. Ignoring it, he took a piece of meat and a beer from the cooler; then sat on his bench, the same he had shared for years with his father until he had passed away. He had lived in the same house all his life, his father having left everything to him when he died. The phone rang again. ‘Fuck,’ he thought. Putting everything aside, he slipped on his slippers and entered his home, reaching the phone just in time to catch its last ring. Hallo? he asked, his accent changing without any will of his own when in his home state.

We have a job. Canada. Montreal. Interested? The voice was deep, raspy, like an aged jazz singer.

Sand me da details. The assassin hung up. He knew he would receive a package the very next day.

Back outside he stepped, muttering to himself. He had said no more after the last, but he knew he didn’t believe it. He tried to convince himself, but no matter how hard he tried, no matter what reasons he came up with, he knew he wanted another. It wasn’t the money; he had plenty of that. And it wasn’t the thrill. For years now, he never had one. But, for some reason he could not put a definite finger on, he knew there was one more in him. The challenge. Who? Where? With what? And doing something to perfection was what he wanted. He was a professional and professionals don’t just give up, do they? Taking a bite of his sausage, he washed it down with a swig of beer. Gazing upwards to the multitudes of stars that blanket northern Michigan he thought of his history. He had turned down ten of the last twelve assignments due to travel restrictions. It was now much too difficult traveling on a false passport. He knew his old ones wouldn’t even work anymore. Borders were becoming increasingly complicated to get through and he couldn’t alter a passport anymore. All those computers, chips, scanned photos, digital this and digital that. He would never again be able to do a job outside of the western world. ‘But Canada,’ he thought, ‘it’s right there.’ He didn’t need to fake anything. Same as usual. Like his first. He thought of the last two, the easy ones. Vegas was a joke. He laughed aloud then took another bite of his sausage. The stars were bright that night as he thought about the way the world was headed. A world he would never really know. Soon he would retire completely. No more. One more flawless contract to add to his immaculate career, then get out. One more. Then solitude. Retirement. Alone. The light from his sauna shone dimly through the steamed window. ‘Alone,’ he thought. ‘Always alone.’ Another swig of beer, then he entered the heated room.

***

Jaws, what did they say? Guy paced the living room of their club house with a beer in his right hand. In his left, a cigarette between middle and index finger, between his ring and pinkie, a joint. Both burning.

Not much, Jaws walked right past the living room door and took a beer from the fridge. He stepped into the living room, bit the cap off then spat it on the floor. It bounced twice and landed on Pierre’s lap. Looking down between his two still swollen eyes, it took him two tries to get it off.

It had been a week since the party and Pierre’s day of reckoning had come to fruition. Two days after the bender, the five bikers went for a ride along Route 112 then headed north on the 30 before pulling over an hour later. Into Parc National du Mont Saint-Bruno they steered their massive bikes in a single line formation. Pierre in the middle. Four bikes followed Guy through the forest of the park, racing along at dizzying speeds through the narrow paths of the woods. At a clearing about twenty minutes into the park Guy pulled his bike to the left and traversed a dirt path down to a small pond concealed by the trees. The four men followed. Pierre, coming off the bender, had no idea what was in store for him. He was under the impression there was a bonding between them all now, a kinship that would trump the gang’s obsession with violence and cruelty towards their own. For the past five days he had slept well, drug induced, but still well. The thought of his initiation had left for the time being. He was relaxed.

Guy stopped his bike a few feet from the water’s edge. The old man Maurice pulled his bike up next to him. Pierre stopped behind them. Jaws and Robby knew what the ride was all about. They parked their bikes horizontal to the water, blocking the path back towards the paved route of the park. Guy sat on his bike staring out to the pond. Maurice did the same, shame building inside him with every breath he took. It was his nephew they were about to beat ruthlessly. Jaws and Robby dismounted their bikes. Eying each other, they smiled, then each took out a weapon from their bike bags. Robby, a metal bar that had been used on him many years before; Jaws, a pair of vice grips. Robby smiled at his partners’ choice of weapon. Just sheer joy.

A few moments later Pierre caught sight of a metal object shimmering off the sun in his mirror. Before he had time to react, a thundering blow was dealt to the side of his head. He was still wearing his helmet, but it made little difference. It went flying from the sheer force. He bent forward on his bike, raising his hands over his head, the side of his skull already bleeding. Maurice, hearing the thud, turned and knew the savage bloodbath had begun. He swallowed hard, but he knew it was good for the boy. Guy turned and looked intently at his aged partner. He motioned with his head for him to join the thrashing. Jaws took his vice grip and jammed it into Pierre’s arm, rendering him powerless. Wherever the grips went, he too would follow. Jaws led him off his bike and onto his knees, Pierre turned to Maurice, who was now standing next to his kneeling nephew.

Go on, hit the mother-fucker, said Jaws through a circus sideshow grin.

With blood dripping down the side of his face, Pierre looked up and met his uncle’s eyes, pleading for mercy. Some sort of biker clemency that would stop the unyielding torture about to ensue. No, please, he said, almost in a whimper.

Maurice shut his eyes and took a step back before jumping forward with a kick meant to puncture a truck’s tire. The toe of his boot landed straight in the stomach of his begging nephew. Jaws let out a whoop, lessening his grip. Pierre, both hands free, fell forward, cradling his stomach. The wind entirely knocked out of him, he gasped for what little air did enter, his lungs working overtime, burning from exhaustion. Robby raised his bar again then dealt a rib breaking blow to Pierre’s right side. Guy watched with a smile. Maurice looked up and made eye contact with the leader. Again, he stepped back, then delivered a kick, this time to the same side as the metal bar strike. Pierre cried out in pain. Three members laughed. Guy removed his jacket and dismounted his bike, then calmly laid his jacket over the seat. Taking a pair of brass knuckles from his back pocket he stepped towards the boy.

Look at me, he said almost kindly.

Pierre lay on his side, fetal positioned.

Pierre, I’m not going to hurt you, Guy said, sliding his fingers through the four holes of his brass knuckles. It fit like a glove. Pierre, look at me, he said again, this time sternly.

Pierre knew he had to. Looking out over the water he watched as three ducklings followed their mother along the calm surface of the pond. The water below them divided, leaving an ever-growing triangle behind them. The water glistened. The sun shone. Pierre pushed himself to his knees.

With a punch that could have killed many others, Guy brought his massive arm down in one swift motion. His thick fingers gripped the metal tightly and all four landed exactly where he intended. The sound of metal on bone and ripping flesh echoed throughout the tiny opening in the woods. Pierre fell to the ground and grabbed his cheek. Warm blood oozed out between his fingers. Guy struck him again in the ribs then again in the other cheek after Pierre went to defend his upper torso. Maurice watched as the lump in his throat grew larger by the second. Jaws threw down his vice grips and began relentlessly kicking the young man. Face, ribs, legs, arms, anywhere and everywhere. Robby took a beer from his shoulder bag, opened it then poured some over Pierre. He took a long swig himself then offered the rest to the boy. The four gang members watched as the young man drank off the remaining beer. Eyes swollen, cheeks, ribs, stomach, legs, ass, all various colors of blue, black, purple and red. Blood spilled out from the numerous cuts, welts and lashes. It wasn’t over yet. For another hour the onslaught continued. Pierre was made to stand a few times and take yet more blows to the face and ribs. Guy, Robby, Jaws and Maurice drank beer and smoked cigarettes in the afternoon sun, all the while delivering a beating that could match those of any recorded throughout history.

As the sun went down, Robby took a bottle of vodka from his satchel and poured some over Pierre, who hadn’t moved in half an hour. The alcohol fell like rain, entering his wounds, a burning sensation shot through his body. Robby handed him the bottle. Pierre drank some, trying to numb the pain. One gulp, two gulps, then three. He fell to the dirt, eyes almost completely shut. A plume of dust kicked up.

When the torturous initiation was finally at its close, Guy pulled Pierre up by his collar, blood spilling to the earth like from a slaughtered calf. He smiled, Now, he said proudly, you are one of us.

The other four members yelled, whistled and cheered, bottles were raised to the sky above. Over and over they shouted the name of their new member, and the name of their posse. More beers were cracked, another bottle of vodka opened, drugs were produced.

Remaining where they were, night slowly crept up and over the five bikers who were then in various states of intoxication. The drugs and booze had worked wonders for Pierre, who could not see at all. Maurice took out his pocket knife, heated it with his lighter and then made two small incisions in his nephew’s eyelids. Like condiments from a squeezed sandwich, blood and puss leaked from the swollen pockets. Slowly, the skin then retracted, leaving two small slits that enabled him to see. The five of them slept under the stars that night, Pierre, not the only one in and out of consciousness.

Not much is not an answer. What the fuck did they say? Guy was losing his temper, the marijuana many years ago had lost that effect.

Well, we have an ultimatum. We either join, or we surrender some of our profits. Jaws took a long gulp of beer. He enjoyed being the one with information, relishing in it now even when he had so adamantly refused to be the messenger only just the day before. A battle he had lost. The other gang had caught word of Satan’s Rocks new chapter and were not pleased. They, being the largest bike gang in North America, the original one per-centers who lived off grid, had recently been amalgamating all other smaller, lesser-known gangs. Especially those considered to be financially beneficial.

What?!!? Guy shouted, then kicked the wall closest to him. His boot went right through the plastered support. Fuck!

Jaws took another swig of beer. Upstairs, Maurice heard and felt the house move. He pushed the woman off him and told her to get dressed. Hastily, he put on his jeans, then went downstairs. What the fuck? he said entering the living room.

We’re fucked! That’s what’s fucked! shouted Guy, face growing redder by the second.

Jaws turned to Maurice, Robby up stairs? he asked. Maurice nodded, he had heard some bitch wailing away about an hour ago. Jaws went upstairs.

Robby’s door was closed but Jaws could hear people inside. He set down his beer then took his revolver from his belt. Standing directly in front of the door he counted to three, then with one swift kick the door flung open. Jaws jumped inside with his gun drawn, Get your hands up! Get your hands up now! he shouted in French. Robby lay under a girl Jaws had never seen before. Long, curly, dyed blonde locks fell down to her aged ass. Without her turning, Jaws knew the woman currently riding his kleptomaniac friend was at least sixty, possibly more. The woman screamed and flung her hands in the air, her underarm skin flapping like a flag in the wind. Robby, for a split second, went to reach for his gun before realizing who it was. He then searched in vain for something to throw, and seeing a bottle near his foot he reached for it, but the woman on top of him was too heavy.