The Informant.

January of 1993.

Vancouver.

It can be difficult to deal with the police when you want their help on an unofficial mission. You have to break through all the red tape and avoid getting arrested in the process. If you reach out, the person you decided to trust may be the one who arrests you. Law enforcement are trained to follow a strict set of rules, much like the military, and deviating from those rules could cost them their job, or their life. Convincing someone to do something that risky takes a lot of leverage.

Or, if you want to avoid more official channels, you can go the route of the lowly informant. A lot of police forces in large cities rely on information from people inside criminal organizations, or just people who spend their time on the fringes – a delivery boy who happens to bring lunch for a mob boss every afternoon, a girlfriend of a low level goon in a gun-smuggling operation, or, in my case, an enforcer who wants to break the cycle of violence. Cops are inherently distrustful of these sources, and for good reason – but asking for too much trust too early raises red flags. You only get one shot to make them believe you.

I sat in the back of a café on the border between the West End and the Downtown East Side of the city. It was the last in a long line of tall brick buildings, the far side of a shopping center. People sipped coffee at little tables dotting the slick wooden floor and the barista flitted around, delivering baked goods and clearing trash.

I waited over an hour before Sam showed up, a plain-clothes police detective trailing after him. The guy paused in the doorway, grimacing, and then followed Sam to my table.

"Hey, Ronnie, how are ya?" Sam asked, taking a seat.

I fidgeted. "Is this the guy?"

The detective sat down. He watched me closely. He was your typical square-jawed, short-haired go-getter, probably former military. He was older than Sam, strait-laced, with a no-nonsense expression. He would be perfect for this.

"Detective Gagnon, this is Ronnie."

I ducked my head dramatically, "Whoa, don't say that so loud!"

"Er, sorry." Sam cleared his throat. "He's been feeding me intel on his buddies for my story. I asked him about our little… talk… and he wanted to come out with what he knows."

Gagnon regarded me with a curled lip. That was good. I needed him to think I was scum.

"Go ahead, Ron, tell him what you told me."

I hesitated, looking at Gagnon for a moment before averting my eyes. I focused on the barista, who was cleaning a table nearby. Sam snapped his fingers in front of my face.

"Hey, Ron, focus. You said you had something big."

Gagnon cocked an eyebrow. "You better start talking, kid."

"I work for Chimaera," I blurted, and then covered my mouth. I glanced around, making sure no one was listening in, and then added in a whisper, "I rough people up for them, you know, make sure they pay their bills."

The detective was interested. His eyes shone. "And you want to offer information on them? For what?"

"I just want out. I just want to leave."

Gagnon crossed his arms. "I might be able to help you with that if your information is good."

"Oh, it's good, alright. Or bad. Very bad." I clutched my coffee, taking a big swig before I went on. "Listen, I was telling Clayton trivial stuff, you know. Day-to-day garbage. He gave me lunch for my troubles, and we called it square. But I ain't never been involved in anything like this… they're planning something big. I want out."

I was starting to fidget more, selling my role as a terrified low-level thug.

Gagnon said, "Relax." His pupils dilated, a reaction to my fear. "Just say it."

"I don't know, man. I don't know what they're gonna do, but they're prepping like they're stepping up to the big leagues, you know? Increasing payments, collecting more often."

"I can't work with that. I need more."

"I don't have more!" I snapped, and then changed my tone. "Sorry. I just… this is freaking me out. I need protection."

"And I need you to come up with something worthwhile, or you might be the one I arrest."

I looked at Sam, mocking horror. "You said I would be safe!"

"Whoa, whoa. Nobody needs to get arrested." Sam was excellent at fanning the flames. "How about this? You guys met. You can go your separate ways. Ronnie here will try to get some more solid info, and I'll pass it along to you, detective."

Gagnon watched me closely. This was the critical moment. He was deciding whether he could trust this interaction or not.

Finally, he said, "Your services will no longer be needed," he looked at Sam pointedly. "And I trust you'll hold that story for the time being."

Sam looked taken aback, ready to protest, but he sank a little in his chair and grumbled, "You try to do a good thing…"

Gagnon looked at me, jotting a number down on a napkin. "I want you to find something useful. If you can give me actionable intel, I can offer you immunity. Understand?"

I took the napkin, holding it like a lifeline. "I understand."

Gagnon pushed away from the table, and Sam scurried after him. He shot me an approving look before following the detective out of the café – probably to harass him about when he could release his big story.

I took a moment to revel in our success. Informants were low on the totem pole. Without their help, many cases would go unsolved, and their help often hinged on the promise of anonymity. But the position also came with expectations. Gagnon saw me as a criminal now, and I had to prove myself by giving him reliable information.

Now I just had to turn the wheels and make something big happen in Chimaera.