The Vanishing Track

by Stephen Legault

  “Of course it’s true!” Sean said loudly.

  Denman stopped. “I’m not questioning your word, Sean. I’m just saying, if we can make this case in court, it could help us out with our complaint against the VPD about excessive force.”

  “You think I could help that way?”

  “We’ll see. But I think so. Sean, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you on the street now?”

  Sean looked down at his hands. “My parents are dead. They were killed in a car accident a few years ago. There’s a big fight about their estate. They were worth millions. The whole family is trying to get their greedy hands on the money.”

  “And somehow you got cut out?”

  “I’m the only child; you’d think that I’d be in line for some of it. I don’t want it all; just enough to get a good start in life.”

  “So you’re living on the street?”

  “I was living in the Lucky Strike Hotel for the last few months, but . . .”

  “But it’s been closed down,” said Denman.

  “Yeah, it really sucks. I don’t know where I’m going to go.”

  “I’ll have my office look into a temporary shelter.”

  “Those places scare me. Too many drugs. And crazies. They steal your shoes at night. They do things. Bad things.”

  “We’ll see what we can do. The Crown will likely release you on a Promise to Appear. That doesn’t require a cash deposit. It does mean you have to show up for a court hearing. Can you do that?”

  Sean nodded. “I’ve got important work to do,” he said. “I’m volunteering to help with the homeless problem. I really want to get back to work.”

  “THE KID WENT berserk when we tried to put him in the wagon,” said Staff Sergeant Paddy O’Connor. They were sitting in an interview room a few doors down from where Denman had interviewed Sean Livingstone.

  “He says that the arresting officer hit him with his baton in the alley before he was even in the wagon,” said Denman.

  The staff sergeant shook his head. “Not the way I read it,” he said, holding the arrest report in his hand. “Look, Denman, I know things are pretty tense right now. The arresting officer was Jim Meyers, a good man. Solid. Saskatchewan farm boy from way back. Twenty years on the force here in Vancouver. He’s not one of the hotshots looking for collars. He’s just doing his job. Says the kid was taking a leak in the alley and when he tells him to zip it and come with him, the kid gives him some lip. Meyers escorts him to the wagon and tells the kid to sit down and the kid spits at him. Can you believe that?”

  Denman didn’t respond.

  “Meyers tells the kid that he’s out of chances. He tells the kid that the Crown could charge him for assault for that and the kid says go ahead, he’ll sue for false arrest. That’s when Meyers says that nobody is under arrest, yet. At this point the kid isn’t listening, and tries to push past Meyers. Meyers uses his baton to slip a hold on the boy and work him into the wagon that way, and the kid goes crazy, flailing and kicking. Did more harm to himself than to my officer, thank God.”

  “How did he get the bruise, Paddy?”

  “Probably when he was flailing around in the wagon.”

  Denman looked at the police officer.

  “Look, Denman, I shouldn’t even be talking with you about this. You know what Andrews has said. Personally, I think your heart’s in the right place, but I think you got a beef with coppers and that’s clouding your judgment a little. Everybody should just sit down over a pint and sort this thing out. You got to believe me, the kid was the one who went crazy. Not Meyers. He’s a straight cop.”

  “Thanks for the perspective, Paddy,” Denman said, rising.

  “You’re going to represent him?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to talk with the Crown, see if we can’t cut the kid a break. And I appreciate your time, Paddy. Thanks,” Denman said, reaching across the table to shake the staff sergeant’s meaty hand.

  IT TOOK SEAN a few hours to get his stuff back after Denman secured his release. First he had to wait to have his jacket delivered to him at the police station. Then he went to the mouth of Trounce Alley and asked about his backpack at the café where he had dumped it.

  “Yeah, we found a pack.”

  “Can I have it back?”

  The proprietor was a skinny man with a handlebar mustache. “What’s your name?”

  “Sean.”

  “Sean what?”

  “Livingstone.”

  “Why you got a funny nickel-plated tool in the bag?”

  “It’s called a come-along. They use them for pulling trucks out of the dirt. It was my father’s. He was a logger. He’s sick. I had it nickel-plated and was going to have it mounted. But the fucking cops busted me at the rally.”

  The man looked at him. “And what’s with the butcher’s coat?”

  Sean looked at the man narrowly. “I’m an artist. I use it to paint.”

  The café owner silently regarded him.

  “Can I get my stuff, please?” Or I’ll burn your fucking place to the ground, you prick, he wanted to say, but decided to smile innocently instead.

  “Sure.”

  It took Sean two whole days to find Lady Luck again. Forty-eight hours lost because of the pigs. The last of the tenants of the Lucky Strike Hotel had been cleared from the building. That’s when the End Poverty Now Coalition had shown up in force and occupied the whole second floor. Sean had seen them storming the place while he walked by. The obligatory TV crews waited, their hungry cameras eager for the action to unfold, as it inevitably would.

  Sean checked all the pawn shops. He even asked after her here and there, pretending to have been ripped off by her, and trying to track down his goods. It was no use. He was growing frustrated.

  On the afternoon of the second day out of jail, he found himself on the steps of the Carnegie Centre.

  “Hi, Sean,” he heard a voice beside him say. He turned his flat eyes to the smiling face of Juliet Rose.

  “Oh, hi.” He affected a pleased-to-see-you tone.

  “Haven’t seen you for a while. I was getting worried.”

  “I got arrested. I went to the rally and got busted. Cops beat me up,” said Sean, pointing to the fading bruise on his cheek and the torn jacket.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Got a lawyer though. A good one.”

  “I’m glad. You sound like you need representation. Have you eaten today?”

  “No. Not yesterday either.”

  “Can you come in for something hot?” Juliet nodded toward the Carnegie Centre.

  “I’m waiting for someone,” said Sean. “I can’t miss her. She’s got something of mine. But I lost her when they arrested me.”

  “Maybe I know her?”

  “Naw, she’s not from around here.”

  “Okay,” said Juliet, slipping her bag form her shoulders. “I’ve got some granola bars here,” she said, unzipping the orange pack and handed Sean two bars. “Sean, where are you staying?”

  “Nowhere,” he said, looking down at his feet. “I mean, I was at the Lucky Strike. But it’s closed. The protesters are there now.”

  “I know.”

  “I got nowhere to stay.”

  “Come see me tomorrow at lunch. I’m doing a Saturday clinic at the Centre. I’ll see if we can’t find you a place.”

  “That would be really great,” said Sean. “I know I can get back on my feet if someone would just give me a chance.”

  “Sometimes that’s all it takes,” said Juliet.

  HE FOUND LADY Luck half an hour later. She was panhandling outside a pawn shop. He watched her go down an alley, buy a hit of smack from a dealer, and sit down to inject the drugs behind a dumpster.

  Sean walked right up to her and hunched down as she was rolling up her sleeve.

  “Waddaya want?” she said.

 
; “I’m Sean,” he said, slipping off his pack. Lady Luck eyed him. She had her sleeve rolled up and was tying off her arm with a length of rubber surgical hose.

  “You a pig?”

  “Nope, I’m a street nurse.”

  “You don’t look like one.” Lady Luck looked at his hands, which were now stained and dark.

  “I like to blend in,” he smiled, but hid his hands behind his pack. He was aware that his hygiene was slipping the more time he spent sleeping rough.

  “I don’t need nothing,” she said, taking a needle from her pocket and holding it in her teeth. She used a lighter to heat up a blackened spoon in which the smack sat.

  “Why don’t we get you to InSite?”

  “Too many fucking pigs.”

  “They won’t bother you.”

  “I’ve got a sheet,” she said, the drugs boiling.

  She drew the plunger back and the hot smack flowed like lava into the syringe. She held the syringe in her mouth again while she pressed her arm for a vein. Her arms were bruised and purple from so much abuse. Several of the veins in her left arm were hard and black.

  “I want to help you. What’s your name?”

  Lady Luck laughed.

  “I’ll just call you Lady Luck then,” said Sean, reaching into his pack.

  She inserted the needle into a vein and pressed the syringe down, her eyes rolling back as the juice coursed into her system and caused her adrenal glands to react immediately. Sean first pulled his stained coat on and then took the come-along from his backpack. Her eyes began to glaze and her mouth dropped open.

  EIGHT

  IT HAD BEEN THE LONGEST week of Denman Scott’s life. Since he had left his house on Tuesday morning, when the Lucky Strike had closed, he’d only seen his bed for a few hours. Now it was Friday, and there was little he wanted to do more than slip between his sheets and sleep for the entire weekend. Instead, he stepped off the bus at Cambie Street and made his way toward the Cambie Hotel, last known location of one Cole Blackwater.

  He had received a call from Martin Middlemarch about forty-five minutes earlier, as he was finishing the paperwork on the last of his newly acquired clients from the Lucky Strike Hotel, and what the media was now calling the Lucky Strike Riot. In all, Priority Legal had taken on fifty-three new cases in the course of thirty-six hours. He had spent twelve hours at police headquarters, interviewing people arrested in the frenzy that had erupted when the riot police showed up and mask-wearing anarchists started throwing balloons filled with red paint.

  Martin had called him from the Cambie Hotel to say that Cole was in the bar, drunk, and looking for a fight. “Normally, I’d let him fight it out,” said Martin above the racket all around him. “But with his ribs, he’s liable to get hurt. You’re the only one he’ll listen too, Denny.”

  He could hear the pub from a block away. Twenty or so young men and woman were huddled by the door, smoking. The gas-fired heaters warmed the outdoor patio where people packed tables and music blared from speakers. Denman smiled as he threaded his way between the revellers and into the bar. Cole, Martin, and Dusty Stevens were at their favorite table toward the back of the pub.

  “Hey Denny!” Cole stood and lunged for his friend. He tripped on the bench and nearly fell, but Denman caught him by the arms and returned the accidental embrace. “Denman Scott, you old bugger. How are you?” Cole pounded Denman on the back.

  “I’m good, Cole, good. A little tired.”

  “I have the perfect antidote for that,” Cole said, grabbing Denman by the shoulders and looking earnestly into his eyes. “Sleep. Let’s sit before some of these frat boys think we’re queers and try to beat us up!” Cole lurched toward the table and jostled the bottles on it.

  “How are you, Cole?” Denman asked.

  “Never better. Top shelf,” he slurred. “Right next to the peanut butter,” and he laughed.

  “You’ve just been drinking tonight, right? Nothing else?”

  Cole looked at Denman through bleary eyes. “Whaddaya mean?”

  “No meds?”

  “Nothing. Just some brews with the boys.”

  “Just asking,” said Denman. Cole was usually a quiet, brooding drunk, so his effervescence surprised Denman.

  “It’s all good,” said Cole, dragging out his words. “It’s aaaaaaall good.” He splashed beer from the pitcher on the table and into his pint glass. He raised the glass above his head.

  “To Denny Scott,” he yelled, “my best friend. Man of the people. A hero for our times!” He stood and clashed glasses with Dusty, who was drinking a pint, and Martin, who hoisted a half-empty glass of cranberry juice. Then Cole swung his arm around to the cabal of college students.

  “Raise a glass to my friend, Denman Scott!” he shouted over the din of the room at the dozen or so men and woman at the table.

  A few of them raised a glass in Cole’s direction, but still not satisfied, Cole hollered, “Raise a glass, you pre-pubescent punks!” Cole’s voice had slipped from jocular to edgy in a heartbeat. A few of the men at the table looked in Cole’s direction, but none offered their glass. Denman put a hand on Cole’s shoulder. “Come on, buddy. I’ll drink to me . . .”

  Cole shrugged off Denman’s hand. He swung his glass toward the half-pint a boy at the next table was raising to his lips. The boy’s glass flew from his hand, spraying beer over his friends, the glass rolling across the checkered tablecloth and crashing to the floor. A girl at the table screamed and the room grew still. The boy stood up, and Cole reached for him as if to embrace him. The angry young man shoved Cole away, a scowl on his face. Denman tried to get between the two, but the drunk and stumbling Cole was still quick with his hands, and he took a poke at the boy. He managed only to clip the boy’s shoulder. The boy, more surprised than worried to be in a bar fight with a man twice his age and slobbering drunk, was slow to strike back. By the time the punch came, Denman was able to easily guide it harmlessly past Cole’s astonished face, and Dusty quickly moved in front of Cole.

  “Everybody cool down,” Denman said, loud enough for Cole and the boy to hear him. He turned to the boy, his face open and friendly, but meaning business.

  “Your fucking friend is wasted, man,” the boy said. Several of the other young men at the table were standing now.

  “You’re right. He is. I’m taking him home before he gets hurt,” Denman said.

  Denman turned and helped Dusty manage Cole out of the Cambie.

  “Call us a cab, would you?” said Denman to Martin.

  Ten minutes later, Denman was sitting next to Cole in the back of a cab moving out of the downtown area, passing the Carnegie Centre. Cole was half asleep, and Denman watched the street scenes unfold. He thought about Juliet Rose and the people she knew were missing from the area. In the midst of the debacle over the Lucky Strike and the riot on the streets of the Downtown Eastside, she had come to him to report that another of her flock had failed to surface in over a week.

  Three people now gone. Had they simply moved on? The only better place to be on the streets, and even then only if you didn’t like the weather in Vancouver, was Victoria, across the Strait of Georgia on Vancouver Island. Vancouver had better social services, more shelter beds, and a community that wasn’t so hostile to the homeless. If they had decided to head to Victoria, they would have had to take the bus, which meant money, always in short supply. Stashing away the bucks it cost to take the bus and ferry wasn’t something that happened overnight. Juliet or one of her colleagues would have known if any of the locals were planning on making that move.

  They had to be here still. Somewhere. If the unthinkable was true, if they were dead, where were their bodies?

  Cole grumbled beside him.

  “You’re going to start the program on Sunday, my friend.”

  “What’s that?” Cole’s head bobbed up.

  “You and me, we’re going to start your training on Sunday.”

  “Can’t. Ribs busted.”

  �
��Don’t worry. It’s not in the ring.”

  Cole seemed to drift off to sleep again.

  “But it’s going to make the ring look easy,” murmured Denman.

  OVER THE WEEKEND, the weather turned. Summer vanished inside of two short days. Saturday showed up with scattered clouds, and Sunday threatened rain. By Monday, the sky had closed in on the Lower Mainland, clouds bunched between the mountains and holding fast to the low alluvial plain where the city of a million people sprawled. By noon, the rain was falling in sheets across the Downtown Eastside.

  Denman walked from his office to the headquarters of the Eastside detachment of the Vancouver Police Department. He wore his flat cap and a Gore-Tex coat and carried an umbrella.

  As he approached the reception desk, he closed his umbrella and took off his cap. He stated his business and a uniformed staff sergeant he didn’t recognize asked him to wait. Two minutes later a red-haired woman in a business suit came into the reception area carrying a cup of coffee and a thin file folder. She tucked the file folder under her arm as she approached Denman and held out her hand. She had a firm grip and held his hand a second while she said, “Marcia Lane. I’m the Missing Persons Task Force’s team leader.”

  “Denman Scott. Priority Legal. Nice to meet you.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  She led him down a set of stairs to a cafeteria. The room was mostly empty. Windows along the top of one wall let what little light the day provided into the room. Overhead, fluorescent bulbs cast their stark glow over the room, erasing shadows. Even under the glare, Marcia Lane was surprisingly beautiful. Her long red hair was tied back in a single ponytail, with a few errant strands artfully left to fall across her temples. Her cheeks were high, her skin soft and clear and alabaster under the glare of the lights. Her blue eyes were almost translucent.

  “This isn’t Starbucks,” she laughed when she handed Denman a cup, “but it’s not as bad as you might think. The one thing cops have a discerning taste for is coffee.” She poured herself a cup and offered the pot to Denman. “Like a donut?” she asked, and when she saw the expression on Denman’s face, laughed again.