| "MAXIMUM PAYOLA" BY CALLUM HOUSTON |
“You see this?”
“I see your hand.”
“It's my hand, yes. Do you know what else it is?”
“No.”
“Look closely. This is a hand with every finger severed. Every finger. All that's left is a bloody
pulpy palm. Five digits sliced clean off. An accident? Did I get my hand stuck in the wood
chipper at the saw mill? Was it shredded in the drill at the machine shop? No. I got this mutilation
in a mob hit ordered by Eddie Down at Bank of Quebec. Savagery. The savagery of men. Why
this brutality inflicted upon me? Why this warning? Was somebody insulted? Did I insult Eddie
Down? Wound his pride somehow? No. Was it revenge? Did I steal from him? Rip him off? Of
course not. How the hell am I going to burn an Eddie Down? Impossible. This was done for the
sole reason I'm rich. Make that, WAS rich. Because I was money. Bags of shit. Up to my knees
in it. Stuffed into his bank. You got money 'round here, you're a target. People with money need
protection in this province.
“Let me tell ya about Eddie Down. We'll start with these two fingers. I purchased some street-
level debt, a mortgage of a couple hundred thou owed by a Vietnamese restaurant owner who
thought he had what it took to purchase the building his restaurant was in. I picked up the mortgage
on the underground exchange. A sweet deal, the debt was secured by the premises, twenty percent
interest, barely touching the principal, he'll never pay this thing off. Sooner or later I'll get around
to foreclosing on the sucker and seize the building. At the same time I got an insurance play going.
All my proceeds, everything, I'm depositing at Bank of Quebec. On top of that I have three mil in
stock and bonds stashed in two dummy accounts at Bank of Quebec. A mil in one account, two
mil in the other. Dormant trust account money that came my way.
“So I'm loading up at Eddie Down's shack. Everybody knows, you got laundry to do, you go to
Down. He's your go-to guy for cleaning the sheets. He should call his bank Eddie Down's fuckin'
Laundry Service. Big mistake. Big motherfuck of a mistake. I had no way of knowing he's a
double-dealing maggot who'll sell you out to the syndicate in an instant. He is as mobbed-up as any
quote unquote banker is in Canada. His understandings in place with the old boys-Trader Vic's
networks override any loyalty he's got to me - which is none, less than none, even with the amount
of business I was doing with the guy. Hell, I even had my mother put her retirement nest egg at
Bank of Quebec. I thought it was safe. Someone like me, unconnected, I'm a bug to an Eddie
Down. A mosquito. Need be he flicks me away like a mosquito. Like I'm nothing. And that's
what he did.
“Didn't take long for the street to smell my dough. Next thing the courthouse satellite gang starts
hitting Down up for all my cash, flashing blank sheets of paper in his face. All of a sudden outta
nowhere Down's swinging a meat cleaver like a fuckin' psychopath having a epileptic fit. My
business accounts? Suckered bone dry. What's going on here? I've got my back against the wall.
Down knows I can't just walk down the street to another bank and relocate the money. I call his
office, talk to his people, all I get is shit on. Sorry we ain't gonna help you, our money now
sucker. It's the law. Eddie Down's law. They don't even bother makin' up no phony excuses.
They don't have to. No one can touch 'em. Could you at least vet these seizures of my capital past
your legal department? This court paper you're using to drain my accounts, you know, it ain't
legal. C'mon, give me a break, will ya. No answer. Down closes his door, won't say another word
to me. Then I get nailed even harder. Down's swinging the meat cleaver again - slash - there goes
my thumb, my index finger and my middle finger. A mil for each. Both accounts, the two big
ones, three mil, cleaned out. That's what I know about Eddie Down, dangerous man to do business
with.”
“Sounds like you've a legitimate beef with the guy.”
“He's fucked me so hard, taken a lot from me, from my family, massive chunks of my worth.
Disrespected me as much as any man can.”
“You've got some hate in you for him. You want him to suffer.”
“Yes.”
“You don't fear him anymore, so now you'd like revenge. You want to kill him.”
“I've always wanted to kill him.”
“But the government won't let you. He's protected. Can't be touched. Grievances cannot be
redressed. If it's a choice between him and you they'll give him the last seat on the lifeboat without
thinking about it. He screws the bolts into you, you and god knows who else, and the government
doesn't blink an eye, he keeps on doing business the same way like nothing happened. He's a big
shot. Big shots can do that.”
“I know.”
“Well, I've news for you. Eddie Down's out.”
“I see your hand.”
“It's my hand, yes. Do you know what else it is?”
“No.”
“Look closely. This is a hand with every finger severed. Every finger. All that's left is a bloody
pulpy palm. Five digits sliced clean off. An accident? Did I get my hand stuck in the wood
chipper at the saw mill? Was it shredded in the drill at the machine shop? No. I got this mutilation
in a mob hit ordered by Eddie Down at Bank of Quebec. Savagery. The savagery of men. Why
this brutality inflicted upon me? Why this warning? Was somebody insulted? Did I insult Eddie
Down? Wound his pride somehow? No. Was it revenge? Did I steal from him? Rip him off? Of
course not. How the hell am I going to burn an Eddie Down? Impossible. This was done for the
sole reason I'm rich. Make that, WAS rich. Because I was money. Bags of shit. Up to my knees
in it. Stuffed into his bank. You got money 'round here, you're a target. People with money need
protection in this province.
“Let me tell ya about Eddie Down. We'll start with these two fingers. I purchased some street-
level debt, a mortgage of a couple hundred thou owed by a Vietnamese restaurant owner who
thought he had what it took to purchase the building his restaurant was in. I picked up the mortgage
on the underground exchange. A sweet deal, the debt was secured by the premises, twenty percent
interest, barely touching the principal, he'll never pay this thing off. Sooner or later I'll get around
to foreclosing on the sucker and seize the building. At the same time I got an insurance play going.
All my proceeds, everything, I'm depositing at Bank of Quebec. On top of that I have three mil in
stock and bonds stashed in two dummy accounts at Bank of Quebec. A mil in one account, two
mil in the other. Dormant trust account money that came my way.
“So I'm loading up at Eddie Down's shack. Everybody knows, you got laundry to do, you go to
Down. He's your go-to guy for cleaning the sheets. He should call his bank Eddie Down's fuckin'
Laundry Service. Big mistake. Big motherfuck of a mistake. I had no way of knowing he's a
double-dealing maggot who'll sell you out to the syndicate in an instant. He is as mobbed-up as any
quote unquote banker is in Canada. His understandings in place with the old boys-Trader Vic's
networks override any loyalty he's got to me - which is none, less than none, even with the amount
of business I was doing with the guy. Hell, I even had my mother put her retirement nest egg at
Bank of Quebec. I thought it was safe. Someone like me, unconnected, I'm a bug to an Eddie
Down. A mosquito. Need be he flicks me away like a mosquito. Like I'm nothing. And that's
what he did.
“Didn't take long for the street to smell my dough. Next thing the courthouse satellite gang starts
hitting Down up for all my cash, flashing blank sheets of paper in his face. All of a sudden outta
nowhere Down's swinging a meat cleaver like a fuckin' psychopath having a epileptic fit. My
business accounts? Suckered bone dry. What's going on here? I've got my back against the wall.
Down knows I can't just walk down the street to another bank and relocate the money. I call his
office, talk to his people, all I get is shit on. Sorry we ain't gonna help you, our money now
sucker. It's the law. Eddie Down's law. They don't even bother makin' up no phony excuses.
They don't have to. No one can touch 'em. Could you at least vet these seizures of my capital past
your legal department? This court paper you're using to drain my accounts, you know, it ain't
legal. C'mon, give me a break, will ya. No answer. Down closes his door, won't say another word
to me. Then I get nailed even harder. Down's swinging the meat cleaver again - slash - there goes
my thumb, my index finger and my middle finger. A mil for each. Both accounts, the two big
ones, three mil, cleaned out. That's what I know about Eddie Down, dangerous man to do business
with.”
“Sounds like you've a legitimate beef with the guy.”
“He's fucked me so hard, taken a lot from me, from my family, massive chunks of my worth.
Disrespected me as much as any man can.”
“You've got some hate in you for him. You want him to suffer.”
“Yes.”
“You don't fear him anymore, so now you'd like revenge. You want to kill him.”
“I've always wanted to kill him.”
“But the government won't let you. He's protected. Can't be touched. Grievances cannot be
redressed. If it's a choice between him and you they'll give him the last seat on the lifeboat without
thinking about it. He screws the bolts into you, you and god knows who else, and the government
doesn't blink an eye, he keeps on doing business the same way like nothing happened. He's a big
shot. Big shots can do that.”
“I know.”
“Well, I've news for you. Eddie Down's out.”
The following is a work of fiction. The characters are fictitious. The situations are not real.
However, this work is based on real events. For many Canadians an encounter with the country's
justice system can be as devastating as being targeted for extortion by the Mafia. The following is a
warning to all of the dangers of an unchecked government overrun with mobsters.
However, this work is based on real events. For many Canadians an encounter with the country's
justice system can be as devastating as being targeted for extortion by the Mafia. The following is a
warning to all of the dangers of an unchecked government overrun with mobsters.
