Cobra Clutch

by Devlin, A. J. ;

  “Remo and I are kind of new friends,” I said, trying to recover and maintain my impromptu alias. “So where’s this game being played, anyway?” Aurora sighed and seemed irritated. She scribbled a web address down on a Post-it note and slid it across the counter.

  “It’s all on the site,” she said.

  “Remo didn’t happen to leave an address or a cell number with you guys, did he?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “It’s kind of a long story.” Aurora shrugged and twirled her hair with her finger.

  “I’ve got time.”

  “Of course you do,” I muttered sardonically.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

  “Nothing,” I said in an apologetic tone. “Look would you mind checking for me? It’s really important.” Aurora glared at me skeptically. After a moment, she cracked open the ledger and rifled through its pages.

  “Here,” she said, thwacking an index finger down at the bottom of a page. “No address, just one phone number. Six oh four, seven two three — ”

  “That’s okay,” I said, knowing that the digits had to be for the landline at Remo’s basement suite. “I already have that number.” She sighed dramatically and half-rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll grab the helmet,” she said.

  Aurora disappeared into the back room while I opened the web browser on my phone and punched in the address. The Adult Safe Hockey League website appeared and I clicked on the link that had all the information about that evening’s game, including the rosters. Both Remo’s team and the Masterbladers were undefeated, so the winner of tonight’s league game would move into first place. I clicked on Remo Willis’ name and was taken to his player profile page, which included a picture. With his stocky build and close cropped hair, Willis closely fit the description that Pocket and Tubbs had given me. I saved his picture to my phone but before I had a chance to read his profile in detail Aurora returned with a cardboard box.

  She carefully removed a helmet from inside and unwrapped a soft cloth in which it was swathed. A Bauer goalie’s mask shimmered under the florescent light and I realized instantly why the item was a special order. The artwork that had been airbrushed onto the helmet was stunning, and the entire mask was engulfed in blue lightning bolts and charcoal storm clouds. At the top of the helmet, just above where the facemask’s cage began, was a hyper-stylized, muscular, and ferocious looking crab. The crab was silver and had the number 20 painted on the back of its shell, and its razor sharp pinchers reached down the side of the mask while its remaining legs wrapped around the back of the helmet down to its base.

  A crab. What the hell was it about a crab that seemed so familiar? After a moment I remembered, and quickly brought up the ransom email that Johnny had forwarded me on my phone. The email address was thesteelcrab@gmail.com. “Son-of-a-bitch,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Frickin’ sweet, eh?” chirped Aurora, admiring the artwork.

  I thanked Aurora for her time and she wrapped the helmet back in its cloth. I tucked the box under my arm and headed toward my truck, wondering the whole way what the hell steroid-enhanced crustaceans meant to the man who had murdered my friend.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I was reading Remo Willis’ hockey stats on the ASHL’s web site and cursing Declan’s home computer’s sluggish Internet connection when my phone rang.

  “We need to meet,” said Rya, by way of a greeting.

  “The Shillelagh?”

  “No. This needs to be on the down low.”

  “I’d extend an offer to my place but something tells me you would prefer to not cop a squat on wine-stained carpet.”

  “Foo’s Ho Ho. One hour.”

  Forty-five minutes later I was driving underneath the golden tiles of the Millennium Gate, the historic and ornamental landmark that serves as the official entranceway to Chinatown. Nestled in between Gastown, the Downtown Eastside, and the Financial and Business districts, the area is renowned for not only being one of the largest Chinatowns in North America, but for also being a cultural hotspot and showcase for Vancouver’s incredible diversity and distinctiveness.

  I tried to park on the street at the corner of Pender and Columbia outside the restaurant, but it was too crowded. Instead I doubled back and found a spot a block south of Pender in Shanghai Alley. I zipped up my vest and buried my hands in my pockets, trying to keep myself insulated from the cold snap that had hit the city that afternoon. I made my way past a serene Zen courtyard and down Shanghai Alley’s centuries old cobblestone road until it fed into Pender Street. I zigzagged my way between red street lamps and no-frills storefront displays, which were cluttered with everything from clusters of spiny scarlet rambutans to dried seahorses to gutted and flayed geckos impaled on sticks. The main drag of Chinatown was crackling with the spicy smells of exotic herbs and cooked meats, and after walking past a window filled with dangling Cantonese roasted ducks, I had a pretty good idea of one of the dishes I was going to order for lunch.

  Foo’s Ho Ho was not only the oldest restaurant in Chinatown, but it was also the best. The eatery was situated on the ground floor of a weathered four-story building, and the levels above had originally served as lodgings for Chinese labourers who helped build the Canadian Pacific Railway. I selected a wobbly table in the back of the restaurant, and had to dip my head underneath a string of hanging paper lanterns in order to take a seat on a dated, maroon vinyl chair.

  I was blowing on a spoonful of wonton soup when Rya strode into the restaurant a few minutes later with a slender, meticulously groomed, and well-dressed man. He carried a light-brown briefcase, which stood out against the backdrop of his crisp black slacks and blazer. The two slid into the empty seats at the table across from me without a word. Moments passed until I realized they were both waiting for me to speak.

  “Potsticker?” I asked, pointing with my chopsticks to the appetizer next to my soup. The man shot Rya a vexed look before she made introductions.

  “Jed Ounstead, this is Sergeant Dwayne Sankey of the GCU.”

  The GCU was the Vancouver Police force’s Gang Crime Unit, an outfit that functioned not only as a resource to the department, but also to other law enforcement and intelligence agencies. Sankey gave me a curt nod before slipping a file out of his briefcase. I moved the appies out of his way but almost spilled the soup when I saw the photos he began laying out on the table. Most of the snapshots were of Horseshoe Mustache and other rough-looking characters I didn’t recognize. The last photo Sankey placed on the table had been taken from a great distance. Still, there was no mistaking the person in the picture. Thor.

  “That’s him,” I said. “That’s the guy.” Sankey and Rya exchanged a knowing glance.

  “The man you met is Damian Kendricks,” said Sankey. “He is a high-priority target within the GCU and we’ve been tracking his criminal activities for several years.”

  “So these guys are doing more than just dealing drugs, I take it?”

  “Kendricks and his crew’s illegal enterprises go a lot deeper than narcotics,” said Sankey. “His biker gang is one of the most prominent independent pockets of organized crime currently operating in all of Western Canada. We also have Intel that suggests Kendricks and his gang are close to being absorbed into the Hells Angels.”

  The Hells Angels Motorcycle Club was the single most powerful syndicate of organized crime in Canada, and had been for decades. If they wanted Kendricks, then that made him a major player.

  “I guess that explains where all the motorcycle parts he uses in his statues come from,” I said.

  Sankey ignored me and continued. “If and when they join the Angels, the case we’ve been building against them, and our chances of taking them down, are going to be significantly hindered.”

  I speared a dumpling with my chopstick. “Why are you
telling me all this?”

  “Because as far as we can tell, you are the only person to have had an audience with Kendricks and lived to talk about it.” Sankey tapped the black and white pix with his index finger. “This photo was taken three years ago. It’s one of the only pictures of Kendricks that exists within any law enforcement databank. He conducts all of his business through subordinates. Every now and then we get wind of a sighting, usually in relation to his metal-art. Other than that, Kendricks doesn’t exist. He’s a fucking ghost.”

  “A ghost who learned of my investigation and introduced himself to me.”

  “That’s the only reason I’m here, Ounstead. I don’t like it one bit, but you’re suddenly the GCU’s best shot at cementing a case against this guy.”

  I glanced at Rya and caught her in a smirk. “What?” I asked.

  “I’m just amazed at how you manage to keep inserting yourself into the eye of one shitstorm after another.”

  “It’s a gift,” I said wryly.

  Sankey produced some more files from his briefcase. “You’re going to need to familiarize yourself with the rest of the Steel Gods.”

  “Is that an eighties’ hair band?”

  “It’s the name of Kendricks’ biker gang. The Steel Gods of Asgard. It’s a reference to Norse mythology.”

  “No, I get it, Sergeant. You don’t spend six months with ‘Baldur the Badass’ as a tag-team partner without learning that Asgard is the region in the centre of the universe inhabited by Norse Gods. I’m just a little surprised Kendricks didn’t name his little gang The Transformers or something.”

  “Why would he do that?” asked Rya.

  “Because the guy’s a huge nerd. There weren’t any sculptures of Odin or Loki in his workshop. It was all comic book characters and sci-fi stuff.”

  “I don’t see how any of this is relevant,” said Sankey tersely.

  “It’s relevant because it tells you that Kendricks is a poser. His self-image is a potential weakness.”

  “You’re basing all this upon the name of his biker gang?”

  “That and the fact I had a conversation with the guy while handcuffed to a seven-foot statue of a space alien.”

  Sankey shuffled some papers, clearly irritated. “Are you going to let me brief you or not?” he asked.

  “Shouldn’t we be more focused on finding Remo Willis?”

  “That’s up to you and Constable Shepard. But if you do manage to locate Willis, things will happen fast and you need to be prepared. Kendricks is extremely cautious and very dangerous, so if you want to stay alive, then you damn well better know just what it is you’re getting yourself into.”

  I popped the last dumpling in my mouth. “Have at it, bub.”

  Half-an-hour later I was still hungry and Sankey was getting peeved.

  “Anybody want to go halfsies on some egg foo yung?” I asked.

  “Christ, Jed. You eat like a sumo wrestler, not a pro wrestler,” said Rya, motioning to the smorgasbord of empty plates scattered across our table.

  “I’m burning calories just listening to him yammer on,” I replied, nodding at Sankey.

  “Am I wasting my time here, Shepard?” he huffed.

  Rya played peacekeeper and tried to ease the tension that had been mounting between the tight-assed Sergeant and me.

  “Relax, both of you. Jed, you got this by now, right?”

  “Pretty much, but I still don’t see why he just can’t make me some copies.”

  “Because it doesn’t work like that,” snapped Sankey. “This is classified information.”

  I sighed and sifted through the GCU dossiers on the table that I had spent the last thirty minutes committing to memory. I picked up a photograph of Horseshoe Stache. “This beast with the Hulk Hogan mustache is Kendricks’ right-hand man.”

  “His name is Lance Dennings,” said Sankey.

  “I don’t care if it’s Mahatma Gandhi, Sankey, this is how I’m going to remember him, all right? So Hulkamania here is essentially Kendricks’ proxy and the main buffer between him and the bulk of the Steel Gods’ criminal activities.”

  “Correct,” said Sankey.

  I put down the photo and picked up another one of a heavy man with an enormous beer gut. The paunchy biker also appeared to suffer from a significant case of gynomastia. “Bitch Tits here is an ex-con who has done time for second-degree murder and other violent crimes. He typically serves as one of the gang’s primary enforcers.”

  “We also believe he handles gun and other weapons smuggling for the organization,” said Sankey.

  “For Christ’s sake, Sankey, I was getting to that,” I snapped. “How am I supposed to demonstrate that I got this stuff down if you keep beaking off and interrupting me?”

  “Moving on,” he said, before picking up several photos off the table and proceeding to present them in succession.

  “Ponyboy is their numbers guy,” I said, referring to a picture of a baby-faced man with slicked blonde hair. “He handles the books and launders the money.”

  Sankey flipped to another photograph of two muscular punks. One was tall and beefy, the other short and stocky. Both had matching shaved heads and bushy goatees.

  “Those are the Zeppelin boys,” I said. “They’re the muscle and gophers of the group. They’re also the most visible, and like to Get The Led Out while tearing around town on their bikes, which are decorated with spray paintings of Vikings.”

  Sankey nodded and thumbed through the pix until he came to one of pasty thin man with long greasy hair.

  “That’s, uh, the wheelman. He’s done time for large scale auto theft and is very good at boosting cars.”

  “What’s the matter, Ounstead? Run out of clever nicknames?” taunted Sankey.

  I scratched the stubble on my chin as I searched for the appropriate moniker. “How about Shitrat? His little ratfink ass kind of reminds me of you,” I said, pointing to the picture.

  “Goddamn it!” shouted Sankey, before slapping the photos down on the table. Chopsticks throughout the restaurant froze in place as other patrons stared.

  “Easy, Dwayne,” cautioned Rya.

  “I’ve had it with this wiseass. I’ve put my ass on the line here, Shepard.”

  Rya kicked me under the table. Hard. I sighed and swallowed my pride. “I’m sorry, Sankey, all right? My bad.”

  Sankey exhaled slowly, trying to regain his composure by pulling the shirt cuffs out from under the sleeves of his blazer.

  “I think we’re about done here, anyway,” said Rya. She snapped her fingers at me. “The card, Jed.” I plucked the glossy business card Kendricks had given me from my wallet and handed it to Rya. She copied the phone number onto the back of one of Sankey’s photos.

  “This is the cell number Jed is supposed to use to contact Kendricks when he finds Willis. It’s probably a pre-paid burner that’s next to impossible to trace, but it’s worth a shot.”

  Sankey nodded and scooped up the photos and other papers on the table. “We’ll talk soon, Shepard,” Sankey said, before ignoring me and exiting the restaurant.

  “I think I hurt his feelings,” I said, after he was gone.

  “You can be a real jerk, you know that?”

  “Come on, that guy is a tool.”

  “A tool who is doing me a favour.”

  “I promise I’ll play nice next time. So how about that egg foo yung?”

  “I should really get back to the station,” she said, rising to her feet.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I got a lot on the go, Jed. Your friend’s murder is not the only case I’m working.”

  “That’s too bad. Especially since I was about to invite you to Remo Willis’ hockey game tonight.” Rya sat back down. We ordered the egg foo yung.
It was delicious.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Canlan Ice Sports Centre, better known as 8 Rinks for its number of sheets of ice, was the premier ice sports facility in all of Metro Vancouver. As a result, the place was a veritable Mecca for hockey lovers, advanced and amateur alike. The actual rinks themselves were split into two adjoining, warehouse-sized buildings, each housing four playing surfaces. Remo’s team, the Ice-Holes, was scheduled to play on Rink 1, the nicest of the facility’s six regulation-sized rinks.

  A Zamboni engine whined in the distance and the smell of cold sweat and beer wafted by as we passed open doors to locker rooms. I spotted Willis’ team huddled around the gate to the rink, waiting for the ice to finish being cleaned. They wore retro Hartford Whalers-style, green and white jerseys with blue trim, and the team crest of a cartoonish hockey player squeezing a bikini-clad babe in one arm and a mug of beer in the other made the Ice-Holes pretty easy to identify. I nodded at Rya and she fell in line behind me, having agreed on the drive there to let me take the lead. The goalie for the Ice-Holes was facing away from me, crouched down in a deep groin stretch. My heart skipped a beat before I saw the number 11 and read the placard on the back of his jersey. It read Connell.

  “Shit,” grumbled Rya.

  “Yeah,” I said, thinking the same thing.

  Either Remo Willis was wearing someone else’s jersey or he wasn’t here. I glanced back at a nearby locker room and saw the Ice-Holes team captain fiddling with a padlock on the door. I approached him just as he snapped the lock shut and turned around.

  “Love the team name,” I said.

  “Thanks. My backup was the Fog Duckers.”

  “We’re looking for Remo Willis.” The captain snorted and popped in a mouth guard.

  “You and me both, pal.”

  “So he’s not here?” The captain looked me over.

  “No, he’s not. Who’s asking, anyway?”

  I flipped the lid on the box I had been carrying under my arm and showed him the goalie mask with the lightning bolts and roid-raging crab. “Delivery from Scoff’s Hockey Shop,” I said, patting the helmet.