Louis Shalako: 2025

Sunday, March 30, 2025

Bogus Social Policy and the Price of Ignorance. Louis Shalako.

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Louis Shalako

Bogus Social Policy and the Price of Ignorance.

I hate it when people ask me for spare change in front of a business, a store, a bank. I hate it even more, when all I want is a twenty dollar bill so I can go to work—and there are three fucking crackheads, all lined up in a row, using the little ledges under the ATMs in order to heat up their little rocks on tinfoil and sniffing that up their little plastic tubes.

I hate it even more, when one of the twitchier ones is up and active, and gets in behind me when I’m trying to use the machine…that one brings out my own natural aggression.

Bear in mind, every fucking one of them has a knife, a pellet pistol, a spring-loaded baton, brass knuckles…hopefully you get my point—and not one of theirs, right in the kidneys.

It’s so much better when they’re down on their blankets, muttering to God and themselves, invisible things that only they can see, and at least I can keep an eye on them.

Lately, the bank lobby is unlocked at 8:30 a.m. The bank itself opens at 9:30, (although not Sundays). At one time the lobby was open all night, and you could get cash 24-7. For a while, they were opening up at 6:00 a.m., but the homeless would congregate there as soon as the doors were unlocked. It gave them three and a half hours to warm up, or just get out of the rain. Now, there's a security guard there, at least in the morning hours.

The homeless numbers exploded due in large part to bogus Ontario social policy, which includes an appalling welfare regime, a lack of rent control, especially on units which become vacant in the older buildings, and punitive guidelines which means two persons on disability or welfare who cohabit an apartment must give up a good chunk of the so-called housing portion of their benefit. And of course, the rent is simply too high for one person to manage it on their own.

I have in fact been refused tenancy 'because you don't make enough income', even though I passed the credit check, and even though I'd been paying rent for years at another location. That rent wasn't too far off the $800.00/month in the new place. $800.00 per month sounds damned cheap these days, with housing costs having skyrocketed. My mistake was to tell them I was on ODSP—a typical case of someone thinking they're just being honest, and somehow cutting off their own nose. I should have just said I was self-employed; and semi-retired, uh, from a good factory job down in Chemical Valley. At the time, I was a little too young to claim to be a senior citizen. Just for the record, if someone can write a cheque for first and last month’s rent, and it doesn’t bounce, what in the hell is your problem, anyways? And if it does bounce, you are within your rights to refuse the application.

Even now, there are no plans in the Ontario government to raise the rates, even though the results of their policy are all too clear, neither is there any great rush to build affordable, geared-to-income units for our most vulnerable.

In the building where I live, the landlord began locking the outer lobby door at 7 p.m. in the evening, and unlocking again at 7 a.m. in the morning—this again requires more labour, whether one of their own employees or a private security guard. This was due to a small number of incidents of homeless people camping in the outer lobby overnight.

They do it for six months of the winter.

The Contradictions.

Imagine telling a landlord, ‘don’t worry, we’ll be going down to the Salvation Army once a month and applying for rent assistance’, or ‘don’t worry, we’ll be applying to the county, the province, the federal government for all related housing assistance programs’.

Landlord: So, you can’t pay the rent. And you still expect me to let you in…huh.

The bougies can never see the contradictions, funny thing is, they’re the ones that wrote them in the first place.

Homeless numbers were growing even before the pandemic. When something like one-third of the work force was sent home for months and months, naturally, some of them became homeless. CERB, the emergency benefit of $2,000.00/month, simply wasn't enough for some households to survive a long period of unemployment. My point is that at least some of our homeless must have been employed at some point in the past, to the extent that they could, effectively, pay the rent. And when a unit becomes vacant, in the absence of rent controls, the sky is the limit in terms of raising the rent. Also, with a million new Canadians coming in the door in a very short time, housing stocks were clearly going to be under strong pricing pressures. This is where both federal and provincial governments come in, in fact Quebec and Ontario were fighting over quota, in the sense that immigration brings investment, skills, even just warm bodies for relatively unskilled labour to a province or region.

These folks weren't immediately grabbing upscale housing. No, they were grabbing affordable housing...

As for the government(s).

They wanted to have their cake and eat it too. The price of that ignorance, was our most vulnerable going to the wall, ladies and gentlemen.

Here in the Sarnia area, a few new buildings have gone up. There is the Addison, on London Road, there are two new buildings at the old Sarnia General Hospital site, and two fairly large buildings on Venetian Blvd. in Point Edward. This is a municipality bounded on three sides by Sarnia. Then there are public housing projects on Maxwell Street and an indigenous one on Confederation Street. These are nearing completion and staff are combing through the (nine-year) waiting list in the case of the Maxwell St. project. Whether private or publicly-funded projects, these will only take so much steam out of our local housing bubble.

...what the bougies see in their heads when they talk about 'affordable' housing...

***

It doesn't exactly help when local realtors insist on continuing to blow hot air into that balloon, neither does it help when one considers what the bougies see in the privacy of their own heads when they talk about housing...

In one Parthian shot, I would ask Canadian journalists the following question. If, as is so often implied in stories about homelessness in Canada, the sole and only cause of homelessness and poverty is #mental_health_addictions, (all one word in their own minds), how is it that they can never seem to qualify for a disability pension, for example the Ontario Disability Support Program?

No, they're stuck on the street, where they are told they must save up first and last, on two or three hundred dollars total income per month, for an apartment they couldn't afford in the first place.

Or does that question seem impertinent.

Or maybe it's just one more contradiction.

END

Mark Carney makes Announcement on Housing. (CBC, Mar. 31/25)

Approvals are Nothing. Shovels in the Ground Are Everything.

In Depth: The New Landlord.

Tiny Homes for the Homeless. The Big Myth.

Louis Shalako has books and stories available from Amazon.

See his works on ArtPal.

Thank you for reading.

Friday, January 31, 2025

Dead Reckoning, Chapter Thirty-Two. An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #10. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

With the Beretta tucked into the back of his belt, hidden by the long shirt-tails, and keeping his left side turned to them in what must appear an odd move, he moved forward three or four metres. It kept them thinking. He kept those hands up, and that’s all they needed to see. He needed to get well clear of the door, and to divide their attention. The MAB, standard issue service pistol on his right hip, the flap pulled well up and over, and tucked in behind the belt, safety off, would be invisible…hopefully. He stopped, staring off into the woods, puffing contentedly on the cigar.

“Hello? Hello? Is there anybody out there—”

“All right asshole, we’re over here—what an idiot.”

“We’re not here for silly fucking mind-games.” Another voice, separate and distinct.

There were four or five of them, and then there was Capucine, still clutching her basket. Two men had her, firmly held by the upper arms, he could see that much out of his peripheral vision.

He stopped, and turned to his left to face them.

“Life is a game. There are no rules.” He took another left-handed puff and blew smoke in their direction.

They kind of froze when they saw that 7.65-millimetre MAB hanging there in a brown leather holster.

He spat the cigar out, off to one side.

“Fuck you, all of you, and all of the God-damned fucking horses you rode in on…”

“Fuck off, wise guy—I’ll shoot the girl right now if that’s what you want.”

“Hey. Monsieur Blue Eyes. How’s the fishing these days, or were you just trolling for queers.”

The man’s mouth dropped and his eyes bugged out at that one—but this was their friend from the riverbank, sure as hell…

Éliott stared at them, wordless, then engaging the eyes of Capucine. He winked, and the one holding her stared in amazement. His face was turning red. She gave him the slightest of nods and her eyes darted back and forth…thinking it through, measuring distances, calculating the odds here and there…her head cocked a little and she was right back on him.

There were the four toughs and a smaller man, older, in a sleek grey suit.

That would be the boss.

“Maintenon’s not here. Which one of you fucking cocksuckers is left-handed. I will trade you this old hermit that lives here—for that man. You can keep the girl, she don’t mean nothing to me.” He glared at them. “Yeah, I figure it was a left-handed piece of shit that hit that old man on the head, with a big fucking stinking rock that you picked up, right there on the trail. Cocksucker. Right by that log on the riverbank. I want that miserable, low-life piece of shit.”

Éliott made a couple of funny little signs. They knew she was deaf all right, and possibly didn’t see much harm in it—not understanding the significance of it all. Pissed-off as they were. It was like they just couldn’t take it seriously. They were after Maintenon—not him. First, he crossed his hands across his chest, and then put them out wide, just like the fucking Pope. The symbol for love. Then he held up the right hand, palm facing her, index finger pointing straight up. He stuck out his thumb, sideways, then he lifted the pinky finger…the letters I, L and Y. I-L-Y—I love you. He waggled the little finger, just so she got it.

“It’s okay. I’m just letting the girl know everything’s going to be all right—”

She stared, open mouthed as the scumbags looked on in sardonic amusement. They looked at each other, grinning, fools that they were. Tears popped out in those beautiful eyes, and she nodded.

Both hands up and in front again, he closed his fists and then spread his fingers—drop.

Just…drop. And just like all the others, her eyes were on that gun on his belt, and right back up again...

Capucine went limp, half-hauling the stupid bastard down with her, and, just at that exact same second the hermit stepped out of the doorway, shotgun leveled and cocked on the left side barrel. His finger was on the trigger and the thumb right there by the right-side hammer.

Éliott’s right hand, already dropping, slapped leather about the same time they all stopped, turned to gape, to think, and then try and decide what to do with their fucking guns, now that there were two targets, and with the girl kicking up trouble. What were they doing, waiting for instructions…too fucking late, Monsieur.

He shot the one half-standing over Capucine as she rolled and twirled her legs and brought him down anyways. It looked like he’d gotten that one right in the temple and he wasn’t getting up. The one almost directly behind them, his own vision and attention suddenly obscured and diverted, stepping back quickly and trying not to get entangled, flinched about the time the hermit’s shotgun boomed, hopefully taking the one on the farthest left. Éliott had already pulled the trigger on this one. Another hit, right in the guts. He went down, clutching his middle, eyes wide and horrified and staring straight into his own.

He was screaming bloody murder and good for him…

There were a couple of reflexive pistol shots, coming in their direction but they missed, spanking off the ground into whining richochets…

The shotgun boomed again, there was a lot of yelling and now the sound of dogs barking off in the distance. Éliott found the little man in a grey suit through all the smoke and carnage. It was the fog of war, and he lined up on a running target. He squeezed off shot after shot until the fucker went down, sliding along face down until he hit the base of a small tree. One more squeeze and she just clicked. He dropped the weapon and pulled the other one. There might have been a little twitch or two, but the man in the grey suit was definitely down.

Smirnov down after five shots in the back.

Capucine was up on her feet in an instant, eyes blazing at Éliott in one quick flash, and then she was gone, bounding away like a fucking rabbit.

Someone was yelling and fucking clapping…clapping? Dropping into a crouch, he spun to the right, both hands on the weapon. There were people in the woods.

“…don’t shoot! Éliott. Hold fire! Hold fire. It’s me! It’s Hubert! It’s Alphonse and there’s another officer…Constable Garnier.” They were up and crashing through the underbrush. “Hold fire! Hold your fire!”

The hermit, behind, was reloading, hands shaking all over the place in sheer excitement, or sure as shooting…he would have fired already. Two hot shell-casings lay, still smoking on the ground at his feet.

He was cussing and groaning something awful. A fresh shell dropped and he stooped to scrabble at it.

“Fuck.”

“Hold on, sir. They’re friends of mine.” But there were more people coming up the trail, and the dogs were much closer now…just around the next corner. “You okay with that thing?”

The hermit nodded grimly, snapping her shut and cocking one barrel…one at a time, that’s the way.

“Bring ‘em on, partner.”

And there they were, five or six of them, fucking big ugly dogs, straining at the leash and being rather strenuously held back by men in the blue uniforms of the police.

“Hold fire! Hold fire!”

That sure sounded good from where he was standing.

He heaved a big breath, and then another—

Thank God.

Now, the only question was what had happened to Capucine. She sure as hell wasn’t with these guys.

There were five bodies lying around in some state of disarray. They couldn’t all be dead, or so he thought, although the one guy had gone real quiet. His eyes were still open and he moaned and groaned, flat on his back. With a little luck, they might even have one or two left to talk. He put the gun up as the local cops arrived and the three Paris detectives waded through chest-high weeds and stumbled over rocks and berry-canes as they picked their way down the slope. He bent and picked up his own gun. Pulling the clip, he reloaded, also taking a quick look to make sure the tip of the barrel wasn’t clogged with good old topsoil.

Now, it was all over bar the shouting.

Maybe.

Hubert got there first.

“That was a beautiful thing to see—just beautiful.”

This was one report he would enjoy writing.

“Nice shooting, young man.” Alphonse patted him on the back. “You might want to go after that girl, Éliott.”

Éliott nodded, eyeing the new guy, but it was only to be expected. No one was irreplaceable, after all.

“Good morning, detective. I’m Garnier—” He took a good look around. “Nice work, incidentally.”

Éliott grunted in sheer relief.

“Thank you, thank you very much—”

“We’d better check these bodies. Secure those weapons.” Showing his identification, Garnier grabbed a shoulder and went off with one of the locals to do just that.

As for the hermit, he’d taken one look at the descending crowd and retreated back into his hidey-hole; with the door bolted and the curtains closed.

“If that wasn’t Gilles, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

“Here.” He handed off the hermit’s Beretta to Alphonse. “Want to make a bet? I’ll give you ten to one, that this weapon is registered to the Inspector.”

“Oh—oh.”

“…you might want to get these damned dogs out of here, or you’ll never get him out of there.”

Éliott could only give the barest of explanations, and then he was off, sprinting down that trail after Capucine.

***

érotisme et transgression

Well, she wasn’t at home. The place was locked up and clearly her mother and any other family members were out. It was like he knew virtually nothing about her. She might have locked herself in. He took a look behind the house, and there didn’t seem to be too many bicycles around. With no idea of whether she had friends or relatives nearby, he set off down the road to the village. Banging on doors and windows wasn’t going to do much good if she was still in there, yet he rather doubted it.

It was going to be a hot day after all—

He’d run out of steam but he could still walk. The ankles were still tender, even now.

He hadn’t gotten more than a few hundred metres down the road when a big black car pulled up alongside.

The passenger side window was open and Alphonse was alone in the car.

“Come on, boy, hop in. I’ll give you a ride.”

The vehicle stopped and Éliott climbed in.

“Not at home, eh?”

He shook his head.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“We’ll find her…somewhere.”

“Yes.”

“I doubt if she’ll go to the police station. They’re saying she blew right through them. One guy fell down trying to get out of the way. It’s a good thing he managed to hang onto the dog, or she’d still be running. Or maybe treed somewhere. She just jumped right over him and kept on going…” He looked over at Éliott. “I understand she has a few ribbons for track and field. Back in high school, you know.”

“Huh.”

Their eyes met.

“Why don’t we try the Church? Wouldn’t surprise me, you know.”

Éliott nodded, but surely, someone around here would have seen her.

It was as good a place to start as any.

***

Alphonse had stayed in the car.

A bicycle leaned up against the wall, just beside the steps out front.

Éliott opened up the door to the fine old church and saw a forlorn figure, right side, right up in the front row. She was kneeling at the end of the pew, hands in the classic position.

It was her.

Head down, in prayer, of course she wouldn’t hear the door. The place wasn’t real big. Just then, the door of the confessional booth opened and an elderly woman in a veil came out, clutching her purse and adjusting her hat, glancing incuriously at him on the way past. The door on the other side opened and the priest came out, stopping at the sight of him.

Seeing a stranger in his church, and knowing a little or maybe even a lot about the girl, he came and stood protectively at the head of the centre aisle. All set to provide passive, non-violent resistance or something like that—

The shepherd of his flock.

“Good morning, sir. Welcome. Was there something I can help you with—”

“It’s all right Father.” Éliott genuflected and did the blessing, crossing himself with a little dab of the Holy Water. “I’m Detective Éliott LeBeaux of the Sûreté. I was just wondering. How much does a marriage license cost around here, anyways?”

The priest relaxed. He nodded and smiled.

“Normally, about fifteen francs. In this case, we might be happy enough to waive the fee.” He coughed, reached over and touched Capucine on the shoulder, seemingly oblivious to all around her, eyes closed and lips moving silently. “You, ah—you might want to ask the young lady, first.”

She straightened up, saw the Father, and also, that he was intent on something else.

She looked around.

“Éliott!” In something less than a couple of heartbeats, she was up from the pew and into his arms, which had closed around the girl in something that was both beautiful and natural.

They had eyes only for each other, although the world still turned around them…

Whatever it was, it was as big as all of life—and death, and beyond.

It was—love.

And that was about all anyone could ever really say.

The Father gave his head a little shake. He gave a little nod and fought back a smile.

Turning to the altar, he bobbed and made the Sign of the Cross.

Turning again, he engaged Éliott through the poor guy’s watering eyes.

“There are days like this, when I just love my job.” He glanced up at the Cross in the wall. “Anyways, whenever you beautiful young people are ready, I shall be in my office.”

Turning, with a little swish from the vestments, he headed for a narrow door off to the side.

He stopped and looked back.

“I'll tell you what. I'll pay the fee myself. Just this once.” He smiled. “Bless you, my children.”

And then he was gone.

The End

Previous.

Chapter One, Scene One.

Chapter One, Scene Two.