Wake up on a late November morning with the cold muzzle of a shotgun tapping your nose and you're right there, in the moment as they say. There was a figure in the bedroom doorway. Detective 'Tall' Andre, my friend, was standing just inside the room, a wry smile brightening his face. The guy with the shotgun pointed just above my nose was a total stranger. I could feel my ass tightening. What to do? I nodded at the shooter and spoke to Andre. "I hope you and your friend have a search warrant. Otherwise, I'll be filing another complaint with the Surete." The muzzle pushed down, bending my nose to one side. "Fuck you, faggot." I got brave. "Faggot? Really. Who's the guy kneeling over me with his knee stuck in between my legs? With all respect, officer, blow me or shove off." The shooter tensed up, swung the barrel up above my face. Andre stepped forward. "Cool it, Francis. Back off. This isn't necessary. BACK OFF." Francis the Talking Pig leaned back. I sat up and reached for the phone. "Stay right where you are. I'm calling the detachment commander. Gave me his private cell number. This is going to fun." Andre took three giant steps forward and wrapped a huge hand around the phone. "Give us a minute. My friend here is a little wound up. I'll fill you in. You don't like the explanation, you make the call, no problem." Andre was a good cop, an honest guy, modest and funny. "OK. The clock is running." Andre opened the window of the bedroom, lit a cigarette and threw the package onto the bed. Francis was sitting against the wall, oddly deflated, staring at me like a leech thinking about his lunch. The room filled with foul Dumaurier smoke. "Francis has been undercover for almost two years against a biker banking operation in Montreal East. It turned out to be a safe in an abandoned apartment. The runners would dump their cash and walk away. Once a week, it got cleaned out by a senior Angel and the money got shipped. Francis laid on an operation against one guy the team wanted badly. When they nailed him in the apartment, the safe was empty. Now the Angels are looking for the last man in the place. And so is Francis. Half a million cash missing." I looked at the near crumpled figure next to my bed. "Your point being.....?" Andre knelt down and patted my knee. "The guy was a good friend of Jean-Louis. He..." I raised my arm. "Jean is long gone. Even if he wasn't, I'd never..." Francis jumped forward. "You'd never what?" "I wouldn't turn on him for an asshole who thinks shoving a shotgun in my face is going to make me come in his face." Andre stepped onto the bed between us. "Enough of this shit. Listen, my friend. This is a favour for me. Forget everythng else. I'm asking you." I stood up, searching for my jeans. "Asking what?" "Asking you to take this piece of shit into The Princess Club, introduce him around, have some drinks and then fuck off. He's on his own." Francis was by the window now, using the shotgun as a cane. "It's my ass if he fucks up." Andre followed me through the door to the john. I was bursting. "You have my word. He's just looking for a trace of the runner. That's it. He'll spend some money, get laid, listen around." I zipped up. "And what's going to happen if he's not cool?" Andre looked back to the bedroom. "I'll take care of it, don't worry. It'll be fine. He'll do it my way. I'm running him." Andre had me and he knew it. Two nights later, I wandered into the Princess Club with Francis dripping cash, sizing up the girls, cutting a figure. I hung around til midnight and then left him to his fate. My phone started ringing around 5 am. It was Andre. The remains of Francis were in the ICU at the hospital in Ste-Agathe, being stitched back together. He'd been found by the beach on Lac Superior. According to one of the bartenders, Francis left with the young girlfriend of one of the Angels who was on the road, making a big show of his score. He'd been looking for trouble and found it. At least three guys jumped him while he was fucking the girl on the beach and did him up with baseball bats. They didn't know he was a cop and could have cared less. He was just a drunk yuppie asshole who needed to be taught a lesson. Francis was retired on three-quarters pension. Andre said he had done the Surete du Quebec good service, that it was the force's responsibility as much as his own that he'd stayed out in undercover too long. Way too long. What I didn't understand was where the hell had Andre had been. He should have had Francis's back. When I asked him a couple of years later, he thought about it for a good long while. "I did him a favor. I called the club and told them where he and the girl were. They weren't supposed to pound him into ratshit, just give him a decent beating. Francis was finished, he just wouldn't admit it. Someone had to tell the truth. So I did."
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