Stacking the bale on top of the others by the wheelhouse door, Eddie stepped from the cabin, the first to see it. A charter boat nosed around the bend in the cove, one outrigger sticking out the side. First thought: marine patrol. Eddie ready to dive over the side, swim for shore. Second thought, it was the East Van bikers here ahead of schedule with the guns. Then as the boat drifted to port, he saw the couple in silhouette, naked bodies on the bridge making out, oblivious to what was going on just off their bow, the guy with his pants at his ankles, his ass pumping, looked like two halves of a melon, the girl pressed against the console, nice tits from what Eddie could tell, bleached bangs in her face, getting vocal about it, slapping his ass like she wanted more of what he was pushing.
Ramon turned and saw the boat, Diego drawing his pistol. All eyes on the couple, Triggerfish painted in red along the hull, a cartoon fish and Coho-a-go-go.com under the name.
. . . ANY NAKED EYE
Beck eased her back, reaching for his roll-ups, pulling them up, making sense of things.
“That was it?” Facing him, Vicki couldn’t believe it, the guy didn’t even break a sweat. Turned in the direction he was looking and now saw the tug. Didn’t register what was going on. Men were staring at her. Guys with tattoos. Nothing friendly about any of them. “What the fuck, Beck?” Crossing her arms across her chest, looking for her thong. “Beck?”
“Guess this spot’s taken.” Cop eyes assessing, Beck did the top button of his pants, nudging Vicki to the side and taking the wheel. He put it together: dope changing hands, an unmarked sub in Canadian waters, the crew loading it onto the tug. Stacks of the shit against the cabin door, saw the guy with the goatee draw the pistol.
“‘A quiet cove,’ you said.” Vicki was using her hands to cover up, ducking behind the console, snatching the tube top off the aft seat, snagging her shorty shorts with her toes, passing to her hand. Hurrying into her clothes, she forgot the thong, the mood shot to hell. A bunch of perverts staring at her. The dead body splayed on top of the sub was lost on her, looked like a guy had too much to drink.
“Get below deck,” Beck said, Vicki ignoring him.
Working the EZ Steer, he cranked the trolling motor, set it to reverse, hitting the switch, tilting down the twin Yamahas, aiming to back the hell out of there. Switching the key, all he got was a click. The twin two-fifties giving him nothing. Watching the guy with the pistol, he tried again. Again, nothing.
“Beck?” She straightened her clothes, put on her shoes, finger-combed her hair.
“Won’t start.” He checked his gauges, tried again.
“You’re kidding, right?” Now she was getting pissed, stepping into the open, rain coming down, hands at her hips, calling to the guys gawking, “Hey ya, fellas. Why not take a picture? Last you longer.” Putting her shoulders back, all those eyes on her, strange men with tattoos, one of them holding a pistol at his side, Vicki saying, “Jesus, Beck. Can we go?”
“Would if Griff charged the auxiliaries.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Means we been draining the juice off the cranking batteries.”
“And?”
“Not enough left to crank her up.” Keeping watch on the men, Beck worked the small Johnson, backing them for the bend, the breeze pushing at his stern, angling them for the rocks. Not the best spot for making a three-point turn with a trolling motor, but it was his only play.
The one with the pistol said something and the guys on the tug started moving, the younger one going to the bow, clanking up its anchor, the older one squeezing past the bales into the wheelhouse, powering up the diesel, water frothing from the props. The one with the pistol jumped from the sub to the tug, coming aft, taking aim at Beck.
One of the tattooed guys slipped into the water and started doing a crawl, rain making rings on the surface. The tug closed the distance, backing low and heavy in the water, Beck guessing they were going to ram him, the young guy coming to the stern with a boat hook.
A few more seconds and he’d be bucked against the rocks. Shifting to neutral, Beck reached in the compartment, pulling his Olin flare from its box. Wasn’t exactly his service Glock with a clip of .40 cal, but it was handier and might do the trick.
Watching him shove a shell into the big orange gun, Vicki thinking what the fuck, the thing looking like it belonged on the gun range of Sesame Street — expecting a little sign to pop out of the barrel. Bang!
Pressing Vicki into the aft seat, Beck told her sit still and went to the starboard rail, letting the guys on the tug get a look at it, the barrel aimed at the bales. Couldn’t miss from that range. The guy with the pistol hesitated, the one in the water still swimming forward.
“No need for that,” Ramon threw his throttle to neutral and stepped out and walked to the stern, calling to Beck, tipped up Diego’s arm, spoiling his aim, then told Eddie to back off with the hook.
“Gimme some space or we see if your shit’s flammable.” Beck kept his aim on the bales.
The bales blocked the wheelhouse door. Couldn’t shut it. Nothing Ramon could do.
“Okay, amigo, okay,” Ramon said, hands held out, twenty feet between the boat and the tug.
Diego raised the pistol back up, knowing he had an easy shot.
“Your buddy puts it away, or we got ourselves a weenie roast,” Beck said, finger on the trigger, counting to three.
Ramon slapped Diego’s arm. Hard. “Put it away. Can see the man needs his space.”
Diego snarled, but tucked it in his rope belt.
“And him, too,” Beck nodded at the one in the water, the guy reaching for his transom, blade between his teeth.
Diego barked more Spanish, and Reyes pushed off the transom, paddling back to the sub. Diego kept his glare on Ramon, not liking the way he’d been handled.
Ignoring the look, Ramon told Eddie to take the controls, Eddie doing it, working the engine, thinking Ramon’s .357 AMT Backup was within reach. Little gun that made a big hole. Not sure if he’d shoot at the guy on the boat or the freaky Mexican with the pistol.
“Whatever you boys are into’s got jack to do with us,” Beck called, working the Johnson, backing Triggerfish for the mouth of the cove.
“Not what it looks like anyway,” Ramon called back, watching the Grady-White backing up.
His English wasn’t much, but Diego wondered what the fuck else could it look like? Bales of yayo in plain view, the conning tower of a sub sticking out, the crew standing on its hull, a dead guy splayed like a starfish, Reyes pulling himself up on the gunwale.
“You fellows have a nice day,” Beck called, backing away, tucking the flare gun away.
Stepping closer to Ramon, Diego said, “Puto’s getting away.”
“I can see that.”
Back home, Diego would have shot Ramon, shot the naked guy, then shot the woman. Kill them all.
“My job’s to move this shit, from here to the shipyard, shipyard to the lodge. Deliver a message about your guns. That’s it,” Ramon said. “Sure ain’t getting mixed up in you shooting people.”
“You are stupid, man,” Diego said, watching the white boat back around the bend.
“Be more stupid if we don’t get the fuck out of here,” Ramon said. “Guy gets on his ship-to-shore . . .” Letting that sink in, letting the Mexican figure out the rest.
Cursing, Diego was faced with a delay on the guns, having to hide the sub, staying the night. Everything was going wrong. And he’d only been in Canada about an hour.
“We drive to this lodge.” Diego said it like it was his idea. “Eat. Drink. Women.”
“First we find someplace to ditch your ride,” Ramon said, wondering where the fuck else do you hide seventy-four feet of sub? Squeezing past the bales into his wheelhouse, he switched on the overhead lights, told Eddie to grab his charts. Diego right behind him.
T
here was a spot off the bottom end of Gambier, secluded enough, double-checking the chart. Making sure it was deep enough, Ramon saying they better get her out in open water, then wait till dusk.
Diego was barking at his men, Ramon tapping a compartment open, taking out his AMT Backup. Not a good time to be unarmed.
Watching Ramon stick the gun in his pocket, Eddie said he was going to the head, feeling the zip bag with the coke in his pocket, going and closing the door, sliding on the lock.
. . . EASY’S GETTING HARD
The two boats bobbed, stern to bow, rope tied to cleats. The old guy from C-Tow had his hand out, palm held flat, expecting Beck to shell out five bills. Said it with a straight face. His name tag said he was Benny, his cap with the earflaps, a beard as coarse as a grill brush, a fleshy nose glowing. Beck pegged him for a boozer, Benny saying he preferred cash.
Digging his wallet from his roll-ups, Beck made a crack about having to pay up front, taking out his plastic, repeating the amount, asking Benny if he was for real.
The C-Tow man said, “Ain’t no joking matter out here. All about life and death. You stranded boaters always forgetting that once I tow you in.” He sniffed, running his sleeve under his nose, looking at the plastic Beck held out, making no move to take it, saying, “Saving you from one, delivering you to the other. Out here cash is king, my friend.”
Benny’s breath was a mix of garlic and gin, Beck fishing in his pocket for his roll, saying, “This is what I got.” Counting out nearly three hundred in bills, saying, “Day didn’t exactly go like I planned.”
Benny took his plastic, saying, “But I got to charge you five-fifty.”
“How’s that?”
“Fees and taxes and so forth.” More sniffing. The VISA in his hand, Benny said it was company policy, nothing he could do about it, then went to unearth his credit-card swiper, a wave rocking them. Beck standing on his bow, his foot keeping the boats from knocking.
“Used to be a cop,” Beck called after him.
“Me too, long time back, called ourselves Mounties, back when you were sucking on your momma.”
Coming back, Benny showed a gap between his front teeth when he grinned. “Badge doesn’t mean shit out here, does it, son?” He pointed a black fingernail and showed Beck where to sign.
“Maybe you know a guy, name’s Hanson, on the marine patrol,” Beck said, taking the swiper, then the pen.
Still grinning, Benny was shaking his head.
“Guy I can call anytime, tell him some ex-cop’s out here shaking down disabled boaters.” Beck could call Hanson up, but not for favors, the two of them hating each other since the academy.
“Knock yourself out.” Benny coughed into his hand, pointed again to where to sign, asking, “What do you got, like four batteries on this girl, son?”
“I going to have to shoot you, Benny?” Beck scribbled to get the ink flowing, signed and handed it back, looking at the gap between the yellow teeth.
“Ought to be thanking me,” Benny said, having to leave Celebrity Boxing, coming out, braving the chop and finding the Grady-White adrift, its puny trolling Johnson no match for the Strait of Georgia. Nearly past Lighthouse Park, doing a back-and-forth sweep with his mounted searchlight, Benny spotted the disabled boat and tossed Beck a line, tied up to his cleat, having to tow them across the inlet in the frigid cold. “Without me, you’d a been screwed, boy. Think you know it.” Benny looking at the girl, Vicki sulking and shivering in her life vest, one of those foil rescue blankets around her shoulders, the thing wafer thin. High-heeled shoes on a boat, naked toes exposed. First time he’d seen that.
Two hours past frozen, Vicki’s teeth clattered together. The two of them adrift in the dark long after leaving the bay with those creeps, bobbing in the Strait till Beck finally gave up on his trolling motor, calling for a tow, pride keeping him from doing it sooner.
Pissed enough to push him overboard, Vicki put up with Beck making light of it, the guy playing like a tour guide getting towed in, pointing out Stanley Park, over there Jericho Beach, the Burrard Street Bridge, bitching about having to pay the C-Tow guy. Vicki thinking Benny should have charged him double.
Beck had downed the bottle of Johnnie Red like it was antifreeze, this guy that used to be a cop. Four batteries and not enough sense to charge them, blaming somebody named Griff, probably an imaginary friend.
Dropping the fenders, Beck nosed Triggerfish into its slip, Burrard Civic Marina, bumping the bow against the dock. No point trying to revive the mood, Vicki barely saying a word to him, sitting on the livewell with her arms folded, wrapped in the stupid rescue blanket.
Beck watched her, knowing this was over, wondering why Griff couldn’t get one fucking thing right. Man, you come off a charter, you go through the list: hit the bilge, check the lines for kinks, sharpen hooks, bag the cans and bottles, swab away any puke, wipe down the reels, back off the drags and check the fuel. AND HOOK UP TO SHORE POWER. Simple. A fucking chimp could do it.
Watching her flip off the rescue blanket, Benny pulled away from the dock in C-Tow 1. She stepped onto the dock, tossing the vest at Beck’s feet. Hugging herself in the denim over the tube-top, she stalked down the dock, heading for the parking lot, didn’t give a shit her heels might catch between the dock boards.
“You want, I can give you a lift, or call you a cab?”
“Go hook up your batteries, Beck,” she called back to him and kept walking.
Be the only thing he’d be hooking up tonight — watching her pass under the dock lights, those shorty shorts, heels clicking on the wood, the girl not looking back. Not the way the evening was supposed to go. Been looking forward to it all week. Nice-looking girl he met at a Gastown pub. Invited her out for a cruise, calling the fishing charter a yacht. Playing it up. Got a haircut, debating between silk briefs or commando, a bottle of red or a bottle of white, ribbed or scented. Right down to the details: prawns to start, olives with the pimentos, a nice smelly cheese, the salmon fillet, and amaretto for after. He remembered from the pub, the vodka coolers she drank were lime. A four-pack for her, a bottle of Johnnie Red for him, and they were all set.
Beck had Griff take yesterday’s charter out solo, Beck doing the running around. Had no idea the girl was vegan — never met one before — still, it would have worked out, the dope runners and flat batteries putting a damper on things. Beck without enough juice to get back home.
Checking his watch, he looked over at Hattie’s boat. All dark. Taking his cell, he tapped in her number, damned thing going straight to voicemail. Hanging up, he turned and did an arm whirl, nearly tripping on the empty scotch bottle, sending it spinning. Punching in another number, he bent for the thong on the deck under his chair, felt it between his fingers, remembering she called the color raspberry. Tucking it in a pocket, he waited as the phone rang.
There was a click, Griff sounding sleepy, answering, “Hello?”
Beck saying, “Hey, Griff, buddy, I get you up?”
. . . BODY ENGLISH
Nearly nine months since she stuck the knife in the cop. The moaning of sirens forced Ashika Shakira to run that night, leaving the shipment of AKs they were stealing from an Asian gang, using the Jesus Factory as a stash. Guns for the cause. Flutie Al-Nabi had already run off, the one called Baldie Jones lying with a bullet in him.
The Ford had been a late model. She stole it from out front of a Shell station on Main, just blocks from the scene, sirens in the distance, the owner gone looking for the key to the toilet, leaving his own in the ignition. Driving the Kingsway, she found her way to the burbs. Ditching the Ford past Aldergrove, she walked a couple miles of Zero Avenue in the pitch, cutting across farm fields smelling of cow shit, sleeping and shivering in a patch of woods till dawn. Jumping the border, she made it to Lynden.
With no Yankee cash, she played on sympathies, the express bus driver letting her off in Bellingham. Pick
pocketed some geezer that looked like he had money, yielded enough cash for a two-bit room and a wig. Snipping her hair in front of the motel mirror, she watched it fall into the sink. Never cared much about what she looked like, Ashika touched the tufts. Setting the scissors down, she put on the wig cap and the Revlon wig colored cinnamon, making adjustments, thinking it looked natural. Looking like somebody else. The name came to her then, Camilla Evangeline Lucci. She said it, rolling it off her tongue until it sounded like she owned it a lifetime, said it till she felt more Camilla than Ashika.
She forced herself to turn a couple of tricks, perched herself at a bar called the Fairhaven, didn’t wait long, doing what she had to do, getting her through the week. Money for food, money for the room. Convincing herself the first one wasn’t so bad, a businessman with a belly and a Volvo, over before it began in the back seat, the guy apologetic about it. The fat trucker she picked up outside an Arby’s paid for a room, bitched about the carpet not matching the drapes, breathed something that smelled like hummus in her face till he came, letting his weight drop on her, Ashika thinking how easy it would be to stick her blade in his neck, getting out from under him, leaving the room with the cash, doing what she had to do.
Money from the tricks got her a change of wardrobe, Ashika tugging up the skinny jeans, snapping on the push-up bra, the faux-leather blouse, the ankle boots, Burberrys marked down, Black Cat shades she got at Chico’s — Bellis Fair taking her cash.
Transformed, she checked the mirror on the back of the Holiday Inn bathroom door, not looking like Ashika anymore, the girl who ran the guns, planned the attack on Via Rail, shot Wing Lee, the middleman wearing a wire under his shirt, not the Ashika who stabbed the cop through his flak vest, watching his eyes as the blade went in. Betting there was a Canada-wide warrant for her arrest. Likely made the FBI list, too.
Triggerfish Page 3