Almost Criminal

by E. R. Brown

  “Be back before morning,” he said. “I need you here, on call. End of discussion. My people don’t sleep in trucks.” He wrote on the next page of the note pad and pointed to an address. “You’ve been there before. Pick up a load and take it to the warehouse in Sardis.”

  “Today?” That was an hour of driving each way. I had shopping to do.

  “Tell them you need it, sealed for travel and ready to go, tomorrow.”

  “The thing is, I —”

  “End of discussion.” His eyes locked on mine.

  I hit the gears angrily and headed to Pop’s. Screw his end of discussion, I was not going someplace north of Soowahlie, not right away. I was going to change clothes before I saw Rachel tonight, and I was going to do it now, while Beth was still away.

  It was time to end this, and I knew it. Time to say goodbye, even if it meant taking school part-time. I had to get away from Randle and Beth and everything in Wallace.

  My key jammed in the lock. Damn this house. I was working at it like a fool, twisting and tugging, when Bree opened the door from the inside.

  “She changed the locks. The guy came in the middle of the night, like he thought her husband had been beating her or something. Here.” She handed me a spare. “She’ll kill me if she finds out you got it from me.”

  My bed lay tipped on its side, leaning against one wall, and the dresser was pushed to the centre of the room. She’d dug into every drawer.

  “She was looking for something,” Bree stated the obvious. “She didn’t leave for Vancouver until it was light.”

  She’d poked at every gap in the walls, every crack in the spongy plaster. She’d pried at the floorboards, seeking the drug stash she was certain I had. It was such a tiny room, I didn’t see how that would take until five in the morning, no matter how intense the hunt.

  She’d found Robbie the Robot, and left him sitting on the dresser with his empty back gaping open, like he was a trophy. She’d cleared my most recent credit card cash-out — almost two months of dorm fees — and a few smaller bills. I slumped against the wall.

  “She doesn’t want you back until you come to your senses. Those were her words.”

  “I can’t deal with it right now.”

  I unzipped my old sleepover suitcase — she’d already pulled it from the cupboard for me — and, ignoring its musty smell, tossed in all the clothes I owned. Not even a week’s worth. With everything packed there was plenty of room to spare.

  I drove to Soowahlie to pick up Randle’s weed. Maybe there’d be a bonus, or a raise, for driving around without protection. The way I felt, nervously checking the mirrors every few seconds, looking in every approaching vehicle for biker faces, I deserved something.

  It was chai latte again, and the apartment building grow op that she ran with her weirdly shy boyfriend. When I drove into the parking lot this time, I noticed that the building was operated by Kaya Property Management. The sign was right there on the wall.

  She was as sweet as ever — Maureen was her name — and the boyfriend was still a recluse, little more than a flash of plaid shirt when I opened the door. Too much weed made you paranoid, I’d been told.

  “How do you weigh these things?” I grunted as I slung a noticeably lighter load on my back. “Just curious. Big floppy garbage bags.”

  “We have a scale, but it doesn’t matter, they weigh it again when they package it into grams and stuff.”

  I nodded. I liked her, even though the apartment smelled of unwashed clothes and stale food. I felt I ought to say something about the wisdom of trusting a pot broker for an honest accounting. But it would sound like I didn’t trust Randle, and really, what was the point? I wasn’t in a position to give advice.

  Approaching the highway with a full truckload and nothing but Rachel on my mind, I suddenly knew what Beth had been doing until the sun came up. I pulled a U-turn and headed back to Wallace.

  For a woman in recovery from breast cancer, she was pretty damn strong. My padlock hadn’t stopped her. She’d ripped the hasp right out of the tree house’s doorframe, leaving split wood with gaping screw holes.

  The first thing I checked was my money, tucked in my hideaway in the great room’s wall. I lifted the flap of insulation, reached for the loose piece of plywood and poked my fingers inside, and there they were, neat rolls of bills, five hundred dollars a roll.

  She’d hauled out nearly everything else. My camping chairs, the old stereo from my bedroom, my cooler, all gone. Even the orange power cable. The only thing left behind was the decrepit Sally Ann sofa, probably because it was so huge she couldn’t budge it.

  The floor was swept clean, like someone else was going to move in. The waterstained chipboard had never been so spotless. There were no tortilla-chip bags in the corner, no paper plates. What had she thought of the pyramid of Southern Comfort empties? I’d find out soon enough. My laptop computer, gone. I hadn’t seen it in my bedroom, and if Bree knew something she’d have spoken up. Without my laptop I was disconnected. First she’d locked me out, then she’d crippled my ability to live on my own. She wanted me to suffer until I was properly contrite. Well, I wasn’t.

  She’d done me a favour, in a way. She’d made me realize that a hole in the wall wasn’t any safer than a tin robot. I needed to put my money in a bank, where it was safe, and where it would look clean. The university wasn’t likely to accept cash. I’d need a new bank account, not the one that had Beth as co-signer, maybe two or three, so I could make lots of small deposits that wouldn’t be noticed.

  Whatever. It was too late for that today. I had a delivery to make and an evening with Rachel to plan, and time was running out. I wanted something romantic, something more than drinks on the wharf.

  I had a spot in mind — it was a bit of a walk, but worth it — and a plan that included wine, French bread, cheeses and dips. I couldn’t pull off a pure vegan evening, but vegetarian was do-able. No vodka, though. Tonight, we’d celebrate our futures at the same university, with champagne.

  I delivered the load and headed to the best mall I knew of. Malls weren’t my style, but this one had a gourmet shop that Jeannie had raved about, with baguettes and the cheeses — all the European stuff. The saleslady was a sweet little granny, and when I told her my plans she said I was the most romantic young lad, and took over. The spread cost way more than I’d counted on, but maybe the old doll was right, and I was a romantic. It was fun. I picked up a pair of champagne glasses — Danish ones, very elegant — and made a quick stop into the Pharmasave for a pack of Trojans. Be prepared, I figured. She’d respect that.

  When it came to the champagne, I was out of luck. The government liquor stores were closing. There were only a couple of private liquor stores out here, one of them down the street from Sadie’s — I wasn’t about to drive my green-and-yellow weed-stinking truck past Bullard’s home base — and the other was in Wallace, where they’d know that I wasn’t the nineteen-year-old Jackson Mitchell that my fake driver’s licence claimed.

  I headed to Randle’s, and that designer kitchen of his. It had a fridge for nothing but wine, with different temperatures in different sections. He’d have good taste, I figured, and we were partners now. I found a nice-looking bottle in a rack of a half-dozen, and left a sticky note on the door: 1 Krug. Take it out of my salary. T.

  Anatole had told me about the lookout, back when I was new in town and was just knocking around. When everyone your age is in school, there’s totally nothing to do except work, and there were long midday stretches. After I’d skated down every street in town a few hundred times, he took pity and showed me the hiking trails. There wasn’t much else to do around Wallace for someone with no car, no money, and no interest in video games.

  It was a fairly serious hike up to the lookout, but she was up to it. As we climbed she kept pulling off clothing — first her sweatshirt, revealing a lacy-strapped halter top, then her track pants, leaving her in a pair of skin-tight bike shorts. On her shoulderblade, a new ta
t was on the way right beside the serpent. The outlines of a phoenix were swollen and angry-looking, with gaps where, I guessed, colours would be filled in later, either when the skin healed or when she came up with the next payment. I wanted to tell her I liked it, but it might seem like I was staring, and this hadn’t been really arranged as a date, so I shut up. Our conversation was mainly buddy-talk about tuition and course selection (she had better course options than me, because of her better grades). Our bodies brushed against each other in casual, comfortable way that, I hoped, came from our recent experience. But, in my mind at least, the lesbian thing was constantly present.

  The lookout was everything I remembered, a rocky outcropping rising above yellow-green farmlands and the Fraser River snaking off to the northeast. To the south, Mount Baker floated over the Cascade Mountains in their gradient of blue-greens and sandy browns, deepening in the lengthening shadows.

  The champagne glasses impressed. Danish crystal, I informed her. It was when I pulled out the champagne that things began to slip. Krug Grand Cuvee costs in the region of $250, she said with a sense of discomfort, and the knowledge of someone whose father is in the liquor business. More if it’s old. Before she took a sip, I think she’d worked out how many hours at the video store that represented. I popped the cork, shrugging it off — I was committed to it now — but feeling stupid. I’d thought forty or fifty, max, which I could barely justify when I was trying to save every penny. Still, I wasn’t going to pack it up and go home, not with her sitting there in near-underwear. Be in the moment, I wanted to tell her. Take what is offered with gratitude and delight.

  From her first cautious taste, she was hooked. She tilted the glass and emptied it in a second. She was so thin I could almost see it fizz down her throat, thirty-five dollars worth of champagne in one swallow.

  “Now I get it,” she said, holding the glass out for more. “All my life I’ve been looking for this.”

  I filled it to the lip and she drained it again, arching her back inch by inch to maintain a steady flow, then dropped happily on her back.

  And then the evening was over. The French double-cream brie had won over her vegan resistance, and she’d made pretty short work of the whole spread, European crackers and hummus and olive tapenade and a baguette that she took real pleasure in ripping apart by hand — with everything else to think of I’d forgotten a knife. I wasn’t eating much, just basking in her presence beside me as the sky darkened and a marbled blue-grey haze lifted off the lake, when she reached inside my bag, exploring for any more treats, and pulled out the Trojans.

  She didn’t show any anger, she just kind of shut down. I tried to keep it casual, but what could I say to her flat, expressionless face, as she dangled a pack of Ultra Ribbed Ecstasy condoms from her fingertips? I could have asked her what else am I supposed to do when I bring a girl to a romantic, isolated spot? Either I bring something, which means I’m aggressive, or I don’t, which means I’m irresponsible.

  She stood, with the blood drained from her face and spoke in this quiet, almost clinical tone, about how she did like me, and that after the grad night, she couldn’t say she was innocent, she knew what I wanted, that I was a guy and that’s what guys want.

  I wanted to protest, but didn’t have much of an argument. And she said she wasn’t into guys and I knew it, but she’d gotten carried away because she’d wanted me to feel good, and she wished she hadn’t.

  And — this is me, not her — I think she was also a bit curious, because she’d certainly been the aggressive one that night, not me. I’d like to think that it wasn’t completely awful. But whatever she’d felt then, it wasn’t there tonight.

  She stopped talking and gazed toward the lake, then to the scrub brush that flowed down the rock face, anywhere but at me. She’d been crying, just a little, but made no move to wipe her cheeks. I thought she had more to say, and I was waiting for a cue, so I could see where I could get a word in, because so far it had been a monologue, but she bent and swept up her sweats and in a few long strides she was gone.

  I offered to drive her home. At least, I spoke the words to an empty clearing. I was really saying it to convince myself I was a gentleman. Truth was, I didn’t know how she was going to get home, but I didn’t feel like having her sitting, silently reproachful, beside me in the pickup. And I didn’t really mind the idea of her walking the lonely miles alone.

  Chapter 17

  The Speedster sat in the garage, but I was alone. Randle had the pickup and hadn’t returned all night, and I wandered from room to room, aimless and kind of lonely. The place was too weird, artfully designed and immaculately maintained, but it was like no one lived there. In the kitchen the dishes were neatly stacked, six of everything, nothing chipped, cracked, or stained. Cutlery was matched and organized. Food was stored in unopened containers and packages. It was a hotel, not a home. A conference centre. The only imperfection was in the wine cooler, where there was a gap in one row of bottles, with my note still stuck on it.

  I knew I had to find another place to stay, but I didn’t have much of a social circle in Wallace. Rachel wasn’t a viable option. Lucas lived in a trailer at the Bigfoot Campground, with no room for anything but his PS3 and fifty-inch screen. Skip had been a pretty good friend, considering that he was an older guy and kind of a loser, but I had no idea where he lived, or even if he lived with anyone. Whatever, he was off-limits.

  I had to do something. I settled down on a white leather sofa and tried out the wall-sized video screen. After a burst of snow, the screen turned blue. No connection. Randle really did live off the grid.

  Downstairs in the Kaya office, the computers had to have some kind of Internet hookup, since Randle ran his online seed sales here. The screens were dark, so I flicked at their keyboards to see if I could wake them up. Fans kicked on and the screens came alive, but the machines were locked tight — password-protected and secure.

  Not a problem for me. I didn’t want to see his secret files, I just wanted Net access. For that I didn’t need to hack his security—I’d never figure out his passwords and didn’t want to try.

  I chose Maddie’s keyboard — if Randle walked in suddenly, maybe he wouldn’t freak out as much — and with a few keystrokes set up a guest account that allowed me to use the computer to get onto the Web without touching or looking at any of its programs or data.

  I checked my email for a note about Beth’s show. Nothing. No Facebook updates from Bree. Nothing on Craigslist from Randle.

  It was Thursday, the day the arts reviews came out. The Vancouver Sun didn’t cover it, but in the Globe and Mail’s Arts & Entertainment section, there she was:

  Some Gloom and Doom for Our Troubled Times

  “The Fish and other objects of affection” is a triumphal return for British Columbia artist Elsbeth Templeton after a long hiatus and difficult recovery from breast cancer. Her imagined world is one of menacing detritus: huge, darkly witty canvases feature torn leather jackets on a rain-drenched stoop, trays of crumpled candy wrappers. The show’s theme work is her most recent: a half-butchered salmon that seems to ooze toxic juices.

  I skipped ahead:

  Hundreds of enthusiasts crowded the E. Bermann Gallery on Tuesday for the must-see show’s opening. Until September 6.

  I slapped the desk with both hands. Beth deserved it, so much time and effort, so much focus. She’d been away from that world for so long. Painting made her insane, and she took it out on Bree and me, but it’s what she was made for.

  I read the article again, realizing the change that it signalled. She was a working artist again. If she could sell a piece or two, she might not need me to carry the family anymore. I felt free and weightless, lost and unnecessary.

  At the top of the screen, the local news headline caught my eye: “Body Identified in Grow Op Fire.” One of the bodies found in Skip’s grow had been positively identified through dental records. A Vietnamese refugee, female, although her name was withheld pending notifica
tion of next of kin. The other, a male, was still unknown. So much for Randle’s rant about cops and reporters.

  Their name was Tran. I’d used them to get in solid with Randle. Just a few extra plants. A few bucks on the side. Of course, I’d known that ratting them out would have consequences. I’d known it all along. There was no way of avoiding it: their deaths were on me.

  Not a single customer had entered Human Beans all afternoon. Every few minutes a car whined past, lifting a misty plume that hung suspended before gradually settling back to the tarmac. I wondered, not for the first time, how the shop survived. Anatole’s new sundeck lay unoccupied under a slate-grey sky. Two months old now, the wood was fresh and clean. That’s how bad business had been. I was back at the Elektra because Christine had quit for a full-time job at the mall, with no notice. Welcome to management, Lucas, and how glad I am I don’t have your job.

  However, he was making a manager’s salary now.

  “Luke,” I called.

  “Yo.” He popped his head around the kitchen corner, a dirty rag in his hands.

  “Just how seriously are you into drugs?”

  He frowned at my bluntness, and tossed the rag somewhere in the kitchen. “It’s no secret. I’ve been known to partake.” I smiled at the bashful flecks of pink rising on his cheeks. “I assume you’ve got a little something to share, if you’re bringing it up.”

  “That I do.” I didn’t want to begin the sales pitch until he’d tried the free sample.

  “And here I took you for a drinking man. Let’s retire to the outside office, shall we?”

  I perched on the steps outside the fire door that led from the kitchen to the lane, holding the door open for Lucas. “Sucker’s not going to lock us out if I let go, is it?”