Triggerfish

by Dieter Kalteis

  Amado pulled a smoke from a pack of Faros con filtro and lit up, waved out the match, looking at him. He blew smoke across the table, a vein making the prison-tat on his neck jump.

  “Thinking of going back down,” Ramon said. “Maybe Cabo this time.”

  Amado looking at him.

  Ought to hang warning signs on these guys. Eddie tossed a couple bucks on the table and got up, a pair of truckers in baseball caps glancing over on account of Amado’s cigarette smoke, complaining about it, the waitress on her way, the manager behind her, neither of them bringing an ashtray. Eddie going out the door, still thinking he should run.

  Dropping the truck at the Budget lot, the three of them walked to Ramon’s Lincoln, a Town Car from the eighties, faded burgundy with a brown vinyl roof. Amado stopped Ramon from getting behind the wheel, pointing at Eddie, going to the passenger side, climbing in back, asking what car this was, trying to crack open the fake vent window.

  “Vintage Town Car, amigo,” Ramon said, his .357 within reach. Getting in, he turned in the passenger seat, serious about his ride, telling Amado this one had the Rolls-Royce grille, built like a brick shithouse, Amado agreeing it was shit, couldn’t find a crank or button that opened the rear window, sticking a cigarette in his mouth.

  “Can’t smoke in here,” Ramon said, the Mexican lighting up behind him. For all his chain-smoking, Ramon never lit up in the Town Car, never once. Rubbing and polishing with Armor All and Turtle Wax. Taking a cheesecloth to her. Smoke rolled along the headliner, Ramon cracking his window, the rosary dangling from the rearview.

  Eddie gave a sideways glance at Ramon, his uncle just letting it happen. Bucket shitter in back of his ride, smoking, telling them who to kill.

  Eddie held the crate at fifty-five, feeling a shimmy through the steering column, the back-belch of exhaust notes mixing with Mexican tobacco. Traffic built toward the north end of Surrey, the Welcome to Vancouver sign tagged, Stolen Land sprayed across it. Amado lay across the rear seat, smoking, then snoring as they rolled along the Number One.

  Eddie looked at Ramon, thinking no way Uncle DeJesus would let this greaser pull any of this shit. Thinking Ramon was getting soft.

  “Take Grandview,” Ramon told him, Eddie driving past it, flicking a finger at the dangling rosary. He took First, getting caught at every light, the rush hour traffic heavy. Turning on Clark, he headed down to Broadway, made another wrong turn on a one-way, ending bumper to bumper with an Econoline, the guy behind the wheel honking, throwing his arms, pointing at the one-way sign, Ramon telling Eddie to chill, just to back her up.

  Pulling into the parking lot at the back end of Granville Island, Eddie was feeling sick, telling Ramon they parked in the wrong spot, should be over by Burrard, Ramon telling him to shut up. Fishing change from a pocket, he got out and fed the meter.

  Climbing from the back, Amado muttered, “Pedazo de mierda.” Left his butts stamped out on the floor mat. Stepping between the Lincoln and a Pontiac wagon, he unzipped and let loose a stream of piss, sighing his relief, splashing Ramon’s front right wheel.

  Eddie couldn’t believe these guys, marking their territory. Ramon let that slide, too, leading the way, the three of them walking like tourists, passing Arts Umbrella, a sign pointing to Emily Carr. A catering place called The Butler Did It was getting a delivery, a guy with a backwards Canucks cap wheeling a stack of boxes on a cart.

  A slip of a park with kids playing on a swing set. Shopkeepers kneeling in a window, working on a display, placing jugs and vases. Deep reds and earthy browns popular this season. A souvenir place boasted everything Vancouver, a for-sale sign in the next window. A tour group climbed off a sightseeing bus, going through the double doors of the brewery, shoppers strolling to the Market. Eddie saying again they parked in the wrong spot.

  “Island’s a magnet for tourists,” Ramon said to Amado. “No stray dogs here, amigo.”

  “Why is called an island?” Amado said, the place attached to the mainland.

  Ramon grinned at him, then said to Eddie, “You know, kid, you’re right. This’s the wrong spot.” Turning back, telling them to go on, walk past the marina, said he was getting the car, meet them past the Burrard Bridge, park by the marina. Gone before Amado could object.

  Alone with the Mexican, Eddie felt the panic rise. Walking by the Clam Up, a cafe and oyster bar, the waft of garlic shrimp coming from the place, Eddie thinking everybody passing could see the piece under Amado’s shirt. Could be Ramon was taking off, leaving him.

  Past the Granville Bridge, they took the walkway, sailboat masts sticking up like barren trees. Low tide, seagulls and crows hunting between wet rocks, the evening coming on, a breeze blowing off the Pacific. Joggers in Lululemon outfits, mothers with jogging strollers, couples walking arm in arm.

  Didn’t say a word until they were past the Burrard Bridge. Taking a flight of wooden steps by the marina, Eddie felt relief, catching sight of the Lincoln pulling onto Whyte, Ramon with his shades on, coaxing the old wreck into a parking spot, nobody seeing him reach under the seat, tucking the AMT Backup in his windbreaker.

  Looking at Ramon’s ride, Amado said, “Is a true piece of shit.”

  Hard to argue that, Eddie thought.

  Ramon getting out. The three of them taking the steps and walking along the pier, checking the names on the transoms. Stopping at the Grady-White, Triggerfish written across the stern, cartoon of a fish, Coho-a-go-go.com under it.

  Hosing the aft deck, Griff looked at the three men, navy cap on his head, Triggerfish across the brim, same cartoon fish, Beck’s tinted shades over his eyes, getting her ready for an early-morning charter. Making sure the batteries were charged.

  “Evening, gents,” Griff said, taking them for tourists.

  Ramon nodded, peeling off his glasses, hooking them on his shirt, Amado looking around, as friendly as a plague, Eddie with the nervous eyes, his hands in his windbreaker pockets. Leaning close, he said to Ramon, “This ain’t the guy.”

  Same hat with the fish, same yellow shades. Ramon told Eddie, “Shhh.”

  “How can I help?” Griff tried again, stopped what he was doing, turning off the water.

  “Like to take in English Bay, see some sights,” Ramon said, putting on a smile.

  “Yeah, when are you thinking?” Griff said.

  “We’re here, right?” Ramon said, smiling.

  “Sorry, we’re closed,” Griff told him. “Business hours are ten till —”

  Amado stepped onboard, bumping past him, sitting by the helm, fishing out a cigarette, lighting up and spreading his arms across the back of the surround seating. Ramon followed suit, sitting opposite. Eddie got on last.

  “Won’t keep you out late, promise,” Ramon said, fishing a native smoke from his pack, flicking his lighter, lighting his, then Amado’s.

  “See, I so much as bend the rules . . .” Griff started to say.

  “Bending beats breaking, am I right?” Ramon reached in a pocket, taking out his roll, peeling off a few bills, holding them out to Griff. “Ought to cover any bent rules.”

  Eddie leaned close, saying again this wasn’t their guy, Ramon telling him to sit quiet.

  “Just a quick tour, right?” Pocketing the bills, rolling the hose, Griff tossed it on the dock, feeling these guys were all wrong.

  “All we ask,” Ramon said, smiling at him.

  “Should mention, skipper was a cop,” Griff said, knowing he didn’t have a choice.

  “That so?” Ramon said, guessing it was bullshit.

  “Everything okay, Griff?” Hattie called over from the First Light, a mug in her hand, looking from under her Tilley hat.

  “Yeah, yeah, all good, Hattie.” Griff waved and went about casting off the lines, not wanting her involved, Ramon and Amado looking over at her, both thinking, could be the girl they saw naked Friday evening. Amado thin
king he’d take care of her as soon as they got back. Should be near dark by then.

  Sitting in her deck chair, Hattie watched Beck’s mate outstepping his bounds, taking Triggerfish out, three passengers on board, none of them looking right. Griff took her out solo day before yesterday, Beck running around for the girl that wore heels on a boat. Likely chasing her now, blowing off their dinner plans, letting Griff take care of business. She watched him cast off, standing at the console, flipping the light switches. Hattie with a bad feeling.

  . . . ON A DEAD SEA

  Clouds hung heavy, bringing on the early dusk. Chop that started out light, waves capping now just past Vanier Park. Working his trembling hand, Griff tapped enough throttle to plane her out, heading into English Bay. Not sure what these guys wanted. Had to do with Beck: maybe payback from his cop days. Lunatics he put behind bars.

  Freaking, heart pounding, he kept his eyes forward, hand on the throttle, trying to be cool. The radio’s handset within reach. Beck’s nine-millimeter Sig in the forward hatch down in the V-berth. Not sure what to do, telling himself it was better to shoot than be shot. The dark-skinned guy with the pomp kept his eyes on him, felt like they were burning through Griff, like he knew what he was thinking.

  The older one was asking if that was the girl on the other boat, Griff saying what girl? Passing Spanish Banks to the south, Spirit Park coming up, Griff kept his heading for the Strait, shoving away the fear, planning his move. Talking over the engine’s rumble, he said to Ramon, “See there, rain coming. Likely get rough. You fellows want, I can circle by Lighthouse Park, take in the inner harbor. Be calmer in there. Get to see some city lights.”

  Amado pointed straight out to sea, nodded to Eddie, telling him in Spanish to get it done. Pointing at his temple. Getting up, he passed Eddie the piece so Griff couldn’t see and stepped to the rail, set his feet apart, and pulled his zipper down. Amado pissing all the time.

  “Too close to shore,” Eddie said, looking at the university lands to the south.

  Ramon said nothing, Eddie tucking the Taurus under his leg, hiding it from Griff.

  Pissing again, a symptom of the prostate troubles the Mexican doctor warned him about, Amado splashed the deck where Griff just swabbed, nodded for Eddie to get it done.

  Eddie got up. Griff’s eyes went wide seeing the pistol. He fought the fear, saying, “Look man, I’m telling you, a cop owns this boat.” The locator beacon was in the compartment with the fire extinguisher. Maybe he could switch it on, bounce a distress signal. Maybe he could get to Beck’s gun . . .

  Zipping up, Amado snapped his fingers, meaning for Eddie to hurry up. Then he went rummaging through the deck compartments, pulling stuff out: a flashlight, a searchlight, fleece, flask, totes, a couple of life jackets, length of nylon rope, a dry bag. Something to weigh the body down when they pitched it overboard. Tossing it all out on the deck.

  “You just say what you’re after, maybe I can help,” Griff said, eyes never leaving the pistol barrel. The guy holding it looked scared, too, Griff not sure he had it in him. It was the guy with the greasy pomp running the show, going through the compartments, crabbing around on his knees.

  Griff gave up on minding the helm, Triggerfish off course, bobbing in a trough, the sea getting higher. Pushing up from the aft seat, Ramon stepped past Griff and took the wheel, turning her into the wind, giving it some throttle.

  The last compartment housed the row of batteries. Amado ripped out a set of cables, clunking a battery on the deck. Getting up, sucking at a cut on his hand, he told Eddie one more time to get it done.

  Staring into the barrel took the last of his resolve. A dark stain spread across Griff’s crotch.

  “Telling you he’s the wrong guy,” Eddie said again, his palm wet on the Taurus’s grip.

  Amado came at him, landing a slap, cursing him.

  Eddie staggered, turned the pistol on him. “Don’t want to do that, you greasy . . .”

  Amado grinned, snatching the pistol from him, only now noticing Ramon at the helm with the small pistol in his hand, pointing it at Amado, smiling at him, saying, “One thing we got to clear up, amigo.”

  Amado lost the grin, standing there, aiming at the wrong guy.

  “The Lincoln Town Car’s one classic ride, with or without the Rolls-Royce grille. I want to hear you say it.”

  “Is a piece of shit,” Amado said, betting he could wheel and fire before Ramon got off a shot.

  “Gonna say you’re sorry for stinking her up.”

  Amado spun to fire.

  The shot backed him up, Amado looking down, blood spreading across his shirt. His breath caught, and he tried to raise the Taurus.

  “Gonna take me a month to get that stench off my upholstery,” Ramon said, firing again, putting Amado on his back, the Taurus dropping to the deck, Griff edging toward the rail.

  Amado felt the drizzle on his face — cold, not like the rain that came off the Gulf back home.

  Ramon watched Amado Garza die, mouth open, caterpillar eyebrows over the Manson eyes staring up at the rain. Then he looked to where Eddie pointed; Griff had gone over the side. Tossing the Taurus as far as he could into the angry sea, Ramon dropped the AMT back in his pocket and took the wheel, getting Triggerfish straightened out in the four-foot swells. The only ship he could see was too far to the east for anyone to have heard the shots, RESEARCH painted down its starboard side, the ship heading for the Lions Gate.

  Making a few passes, they searched for Griff. Giving up, Ramon switched on the Lowrance and headed the Grady-White for the deeper troughs, telling Eddie to tie the Mexican to the battery and make it tight.

  Eddie did it, moving mechanically, slipping the rope under the dead man, binding Amado to the battery.

  Hoisting the body, they dropped him over the side, watching him disappear, the Mexican’s eyes open, staring back at them, fading in the murk.

  Taking the wheel, Ramon told Eddie to clean the mess on the deck. Riding the swells, he headed to port, couldn’t make out the lighthouse at Point Atkinson through the sheet of rain coming down now. Crossing the Strait, he started thinking how he’d sell the story to Rudi and the one called Diego.

  . . . LUCKING OUT

  The place was called Jaggery’s, a nice atmosphere with a juice bar, good selection of salads under a bank of lights, everything fresh, black-and-white Kubrick prints on a brick wall. A chalkboard showed the daily vegan specials, the place going for a hip minimalist look, sax jazz not too loud through mounted speakers, Paul Desmond or somebody like that. The waitress looked like she scraped by on tofu and rice, skinny and pale, blonde dreads tied back, had that student-working-her-way-through-school look.

  Vicki sat between Beck and Jimmy in the corner booth, calling them her boys. Raising a toast, she clinked glasses and sipped her carrot-orange smoothie, licking the froth from her lip, being cute about it, bopping to the jazz. Saying she would miss the “You say Meat, I say Murder” campaign, on account of saving whales with Jimmy and the Sea Rangers. Saying what a blast it was working with HEART, recounting the time they wrapped her up like a tray of meat, Saran Wrap with slits so she could breathe, left her on the sidewalk out front of the art gallery.

  “Wearing nothing but Saran Wrap?” Beck said.

  “As a matter of fact . . .”

  Beck checked the clock by the juice bar, the lettering around the face told him it was time for wild krill oil, Beck not sure why he was hanging around this vegan place without a liquor license, feeling like the odd man out, thinking he should have called Hattie a couple hours back, made up some excuse.

  Tasting his green shake, Jimmy said, “Take it Officer Beck disapproves of HEART?”

  “Like most of us with a Y chromosome,” Beck said, “I’d pay to see her naked.” Sipping his apple pie smoothie.

  “How much?” she said.

  “I don’t know, what’s t
he going rate?”

  Downing the last of his green drink, Jimmy held the glass up to the waitress, saying to hit him again, then to Vicki, “So, what’s the craziest thing you get asked?”

  “With HEART?” She thought, saying, “Know what I get a lot? People asking when’s Pam coming out.”

  “Anderson? Come on, she’s had her day, got nothing on you.”

  “You kidding? Everybody wants Pam.”

  “Seriously, she’d pale.”

  “You’re sweet.” Squeezing Jimmy’s cheek, she said, “Did a gig with her one time.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Save-a-Seal rally. Stood right next to her when she posted the petition on behalf of HEART. That girl drummed up like half-a-million signatures. Hundreds turned up at the art gallery just to watch her lick the stamp, sending it on its way to Ottawa. Something like a dozen news cameras going off as she dropped it in the box, showing the cleavage and giving that big smile. Posing the whole while with her back nice and straight. Can’t even tell you how many tweets that got.”

  “Sorry I missed it. What say, Beck?”

  “I say we order.” Studying the sandwich board, Beck asked what kind of dip came with the crudités.

  Vicki saying, “The dips are dairy-free, and, I swear, you say one more thing, think I’ll —”

  “What, get naked?”

  Play-slapping his arm, saying he was being just awful.

  Beck asked what tian was.

  “It’s good, you should go for it,” she said. “Goes nice with the vichyssoise.”

  More diners stepped in, remnants of the after-work crowd, two guys in jackets and ties, their dates dolled up. The waitress got them seated by the window, coming over with her pad and pencil, giving a smile.

  “Vichyssoise, that’s what, cold potato, right?” Beck asked, the waitress saying yeah, but the cook did it with leek and watercress in a veggie broth. Beck thinking, throw in some bacon, serve it with scotch, and he’d be all set.