“Prostitutes come in the same way, often with some man who says he is the brother or cousin. She shows she has employment, so she is allowed to enter. They are usually very young, and usually from Malaysia. The Vietnamese mostly run them.
“It is difficult to stop. We visit the people they tell us about who are the relatives or the employers they will be staying with, and they look good. We know they are probably either criminals or in debt to the gangs, but we can’t prove it.”
“In debt to them how?” I asked. “Because of what they owe for the trip over here?”
“Yes, that, but the gambling also. Asians love to gamble. They work all day and all night, and they gamble to relax. Da Wang runs some gambling, and some loan sharking so he can control them more. Ten percent a week on the loan. They can’t pay it off? Then a favor is owed instead-a lie about being someone’s brother, a trip to the U.S. with drugs or money… Whatever is needed.
“But the violence is not his, not mostly. That is more the Vietnamese, the Cambodians. The follow-home robberies? After a man wins big at gambling? That’s mostly Vietnamese. Da Wang is happy enough having loaned him the money and having run the gambling parlor. He doesn’t need to rob him, too. He leaves that to the gangs to keep them happy.”
“Jesus,” Spinney muttered, half into his note pad, “why the hell don’t all these people kick his ass?”
Lacoste shrugged. “It is their life. It is karma, to endure. They are happy here. It is much, much better than where they came from, and they are used to the gangs. To be a merchant and to pay three hundred dollars a month is just overhead-they don’t even talk about it among themselves, like they don’t talk about electricity rates. Sometimes it gets too high. One man paid fifty thousand dollars, total, to all five gangs in one year. That was too much. He complained to us. We arrested one man, then the merchant’s home was invaded, his wife was raped, and he was told, ‘That’s number-one warning.’ He came back to us and we caught the men and put them in jail, and that merchant is still in business, but we visit him all the time, to show we are there to help. Still, that is very rare-only about five percent of the crimes are ever told to us. But we are just beginning. This unit was formed in 1989, so we have hopes things will improve. And the more Asians born here and educated here, the better. They know we are not corrupt like the police back on the mainland. So that helps a little, too. In time, the old habits will change, and the people will realize they can, as you say, ‘kick their ass.’”
“How does Da Wang get his illegals across the border?” I asked, surprised by the similarities between his situation and the one U.S. law enforcement was facing.
“Little by little, in a car, on foot. It is not like your Mexican border. Here, it is a big holding tank, where money is being made off the illegals while they are waiting to cross. There is no need to ship them in a truck. Safer to let it be a trickle. The backbone of Da Wang’s business is not the illegals-they are just a part of the manpower. The money is in the restaurants, because of the money laundering and the credit-card fraud.”
“Which is exactly where we think Truong Van Loc is putting the squeeze on Da Wang,” Spinney said.
“Why would he care, though?” I asked. “If Da Wang’s biggest restaurants-and the only ones he admits to owning-are all in Canada, what does he care if someone steals a few in Vermont?”
“And Massachusetts, and Connecticut, and New York,” added Lacoste. “Vermont is more important than you think. Da Wang’s power is in the strength of his face-it is like a reputation, but means much, much more. That is the first thing he must always protect. Also, the credit-card fraud in Canada comes to about fifty million dollars. In the U.S. it is at least six hundred million. If Da Wang loses the Vermont part of his pipeline, it doesn’t interfere with his income too badly, but it shows weakness if he lets it happen. That can threaten all his holdings and be fatal to him.”
“I believe your ‘Sonny’ is a clever man, hitting Da Wang across the border. It is strategy over greed. In a way, it is like when the lesser army beats the greater one by sending a small force around to the back to trouble the supply line, making the bosses look small. Large armies grow restless when they begin to doubt, and they look to their leaders to put things right.”
I laughed. “You’re beginning to sound like a fortune cookie.”
Lacoste smiled back. “That is okay. I learn a lot from the Asians. The criminals are the worst I know. But the people are wonderful and have taught me more than I can tell.”
“What I hear you saying,” I resumed, “is that while you don’t know specifically why Da Wang is having all these meetings, you’re guessing his organization is definitely under stress.”
“Yes, but I would say you should talk to the RCMP about the border smuggling. That is their area, and they might know more.”
Spinney looked up from his note taking. “You don’t talk to each other?”
Lacoste gazed at us for a long few seconds before nodding gently. “And all of you talk always?”
It was a painful truth we both instantly recognized. “Who do you recommend we contact?” I asked diplomatically.
“Jacques Lucas-Antoine Schmitt will put you in touch. Use my name.”
“You probably know Da Wang as well as any outsider,” said Spinney. “If you’re right about him feeling the squeeze, what do think he’ll do about it?”
Lacoste’s answer was immediate. “He will do what has been done to him, and he will strike at the source-immediately.”
21
Montreal's official Chinatown-the one the tourists photograph-is on rue de la Gauchetière, west of boulevard St-Laurent. It is not very large-a few short blocks of jam-packed restaurants, shops, association headquarters, Mah-Jongg parlors, and apartments, all as covered with colorful posters, signs, and neon advertisements as a newlywed with rice. The street, closed off as a pedestrian walkway, is filled with people, all in movement, and reverberating with the sounds of exotic language and blaring radios. Lacoste parked his unmarked car on St-Laurent, just beyond the ornate, pagoda-style gateway that arched over the street’s entrance, and shoved a few coins into the parking meter that stood guard across the sidewalk, close to the wall.
The three of us entered La Gauchetière, walking abreast, looking as out of place as three gunslingers on an urban movie set-except that only our host was actually armed, with an ankle-holstered.38 he’d strapped on before leaving the office. Despite the fact that I was convinced we had police all but stenciled across our backs, Lacoste seemed as upbeat as I imagined he’d be during a stroll in the park. He moved from one side of the street to the other as we walked, pointing out various landmarks-usually those that had featured raids or robberies, or which were hangouts for the local hoods.
“The criminals do not live here. They come here to work-to have meetings, to gamble, to extort the merchants, to run their operations from up there.” He swept his arm above us, encompassing the dozens of dark, blank windows that were perched above the street on the upper floors. “It is not a very big Chinatown, but it is like a rabbit’s home, filled with tunnels and stairs and rooms you cannot find.”
“How many of the merchants are extorted?”
Lacoste shrugged. “Everybody-maybe a couple are not, who are well connected, and that is true not just for this Chinatown, but for the others that the tourists don’t know, in Brossard, and Côte des Neiges, and Jean Talon. But the center remains here. See?” He gestured with his chin to a trio of young men in dark-leather clothes, wearing studied malevolent expressions. They were huddled together by a door, smoking cigarettes and murmuring among themselves.