“Put me down for the Sloppy Jane,” Jimmy said, not needing the board.
The girl, writing on her pad, asked TVP, tofu or tempeh, Jimmy going with the tempeh, asking for baby arugula on the side.
Vicki going for the sun-dried heirlooms on a porto, topped with basil pesto, a side of sprouted almonds and cracked filberts. The waitress put Beck down for a Sloppy Jane, too, then headed for the pass window.
Jimmy saying how the Sea Rangers kicked off every day with a Dr. Oz, the galley crew dishing up one mean tofu scramble, fixing it any way you liked.
Twisting the cap off his mineral water, Beck thought he might give Danny Green a call, get him to run a check, see if Jimmy really did two tours, saying he read the Japanese weren’t even whaling this year.
“They always say that,” Jimmy said, going on about water cannons and concussion grenades till the waitress brought their food, setting the plates down, Jimmy forking Sloppy Jane into his mouth, talking around it, telling how they kept the Japanese from harvesting a single whale for eighteen days straight last season, staying on the factory ship’s ass, knocking their quota off by a mile.
Beck asked Jimmy to pass the salt, telling Vicki the vegan food wasn’t bad. The waitress came asking about dessert, saying the no-bake chocolate torte was to die for, Beck asking if it had real chocolate, the girl giving him a look, saying she’d be back.
Vicki started talking about Dimples and the how how how and boom boom boom, same story Beck already heard, Jimmy laughing about it. Beck’s cell gave that old-school ring. Leaning and taking it from his pocket, he looked at the display. It was Hattie. Beck guessing this was about getting stood up for dinner, that nice fillet of spring salmon.
“Man. You won’t believe what happened —” Beck started to say.
“You need get over here.” Worry in her voice.
Almost slipped, saying he was just about to order dessert — sitting here with the girl with the heels, saying, “What’s up?”
“Jesus, Beck, get here, as in right now!”
. . . AIRTIGHT
Lights of the city glowed above the dark of Stanley Park, False Creek coming up, the night air getting colder by the minute, Triggerfish’s engines rumbling.
Calm for a guy that just shot somebody, first time in his life, Ramon thinking Amado made it easy. Bringing the boat in, doing double the five knots allowed, saying to Eddie, “Where the fuck we going to run?”
“Figure it out as we go.” His hands stuck under his armpits, Eddie couldn’t help shaking. The bridge was up ahead, the Burrard Civic Marina beyond it. “Main thing, we get the hell away.”
“With no money?” Ramon shook his head.
“These fuckers are crazy. Not going to say shit happens and forget about it.”
Ramon concocting a plan. “We say Beckman pulled a piece; you shot him, and I jumped in, tried to stop it, his gun went off and Amado caught the bullet. Nothing to be done for it.”
“Wasn’t even Beckman.”
“And the Mexican won’t be here long enough to find that out.”
“Still say we run. Get in your car and go.”
“Ever live on the run?” Ramon said. “Me with my oil pump shot, Firestones bald as melons. Nothing in the account. How far you think we’d get?”
“Least it’s living.”
“We spin this right, we’re golden. And Rudi needs us working the tug, plus me and him go back.”
“Rudi’s a psycho, same as the Mexican. And you shot their guy — twice.”
“Three times. But we tell it like I said, Beckman shot Amado, poor guy getting pitched over the side. Maybe hit his head, I don’t know. We searched, but with the chop and it getting dark, he didn’t come up.”
“Suppose Beckman’s guy does?”
“Far out as he was, waves this high, undertows and currents. Mark Spitz couldn’t make it from that far out.”
No idea Mark Spitz was part fish, eleven Olympic medals to prove it, Eddie looked doubtful.
“Plus Rudi’s going to put it on Diego, guy insisting this Beckman takes a bullet. Ask me, the Mexican gets his guns, he’s out of here. Case closed.”
“And the woman watching back at the dock. Four guys go out, two come back.”
“Why we’re tying her up behind the Market and just walking away.” Reaching for his native smokes, Ramon fished for a match, not finding one, asking Eddie for a light, Eddie patting his pockets, shaking his head.
Ramon needed to think, come at it from all angles. Rudi wouldn’t like it, killing the guy and leaving the woman alive, but he had bigger things to worry about: all that coke in the bunker, more on the sub, three hundred Chinese AKs somewhere on a container ship, the cartel waiting. It was Diego, the guy with a burr up his ass after Ramon slapped his gun hand down back in the bay Friday night, kept him from shooting the naked couple right then.
The marina lay quiet. Passing under the Granville Bridge, Ramon pulled Triggerfish along the dock back of the Market, Eddie jumping on the dock and tying her off behind an Aquabus.
Lights along False Creek danced in the water, the last of the shoppers long gone. Every place on the island locked up, signs over doorways dark, the parking spaces empty.
Shoes scraped on the pavement, a handwritten sign by Market Seafood said they had wild sockeye, just in. A fat security guard strolled their way, whistling, making his rounds, saying it was a nice evening, his walkie-talkie squawking, the guy talking into it, didn’t give them a second look.
Passing under the Granville girders, same way Eddie and Amado had walked earlier, they took the walkway past the sailing masts, path lights marking the way, the tide high now, a teenaged couple making out on a park bench.
They got to the Town Car. Getting in, Ramon stuck the cigarette in his mouth, fished a fresh pack of smokes from the glovebox, wedged the pistol back under the seat. Never let a soul smoke in his ride, the dead Mexican stinking it up, not respecting a man’s personal property. Ramon feeling righteous that he shot him, thumbing in the lighter, never used it before, the ashtray stuffed with Doublemint wrappers and toothpicks.
Ramon turned the car onto Chestnut, blowing smoke out his window, tapping the cigarette in the ashtray, a gum wrapper catching fire, saying, “It’s the right move, kid.”
. . . LINE IN THE SAND
The whiskey was local-made and cheap, stuff he funneled into CC bottles, left over from the days when hunters were too drunk to notice. Rudi looked at Diego, poured him a shot. “You going to tell me or not?” Rudi counted to five, getting his temper in check. Bad enough, this smelly bastard was drinking his cut-rate booze, playing the man in charge, sending Ramon and Eddie with the other greaser to shoot some boater turned out to be an ex-cop, putting the whole operation at risk.
Billy Wall looked over, Regular Joe clacking balls, shooting eight-ball on the table that set Rudi back five Gs, nice green felt with a slate bed, the Clydesdale fixture hanging over it.
The Honduran called Reyes leaned by the rack, a longneck in his hand, checking out Rudi’s trophy moose.
Lifting his leg, Regular Joe leaned across the table, his porkpie tilted, taking his shot, waiting for a ball to drop, cursing and slamming his fist on the felt.
Finished the five-count, Rudi looked at Diego, saying, “Need you to say more, brother.” The Mexican got new instructions on his last call to his Lieutenant Topo, Diego telling Rudi they had a passenger to put on the sub. All he would say was it was a woman.
“Salud.” Tipping the drink back, Diego set it down, saying, “You get my guns, and you bring the woman if I say you bring the woman.” Not telling him about Ashika Shakira, calling herself Camilla now, topping the RCMP’s most-wanted list, the cartel wanting her to run the guns, Rudi and the bikers looking like amateurs. Diego’s way of letting this gringo know who he was. Didn’t put up with shit from Ismael either, Diego leaving him ba
ck on the sub. Diego answering to Topo Quintero, the man calling himself el teniente, the one who told him to bring the woman.
“Not sure you’re reading me, amigo . . .” Rudi set the bottle down, counted five again, resting his forearms on the bar, thinking he could snap this man’s spine, saying, “You think I’m hiding some woman on your say-so, and you not saying who she is . . .” He shook his head.
“How it is,” Diego said it matter of fact, showing his hands.
Leaning close, not counting to five, Rudi put a hand under the bar, touching the length of pipe he used to straighten out drunken hunters back in the day. He considered how Travis Rainey would play this: his old pal who put the Sabers together with the Baja Maritanos in the first place. Started running cartel blow up from the Gulf, trucking it across two borders. Tons of the shit packed in Kinder Surprise making its way across the western States. Taught the border guards to wave and look the other way.
Truckloads of it ended up at Rudi’s Hunt Lodge back before the Sabers MC went down to Crown prosecutors, half its members doing time, the rest patching over to the Rockers, Rudi and Travis going partners on a property up in Pemberton, a distress sale on the Inn Between. Rudi and Travis figuring out folks in the northland loved to play pass the mirror same as anybody else. Rudi and Travis doing alright, trafficking in the north country, the inn fronting as a nice getaway for tourists.
If Travis Rainey had a hand in it, things turned golden. Never busted, never robbed. Everybody making money. Cartel and bikers happy. All except the last time.
The way Rudi heard it, Travis was lying low after signing up with Bumpy Rosco’s outfit, knocking heads with the Indo Army out of Surrey, both laying claim to Whistler’s drug trade after the Sabers went down. They painted the resort town bloody, and Rosco’s son was gunned down, Travis Rainey taking the heat, old man Rosco laying blame and putting out a contract.
Knowing how Rosco would play it, Travis slipped into the shadows and disappeared. Travis not so golden that time; still, Rudi sure could use him here now, considering how Travis would handle this Mexican sitting in front of him.
Rudi’s eldest son, Max, was already up in Pemberton with a hundred pounds packed behind the panels of his Econoline. Regular Joe and Billy Wall were set to take a truckload out of there at first light, but Diego held back six hundred pounds on the sub, on account of the delayed guns, the bikers not wanting to make the run six hundred pounds light.
Word was the cargo ship from North Korea was now in the harbor, waiting to dock. And the new plan was give it one more day. Now this Mexican was playing games, having boaters shot, wanting to hide some woman at his lodge, put her on board the sub, not saying who she was or why she needed hiding.
Regular Joe was looking over, saying something to Billy Wall, Billy looking over, too. Last thing Rudi needed was for shit to start in here. Fifteen hundred pounds of blow under the ground out back and these guys set to butt heads. Staring at Diego, Rudi tried again, saying, “This shit goes bad, it’s on you.”
Sliding the metal case close, never taking his eyes from Rudi, Diego flipped it open again and took out the sat phone, sticking in the battery and making another call, spoke in Spanish, said sí a couple of times, then hung up, finally saying to Rudi, “She is Hezbollah.”
Rudi thought a moment, saying, “Wanted?”
“To us, she is wanted to help with the guns,” Diego said, the Rockers not getting it done.
“And you want to put her on the sub?”
Diego nodded, removed the battery, put the phone back in the case.
“Always good knowing how deep the shit you’re standing in’s.” Rudi refilled Diego’s glass. “And this Hezbollah chick’s got a price on her head?”
Diego nodded again. “You bring her here and another five thousand comes to you.” He knocked back the shot, slid the glass forward. The five thousand was his own idea — improvising. Glad he left Ismael on the sub. The Honduran had a way of winding him up, second-guessing everything.
Rudi refilled his glass, guessing he wasn’t going to get a name to put on the register. An extra five thousand might cover the booze these assholes were drinking down.
Regular Joe walked over, pool cue in his hand, leaned on the bar close by Diego, the bumper resting on the floor, Reyes and Billy Wall looking on. “My people ain’t going to like you shitting on our deal more than you already did, amigo.”
“Deal is you bring guns. I see no guns.” Diego shrugged. “I see no deal.”
“You’re holding coke you already been paid for.”
“Sí.”
“Got to be one special piece of ass,” Joe said, “risk blowing a deal like this.”
Diego sipped, looked at Rudi and finally said her name. “Ashika Shakira.”
Joe went back to the table, knowing how this would go down with their pres, High Side. Billy Wall racked and took the break, watched the balls roll, nothing dropping down.
“This Ashika . . .” Rudi said to Diego, remembering a headline he read a while back, chick with a name like a pop diva. “She the one stabbed that cop?” Rudi putting it together. “Some gun smuggling thing on the East side, back in the fall.”
Diego nodded, reaching in the case, counting out some U.S. bills, sliding the stack to Rudi, saying, “Is five thousand.”
Rudi folded the bills, made them disappear, calling Axel from the kitchen, told him to go fetch the woman, all the way from Osoyoos.
“Your shot,” Billy said, chalking his cue, watching Rudi and the Mexican.
Joe saying, “Looks like we’re getting some badass pussy.”
“Could liven things up,” Billy said, taking a drink, giving Joe some room.
Calling the six, Joe put it in the corner. Walking around the table, he bumped the Honduran, Reyes spilling beer down his shirt, saying something in Spanish that didn’t sound like how you doing. Joe turned, taller by half a foot, maybe thirty pounds on this guy with the tats, saying to him, “You want to try that in English, amigo?”
Flicking beer from his shirt, Reyes grinned, hand at his back pocket. Regular Joe turned and lined the next shot, knowing Billy had his back, Billy holding his cue like he might swipe at a piñata.
Joe sank the seven, saying, “Our boy here’s gonna teach her to shit in a bucket. Macho dudes needing a woman to run their guns.”
Reyes kept the grin, his hand by his pocket.
“Tell you one thing,” Joe said. “This boy keeps up the smiley face, I’m going to tap him in his wet spot.”
Axel walked to the table, pissed because he just drew the short straw, having to drive all the way out to Osoyoos, the old man telling him to fetch this Hezbollah woman, treating him like the hired help, three fucking hours one way, saying to the bikers, “You fellas play nice — or I got to go to the broom closet?” Where he kept the twelve gauge. Growing up around these guys allowed him to talk like that and still keep his teeth.
Billy saying to him, “You go by your broom closet, boy, how about fetching a couple more of these?” Handing him the empty bottle.
Laughing, Regular Joe bent across the table, messing up the next shot, scratching on the eight, looking back at the Honduran.
Three beer cans in hand, Axel came back, handing one to Reyes, holding the others out to Regular Joe and Billy. It wasn’t lost on them, the bucket-shitter getting served first.
Diego said something in Spanish, Reyes grinning some more at the bikers, following the Mexican out the door.
“Like I said, anytime you want to try that in English, amigo,” Joe called to Reyes.
Lining his shot, Billy put one in the corner pocket, guessing he’d have to call High Side, let him know what was going on.
Joe saying he never had pussy off a most-wanted list, drinking his beer, watching Billy take his shot, saying he was sick of these greasers.
Running a rag across
the bar, Rudi called over, “Back home, these fellows hack shit with machetes, leave heads on fence posts. Do it just for fun.”
“Somebody tell you we knock on doors and sell cookies?” Joe said, studying the table, telling Axel to put on some tunes.
Going to the bar, Axel flipped through a stack of CDs, sticking some ZZ Top into the player, the one with “Jesus Just Left Chicago.” Slapping his pocket, making sure he had his keys, he went out the back, bitching about driving to Osoyoos.
Same time, Ramon and Eddie walked in from the dining room side, both stopping at the fireplace, Eddie looking like he wanted to turn and run, Ramon nudging him forward.
Rudi stopped wiping, Joe and Billy looking over. The Mexican with the pomp not with them.
. . . KICKING HOLES IN THE NIGHT
“Fucker was fast, I’ll give him that,” Ramon said, going for convincing. “Pulls a piece and puts one in Amado, guy reels back and goes over, Eddie shooting Beckman.” Ramon sat on the stool, gestured how Eddie drew from the hip, telling it a second time, this time with Diego and Reyes standing there, both looking sour with arms folded, Rudi across the bar, hand by the lead pipe.
“You just standing there holding your dick?” Regular Joe said.
“No, I go jumping in,” Ramon said, “’cept Eddie drilled him.”
“Eddie, the guy who didn’t want to shoot anybody,” Billy said.
“Just getting to know him,” Eddie threw in. “Wasn’t such a bad guy, Amado telling us about his place in Mexico.” Looking at Ramon. “Cabo, think it was, am I right?”
“So you’re pointing a gun, but this ex-cop pulls and shoots the guy not holding a gun?” Joe asked.
“Yeah, I mean, Beckman shoots him point blank, then turns on me,” Eddie said. “Maybe guessing I didn’t have it in me. Guess I showed him different.”
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