Cobra Clutch

by Devlin, A. J. ;

  “Mathematics,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  “So what’s the excuse you’re pushing for the accident on the bridge?”

  “Hit and run.”

  “So they just think it was dumb luck?”

  “It’s good enough for the VPD. Believe me, they like neat and tidy. Besides, guys like Cornish and Sankey are too busy trying to take credit for the huge bust at the Steel Gods’ clubhouse to bother looking for holes in my statement.”

  “You gave them the address?” He nodded.

  “The second you gave it to me.”

  “What was your explanation for knowing the location? You were blindfolded.”

  “They don’t know that.”

  “So nobody finds it odd that a reclusive criminal like Kendricks just flaunted his secret hideout in front of you?”

  “Nobody cares, son. This is the biggest bust the department has had in years. That clubhouse wasn’t just loaded with narcotics. It also had evidence linking them to dozens of organized crimes and criminal networks.” I slurped the last of my shake. My father was making a lot of sense.

  “Okay, but there’s still one thing I don’t understand,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “How do you explain what happened at the Shillelagh?”

  “First thing I did was to make sure Declan was cleared. The gun he used was registered. Text book self-defense.”

  “No, I mean how are you explaining the fact that the Steel Gods targeted you?”

  “Ah,” said my father, taking another bite of Oreo Blizzard. “That one’s easy. My son is a meathead.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You planned on handing over that murder weapon to Cornish and Rya the second you got your hands on it. But you were so traumatized by seeing your cousin shot and the family business burn down that you completely blanked. You were contacted by Kendricks about an exchange and were told if you talked to the police I was a dead man. You did what you were told and kept your mouth shut, but before they contacted you with a location they got into an accident on the Lions Gate while transporting me.”

  “So, basically what you’re saying is that the entire Vancouver Police Department thinks I’m a dimwit chickenshit.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I don’t even care about everyone else. But there’s no way I’m letting Rya think that’s the truth.”

  “She does and you damn well will. This is not up for negotiation.”

  “Come on, Pop. You know better than anyone that we can trust her.”

  “This isn’t about trust, son. As long as she doesn’t know the truth, when asked, she doesn’t have to lie. I’m protecting her too.”

  “She hasn’t been returning my calls.”

  “Just lay off for now. You’ll hear from her when things settle.” I sighed begrudgingly.

  “I need another milkshake.” My father scooped the last of his Oreo Blizzard out of its cup and smacked his lips. “I’ll try a Peanut Buster Parfait,” he said with a smile.

  FORTY-THREE

  The skeletons were everywhere. Crawling through piles of golden orange leaves on the ground, hanging from mossy gnarled branches of age-old cedar and hemlock trees, even draped over the tombstones that were scattered throughout the forest. A pair of dancing skeletons emerged from the shadows, and began to waltz around the train and across the tracks.

  “You know, when you asked me out for a night on the town in order to blow off a little steam, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” I said.

  “Ah, dry your arse, you big baby,” said Declan. “This is a fuckin’ gas and you know it.”

  A chubby kid in the train car ahead of us turned around and gave us the stink-eye. “You said a swear,” he said solemnly, before wiping his runny nose on his sleeve.

  “Aye, and I’ll sure as shite say some more if I goddamn feel like it.”

  “He’s just a kid, D.”

  “And a bloody nosey one at that.” Declan snapped his fingers at the kid. “Turn back around you wee bucket o’snots.” The kid did as he was told. I breathed in the crisp and biting forest air as we chugged past a rickety log cabin that had a front porch full of flickering jack-o’-lanterns.

  The Stanley Park Miniature Railway is known for being one of Vancouver’s more popular attractions. After a disastrous storm tore through the park in the sixties, a horseshoe-shaped miniature railway was built along the path of destruction that was left behind. The diminutive train is also a replica of the historic Canadian Pacific Railway Engine #374, which was made famous for pulling Canada’s first transcontinental passenger train into Vancouver in the late eighteen-hundreds.

  All year round the little locomotive takes passengers on a winding route over trestles and through tunnels in Stanley Park’s dense and lush forest. However, every October the miniature railway transforms into a Halloween ghost train, and the area surrounding the tracks in the woods comes alive with spooky lights and decorations, live-action dioramas, and all kinds of creatures of the night. Declan and I were in the train’s caboose, and I was immediately grateful for our secluded seating when I saw my cousin pull a couple of cans of Red Racer Pumpkin Ale out of his jacket pockets.

  “Trick or treat, mate.”

  “For God’s sake, D. It’s a kid’s ride.”

  “So what? Just because this teeny choo-choo appeals to a bunch o’manky muzzies doesn’t mean we can’t have a grand time.”

  I popped the top of my beer and took a swig, enjoying the spicy flavour of the rich and creamy brew. “What is it with you and Halloween, anyway? I didn’t know you even celebrated it in Ireland.”

  “We don’t. We celebrate Samhain.”

  “Samhain?”

  “The Gaelic harvest festival o’the dead.”

  “Do you dress up in scary costumes?”

  “Aye.”

  “Give out candy to kids?”

  “Aye.”

  “Bob for apples?”

  “Like a motherfucker.”

  “So it’s exactly like Halloween.”

  “Except with more carnivals, parades, and piss-ups. This ghost train is about as close as you Canuckleheads get.”

  The conductor sounded the horn as the tracks curved ahead. The miniature train crossed over a lagoon filled with floating candles and buoys disguised as ghosts. Declan downed the rest of his beer in a single gulp, belched, then tossed his can in the water.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I said. “This is a world-class park.”

  “Keep your alans on. It’s decorative.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The can is orange and its got pumpkins on it.”

  “You don’t give a shit about anything, do you?”

  “Not true. I give a shite about those nightmares you’ve been having.” I took a big swig of my pumpkin ale before responding.

  “I told you I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Unless you want a kick in the bollocks you better start to jabber on. Here, this will help loosen those lips,” he said, before pulling more pumpkin ales from his jacket. I pounded back what I had left of my beer and cracked open the next one. Declan held his pumpkin ale up in a toast.

  “To Jimmy Mimbo.”

  “Johnny Mamba.”

  “Whatever. All I know is he had to o’been a good lad to have had a mate like you. May he rest in peace.” We tapped our cans and took big sips. We were silent for a while. I didn’t speak until the train chugged past a bloodied dummy hanging by a noose from a railway signal.

  “The dream is always the same,” I said. “I’m back on the bridge. Everything happens like it did. I smash the Jeep into the motorcycle. I take out Dennings and the others. But when I open the back door of the va
n, Kendricks is standing over Frank’s dead body. He’s soaked in the old man’s blood and is grinning from ear to ear.” Declan nodded knowingly.

  “Your mind is showing you what could o’been.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Lord knows I’ve had me own share o’haunted sleeps. I used to dream regularly about the first UVF arsehole I ever killed, even though the sadistic bastard was beating a pregnant lass to death with a cricket bat when I put a bullet in the back o’his head.”

  “What stopped it?”

  “Time. Taking a life changes you. What went down with those biker gits could be weighing on your arse in ways you don’t even know yet.”

  “That’s the thing, D. I don’t think it does. And I’m pretty sure it never will. I killed five men in one day and I don’t feel the slightest bit bad about it. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I’m not upset. I’m furious. All I want to do is fall back asleep so I can dream about killing each and every one of those sons-of-bitches all over again.”

  “I understand, mate.”

  “That rage over how they wronged Johnny, and you, and Pop — it’s still inside of me. And it’s not going away. How am I supposed to get rid of it?”

  “Simple,” Declan said. You use it.”

  The miniature locomotive slowed as it neared an elaborate backdrop of a Transylvanian castle. Dracula appeared with Mina Harker in tow, and the passengers on the train squealed in delight as the actor playing the count pretended to bite the damsel’s neck and drink her blood. A moment later Van Helsing leapt out from behind a tree and confronted the vampire with a cross and wooden stake. The train picked up speed again as Mina Harker sought refuge at Van Helsing’s side. I looked back over my shoulder as we left Bram Stoker’s climactic scene behind us. The hunter stood tall over the monster, battling the wickedness before him with nothing but his will and a piece of wood.

  FORTY-FOUR

  The renovations were not going smoothly. My old man had hired a contractor who was a retired police officer well-known for his craftsmanship and woodworking, and although he did a great job gutting the charred remains of The Emerald Shillelagh and beginning construction on an improved layout for the pub, he had also recently taken on two, inexperienced, twenty-something apprentices. As a result the contractor was doing a lot of on-the-job training, which was slowing down the renos. The fact that his apprentices were idiots didn’t help much either. Declan and I were eating a couple of submarine sandwiches at the pub’s new mahogany bar when one of the apprentices made an error and my cousin lost his temper.

  “Put that hammer down you plonker!”

  “What?” said, Tony, the simpler of the two apprentices.

  “What do you mean, ‘what’? You’re about to bugger up the Irish wall o’fame.”

  “How?”

  Declan pointed to a wooden shelf in Tony’s hands. “What were you about to do with that?”

  “Anchor it to the wall.”

  Declan threw half of his sandwich at Tony, who used the shelf to shield himself from the projectile cold cuts. “I should anchor your fuckin’ scrote to the wall, you stupid little shite.”

  “Settle down, D,” I said, mediating yet another one of my cousin’s spats. “I’m assuming that’s supposed to go somewhere else?”

  “Aye, you’re goddamn right it is. The shelves are for vintage Guinness ads. The wall o’fame is for photos.”

  “Got that, Tony?” I said.

  “Yeah, fine, but then where do I put this?” he asked, holding up the shelf.

  “Above a snug,” replied Declan, matter-of-factly.

  “A what?” asked Tony, dumfounded.

  “Snug.”

  “Snug?”

  “Snug!”

  “What the hell is a snug?”

  Declan looked me straight in the eye. “Let me shoot him, Jed. Please let me shoot him.”

  Just then Melvin entered the pub, stepping carefully over the construction equipment and the beam joists scattered across the floor.

  “Jaysus Christ, not this bloody bollocks,” muttered Declan.

  “You know what he did. Show some respect.” I offered my hand to Melvin. He shook it while glancing around the pub.

  “This place looks like shit,” he said. I could almost see the hair on the back of Declan’s neck rising like the fur of an angered wolf.

  “Come on, Melvin. My pop is waiting.” I snapped my fingers at Declan. “You play nice.”

  “Póg mo thóin,” replied my cousin, which was Gaelic for “kiss my ass.”

  “Oh, and Tony … ” I said. “A snug is a booth.”

  “Well why couldn’t he have just said that instead?” he asked incredulously. I half expected to hear a gunshot while Melvin followed me up the stairs.

  My old man spun around in the chair of his newly refurbished office and slipped off his reading glasses. “Melvin Van Lowe,” he said, standing to shake his hand. “I owe you a great deal of thanks.” Melvin shifted uncomfortably.

  “It was no big deal. Jed did all the work, really. Who knew a pro wrestler could turn out to be such a badass?” Melvin snickered, but neither my father nor I found his comment amusing.

  “Nobody,” replied my father. “And it’s going to stay that way.” Melvin all but crumpled under my father’s stern stare.

  “Yeah, no, of course. Who am I going to tell anyway? And let’s not forget I deal in the confidentiality business.”

  “Speaking of which,” said my old man, before handing Melvin a large manila envelope.

  “Those are some solid clients,” I said. “Play your cards right and a few of them could become repeat customers.”

  “No shit? Like who?” asked Melvin.

  “Lawyers. Insurance adjusters. People who tend to need serious investigative work more than snapshots of sleazy sex.” Melvin grinned so wide he looked like a saber-toothed squirrel.

  “Holy shit,” he said, his eyes darting behind me. “Is that for real?” Melvin pointed to the newly installed frosted glass on the door to my father’s office.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Licence pending.”

  The words on the door read OUNSTEAD & SON INVESTIGATIONS.

  “I couldn’t wait for him to apply to the PI Association,” crowed my old man proudly.

  “I guess I better make the most out of these contacts while I can,” grumbled Melvin. I escorted Melvin downstairs but when I reached the main floor I discovered that I had a visitor.

  Rya. She was dressed in a tan pantsuit with a crème coloured blouse, looking more attractive than ever. She and Declan were chatting at the bar, but when my cousin saw me he whistled at Tony, who had started to fasten the shelf to the wall above one of the booths.

  “Oi, gobshite! Take a break.” Declan didn’t have to tell Tony twice. Melvin followed them out the door and suddenly Rya and I were alone.

  “Hi,” I said, making my way over to her so slowly it was as if I was afraid I’d scare her off like a doe in the forest.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “You never called me back.”

  “I seem to remember you doing the same once.”

  “Look, Rya — ”

  “Why, Jed?”

  “Why?”

  “Why didn’t you wait for me at the hospital?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I couldn’t risk the chance that you’d involve Cornish or Sankey or the ERT.”

  “You know what Frank means to me. Do you really think I would have done that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Your style is pretty by-the-book.” I regretted the words immediately. Rya looked at me like I had just slapped her across the face.

  “My style gave you, a civilian
, access to an active homicide investigation. It also allowed you to interview a potential suspect in a police interrogation room. There’s nothing by-the-book about that.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

  “You were.”

  “I should have trusted you.”

  “You should have.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  She looked at me, her eyes still betraying hurt. A strand of hair hung down in front of her face. I reached out gently and brushed it aside. My hand lingered and slowly cupped her cheek. I tilted my head and leaned forward until I felt her hand press against my chest.

  “I know what really happened,” she said softly.

  “What?”

  “The press can spin the story all they want and Frank can deny it for the rest of his days. But I know it was you who caused that accident and shot and killed those men.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rya’s eyes narrowed. The hurt was gone, replaced by anger.

  “You don’t?” I leaned on the mahogany bar, struggling to find the right words.

  “Even if I did, those bastards deserved it. They killed Johnny. They nearly killed Declan. And they would have killed my father.”

  “You could have died, Jed. There was no need for you to take such a stupid risk all by yourself.” Rya turned and strode toward the door, finding a way to appear graceful despite stepping across a floor cluttered with tools and timber.

  “How did you figure it out?” I asked. She paused in the doorway and looked back at me like she had the morning I awoke in her guest bed. I would have given anything for the chance to go back to that moment.

  “Because I don’t get caught up in the hype and sensationalism like everybody else, including my fellow officers. And that allows me to see things other cops miss. Like how it’s impossible that a man who is handcuffed would be able to fire a shotgun and hit his target with his wrists being only inches apart.” And with that, she was gone.

  FORTY-FIVE

  It’s amazing how much weight you can lose when you cut back on the drinking. And just to be clear, I’m talking about booze — not milkshakes. No diet or workout regimen in the world could get me to give up those. Of course, I had also stepped up my workouts and replaced my usual lifting split with high-intensity circuit training, and I even added some intervals into the mix in order to really tighten up my midsection. The result was that I still wasn’t quite as ripped as I had been back in the day, but I was getting there, and it was nice not feeling embarrassed about going shirtless again.