No cars coming on the Crowsnest, Eddie got up and kept moving into the early morning.
. . . BALLING THE JACK
“You want, bunk with us,” Jimmy said to Beck, making it sound like he meant it. “You know, play it safe.”
Us.
Halfway back across English Bay, Beck eased at the helm of Triggerfish, not giving Jimmy anything, wanting to ball up the WE FUCKED UP EARTH poster on Jimmy’s wall on the anti-whaler and feed it to him.
“I know you can handle yourself, but these guys . . .” Jimmy said.
Beck blew his shot, and Jimmy had moved in. All there was to it. Jimmy and Vicki looking like a couple. Should have left them at the vegan joint, gone back to his boat, kept his date with Hattie, kept Triggerfish from getting jacked. Still, wouldn’t mind popping Jimmy. Trouble was, once he got started, he’d have trouble stopping. Like, bet you can’t hit Jimmy just once.
“What the fuck’s so funny?”
Beck shook his head, slowed her into False Creek, easing to starboard, passing a sailboat, an American Betsy Ross flag flapping from its mast. The girls on the deck looked like they’d been painted by Alberto Vargas, the bikinis were tiny and tight, the legs were long and shiny from all that lotion, hands waving boat to boat, the girls in their element, tanning on the deck, the sailboat passing under the girders of the Burrard Bridge, sugar daddy behind the wheel, sporting a trim beard and a captain’s cap, flipping Beck a salute.
“Still got pals on the force?” Jimmy asked.
“Few.”
“Guys you could tell about the sub?”
“Go in with a story like that . . .” Beck shook his head. “My word with nothing to back it up?”
“You got Vicki’s shot.”
“One with me naked?”
Seeing what he meant, Jimmy said, “Still, these assholes might come around again.”
“Then maybe I’ll take care of it.”
“Believe you’d try.” Going along the rail, Jimmy took up the stern line, Beck throttling down, backing her in, waving over to Hattie on her deck.
Oversized shades and that Tilley hat on, she watched them, her laptop open, teacup on a collapsing table. Lifting the cup, she pointed at something.
“Friend?” Jimmy asked, hopping onto the dock, bending and tying off on a cleat, looking over at her. For a guy with basic training and two tours under his belt, Jimmy was late seeing the big guy five feet away, leaning on the metal light-post, boots on the dock boards, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. Jimmy looked surprised as he came up, the rope in his hands.
“How you doing?” Billy Wall gave him a smile, tats showing below both sleeves, Pain is temporary running up on one bicep, Pride is forever on the other. Looking at Jimmy, then Beckman, he said, “You fellows know how the natives do it?”
Jimmy kept his eyes on Billy, the guy holding a biker’s lid by the strap.
“The way they bag the coho,” Billy said.
“We look native to you?” Jimmy said, a couple of feet between them, turning to the side, feet wide apart, Jimmy knowing how to use the distance. Wasn’t the first asshole that outweighed him by thirty pounds, Jimmy catching the big ring with the skull, 81 inscribed in its center.
“Way they do it,” Billy said, taking his time, “they pile a weir of rocks across the river, shopping carts, whatever. They post a spotter and sit around till he starts yelling. Then everybody runs in, gets wet, bashing fish with sticks, netting them up, kicking them ashore. Call it their ancestral rights.”
“Not how we do it,” Beck said from the stern.
”Point is,” Billy said, looking from one to the other, “it ain’t legal, but the law looks the other way.”
“You looking for a charter, pal?” Beck said, not needing to see colors to know who this guy was.
“What I’m looking for’s answers.”
“Then best start asking.”
“Few boys I know got on a charter last night. One didn’t come back.”
“I don’t go out past dark,” Beck said, standing above Billy on the stern.
Billy taking in the name on the stern, the cartoon fish and Coho-a-go-go. “Drove up in a pile-of-shit Lincoln, old heap with a vinyl roof, something like burgundy.” Putting a boot up on Beckman’s transom, Billy blocking him from stepping off, guessing he could empty a clip before either of these assholes made a move.
Catching the bulge under the jacket, Beck grinned at the boot. “You want to move it, or you want me to?”
The boot stayed, Billy talking like he hadn’t heard him, “Somebody else take her out?”
“Not while I’m breathing.”
Catching the woman sitting on the other boat, floppy hat and a drink, Billy eased his foot down, saying, “Maybe I’ll check with the lady.” He took a step, Jimmy blocking his way, Beck stepping off onto the dock, Billy finding himself flanked.
“Best thing would be leave a number,” Beck said. “Case your buddies show.”
Billy sized him up. Lucky to still be alive. Looking back at Hattie, he took her for the chick that was with Beckman on the boat Friday evening.
It was the uniform cops coming down the steps from the parking lot, stepping onto the dock, that got Billy smiling and backing off. “Well, thanks for your time, fellas.” Clapping Beck’s shoulder, he said, “See you around.” Billy started walking, thinking he’d swing by the shipyards, check out Ramon’s tug. Might find Eddie hiding on board. Take care of him right then and there. Make him tell where he hid the bale, keep it for himself.
Smiling Jack hadn’t been smiling last night when Billy made the call, waking him with the news. Fifty more pounds of coke missing and the gun deal gone to hell. The bikers being replaced by some terrorista. The cartel boss wanting to know what happened to their man.
Smiling Jack reamed him out, coming up with a new drop time and meeting spot. Told him he wanted Rudi and Joe to make the run. Told Billy to go find out what happened to the missing Mexican, take care of the asshole with the boat, get some of the East Van brothers to get the rest of their coke off the sub, put the guns on board. When that was done, Smiling Jack wanted Billy to hunt down this Eddie Soto and find the missing bale. Smiling Jack saying somebody better get something fucking right, and hanging up.
Billy and Joe got rid of Ramon’s body, then helped the group search for Eddie into the night. Billy going back to his cabin to get a couple hours of sleep, leaving Rudi out there with the hound. He was already gone, making the run to Vancouver by the time Regular Joe and Rudi Busch rolled out just past first light, the fiberglass cap packed with the bales from the bunker, fifty pounds light.
Now he was thinking he’d come back here after dark, bring a chain and roust the ex-cop from his bunk, wrap it around his neck and see if he felt like talking, find out what happened to the greaser.
Angling past the uniforms coming the other way, both young, the chick cop not bad-looking, Billy told them to have a nice day, the cops saying the same.
Danny Green turned, taking a look at the guy, no doubt he was bad news, wondering what the hell Beck was mixed up in.
. . . KNUCKLING DOWN
Eddie had burned the spot into his memory, where he came out on the Crowsnest. The road sign was tagged with graffiti on the back, looked like black scribble. A couple of spindly birch out front of a million pines. Fifty yards into the woods, maybe more.
Telling himself he’d find it again, he moved along the shoulder, staying close to the trees, listening for cars, the throbbing in his hand, Eddie not wanting to look at it. Twice cars approached, Eddie ducking into the trees, waiting till they passed.
He took Exit 173, concrete dividers splitting the lanes, the woods to the north side of the Old Hope Princeton Way, quiet this time of morning. The odd house was set back, no signs of life as he passed.
Rudi would have people looking for him. No w
ay Eddie could chance walking into Hope, wait at the Greyhound stop. A town that size meant everybody knew everybody else’s business. Slim chance he’d find a car with the keys in the ignition. He’d have to cut down to the Number One and thumb a ride to Chilliwack, pay for a motel room and get cleaned up, make some calls, see about selling the coke. More chance of finding a car to steal in Chilliwack, weighing his options, come back alone tonight or go to the ex-cop, spark a cop raid, come back then.
Papa Abas was on the south side, a two-story Mediterranean joint calling itself a taverna, a tile roof covered with moss and arched windows, shutters painted blue, gravel parking lot devoid of cars. A closed sign hung in the window. The adjoining motel called itself the Knock Knock, its vacancy sign was flashing red. No cars out front there either, just an old aluminum boat in need of paint leaning on the siding, tall grass around it.
He kept moving, a small dog yapping at him from behind a window. An old VW rolled by, brakes squealing as it stopped, an old guy getting out, opening the hatch and dropping a stack of newspapers at the corner, the guy glancing over, giving a wave then driving off, foul exhaust belching from the tailpipe.
A couple hundred yards farther, a light flashed amber at a four-way. The place on the northwest corner was Mickey’s RV Ranch. Red neon said the place was open. A half-dozen A- and C-Class boxes on wheels stood lined out front, all late model with white cabs with the same graphics of scenic BC down the sides, Mickey’s name over a blue sky, a 1-800 number followed by mickeys.com. Sales, rentals and service — explore more, do it in an RV. There were a couple of cars parked around the side; Eddie would check them out, but first things first.
Not wanting to wipe himself with leaves, he risked crossing the lot, thinking he’d ask Mickey for his washroom key. He went in. The guy behind the counter looking up from some paperwork, wild surfer hair and a square jaw, Eddie guessing this was Mickey.
A salesman’s smile, Mickey asking, “I help you, son?”
“Can if you got a washroom key,” Eddie said.
Mickey’s eyes getting clouded with that keys-are-for-customers look.
It was the old man at the end of the counter that turned it around, not looking up from a stack of papers, pen in hand, saying to the surfer, “Hope it’s not that kind of place, Mickey.”
“How’s that?” Mickey asked.
The old guy flipped a page without looking up, saying, “Fellow comes in asking for the restroom, and you turn him away.”
“Company policy.”
The old guy put the pen down, saying, “As much as I appreciate a man who minds his policy, I got to tell you, I go by principle.”
“Not sure I follow,” Mickey said, smiling.
“Simply put, this fellow does his business, or I take mine down the road.”
Mickey lost the smile, saying, “Come on now, Burt, you’re already loaded up, your missus waiting on board. Already swiped your card, plus the closest place is O’Rourke’s.” Throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “All the way to Chilliwack.”
“Easy enough to make a call to AmEx. Top of that, I got all day.” Burt looked at him, Mickey put the smile back, looked at Eddie, pointing to the carved horseshoe hanging from a hook on the wall, end of the counter, the word MEN routered into the wood, the key dangling from it.
“Appreciate it.” Eddie gave the old guy a nod, taking the horseshoe and going around the side. Running cold water over the hand, he stuck it under the dryer, not liking the look of it.
Returning the key to the hook, he thanked the old guy again, on his way back around the side to check the car door locks, the old guy saying he looked like he could use a cup, glancing Mickey’s way.
Not sure why, Eddie took the extra stool, found out the old guy was Burt Stone, Burt with a u. Looked like one of the grumpy old Muppets, but friendlier.
Signing the rental papers, Burt noticed the hand, Eddie offering it looked worse than it was, saying his beater of a Honda croaked a few miles back, damn hood coming off its prop rod, right down on the hand. A leak in the cooling system. Steam blowing from the rad, a clunking sound coming from deep down.
“Clunking, huh?” Mickey said. “That’s never good,” gathering the paperwork, checking for Burt’s signature. “Should get it tended.” Mickey set a paper cup in front of him, asking if he wanted sugar.
“Just cream, thanks.” Eddie glanced out the window. Sipping, he found out Burt was picking up one of Mickey’s Midi Motorhomes, a Class A with a slide-out room. Eddie asked which way he was heading, Burt telling him the intended route, taking his better half on the road, offering Eddie a lift. Eddie saying anywhere near Chilliwack would be great, taking another glance out the window.
Burt nodded and sipped, didn’t ask why he’d go all the way to Chilliwack with a hundred mechanics between here and there. Could see the kid needed medical attention for that hand, Burt knowing there was more, the way Eddie kept looking out the window. Finishing his cup, Burt talked about pulling into the rest stops on the way up to Squamish, check out some Howe Sound sights, maybe Shannon Falls. Booked a chalet in Whistler Village, looked real nice in the brochure, place with a real fireplace, maybe a gondola ride and dinner at Buffalo Bill’s. Talked about swinging past Lillooet and Kamloops and following the Number One east, breezing through the mountains, then out to Jasper, spend a night on one of those green lakes, try out the new fly rod.
“Sounds pretty good,” Eddie said, guessing Burt for a talker. Sounded more like work to Eddie, steering a rig the size of a pregnant school bus along mountain roads, driving all day.
Finishing his cup, Burt pushed back his chair, asking Eddie, “All set?”
Eddie eager to get out of there.
Never said the wife’s name, just called her Puddin’, holding the wheel in his crinkled hands. Nicking his head, Burt called over his shoulder, the sleeping compartment behind the curtain. Puddin’ didn’t answer, Eddie taking a stab the old girl was napping or on some kind of respirator.
Sticking a disc into the player, “A Taste of Honey” by the Tijuana Brass, Burt was saying this baby handled like a dream, and this was the life, how he was glad to shake the old house for a bit, the kids grown, grandkids in school, not seeing much of them apart from holidays. “Isn’t that, so?” he called to Puddin’ behind the curtain, asked Eddie if he knew about leaving things behind. Eddie saying he had a pretty good idea.
The Trans-Canada rushed by, Burt talking some more about grandkids and how this two-week rental could turn into a purchase, Mickey willing to work a deal. Eddie listening till the Bridal Falls sign flashed by, next right. They were closing in on Chilliwack. Eddie still getting used to the idea of Ramon being dead. Cradling the wrist, pushing aside the throbbing pain, Eddie amended his thinking: Puddin’ had gone to her reward, up there with her Maker, never heard a peep from behind the curtain. Could be Burt was having a tough time letting the woman go, the pair hitched for half a century. Together long before their hair turned white, skin turned to leather. Eddie had no idea what something like that meant, girls never hanging around for long.
“That reclines,” Burt said, meaning the seat, Eddie looking beat.
“I’m good.” Eddie saying he had trouble sleeping, blaming lousy dreams, knowing it was on account of all the blow.
“Wait till you get to my age,” Burt said, riding the outside lane, the RV rocking in the wheel ruts left by the big rigs.
Eddie was thinking how he’d get word to Uncle DeJesus up in Kent. Let him know about Ramon. Post a letter from someplace on the road. His mind was set: he’d go see Rene Beckman, lay out what happened. A bunker full of blow and a narco sub waiting for a shitload of guns would be enough. Eddie using the cop raid as a diversion, slip in and grab his stash and get the hell out of there. Drop off the map. The cartel and bikers not about to stamp getting ripped off as “shit happens” and get on with it. Better if they were inside, all doin
g time.
“What say to tying on the feedbag?” Burt asked, bringing Eddie around, Burt having to repeat it.
“Yeah, guess I could eat.” Long time since the fistful of berries.
Burt nicked his head back, calling, “How about you, Puddin’, feeling peckish? Got a burger-and-fries place coming up.”
The Grill ’N Chill sat off the exit ramp. Typical takeout joint of glass and stone. The signage showed a cartoon gopher with Grilly on his shirt, running and biting into a burger, looking like he never ate anything so good.
They ate in the RV, Bert Kaempfert doing the “Afrikaan Beat,” Eddie putting back a double Grilly with cheddar, squirting a packet of ketchup on his fries. Balling his napkin, he tossed it in the takeout bag, swished Coke around, fryer oil coating the roof of his mouth. Burt polished off his Danish, washing it down with coffee. Nothing for Puddin’, Burt explaining in a low voice the old girl was suffering from irritable bowels, blaming free radicals, something about the wrong kind of yeast.
Eddie lowered in his seat, a pair of bikes pulling into the lot, the riders taking a single spot, banner in the window boasting Grilly’s Wing Week. These weren’t Harleys, what Regular Joe called rice burners. The riders in matching leather stepped off, pulling off full-face helmets, the girl shaking out her hair.
“That’s me about a hundred years ago,” Burt said, watching the two walk in, helmets tucked under their arms.
“Used to ride?”
“Had an old Indian. Loved that bike.” Burt nicked his head at the curtain again. “Love that wasn’t shared by all parties concerned.”
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