By Any Means

By Saverio J Monachino

Just a typical summer night in Montreal? It started out that way for a middle aged grocer named Giorgio who was just sitting on the roof reciting poetry, dressed from head to toe in leather and watching a man in the alley commit murder with a hard salami. Giorgio's life literally falls into the hands of Inspector Gervais

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert F. Rando
• Release date: Oct 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781962587020

Book preview

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter I: It Was a Warm and Humid Night

Chapter II: Dinner at the Attardos

Chapter III: The Sacrificial Lamb

Chapter IV: Joon Bee

Chapter V: Electronic Mail

Chapter VI: The Gods’ Honest Truth

Chapter VII: Leather Hides a Multitude of Sins

Chapter VIII: I Read It in the Morning Papers

Chapter IX: Evidence

Chapter X: Dans Le Sous-Sol

Chapter XI: The Gay Parade

Chapter XII: Giorgio Is Arrested

Chapter XIII: Giorgio Is Interrogate

Chapter XIV: Montgomery Blair Was Going Places

Chapter XV: Christian Writes a Letter

Chapter XVI: The Spectre of Intelligentsia

Chapter XVII: Be Succinct

Chapter XVIII: The Center of the Universe

Chapter XIX: Joy, Rapture, and Sarcasm

Chapter XX: Once More into the Breach

Chapter XXI: Lunch Is on Me

Chapter XXII: Is It Hot in Here

Chapter XXIII: Haute Couture

Chapter XXIV: Hannah’s Champion

Chapter XXV: Butt Size Is Important

Chapter XXVI: If the Shoe Print Fits

Chapter XXVII: M. Attardo, Senior

Chapter XXVIII: One Last Phone Call

Chapter XXIX: Christian and His Captain

Chapter XXX: Like Talking to a Brick Wall

Chapter XXXI: Sardines, Anchovies or Cannoli

Chapter XXXII: Declared and Undeclared

Chapter XXXIII: What’s the Difference

About the Author

Dedication

To my mother, I only wish I had written faster.

Acknowledgements

The author freely acknowledges using the names of many real people who live in Quebec. At the same time he wishes it understood that none of the characters in the book in any way are meant to represent the people from whom the names were borrowed. They were just beautiful names, so I used them.

The author also acknowledges naming real newspapers in this story. While the names of these well-known institutions were used to add texture to the story, any political bent assigned to the papers mentioned in this book in no way is meant to represent the actual bias of the media outlet mentioned. Any resemblance is purely coincidental.

Within the text excerpts from other sources were used. One couplet was borrowed from the song White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane. It was such a perfect fit no other words came to mind. A few lines were borrowed from the King of the Fairies (A Midsummer Night’s Dream). Again, they were perfect for the situation. Finally, what would any conspiracy theory be without an element of the grail romances and in this regard a short stanza from Eschenbach’s poem, Parzival was used and a direct quote from Thomas Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur.

The author wishes to thank John and Jonathan for critical reading of the manuscript, and another John (Schmidtberger Fine Art) for allowing the use of several of his works. The author also thanks Rachel, Emma, Paul and Maple without whose constant help and support none of this would have been possible.

Finally the author would like to convey his heartfelt appreciation to the inventor of the cannolo. Thank you, thank you very much!

Chapter I

It was a warm and humid night

In which the relativity of quiet is introduced and Batman arrives.

Quiet is a relative term, like truth or beauty, and ‘relatively quiet’ was one way to describe the plateau at three o’clock on a Sunday morning. Other descriptors might include hot and sticky, both of which could also be qualified with the same adverb. Without stretching, one might find the night peaceful, as in, ‘more peaceful than quiet’. Peaceful, however, is also enmeshed in relativity, and hence it too would need qualification– such as, ‘it was as peaceful as one might expect in a residential neighborhood in the heart of Montréal’.

Montréal is like most cosmopolitan cities. It is an insomniac. It never really sleeps, and if it dozes from time to time, it does so with one eye open. For example, at any hour of the night one might hear the wail of an ambulance in a hurry and wonder what sorrows set it in motion and, of course, there are always emergency repair crews going about their business while those around them sleep. And as Edward Hopper might paint, there is always a diner somewhere serving hot coffee to a misfit ensemble of nighthawks. If one was able to filter all of the seemingly inconsequential ambient sounds of the resting city into their component parts, like passing light through a prism, the tell-tale marks of the graveyard shift would come into focus. These nocturnal beings, by design or decree, over the course of time have gradually inverted their natural diurnal rhythms. The meaning of day and night for them is, then, in need of qualification.

Beyond the habitués of the night, others can be found working against the tug of nature, like those whose appointments are better kept in the relative quiet and relative calm of the early morning hours. This was why Jean-François stood motionless under a tree on Saint Dominique. He had business to attend to. It was three in the morning, and as he stood still with small streams of sweat winding downward from under his arms, he thought about the Marché Jean Talon just a few blocks away. If it was Saturday afternoon instead of Sunday morning I would be over there, buying some fresh vegetables, some cheese, maybe having a coffee. But it wasn’t. If this had been three in the afternoon instead of three in the morning, there would have been a thousand and one interesting things for him to do and see, all within a few minutes-walk. But it wasn’t.

It was Sunday morning and Jean-François was on a mission, though at the moment he was just standing still under the tree, waiting for his nerves to calm down. As sharp as he looked, dressed from head to toe in a well-fitted black ensemble, and as stealthy as he acted, one might think he was professional. That is, if you actually saw him. Glance once and he would be nearly invisible, standing motionless in the dark. But if you watched just a moment longer you might catch the unmistakable glow of the burning ember of his cigarette, and that was completely unprofessional for someone on a mission such as his. He stood under the tree for several minutes, smoking one, then another, and watching for signs of life. He was looking for movement, really, as it was too dark to see much else. And as the minutes ticked by, he steeled his nerves, reminding himself how good he was. With tonight’s haul, my lead will be insurmountable.

He reached into the satchel slung over his shoulder and pulled out his favorite toy, night vision goggles. They were his trade secret. Nothing wrong with having a competitive advantage, he thought. He slipped on the goggles, adjusted the settings, and once again scanned the street. From where he stood, about dead center on Saint Dominique between Bélanger and Dante, and with the goggles on, he could clearly make out the street corners in both directions.

The buildings in this section of the city were old and contained many of the architectural features for which Montréal was famous, like the staircases. Almost every book of postcards included a picture of gently curving stairs reaching up to second story doorways, and if the exterior stairs didn’t make things easy the wrought-iron railings enclosing landings and balconies on the upper floors did. Made to order for someone like me. He took a deep breath and his confidence rose in direct proportion to his clarity of vision. I rule the night. At three o’clock in the morning, no one was around to dispute his claim. Jean-François was not a neophyte, but he wasn’t a professional either. On a scale, if one existed, he would probably rank somewhere between a dilettante and a stage-two apprentice. If it was paintball he was playing, one might call him a weekend warrior. But it was not paintball. His club played a different game, and, to a man, the members believed the game they played to be infinitely more stimulating. If we find the second ‘Bergers’, the prize will be beyond belief.

Jean-François did have several advantages over his competitors in the club, the goggles being one. To the best of his knowledge, none of the other acolytes in his class had thought about getting a pair. Another advantage he had was when he returned to his day job, he could, more or less, monitor the progress of the other contestants. You cannot cheat on me, he liked to remind them, because I work for The Montreal Gazette. He was not a reporter, but he did have access to the confidential data being funneled to the newspaper by their myriad of contacts in the Sûreté, the Montréal police department. In this way, he could check up on the tallies put forth by his comrades.

Standing under the tree at three in morning, pumping himself up for this big moment, Jean-François had no idea his life was about to take a radical departure from what he had planned. Tonight was going to be a turning point of sorts. After this night he would never again commit a misdemeanor, a petty theft, a breaking and entering, or larceny of any sort. In fact, after this night, Jean would never again even cheat on his tax returns. But at that exact moment in time, he was not aware of his imminent change of fortune; he was too busy trying to blend into his relatively peaceful surroundings.

Jean-François finished his second cigarette and stepped away from the protection of the shadows. Then he walked down the center of the narrow track dissecting Saint Dominique heading for the back alley. Halfway there he heard an ambulance off in the distance. The sound froze him for a second or two before he moved closer to the wall to be back in the shadows. He waited without moving until the sound died out.

A little jumpy tonight, aren’t we? This self-admonishment he delivered in French. Then he almost laughed; what do I have to worry about? Je suis l’homme de la batte, I rule the night. With these, he patted the goggles, I go where I want. One more house, then back down the alley to the rental and I’ll be done for the night, and without doubt I will win the prize, again, ho hum.

With the goggles on he looked like a giant insect as he slunk from one shadow to the next constantly shifting his gaze from side to side. What he looked like didn’t bother the man in the least. If he was bothered by such style conventions he might not have worn his special red plaid socks this evening. I need my silk stockings; can’t afford sweaty feet in this heat. Tonight function held sway over style, and the functions provided by his high tech gear made his job just that much easier.

Jean-François’ bout of nerves had passed, and confident that he could see but not be seen, he made his way along, his mind trying to catalogue all of the items in his sack. I don’t want to forget anything on the list. He was alert, but not totally occupied by the task at hand, as is often the case when people are engaged in repetitive tasks.

At the end of the walk-through, he entered the alley between St. Dominique and Casgrain, noting with dismay a streetlamp set up high on a telephone pole. If there were more in the alley, he could not tell. This was the only one that appeared to function. What he did not notice was the man standing motionless in the one place in the alley where he would be totally invisible to someone wearing night vision goggles– the weak cone of light from the lamp above. The man was not small, so if Jean-François was not wearing the goggles, he would have noticed him immediately. But into the light was the only place in the alley he could not see. Without the goggles he may have spotted the man but mistaken him for a spare gargoyle held in reserve for the Cathedral on Saint Dominique. And of course the last place Jean-François would have expected to find trouble as he crept along was directly under the street lamp, but nonetheless, that is exactly where trouble stood.

When Jean-François got close enough, the gargoyle purposefully move out from the light into the shadows where it could be seen. The sighting caused his heart to skip two beats and then, like a frightened cat, he jumped almost straight up. It was all he could do to suppress a scream. What surprised him even more than the mere presence of the moving gargoyle was that by the time he landed the fact he knew this man had registered in his brain.

Mon Dieu, you scared me half to death! he hissed through clenched teeth as he removed his goggles.

When the man did not answer, Jean-François continued, but this time in broken English. What are you doing here so late? And what is that you’re holding?

Mon baton, the man answered in English-accented French. He slowly lifted the object in his left hand up to eye level so Jean-François could plainly see it.

That looks like a… Jean-François wanted to say ‘salami’ but didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before he was distracted again. The baton was lowered to a point where Jean-François could no longer see it; at the same time the man reached into his back pocket with his right hand and pulled out a small package. Jean-François flinched again but this time only took a short step back.

The man smiled at him and drew a cigarette out of the package, offering one to the shaking man in front of him. Working two jobs, are we?

No thank you. They’re bad for you. You know this, oui? What you don’t know is this, Jean-François continued, gesturing to his sac as he moved in close, this is not what it looks like. He wondered what he was going to do next but wasn’t thinking clearly; he was too nervous to even attempt to put two and two together. Why, of all the people in the world, did it have to be him? I could really use one of those cigs right now. Why did I turn him down? Perhaps I should just move on. No, no I couldn’t do that, this man knows who I am. He may report me and that would be bad for business. This stupid turd is going to ruin everything. All my hard work and it would be his word against mine. Who the hell is going to believe me over him? Maybe I could frighten him, but all I have on me is a TASER. I couldn’t kill him with that, could I? But it might scare him. Then again, he might scream. Jean Francois cursed this unfortunate turn of events, using about a hundred variations on a theme, before he noticed the glove. It’s so fuckin’ hot out here! Why is he wearin’ gloves? Correction, one glove and it’s on his left hand. Then his thoughts drifted for a moment. Look at him; he’s sweating through his shirt. I hate it when that happens. It’s so gross. What am I going to do now?

As Jean-François was mulling his options, the man put an unlit cigarette between his lips and replaced the package in his back pocket. Then he slowly reached into a front pocket and dug around until he found exactly what he was looking for. Once more Jean-François flinched, but he didn’t jump, and it was just as well; the man only pulled out a lighter.

I could strangle him but I wouldn’t know how to go about it. It could be just coincidence that he’s here. It could be that he is out on a job of his own. But how likely is that? Nervous or not, Jean-Francois was beginning to see the whole picture. What am I going to do? Gawd, he has big forearms. And they’re hairy, too.

The man standing in Jean-François’ way took one long puff on his cigarette, blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth so it wouldn’t hit Jean-François in the face, then slowly took the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it to his right. The distraction served its purpose: Jean-François watched the slow arch of the cigarette as he wondered what was going on– and that was his big mistake.

The baton came up quickly and the sausage, expertly wielded, flew hard into Jean-François’ right ear, instantly puncturing his drum. Surprised again, Jean-François’ reflexes were now slowed and he was confused to a point where he didn’t say a word, he just tried to bring his arms up to shield his ear. It was too late for that maneuver though– the damage had already been done– and by the time he did manage to raise his arm, the man in front of him was delivering a second blow, using the open palm of his right hand. This strike landed squarely on the underside of Jean-François’ nose.

The relative quiet of the night was broken by a feral grunt as Jean-François acknowledged his pain. The second blow almost killed him right then and there. He dropped like a rock, dazed and even more confused, so confused in fact, that he put up no resistance as the man bent low over him, stuffed a squeeze bottle into his mouth, and pressed. The ejaculate tasted a bit like warm, salty mustard. Dijon, perhaps, Jean-François thought as the world around him went dark, goggles or no goggles.

The assailant stood up straight, still holding the sausage in his left hand. Everyone always watches the right hand. They never see the danger in the left. Makes it like child’s play, eh? He spoke out loud as he dropped his baton and backed away a few meters. Then he turned and ran to the end of the alley. Once there his adrenaline finally got the best of him, clouding his judgment and intertwining his feet. He fell flat on his face, got up quickly, and ran in the wrong direction down Bélanger.

When the assailant was out of sight, a new figure emerged from the shadows. This last spectre in the night was a portly man who made his entrance by shinning quietly but awkwardly down a drain pipe from the roof. Quietly, that is, until he gracelessly fell the last five feet. He landed with a thud, and that pushed out a grunt. When he recovered, he clumsily got up, and while still breathing heavily, made his way over to the motionless body.

This third man was wearing part of a leather outfit that gave him the aura of a middle-aged comic book superhero in need of a personal trainer. When he regained his breath, he bent over and leaned in close to Jean-François, looking for signs of life. He stepped in a dollop of mustard as he did so.

Hearing a noise at the end of the alley, he straightened up and turned to look; he conducted this maneuver without help of a tug boat, digging his heel firmly in the loose dirt of the alley. He identified the source and catalogued it as ‘ambient’ then turned his attention from the body to the baton. He picked it up and sniffed it. From the utility belt that is standard issue on quality superhero apparel, he pulled out his Leatherman pocket knife and sliced off the end– the end without earwax. He then gave the slice of baton a perfunctory, though tentative, lick before popping it into his mouth. Soprassata! he exclaimed, and then, savoring the taste for a moment, he placed the brand. It’s imported. Daniele, the good stuff!

In the meantime, the murderer realized his directional mistake and was running past the entrance to the alley in the opposite direction. As he passed, he chanced a glance back to the scene of his crime and was treated to a surreal sight. From a distance it looked like an out of shape Batman was holding his head back as he performed a taste test on the murder weapon. In the split second it took him to traverse the entrance to the alleyway a million and one questions materialized in the space between his ears. However, only one of the myriad of electrochemical events would stick in his mind, repeated over and over for the next seven days: Where have I’ve seen that gut before.

Chapter II

Dinner at the Attardos

In which Giorgio is late and Marianna drops a bombshell.

Lascialo stare! Giorgio’s stepmother moaned then she smacked the back of her husband’s shoulder before pushing him aside. Leave him alone, she repeated, taking his place in the doorframe. Madame Attardo then stood up on her toes, pulled Giorgio’s cheeks down toward her and kissed them both.

You’re late, she told her stepson as she took several plastic sacs out of his hands. Did you bring everything?

Of course, ma, what do you think? Giorgio responded, but his stepmother wasn’t paying attention to him. Instead, in terse Italian, she began telling off her husband.

Just last night I tell you ten times, ‘don’t forget Giorgio has to come early’, did you tell him? No, of course not, mister big shot, forget to call your son! And what happens? He’s a late! Tomasso has to go to the airport, they have an early flight. Now everyone’s waiting, and I have no antipasto. Madame Attardo placed the back of her hand under her chin, turned her eyes heavenward and beseeched the blessed virgin. Madonna Mia, what am I going to do with him? She then mumbled something that appeared to Giorgio and his father to be a direct interchange with the deity above, ending with Yes of course, but please give me patience, before returning to the corporeal world around her. When she did so, she commenced to reel off a set of husband commands in a tone and cadence that would have made any military commander proud.

As the orders were handed out, Giorgio stood immobile in the doorframe, doing a little beseeching of his own. First and foremost he asked for the patience and strength to survive another afternoon with his family. Then help me find a way to explain what I saw last night. But the most important issue for Giorgio was one he thought best to put off until a time his brothers would not be around. God, please don’t let them make fun of my new girlfriend.

When Giorgio heard his stepmother wind down, And make sure you cut the meat thin, you understand? and eventually stop for air, he stepped inside, moving past his father as if he wasn’t there. Then he tentatively approached the master of the house. Ma, it’s my fault. A bunch of customers came in at the last second, as always. I had to stay.

His stepmother had moved to the stove and was now setting a large pot of water on to boil. If she heard Giorgio, she ignored his explanation moving instead to a more immediate concern. Giorgio, I no see the cannoli!

Maybe they’re in the sac Pops has.

His mother spun around and marched up to the man who was slowly edging his way out of the kitchen with his lone sac. The wife caught him in two strides, pulled the bag out of his hands and smacked him again, this time across the chest. She opened the sac and peered inside.

Good. Giorgio, while your father fixes the antipasto, I want you to stuff each cannolo shell. Don’t put them in the refrigerator, they’ll get soggy. Leave them on zee counter. I’ve counted the shells so they all better be here when it’s a time for dessert. And don’t forget to say hello to your nieces and nephews. Emma and Paul go back to New Jersey today. I don’t know when we see them again.

Saying this caused Madame Attardo to pause. Tomasso, her oldest, had recently moved to the states, a move she would never forgive and with him had gone her first two grandchildren. Now the use of the words ‘new’ and ‘jersey’ in the same time brought a wave of remorse. She had to wait it out before she could carry on. But today it was only a brief pause before she was back on the offensive."

And you, meaning her husband, well I’va had it up to here with you today, indicating the top of her forehead with the back of her hand to illustrate exactly how high. I want you to get busy. You do know we have to eat very soon or your son will miss his plane and make sure you use both green and black olives. Then, turning once more to Giorgio and tempering her tone, she added, Giorgio, you did bring both kinds, right? And, back to her husband, there should be some prosciutto and what’s this? she asked, peering into one of the bags and taking out a slab wrapped in brown wax paper.

Giorgio picked up the package and held it to his temple. Probably the Asiago, he guessed.

Imported?

Ma, Giorgio acted offended, playing his role like an actor who had too many years of practice under his belt, of course. Would I bring you anything else? Giorgio feigned hurt, though he knew some of the domestic cheeses were just as good as those from the old country, and he had more than once slipped in a home-grown product with none of the household experts the wiser.

While his stepmother alternated between painstakingly telling her husband exactly how to prepare the antipasto and then telling him off for a multitude of indiscretions, Giorgio, having heard it all before, ignored the two love birds and began lining up the cannoli shells.

Holding her finger and thumb just a few millimeters apart, Madame Attardo gave her husband one last reminder. Cut the soprassata this thin. Last time it was like beef jerky. Then she moved to Giorgio’s side. His father just smiled a big dumb smile and nodded his head, which was caught by the all-seeing eye of his wife. Big shot lawyer, she told Giorgio, all these years and he still can’t cut the soprassata right. It should be like velum, but he’s a lumberman with that knife. Good thing one of my sons is a doctor and knows how to use a blade. While speaking, she took the lid off the sweet ricotta cheese, gave it a sniff and then a nod of approval.

Bene, molto bene, you’re a good son, brings his mother cannoli every week. Does this have the citron in it?

For Giorgio, every week was the same routine, a mock battle of wits between his father and stepmother that once or twice was amusing, but after a while became tedious to watch and annoying to listen to. Every week also brought a reminder to Giorgio that he was not her child because her children were doctors and lawyers or important people in the government. As if I didn’t know. Funny, none of her other children ever brought her fresh cannoli.

Giorgio turned to the side and pretended to cough while rolling his eyes. Every week, he repeated, the same stupid game. ‘Don’t forget the cannoli’, she says a thousand times. So what happens? I bring the cannoli and she acts all surprised. Would it kill her to act as if I know how to follow directions? Giorgio turned back to his stepmother just in time to get his cheek pinched. Then he was handed the container holding the ricotta and instructed, Don’t crack any of the shells, and wash your hands first,

Why, why, why everytime like I’m one big lug? Giorgio gave his stepmother a sweet smile and told her he would do his best.

We have an extra guest over today, your niece’s friend from school. From last year, that is, before that no good son of mine moved to Jersey. Madame Attardo bit her first two fingers as she implored the blessed virgin again, this time to forgive her the angry thoughts. When she recovered, she continued, And don’t eat any! I need them all for dessert.

Giorgio was sure the reminder would come once or twice more before she was through, and as always, after reminding him not to eat any, she pulled a shell off the tray, broke off a piece, and tasted it right in front of him. Satisfied they were fresh, she produced a display plate and handed it to over, saying, you know you look a little tired to me, I can see little rings under the eyes. Are you sleeping okay? Without waiting for a response she picked up the telephone and headed out of the kitchen to parts unknown. I’ve got to see what is keeping your sister, was the only explanation offered.

When the lady of the house left the room, M. Attardo moved to his son’s side, wrapped him up in his arms, gave Giorgio a tender bear hug, and laughed.

Pops, why do you do that?

Do what? Mr. Innocent answered.

Why do you bait her like that?

Bait her? Bait her? Son, with your own eyes you just saw what happened here, you see what she’s like. I’m just trying to stay out of the way, to survive.

Come on, why you tease her so much?

Let me tell you something, his father