Triggerfish

by Dieter Kalteis

  She had read about it a couple of days later, the Seattle Times putting a name to the cop she stabbed: Rene Beckman, in stable condition, going to pull through. Ashika was branded a terrorist, the paper showing her likeness, not mentioning Baldie Jones took a cop bullet in the back while his hands were cuffed. It didn’t mention Flutie at all.

  Three weeks and a couple more tricks kept her in Boomers and coffee, moving to a cheaper room at the Mayflower. Given her choices, she gambled her life and made the call from a pay phone.

  The voice on the other end was familiar, with no sound of surprise, the man saying he was glad to hear from her. Like nothing had happened. Like they were old friends. She gave her location, thinking better dead than going to bed with strangers and having to pretend she liked it, impossible to shower them away. It turned out the New Freedom Army still had use for her.

  Ashika thought about it now, eight months gone by, looking at her reflection, sliding the tube over her lips, rolling her tongue over the sticky wax, spritzing the Givenchy, stepping through the mist. She picked the new passport off the dresser, flipping it open. We the people printed on the inside, the image of the eagle. Camilla Evangeline Lucci. Born in Morocco, 1970. Gave the date of issue, date of expiration, stamped by the Department of State. Looked convincing.

  Kim Pang was an artist, forged documents for the New Freedom Army for the better part of a decade, the third set he made for her, put a rush on this one, shipped it UPS, tossing in a birth certificate and driver’s license, good enough to pass any cursory inspection.

  She slipped it in the handbag with the Bersa .380 Lite, touched a hand to the wig, the tight clothes pinching her. Walking from the chair to the mirror, still getting used to the heels, she was thinking of Flutie Al-Nabi again, jumping off the loading dock that night. Running off. No idea where he ended up. Flutie had hired Baldie Jones to drive, the one Beckman cuffed, the one his rookie partner shot dead on the loading dock. The headlines called it a gun smuggling ring taken down, a victory for the Vancouver cops, making heroes out of Rene Beckman and Danny Green. The cop survived his knife wound, IDed her, sending Ashika to the top of the wanted list: attempted murder of a peace officer, running restricted weapons, part of an international ring, the RCMP tying her to the Via Rail attack back east.

  Nothing but dumb luck on their part, bad luck on hers, the two cops rolling by in their patrol car. The photo in the paper showed Rene Beckman in his dress blues, same eyes that had stared into hers, their faces as close as lovers’ as she drove the knife through the Kevlar weave. Decorated instead of dead. Now retired from the force. The rookie getting a citation for putting a bullet in Baldie.

  The anti-terrorist squad and CSIS would be hunting her, trading info across borders. Bounty hunters would come looking, jackals out for a quick reward. There could be a hit ordered by her own people, a way to minimize their exposure. A bullet in her ear would clean up the mess, remove the risk. But she gambled and went to the pickup point, the Bersa in her pocket, and picked up the wired money. The next call, the voice on the phone told her what to do. Switching to the Motel 6, she lay low and waited, slept with the Bersa, one in the chamber with the safety off. A week passed and nobody came to kill her, Ashika guessing she was still useful. Then came the months of waiting.

  Living on pizza specials and egg rolls, Kaopectate kept her regular, daytime soaps kept her from crawling the walls.

  Next time the prepaid rang, the voice told her to pick up a key to a flat over a laundromat, other side of town, sit tight and order in. They were moving her around.

  Picking up a supply of laxatives, she got the key, the laundromat with an out-of-business sign over the door. Bersa clutched down along her leg, she climbed the stairs, sticking the key in the lock, standing to the side and opening the door. Flicking on a light, she stepped into the near-empty flat. A chair, an old TV and a sagging mattress in one corner, cockroaches scattering like thieves.

  Days dragged into weeks, Ashika keeping the Bersa close with the only chair wedged under the door knob, getting into The Bold and the Beautiful, getting to know Brooke and Eric and Ridge. Mythos was the takeout place down the block, sent over Greek in tinfoil trays that wasn’t half bad. The kid making the deliveries was Tito, told her to try the lamb souvlaki and phyllo pie. Tito earning his tips bringing her the daily papers. She started to tune in to One Life to Live, getting to know the Lord family by the time the next call came.

  Packing up the suitcase she bought from the Salvation Army store, the one with the telescopic handle, she picked up the silver Accord at the Avis like she was told, taking the route marked on the map in the glovebox, Art’s Grill and 8 AM written in the margin, the location circled in red. A bundle of twenties next to the map. The voice on the phone didn’t say what was up, but she knew by the way they were starting to move her around after eight months of sitting idle that something was in the wind.

  . . . BACKWARDS FROM A FORWARD POINT

  “See, what you’re talking about’s a psychic,” Hattie Winters said, thinking what Beck really needed was a shrink. Across the dock, he stood on his deck. Sometimes he amused her, talking with that stand-up timing. A good-looking guy with more than his share of baggage.

  Adjusting the Tilley over hair that needed a wash, longer but her natural shade, Hattie matched herself to the bimbo he had on the boat last night, thinking she stood up. Blocking the sun with the brim, she looked over at Triggerfish, Beck’s crew, Griffin Cramb sitting and spooling fresh line on a Penn reel, his head down, getting set for the day’s charter. Griff was stewing on account of the chewing out he got last night, Beck pulling the cold shoulder on him this morning.

  “Okay, so I didn’t leave a message,” Beck called back to Hattie. “Figured you’d see the call display.”

  “At one in the morning?”

  “Could happen. Sometimes you’re up for some tea.”

  “Oh sure. Your date goes to hell, so you call me?”

  “Didn’t say it went to hell.”

  “Didn’t have to.”

  “Come on, wasn’t like that.”

  It was exactly like that. Beck was an open book. Three months since walking out of her own marital nightmare, Hattie took to living on the boat, doing the odd charter to pay the slip fees, always had a knack for finding the schools of salmon. A couple hundred square feet of living space and she felt free. Done with Tim, her bailiff husband working rent distress, collecting money for landlords. Okay, Beck was interesting, but she was starting to see the layers to this ex-cop, not sure she wanted to peel them. Could be another Tim under there, Beck at the bottom of a scotch bottle too much of the time, stuck in the lower chakras the rest of the time.

  “I saw her, you know?” Hattie said, grinning. “You helping her on board. Her wearing heels — on a boat.” Her grin broadened, Griff hiding his own.

  “What? Girl’s got her own mind.”

  “A tube top and shorty shorts screaming come and get it, boys.” Hattie laughing now, last night’s small craft warnings guaranteed the poor trashy girl caught her death. Hattie watching from her porthole when Triggerfish was towed in, Trashy storming off, Beck calling Hattie on her cell at one in the morning. Hattie ignoring the call, smiling as she drifted off to sleep.

  “Always thinking the worst of me,” he said.

  “So you didn’t call because you were . . .”

  “No, I just . . .”

  “What? Called to ask where the fish are?” She couldn’t help the grin. She’d been out-fishing his boat for the past month straight, Beck coming in skunked half the time. Loved rubbing it in.

  “Don’t need you finding my fish,” he said, then looked at Griff, telling the kid to wind the spool tighter. Griff rolling his eyes.

  A hundred yards of fresh twenty-pound already on the Penn. Stripping it off, Griff let the bird’s nest fall on top of the old line around his sneakers. Still stinging from
the broadside he caught from Beck last night, woken from his sleep — one in the morning — Beck ranting about the batteries not being charged. Told Griff the five bills he paid C-Tow were coming out of his pay, Griff telling Hattie over early-morning tea, saying that was it, asking if she needed a mate, Hattie telling him she’d have a word with Beck, try and smooth it out.

  Stepping off First Light, she crossed the dock, linen capris and sandals, a crisp white top. Taking off the Tilley, she shook out her hair, using her fingers like a comb.

  Beck looked at her, saying, “Heading out?”

  “Got a couple coming for ten,” she said. “Thinking I’d work the bottom of Bowen. You?”

  “Finn’s been marking at the mouth of the Cap. Might start there, then maybe the slots.”

  Stripping the reel, Griff set it aside, taking the handful of monofilament and going down to the galley.

  “Finn say what’s working?” she said, making small talk now.

  “Flash-and-Glos mostly, some going with the Mepps. Didn’t say what colors,” Beck said, trying to read her. “Bottom of Bowen, huh?

  “Should ease up on him,” she said, nodding toward the galley.

  Ignoring her, “What’ve you been dropping over there?”

  “Twitchys mostly.”

  “The squid?”

  “Better luck with the feathers, orange and yellow, bouncing them dead slow.”

  “You spray them? Fool-a-Fish, something like that?”

  “Never makes a difference. Just dead slow this time of year. Sometimes I add a trailer,” she said, then, “He’s a good kid, you know?”

  “Finn mixed up some scents, shrimp and herring, tosses it in the prop wash. Get you some if you want.”

  “Sounds smelly.”

  “Yeah.” Beck guessed she had her own fishing secrets, keeping them to herself. A girl that fished solo, fairly new at it, hitting more than most, keeping from the cluster of charter boats that stayed hooked up by radio. “How about later?”

  “What’s later?”

  “I’m thinking dinner.”

  “When?”

  “How about dinnertime.” He smiled. “Got a nice spring fillet in the box. Could toss it on the grill.”

  “My boat or yours?”

  “You pick.”

  She gave a shrug, not sure it was a good idea.

  “Call you after my charter, give you a chance to decide.”

  “Long as you don’t call at one in the morning, maybe I’ll answer.” Hattie smiled, thinking of him and Trashy adrift in the Strait.

  Stepping up from the galley, Griff held a steaming mug, looked from one to the other. “Anybody else?” meaning the coffee, taking a sip.

  Nobody wanted coffee.

  “Got some toast on . . .”

  “You see we’re talking, right, Griff?” Beck said.

  Setting the mug down, Griff sat and got back to spooling the reel, thinking he really needed to google a new job, check out craigslist.

  “Really need to snap at him?” she said.

  Beck checked his watch, said his half-day charter would be showing soon, businessmen up from Tacoma, repeat customers, the kind that drank heavy and tipped heavier. Smelling something, he turned, smoke puffing from the galley. “Jeez, Griff, what the fuck?”

  “Shit.” Bounding off the seat, Griff knocked his coffee across the deck, the rod falling over. Banging his head going down the steps, he yanked the toaster’s cord, tossing it out on the deck, coughing as he came back up, fanning his arms. The smoke alarm below going off.

  Lifting the toaster by its cord, Beck dunked it over the side. Griff grabbed a Georgia Straight and fanned it into the cabin, shutting the alarm off, Beck shaking out the toaster on the deck. Soggy, burned bread and blackened paper.

  Hattie watched the man drown his own toaster, thinking, yeah, a shrink couldn’t hurt.

  “Sorry,” Griff said, then, “Shit. That was yesterday’s tip.” Looking at the charred bills.

  “Put your tip in my toaster?” Beck asked.

  “Hid it in there till I could get to the bank. Forgot about it this time.” Griff went for a rag, not wanting Beck looking at him, thinking he’d talk to Hattie later, beg her for a job. Coming back, he got on his knees and started wiping, glancing at her, saying, “Sorry for the cursing, Hattie.”

  “Hope it wasn’t a lot,” she said.

  “Forty bucks.”

  Excusing herself, she recrossed the dock, stepped over her transom, Beck watching, trying to picture her in heels.

  “So much for breakfast,” Griff said, scooping up the bits.

  Beck checked his watch again, thinking back to why he hired the kid: a former lifeguard, captain of his school swim-team. Didn’t expect him to be so damn dumb. Gave him the job in case some drunk fell overboard. The way Beck had been drinking since leaving the force, he figured maybe it would be him.

  Beck’s phone chirped. Taking it from his windbreaker draped over the chair, he checked the display. Vicki Moon.

  Surprised, he stepped along the bow rail to the pulpit, getting out of earshot, answering on the third ring.

  “You thawed?”

  “Funny guy.” Sounding friendly enough. “Lucky frostbite didn’t take a toe.”

  “Glad it’s you calling and not your lawyer.”

  “Could come after you for hypothermia, that and promises not delivered.”

  “Could make that part right,” he said.

  “Guess that’s why I’m calling.”

  “Yeah?” Beck felt his heart shift gears, thinking how how how and boom boom boom.

  “Doing anything later?”

  “Got a charter till noon. Clear after that.” His luck taking a turn.

  “How about you meet me downtown?”

  “Just name the place.”

  “West Georgia and Granville. You know where the Bay is?”

  “Sure.”

  “Say two.”

  “I’m there.” Thinking of her raspberry thong, thinking he should hand it back. “What’ve you got in mind?”

  “A little sightseeing, a little dinner after. Nice vegan place I mentioned.”

  “Yeah, right. Vegan, huh?”

  “Gonna love it.” And she hung up.

  The girl had defrosted after her night out on the Strait, got past thinking it was the worst date of her life. Taking him to dinner. Could be the way he handled the six guys with just his flare, playing it like he still had a badge. Could be about finishing what he and Vicki started.

  Okay, he’d tank up the Jeep, check the oil. Leave nothing to chance. Coming around the rail, he looked over at First Light, Hattie not on her deck. Griff finished mopping the spill, then tightened the reel on the rod.

  Taking a pair of twenties from his wallet, Beck held them out.

  “What’s that?”

  “The tip you lost,” Beck said, wagging the bills.

  . . . LYING LOW

  Seen his share of blow, mostly grams and eighths. But this was something else. Thirty-two bales packed in back of a moving truck, weighing something like fifty pounds apiece, the bikers back at Rudi’s saying this shit was uncut, Eddie doing the math, figuring what a single bale could fetch. Hard to believe.

  Nearly two in the morning by the time they hid the sub up by Gambier, left the one called Ismael on board with the dead guy and a dozen bales of the coke. The rest of them got back to the shipyards and packed the coke into the back of the rental truck. Diego wanted to head out, get to the lodge, Ramon saying it would look suspicious, a moving truck driving to Hope in the middle of the night.

  The five of them spent the rest of the night in the truck, Ramon and Eddie up front, Diego and his boys in back: Reyes and Amado lying on the metal floor, Diego propped against a bale. Fitful sleep for those who could sleep,
barely a word between the rest. Dark eyes with thousand-yard stares, all had seen their share of horrific shit back where they came from, living with the ghosts of it. Doing what they had to to survive.

  Soon as the sun showed, Ramon got out of the driver’s side and went searching for coffee, coming back juggling a tray of takeout cups.

  Getting up in back and stretching, Diego drank the coffee, the metal case close to his feet, pistol in his belt. He told Eddie to get behind the wheel.

  “I’ll drive,” Ramon said, keys in one hand, coffee in the other.

  “No, him,” Diego said, pointing at Eddie.

  Ramon shrugged and stuck the keys in the ignition, the two of them switching places. Diego looking at him, still pissed about the guns, not forgetting the way Ramon slapped down his pistol hand. Did it twice.

  Ismael stayed on the sub. Diego’s orders. Said no to leaving the other Honduran called Reyes, Ismael arguing he couldn’t run it alone, in case he had to scuttle her. Diego said that’s the way he wanted it, staring back at the man, hand on the pistol. No way he was chancing the two Hondurans taking off in the sub, leaving him stranded.

  Diego squatted in the doorway between the cab and cargo, the other two settling back on the floor, drinking coffee. Amado was tall and rangy. The one with the shaved head and gang ink was Reyes, the guy not saying a word to anybody.

  Cracking his window, Eddie put her in gear and rolled, went back to doing the math in his head. A gram went for a hundred on the street. Thirty-two bales in back, a dozen more on the sub, hidden at the bottom end of Gambier. The one called Ismael left to guard it, a crazy looking dude, covered head to toe in tats.

  “Any idea what this shit goes for?” Eddie said to Ramon.

  “Just watch your speed, kid.”

  “They want to pull me over, then what?”

  “Then I teach you how to jail.”

  Eddie eased up on the pedal, felt the coke lump in his pocket, no chance to do it till they got to Hope, saying, “Regular Joe said something about another run in a month.”