I spent the drive home going over my encounter with Thor. The guy appeared to be involved in some pretty nefarious activities for a so-called artist, including the distribution of yaba. That also put him on a very short list of people in Vancouver who dealt in exotic narcotics. As a result, there was a strong possibility that Thor was already on the Vancouver Police Department’s radar. Normally, I would ask my old man to call in a favour with one of his pals from the force but in this instance I already knew what he would say. There was only one person he was still in touch with who had a direct pipeline into the VPD’s Drug Unit — his former protégé Detective Constable Rya Shepard. Rya had spent years earning a reputation as a tenacious investigator within the Drug Unit before transferring into the Homicide Squad and partnering with my father. If there were any mention of a guy fitting Thor’s description in the VPD system, Rya would dig it up. The only problem with asking for her help was that she would be livid with me for not informing her about my lead on Remo Willis and investigating it on my own.
I glanced at the business card again. I could try and track the number myself but I had a feeling that Thor was smart enough to only give me the digits to an untraceable line or burner cell phone. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but if I was going to have any chance of ascertaining Thor’s identity then I needed to give Rya a call. I came to the conclusion that a little liquid courage could help me work up the nerve to pick up the phone so I decided a visit to the pub was definitely in order.
I drove home quickly, hoping that a hot shower and change of clothes would help shake the cloudiness lingering in my head as a result of the spiked beer. A light fog drifted in from the marina, turning the air into a misty haze that hovered throughout the ocean front cul-de-sac. I parked on the street in front of my townhouse, not bothering to pull the car into the garage as usual since I was just making a quick stop.
I had just gotten out of the vehicle and beeped the car alarm when my driver’s side window exploded. I felt needles prick the side of my face as tiny shards of glass bit into my cheek. I spun around as I fell backwards and managed to get my hands out in front of me, bracing my fall as I dropped to the concrete. A metallic thwacking sound echoed but it wasn’t until I saw the bullet holes in my Ford’s crew cab that I realized someone was shooting at me. Squealing tires joined the cacophony of shattering glass and bullets piercing metal, and it was only then that I caught sight of the black SUV with tinted windows tearing down the street toward me. I launched myself up and out of plank position, took three quick powerful strides, then leapt through the air Bobby Orr style. I landed hard on the grass and rolled once before taking cover behind a transformer. Bullets hit the other side of the square metal box that housed the electrical device as I tucked my knees into my chest and desperately tried to shrink my bulk. An engine roared in the distance and just as quickly as it had begun, the shooting was over.
My ears were ringing and I couldn’t hear a sound other than my hammering heartbeat and laboured breathing. I checked myself repeatedly and to my surprise found that aside from the glass in my cheek I was pretty much unscathed. I drew my Colt revolver and flipped out the swing cylinder — no bullets. Thor must have unloaded my gun while I was unconscious. I tucked the Colt into my waistband behind my back and peered around the transformer. The coast was clear. I made a beeline for my front door only to find it was slightly ajar, the wooden doorframe splintered from where a crowbar had pried the deadbolt free. It seemed as though the drive-by shooting was a contingency plan.
I slipped inside my place. It was dark and I wanted it to stay that way. I quietly opened the door to the garage and grabbed an aluminum baseball bat. I tiptoed up to the main floor, careful to avoid the creaky spots on my stairs. The house was silent as I crept around the corner into the living room, the bat cocked behind my ear and ready to swing.
My place had been trashed. The flat-screen TV had been ripped off the wall and smashed, my furniture was bleeding upholstery from where it had been cut open, and several bottles of Fess Parker’s Frontier Red wine that I liked had been smashed against the walls and poured onto the carpet. My heart sank as I took in the damage. I picked up a half empty bottle of Frontier Red and looked at the smiling mug of Davy Crockett in his trademark coonskin cap staring back at me. I wondered what Davy would have done after getting beaten up, kidnapped, and nearly shot to death. I decided he probably would have gotten drunk and killed a bunch of Indians. But since I was out of bullets, far from a reservation, and not a racist, I figured I’d just stick with getting drunk. I took a swig of wine and licked my lips, certain that my day couldn’t get any crappier. Then I heard the sound of a gun being cocked behind me.
“Drop the bat, asshole.” I did as I was told. “On your knees, interlace your fingers behind your — ”
“Rya?” I said, recognizing the familiar voice. The pistol’s hammer uncocked and she let out an epic sigh.
“Jesus, Jed. I almost put one in your head.” I turned around and watched as Rya stepped into the light, her face flushed.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Fine. You?” I nodded.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to tell you that you were right about the yaba. One of our drug guys positively ID’ed it a couple of hours ago.”
“Shocker,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Rya holstered her gun and braced herself against the kitchen counter. “You going to tell me what the hell just happened?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”
“Did you get a look at the shooter?”
“Shooters. Plural. And no, I’m afraid I was too busy dodging a hailstorm of bullets to take a mental mugshot.”
I took a swig of the wine. Rya groaned in disgust. “At least use a glass, for Christ’s sake.” I told her where to find the wine glasses and opened the last bottle of Frontier Red that my would-be murderers didn’t smash. We both took sips while I explained the drive-by shooting in detail.
“They must have seen me enter the house,” she said. “I only got here a few minutes before the shooting began.”
“If it’s the guys I’m thinking of then they probably know you’re a cop and wouldn’t be dumb enough to mess with you.”
“You know who did this?” she asked, waving an arm wildly around my trashed living room.
“I’m pretty sure it was Grasby’s crew.”
“Grasby? But I thought he wasn’t involved in Johnny’s murder?”
“He’s not. He just wants me dead because I slugged him and maimed one of his pretty-boy thugs.” I quickly explained how Billy and I got jumped outside The Emerald Shillelagh. I left out the part where Declan blasted off Julian’s thumb with his illegal and unlicensed hand cannon.
“Do you want me to look into police protection?” she asked when I had finished. “I might be able to leverage it if I claim that you’re a key witness for the Crown.” I shook my head.
“What I want is your help.” I told Rya about my conversation with Pocket and Tubbs and how I tracked the lead to Remo Willis’ basement suite.
“And of course you didn’t think to call me before heading over there.”
“I would have, except last I heard you geniuses over at the VPD had ruled out any yaba-related leads.”
“Please tell me you didn’t contaminate the scene at his residence.”
“Relax, Detective. I’m not that obtuse. Besides, whatever your forensic nerds find inside of that basement suite won’t be as revealing as what happened to me.”
“Which was?”
“I got knocked out and taken to meet Remo Willis’ drug-lord employer.”
“You’re screwing with me, right?” I filled Rya in on my meeting with Thor in his workshop. “Did you get a name or spot a licence plate? Anything that could help ID him?”
�
�Nothing. And that’s exactly the way he wanted it. From what I gathered, this guy has solid overseas connections to some seriously exotic product. That’s why I need your help. Someone has to access the Drug Unit’s archive and see if there’s anybody who matches Thor’s description, and I doubt they’d be very receptive to the idea of letting me drop by and root through their files.” Rya’s eyes narrowed and she downed the rest of her wine. She was silent for a little while. I knew better than to speak.
“Okay, Jed. Under one condition. From now on, we’re in this together. You get a lead, you fill me in immediately. I promise to do the same.”
“I guess that makes us partners, eh? Just like T.J. Hooker and Heather Locklear. Except with better hair.” Rya sighed and shook her head.
“The fourth graders at the elementary school where I give safety presentations are more mature than you.” Rya placed her empty wine glass in the sink and headed toward the door. “And for the record, you’re no T.J. Hooker,” she said dryly.
“I know that, Rya,” I replied matter-of-factly. “I was Heather Locklear in that scenario.”
After Rya left I cleaned and bandaged the small cuts on my cheek, picking out a few pieces of driver’s side window glass in the process. I phoned Declan and shared the details of my near-death experience. When he had finished cursing up a storm and threatening to do grievous bodily harm to Grasby and his goons in more creative ways than I can possibly describe, I asked him to keep word of the drive-by shooting from my pop. I saw no point in worrying the old man for the time being, plus, knowing my father, upon hearing the news he would immediately involve himself directly into my investigation and then I wouldn’t even be able to check my email without his say so. We also agreed that while Grasby had a bounty out on my head it would be best if I crashed at Declan’s for a while. Declan called Sally, another bartender who worked at The Emerald Shillelagh, and had her cover his shift so he could come over and help me clean up my townhouse.
While I waited for Declan I went upstairs and retrieved some bullets from my closet. Then I sat on my ripped couch, reloaded my Colt revolver, and drank more Frontier Red wine. At some point my cell phone chirped and my heart skipped a beat. I was definitely rattled by the drive-by. I took a deep breath and let the phone ring a few times before answering.
“Hello?”
“Are you a fucking idiot?” barked an angry male voice. It was Russell, the manager of Tonix nightclub. I had completely forgotten about my shift that night.
“Damn, Russell, I’m sorry, bub — ”
“Don’t fucking ‘bub’ me, Ounstead! Explain to me why I’ve got no one here to cover the door.”
I glanced around my trashed townhouse. I didn’t even know where to begin.
“Look, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“Forget it. I need people I can rely on. You’re done.” Click.
And just like that, I was officially unemployed again. So I did the only thing I could think of. I poured more wine. Forty-five minutes later Declan was at my door dressed in an army green canvas jacket and carrying an arsenal of weapons that even John Rambo would find impressive.
“The only thing you’re missing is a red headband,” I said.
“Aye, and we’re sure as shite going to get to win this time, you jammy bugger,” he replied, before stepping inside and dropping a large unzipped canvas bag onto the floor from which numerous gun stocks sprouted like the stuffing of a twice-baked potato.
“Jesus Christ, D,” I said staring at the bag of weapons. “I know you don’t like to talk about your time in the IRA but what the hell? Were you some kind of Irish commando or something?”
“Or something,” replied Declan, as he surveyed the damage to my townhouse. He scratched his head and let out an audible sigh. “Bloody hell, what a pisshole.”
“Tell me what you really think.”
“I think if I’m going to get me drink on tonight we better get our arses to work.”
We spent the next two hours cleaning like a couple of coked-up Molly Maids. We boarded up broken windows, picked up glass, and scrubbed the walls and carpets as best we could. We moved the ruined furniture to the centre of the room and propped the broken plasma television up against a wall. I then proceeded to place Post-it notes on any areas or items that had been damaged or vandalized for the insurance company, which I would call first thing in the morning. Finally I filled a backpack with some clothes and my most valuable possessions, including my passport, photos of my mother, a scrapbook of my wrestling career, and a wrestling DVD that featured me in a spotlight segment. With my personal belongings slung over my shoulder, I bid adieu to my home, hopped in my truck, and followed Declan in his 1974 Pontiac GTO.
We crisscrossed through the city, making our way toward the heart of Yaletown. We reached the posh neighbourhood and cruised down Hamilton Street. Traffic jammed up in front of Rodney’s Oyster House, due to a bachelorette party consisting of dolled-up women in matching pink T-shirts and feathered boas spilling out of the restaurant into the tight one-way street. I waited patiently as Declan rolled down his car window and struck up a conversation with a couple girls, but after thirty seconds I had enough and laid into the horn. He flipped me the bird before flooring his GTO and tearing into his condo’s underground parking less than a block away.
I grabbed a bottle of Steam Whistle Pilsner out of Declan’s fridge and headed to the guest room. As I unpacked my bag I dropped the scrapbook and it serendipitously fell open to a clipping from The Advocate, a newspaper in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. A sports writer that had been in attendance the night of the fateful Indian Strap match had done a follow-up piece on the wrestling show and decided to do a profile on me and Johnny and how we unexpectedly dazzled the live audience with our untelevised dark-match. The clipping featured a photograph of the both of us standing back-to-back in front of the ring the day after the match. Although his arm was in a sling, Johnny was beaming, as was I. We had gambled and it had paid off, as we proved to both our peers and ourselves that we had what it took to thrill a crowd. I don’t think I had ever been happier than I was at that moment. I stared at the clipping for a long time and wondered if I would ever feel that way again. Eventually I closed the scrapbook and stuffed it back into the bowels of my backpack.
I joined Declan on the living room couch, and he had already placed a fresh bottle of Steam Whistle Pilsner for me in one of the armrest cup-holders. We hadn’t said a word since arriving at his place and proceeded to drink in silence while watching some crappy sitcom with the volume down low. I hadn’t really had a chance to process the day’s events and with each sip of beer my mind jumped from thoughts of Remo Willis’ meth-lab basement suite to Thor and his formidable metal-art sculptures to the feeling of bullets whizzing by my body. Eventually, I spoke.
“Grasby isn’t going to stop coming after me until I’m dead, is he?”
“Nope,” replied Declan.
We knocked off a few more Steam Whistles before I decided to turn in, the bluntness of Declan’s answer lingering in my head.
TWENTY-SIX
The last time I was in a sporting goods store a Vancouver hockey riot was an isolated incident and Tiger Woods was still considered a faithful husband. Scoff’s Hockey Shop on Hastings Street was a no-frills, warehouse-like retail store that seemed less concerned with curb appeal and more concerned with providing the best selection of hockey gear in the greater Vancouver area. Although I promised to keep Rya in the loop regarding my every lead, I saw no need to update her on what could turn out to be a wasted trip, especially since, at the moment, all I had to go on was a phone call from a perky sales girl. Still, there was an outside chance that some of the information that Remo Willis left on file with Scoff’s could conflict with what I had already obtained and give me a new direction in which I could pursue the son-of-a-bitch.
I strolled through endless
aisles of helmets and shin pads until I spotted a dilapidated Customer Service sign. I headed toward the desk, the narrow walkway leading there lined on both sides with rows of glossy wooden and composite hockey sticks that made me feel as if I was walking the highway to hockey heaven. I reached Customer Service but before I could ding the little bell on the counter a short brunette girl popped up from behind the desk like a submerged buoy.
“Welcome to Scoff’s, how may I help you today?” Hearing her voice confirmed that this was the same bubbly gal I had spoken to on the phone while at Remo Willis’ place.
“I’m here to pick up a helmet,” I said.
“Name?” she asked, flipping open a ledger.
“Remo Willis.” Her jaw dropped open and she stared at me with googly eyes.
“You’re Remo Willis?” she asked excitedly. “Oh my God. I’m Aurora. It’s so cool to meet you.”
“Actually, Remo’s a friend of mine. He’s pretty swamped right now so he asked me to pick up his helmet for him.”
“Oh. Okay,” she said, the pep fading from her voice.
“How do you know of Remo?” I asked.
“My brother’s in the same hockey league. I’ve seen Remo play. He’s, like, amazing.”
“Really?”
“Dude, he’s like a frickin’ brick wall. Are you going to the game tonight?”
“What game?”
“Uh, the big ASHL Div 1 game between the Ice-Holes and Masterbladers?” The ASHL, or Adult Safe Hockey League, was one of the most prominent amateur hockey leagues in the province.
“Is Remo playing?” I asked. She looked at me like I was an idiot.
“He’s the starting goalie for the Ice-Holes, man. Of course he’ll be there.”
“Right.” I finally had a bead on Willis. It was all I could do to keep from pumping my fist in celebration.
“Geez, for his buddy, you sure don’t know much about him,” said Aurora.
Cobra Clutch Page 14