Babylon On The St. Lawrence
Montreal, Victoria
The
Belle Epoque did little to advertise itself. Tucked away in an alley on the riverside, there was no signage save for a small plaque over the otherwise totally nondescript door. From there, down a few flights of stairs and down a similarly unassuming hallway. The only thing one might pick out as strange was the heavy steel door at the end of it. All told, it was hardly an inviting introduction. But then again, a business like the
Bell Epoque had no business drawing attention to itself in a town run by the Victorians.
They frequented it too, of course, as the sea of flannel that immediately came into view when the heavy steel door finally swung open showed. They came, supposedly, for the food, although in reality they likely came more for the free choice of alcoholic beverage served with it, or the various young women hanging around the bar who proved very free with their affections towards any young soldier who bought them a meal and a drink as well. The younger troops blushed and awkwardly picked away at their poutine and tried not to pull faces as they sipped their scotch or gin, while the veterans left their meals forgotten and headed straight for the back rooms with their new paramours. Montreal was a long way from home, after all, and maintaining abstinence and a sobriety pledge was tough enough when you weren't stuck in a cold, Northern backwater full of people who held you in deep and eternal contempt.
It wasn't all Vicks of course. There were dockworkers from the port, though not as many now as there had been, and sailors in from cargo ships from the Great Lakes, although if the tide of dockworkers had ebbed they had reduced to a trickle. Locals went elsewhere, preferring to avoid rubbing shoulders with their occupiers when they were trying to unwind. And of course, there were the three young men in their suits. Always filling up at least one table, they chatted and drank and smoked, and both the Vicks and the other patrons gave them a respectful distance. There was an air of danger about them, an understanding that they weren't as likely to just roll over if a militiaman tried to throw his weight around. And it was only polite, after all. They owned the place.
"So anyway," says the tallest of the three, knocking back his scotch, "We get to the Basilica, Pierre sweating bullets the whole way, he heads up at the alter, out comes Marie all dolled up in her dress- gorgeous, y'know, I couldn't have been happier for him- and then right as she starts up the aisle an Inquisitor barges into the church!"
His two companions lean forward. "No shit!" "So what'd you do?" The tall man signals a waitress for another round. "Well, you know how Pierre gets when somebody messes with family, I had to drag him back down into his seat and jab him in the ribs to keep him from tearing the guy a new one. So I get up and ask 'Is there a problem? We're just having a wedding here, no pagan rituals or nothin'.' And he says, get this, 'Don't mind me. I'm just observing to make sure the proper rites are being performed.' Can you fuckin' believe that? 'Crusaders' my ass, they're fucking policing us to make sure we worship how Augusta wants us to."
"At a wedding?" The one on the left says. "
Tabernak, these guys have no sense of decency." "Fuckin' A." agrees the other one. "So go on, Marco, what happened next?" They pause for a moment as the waitress arrives with their drinks. "Well," Marco continues, "Pierre, if you can believe it, almost forgot to practice the speech in English as well as French. If I hadn't busted his balls about it all through the wedding planning he'd have either had to speak French in front of the Inquisitor or say nothing at all." The other two pause for a moment to digest that verbal hand grenade. "Jesus, he could have gotten himself killed!"
"Yeah, that's what I told him. You want a light there, Armand?" The man on the right shook his head. "Nah, I'm good." "Okay. Francois?" the other man just waved it away. "Alright, so," Armand began, leaning forward. "What happened afterwards? Did you go to Davis?"
"Yeah, of course I did, I went straight to him like 'what the fuck?' right, because he promised me the churches wouldn't get any hassle. Guess what he tells me? He says that with all the shit going on with the CMC and the fact they got their asses kicked by the Commonwealth, the Inquisitors are breathing down his neck. He only has 'limited control', he says."
"Christ."
"Only fuckin' Vicks could lose most of their army and figure that they weren't being hardcore
enough."
"You said it. So I figured we were gonna try and keep a low profile for a little while, y'know? We've dealt with Inquisitors before, after all. Just sit back and wait until we've got some leverage over 'em."
Francois nodded. "Seems like a good plan." Armand scoffed. "Yeah, we thought so too, until fuckin' Carcetti-"
"-Oh, don't get me started on that prick." Marco sighed, taking a long drag on his cigarette. A look of confusion crept across Francois' face. "Wait, what'd Carcetti do? I thought he'd been making a killing selling the surplus the Vicks dumped when they were marching home."
"Yeah, he was, but apparently that wasn't enough for him. He's not happy with just owning Toronto and splitting the rackets in Buffalo with the Postmen. So when the CMC march into the city, the dumb prick gets it into his head, "Hey, these guys have plenty of morphine they're not using, they need guns-"
"-No fucking way. There's no way Carcetti's that stupid."
Marco slammed his hand down on the table. "Carcetti
went to the fucking commanding officer offering to sell the arms from the baggage train in exchange for their morphine." Again, the table was struck with horrified silence. Armand let out a low whistle. "Did he think the Vicks wouldn't recognize their own equipment?"
"I heard from one of the guys that got out of Buffalo that he made a half-assed attempt to scratch off the maker's marks and serial numbers. That didn't save him, though, I hear they shot him in the middle of fucking Fountain Plaza."
"And the rest of his guys?"
"Some shot. Most conscripted. The way I hear they just grabbed 20,000 guys and marched 'em into the woods. More cannon fodder to face Blackwell's militia. Anyway, that's why I invited Armand here, Francois. He says he's got a guy who can help us get out of this jam, I've got an idea of what we should have him do, and you've got the smuggling connections to get him where he needs to go. We sort this out, quietly."
The skepticism was plain on Francois' face. The halt to trade brought on by the war had squeezed him badly, and the docks, being kept small by the Vicks essentially out of spite, had never given up that much revenue to begin with. "I dunno. Tell me about this guy of yours, Armand. Is he some button man or what?"
"Oh, he's better than that." Armand said. "Smart, tough, every job or racket I put him on, it runs just right. Y'know what happened to Charlie Brooks? He's the guy who pulled the trigger."
"He did Charlie Brooks? I thought that was some Russians from out of town. Spetsnaz types, that's what people were saying, the price of getting too deep into New York."
"Yeah, they think it was Spetsnaz because he shoots like one and he was smart enough to keep quiet about it. He doesn't like talking in general, but he can do that too or find a guy to do it for him when I need him to. If only he were Italian I'd adopt the kid straightaway. Anyway, you'll get a chance to meet him tonight."
"Here he is now." Marco said, and the three men turned to see a young man enter and swiftly kick the snow off his boots. He was built like an NHL defenseman, tall and broad-shouldered, with placid brown eyes and a lean, chiseled face. Armand waved and he swiftly went to join them.
"Monsieur Annunzia, Monsieur Bianchi." he said, nodding respectfully to Francois and Marco in turn. "Boss." he said, turning to address Armand as he stood and kissed him on both cheeks. "Gentlemen." Armand said. "This is Moose Dupont, he's a friend of ours."
"That's one hell of a name." Francois said, grinning. Moose looked unperturbed. "My mother was a big hockey fan." He said with a shrug, his face impassive. "I understand you have a job for me?"
Armand and Francois turned to Marco. "Look, I'm not sure how much you've heard about what's going on in Buffalo, but it's pretty bad. We've lost our main foothold in New York state and our primary contacts with the Victorians who distribute our smack, meth and porn to our customer base in Victoria proper. Now they're saying the Welland Canal might be sealed up, and that's killing our rackets at the docks. To top it all off, we've got Inquisitors sniffing around and our usual contacts in the administration can't protect us like they used to." He paused to make sure the gravity of the situation had sunk in, and found Moose's face remained as serious as ever.
"So we've talked about this, and what I figure right now is that for the short-to-medium-term, we're finished in Buffalo, and that means we're finished in most of Victoria until the war's over. It's just too dangerous to try and re-establish anything when we have no idea who's gonna be in charge next week. Once we can see a clear winner, we'll support them, but until then we have to look elsewhere, or we're starving." Another pause, this time gauging Francois and Armand's reactions. Both seemed willing to hear him out, though Francois still looked skeptical.
"So, where do we go? Well, before Buffalo went down Carcetti told me our friends in NYC got a look at the chick running the Commonwealth when she made her state visit, and they liked what they saw. They've gotten Detroit and Toledo by standing up to the Vicks, and they've got the kind of country my old man used to tell me about: democratic, industrialized, big urban population, so all on its own it's a pretty big market. But here's the real rub: This same guy who saw their President also has friends of friends in high places, and one of the rumors coming down is that they asked for a free trade clause with Victoria. And even more than that, Carcetti swore blind they've insisted on the Seaway being opened for international trade. To
everyone."
That got a reaction. Moose blinked and let out a huff of surprise, while Francois let out a rather less reserved "Fuckin' A!" and exuberantly slammed his glass on the table. Montreal right now was a backwater: the Vicks had ripped the heart out of the place, turned Canada's second city into a stain on the map smaller even than St. John's. And Francois felt better than anyone the chafing constraints of the artificial limitations the Vicks put on the port, keeping it tiny even though it was at a natural crossroads. But if this went through, all that trade from the interior and from the outside world would be coming down into the Lakes, and even the Victorians would struggle to hold it back. He could see dollar signs in Armand's eyes: Quebec City was his, and by far the larger port of the two cities. He'd get a hefty earnings bump no matter what. But if they played this right, they could build up the port to its former glory, and once again make sure that at least a portion of that tidal wave of goods flowed through Montreal.
And he owned Montreal.
"So, Moose." Marco continued. "Here's what you're gonna do. Francois' people are gonna put you on a boat or a truck or whatever and get your ass to Detroit. And you're gonna get the lay of the land there so we can start bringing in people there. Figure out who owns what, try and scout out a good place for us to set up shop, maybe a bar or even a proper club since the Commonwealth aren't such fuckin' prudes. And once you're done there, ideally after a couple of weeks, we're sending you on to Chicago to do the same thing. Find us or build us a front, we'll send the money. And then from there, you start doing what our grandfathers did. You give to charity, or better yet, set one up. The Vicks say these guys are communists, so maybe they've got unions. You get involved in those too. You shake hands, you meet politicians, celebrities, businessmen, whoever, and you pitch opening the Saint Lawrence to them like it's one of the Ten Commandments. You understand me?"
Moose paused for a moment, taking it all in. "It's the biggest job I've ever done." He said. "But if you give me the money and the men, I can do it no problem. It might get bloody, though, if we have to kick out whoever's already set up shop there."
"I'm told you've got no trouble with that sort of thing." Marco said coolly. "Look, this could make you, big-time. You'll have all three of the Quebec families behind you, and you'll be our man in the Commonwealth. So long as you pay back our investment, and you always remember who you work for.
Comprenez vous?"
"
Oui." Moose said, nodding. "When do I leave?" Marco turned to Francois. "How soon can you get him out?"
"Tonight." He said, his old caution now abandoned. He turned to Moose. "Head down to the docks around ten o'clock. We'll get you on a boat to Hamilton, bring you overland from there." The young man turned lastly to Armand, who dismissed him with a nod. The table was subdued for awhile after: thinking about what had happened in Buffalo, about the Inquisitors barging into churches, the perils of an uncertain future. About the money that might be waiting on the far side of the Great Lakes, if only they could reach out and grasp it.
"We had a family in Chicago before, didn't we?" Francois spoke up, glancing over to the bar thronging with militiamen. "In the old days, I mean. Before Victoria."
"Yeah, we did." Armand spoke up. "They had a special name for it too. They had different names for everywhere. I think they used to call the Buffalo families the Arm or something. Can't remember Chicago's for the life of me though."
"The Outfit." Marco said, stubbing out the remains of his cigarette in the chipped ashtray. The smoke still hang heavy in the air. "They called it the Outfit."
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