Triggerfish

by Dieter Kalteis

  “Yeah, Joe talks a lot,” Ramon said, knowing the cartel would blame the bikers for the delay on the guns, didn’t matter about the storm at sea. Any more fuck-ups and the cartel might send more than a sub crew the next time. These guys not known for their gentle nature. Not something Ramon wanted to get caught in.

  Clicking on the AM, Eddie twisted the knob, landed on an old Hoople number, tapping the wheel, still doing the math.

  Diego told Eddie to turn that shit off. Amado, with the Little Richard pomp, crabbed his way to the back corner, working down his pants, pissing into his empty Styro cup.

  Eddie switched off the radio, looked at Ramon. His uncle leaning back in his seat, said he was going back to thinking about his natural double, then closed his eyes.

  Amado came forward, tossing the cup of piss out Eddie’s window.

  Keeping to the speed limit in the outside lane, his arm out the window, Eddie took them past Abbotsford, Chilliwack and finally Hope, swinging onto the Crowsnest. First thing he was doing when they stopped, he’d go to the can and do the line, Eddie needing a good buzz.

  Glancing at the visor’s vanity mirror, he kept an eye on the guys in back, Diego with the vibe of that badass from Sexy Beast, stone-cold eyes framed by caterpillar brows. Had a hard-on for Ramon for slapping his gun hand down. Made the man look bad in front of his crew.

  After the naked couple had backed the pleasure boat from the bay, Ramon guided the sub to a deep channel, waited till dark, took them to the new spot, some sunken pilings from an old pier at the bottom end of Centre Bay, Gambier Island. They hauled what cedar boughs and debris they found along the shore in the dark, covering the conning tower, left Ismael sitting at the hatch with the bullpup, a Kel-Tec KSG. Ejected down, not forward, two feet long, weighing under seven pounds, twelve rounds, made in the U.S. of A., promising a light recoil. Right out of its crate, still had that new-gun smell.

  Eddie drove the county road, dust stirring under the rubber. He hung a right past a faded wood sign declaring it Busch’s lodge, a country mailbox out front, used to be red. A hunt lodge, back in the day, Rudi Busch making a living as an outfitter then, offering guide service to city boys with wallets thick enough to come and play hunter, Rudi escorting their drunken asses to where the bear and deer roamed.

  When the bikers started showing up, the fat city boys stopped coming. Rudi gave up on the guiding, running drugs and guns a hell of a lot more lucrative, Rudi trading trophy heads for a cash cow, getting his sons in on the new family trade, the two of them driving Beemers and dressing all GQ.

  Eddie swung onto the old service road, west side of the lodge, rolling the truck around back, not more than wheel tracks with high grass in the center, a marsh to the left, branches scraping at the box. Eddie pulled up to the spot Rudi’s kid Axel motioned to. Eddie looking at this guy his own age, giving orders in three-hundred-dollar jeans, a designer shirt with the sleeves rolled.

  Standing by his kitchen door, Rudi Busch watched, had that Vinnie Jones look about him, a guy with a hard bark. Getting out of the cab, Eddie was told to unload the bales, Axel snapping the orders, pointing to the wheelbarrows.

  “Got to go to the can,” Eddie said.

  “That can wait,” Axel said, pointing to the barrows.

  Eddie saw Rudi Busch watching, did like he was told.

  The two bikers stood in the shade behind the lodge, leaning and smoking, no Rockers colors showing. They took in the unloading. Regular Joe was the taller one, thick-boned with old scars showing the kind of life he lived, a beat-to-hell porkpie hat on his head, an Iron Jaw T-shirt under a denim vest that looked like it had been used to mop up motor oil, the sleeves chewed off.

  Hair slicked back, Billy Wall had been sergeant at arms of the Spokane chapter since his Golden Gloves days, about three belt notches ago. The words Pain is temporary ran up one big forearm, Pride is forever down the other.

  Diego and Amado walked over to Rudi, Ramon making the introductions, Rudi telling him to go help his nephew unload, doing the talking, looking at Diego, making promises about the guns.

  Setting a bale on top of a couple more, Eddie rolled the barrow over to the last cabin, careful not to let it tip, Axel Busch pointing to a spot. He told Eddie that was far enough. Taking it from there, Axel wheeled the barrow around back of the end cabin, along a thin trail into the woods.

  Stepping over, Billy Wall asked Eddie what he thought he was doing, Ramon coming with the second barrow, setting it down. Billy motioned them back to the truck, told them to wait there for the barrows. They walked over, Eddie taking in the row of cabins out back of the lodge, six of them, one the same as the next, board-and-batten siding with a tin roof, a river-rock chimney, looked like what the Clampetts lived in before they struck oil.

  Axel came back with the empty barrow, set it down, asked Eddie what he was waiting for, told him to fetch another load, Eddie saying the next load was going to be the one in his pants, saying he had to go to the can, Axel telling him that could wait, then he rolled Ramon’s barrow around the back. Ramon hooking Eddie’s sleeve, telling him to do like he was told. The bikers watching.

  . . . THE DEVIL’S BED

  The last of the coke was off the truck, everybody filing through the back door, Eddie heading for the can, fishing the zip bag from his stash pocket, the great room done in pine board, a trophy bighorn over the river-rock fireplace at the far end, a couple of armchairs facing it. Moose heads, deer, boar and bear lined the walls. A pair of sofas with wooden arms flanked a pine table; dining tables and chairs were in the center of the room, a billiard table halfway to the bar. Well-stocked shelves, a brass rail and swivel stools, swinging doors leading to the kitchen.

  Finding the can, Eddie flipped on the lights and switched the lock, got his VISA from his wallet, tapped the line on the porcelain, took out a bill and rolled it. Sniffed it up, came up — yeah — smiling at the guy in the mirror.

  Flushing the toilet, he checked for powder around his nose, then went back past the trophies, stood next to his uncle. Feeling alright.

  Ramon looked at him, handed him a dripping beer, put his back to the knotty pine. Rudi and Diego were on opposite sides of the bar, head to head, glasses in front of them, talking business under the Labbatt neon, Rudi not happy about Diego holding back a dozen bales that had been paid for, explaining most of the coke was to be put on the old 4 × 4 out front, the bikers taking it through provincial to national forests, getting it in the hands of the Spokane Rockers at some remote spot, a place called Brewster. Sure didn’t want to make the run twice.

  Diego shrugged, wanted to know about the guns, no desire to explain the delay to Lieutenant Topo.

  Rudi told him the freighter was making its way, all three hundred guns on a container.

  Diego saying, “Then everyone has to wait.” Knocking back his drink, looking at the bottles lining the shelves behind Rudi.

  Rudi said he’d have to make a call to the chapter pres, refilled his own glass, saying, “Meantime, you boys want to get cleaned up?”

  “Twelve days with no toilet,” Diego said. “What you think, amigo?”

  “See, what I’m doing here,” Rudi said, leaning close, “is laying out the welcome mat. Not my fault your guns didn’t show.” He took the bottle and poured more in Diego’s glass. “What say you make the best of it?”

  Diego downed his drink, slid the glass back, thanking him in Spanish.

  “Have my boy fix you fellas something to eat.” Rudi poured again. Stepping to the swinging door, he rapped, told Axel to keep their new friends in drink, Reyes and Amado leaning by the cue rack, watching the bikers shoot pool. Going back behind the bar, Rudi said to Diego, “Had the pressure fixed, showers working pretty good now.” Sipping his own drink, saying, “Different story a week ago.” Rudi thinking the smell rising off this guy beat any stink bait he ever concocted for bagging bear, asking him, “You want a b
eer to chase that?”

  Diego slid his glass again, saying, “American beer is shit.”

  “Know you’re in Canada, right, amigo?” Rudi said, not letting this guy get to him, pouring. “You want to put on the feedbag, let my boy know. We got bologna, go nice with some Vidalia onion, or there’s ham and cheese, maybe turkey. Take your pick.” Rudi reached across and clapped Diego on the shoulder, putting enough of his two hundred pounds behind it.

  “Steak,” Diego said, showing Rudi about an inch thick with his thumb and finger, black under his fingernails.

  Feeling the buzz, Eddie stood next to his uncle, betting the guy wanted it bloody.

  Rudi telling Diego they had a nice spud salad: onion, celery, capers, mayo, pickle. “Girl from town comes in, makes it fresh, puts in Granny Smith apple. Ever have it like that? Go real nice with your sandwich.”

  Diego saying he wanted to see this girl from town, Rudi picking up the bottle again, refilling the Mexican’s glass, saying he wasn’t going to be here that long.

  Grabbing a case of Canadian, Axel restocked the fridge, lining the shelves. Pissed off at his old man. Told to make sandwiches for these smelly guys, being ordered around in front of everybody, treated like the hired help.

  “Anything else you boys need, just got to ask,” Rudi said, smiling, putting the bottle down.

  “The ones that saw?” Diego said, pushing his glass forward again, then waving Amado over, his eyes finding on Ramon.

  “Yeah?” Rudi said, already heard the story about the naked couple on the boat.

  “Alive is no good.”

  “Wouldn’t worry about it,” Rudi said, taking the bottle again, topping off the Mexican’s glass, one more for himself. “Sub’s in a good spot. Guns are coming. Best thing’s we all keep a low profile.”

  Diego shook his head, saying, “They see what they cannot see.” He reached to the floor and took the metal case and set it on the bar. It was time to make the call, not one he wanted to make.

  Rudi watched Diego take the sat phone from the lined case, insert a battery, its GPS and SOS dismantled. Punching in a number, Diego waited, then spoke in Spanish. Sounded like he was catching hell from the other end, barely getting in a word. Then he handed the phone to Rudi, letting Rudi get an earful of broken English, this Lieutenant Topo Quintero on the other end, the guy who ordered up heads on pikes, Rudi trying to keep the peace, keep this deal alive. When Topo finished ranting, Rudi said yeah and handed the phone back.

  Diego popped out the battery, put the phone back in the case, looking at Ramon.

  “Okay, so we take care of the naked couple,” Rudi said, waving the bikers over.

  “Him,” Diego said, pointing at Eddie.

  Eddie feeling like he’d been slapped. Everybody looking at him. Middle of a coke buzz.

  “You don’t want him,” Rudi said, kind of laughing, Eddie looking like he might piss himself.

  “Sí.”

  “Want him to do the guy on the boat?”

  “And woman.”

  “Come on,” Ramon said. “Eddie doesn’t do wet work.”

  Diego grabbed for the phone, popped the battery back in.

  “Okay.” Rudi sighed, wagged a finger, Ramon and Eddie stepping over.

  Too high for this. Eddie wanted his legs to start running, looking to Ramon, his uncle nudging him to the bar.

  “Going to take the couple out, kid,” Rudi said, matter of fact.

  Ramon saying to Rudi, “Kid agreed to make the run from the tug to here. That’s it.”

  “On account of the delay,” Rudi said, “these guys can’t have witnesses.”

  Chickenshit gringo. Diego grinned at Ramon, saying, “You go with. Help him hold his gun.”

  “Man on the phone wants it done,” Rudi said to Ramon. “Customer’s always right. All there is to it.”

  “Just walk up to some guy —” Eddie started.

  Slamming his hand flat, Rudi said, “Man the fuck up, kid.”

  Diego took the Taurus from his rope belt, Rudi’s hand slipping under the bar. Axel stopped loading the beer, the broom closet a few steps away. The twelve gauge next to the mop and bucket, loaded and set to go. Regular Joe and Billy Wall stopped knocking balls around, watching the play at the bar.

  Diego slid the piece along the bar, telling Eddie to pick it up.

  Eddie didn’t move.

  Finally, Ramon reached for it. “Fuck it, I got this.”

  “No,” Diego said, hand down on the piece, pointing at Eddie. “Him.” Pressing the gun into his hand, Diego closed his fingers around it, saying, “Amado goes with. Sees it is done.”

  Rudi looked at the Sinaloan with the pomp, then at Ramon, saying, “Shouldn’t have pissed him off.”

  “How it is,” Diego said.

  Eddie was way too high for this.

  Diego slid off the stool and headed for the door marked Authorized Personnel Only. Looked at Axel and showed him how thick he wanted his steak, Amado following him out.

  Ramon looked at Rudi, saying, “Come on, man. You know he’s not right for this, the guy’s pissed at me, slapped his gun down. You want it done without a hitch, you send them.” Looking at Billy and Regular Joe, saying, “No offense.”

  “Somebody tell you this was nine-to-five?” Rudi said, looking from Ramon to Eddie. “You show up and punch a clock?”

  “Agreed to run your shit,” Ramon said. “That’s all.”

  “He does it . . .” Rudi leaned across the bar, looking hard from one to the other.

  “Look Rudi —”

  Rudi’s fist caught Ramon flush on the jaw, bouncing him back off the paneling, Ramon holding the side of his face, staring back.

  “Only way out’s pray the guns show before you find the couple on the boat.” Done talking, Rudi walked by the pool table, past the fireplace, the trophy heads looking down.

  Lining his shot, Regular Joe said to Billy Wall, “Guy’s got a punch.”

  “For an old guy,” Billy said, waiting for Joe to take his shot.

  Joe leaned, pulled the cue back. Reyes finished his can of beer, came off the wall, bumping past him, going for the door, following the Mexicans.

  The ball bounced from the pocket, Joe looking at the back of the Honduran, saying, “Fuckin’ taking that over.”

  . . . BODY LANGUAGE

  “Got to be shitting me,” Beck said, not believing it.

  A passerby turned, giving him a look. Beck was staring at Vicki in nothing but a thong and cruel shoes, the corner of West Georgia and Granville. Busy downtown Vancouver, city of a couple million. Broad daylight. Pedestrians stopping and staring, shooting her mixed looks, the women scowling, men bumping into things.

  A black thong this time. The cardboard sign in front of her chest said: Do It Vegan. Her body painted like a diagram of meat cuts: LOIN, THIGH, SHANK, RIB, CHUCK and SHOULDER. RU on one butt cheek, MP on the other.

  “Jesus,” he said, stepping up, the girl begging for the first uniform to drag her off in cuffs, write up misdemeanor charges: indecent exposure, causing a disturbance, disorderly conduct, public indecency, lascivious behavior. “You high or something?”

  “Meat. I’m protesting it.” Vicki said it matter of fact, passing him a pamphlet. The HEART logo on the front, Humane and Ethical Animal Rights Team. Pics and info graced the spread, a tear-off mailer for donations.

  “Thought we were doing dinner?”

  “That’s later.”

  A second near-naked girl stood on the corner by the newspaper boxes, marked up the same way, standing in pumps and a thong, hers green. She handed out pamphlets.

  A guy with some size leaned against the stone corner of the Bay building, shirt half open, jeans over cowboy boots, looking like their pimp, keeping an eye on the girls.

  “Say we get you out of here?” Beck
said, guessing somebody slipped something in her drink, maybe the pimp.

  “Not till I finish my shift.” Then she laughed. “You should see your face.” Vicki handing a pamphlet to a passerby.

  Told him on the boat she volunteered for HEART from time to time. Beck had figured she typed letters, took calls from behind a desk. Could picture some judge handing down psychiatric tests, have her checked out for crossed wires, make her pee in a cup.

  “Got to do it naked?”

  “Technically, I’m not. Thing is, it creates awareness. Speaking out for those who can’t.” She liked that she shocked him, saying, “Come on, Beck, gave you way more sugar last night.” She was enjoying this.

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  Turning for the corner, she gave him a look at the RU and MP, handing a silver-hair in pinstripes a pamphlet, the senior taking it, thanking her and walking away, looking over his shoulder.

  Last night left him lying awake, listening to the water lap at his hull, Triggerfish in its slip at the Burrard Civic Marina, the hum of the batteries charging away. He got in his share of picturing her naked, remembering the way she felt, the guys on the yayo sub and tug spoiling the moment.

  More than once he looked out his cabin window over at Hattie’s boat, tempted to go tap on her door. Play it cute, say a cup of herbal tea might help him sleep. But Hattie had been watching when he cruised out with Vicki. Seen Vicki in her heels. No point knocking after the phone call, Hattie not picking up. One in the morning.

  Now here he was, a second chance with Vicki; it might work out if she didn’t get busted first. Passing out pamphlets, she posed for a camera phone, slinging an arm around the other girl, popping her heel up the way models used to do in those cheesecake black-and-whites.

  A courier pulled his bike onto the curb, took a pamphlet, asking what he’d get if he read it. She told him “Informed,” the guy riding back into traffic, catching the light. Made his day.

  Checking out the pimp, the guy looking back at Beck. A wave of pedestrians crossed between them, more coming up the stairs of the SkyTrain station, crossing the street, the girls nearly out of pamphlets. Cell phones snapped pics, people stopping, asking questions, getting informed. Some woman said they ought to be flogged. A group of high-school boys committed body parts to memory. Hormones, got to love them.