Serpents Rising

by David A. Poulsen

  “Don’t know anything about that.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. Appreciate your time, Giff.”

  Sharp handed each of us one of his cards. “You ever lookin’, give me a call. I’ve got some nice condos in the southeast … nice condos. Or if you know somebody and send them my way, I usually offer a five hundred dollar incentive, but you guys, seven fifty.”

  I took the card. “Is that Sharp with an ‘e’?”

  I smiled at him as Cobb turned and led the way back outside. I fought the urge to grind the business card under my heel on the way to the door. Cobb didn’t say anything until we were back in the Jeep.

  “Sharp,” he said. “Middle name Notso.”

  “I’m not sure about that. Seems pretty savvy to me. I don’t know of many landlords pulling down that kind of revenue.”

  “Good point. By the way, nice touch with the notepad.”

  I grinned and Cobb chuckled.

  “You hungry?”

  I looked around hoping there was another option besides the donair spot a few doors down. “I am, but I’d be a whole lot hungrier if we were anywhere but here.”

  He nodded. “Got any more ideas as to where we might look for Jay Blevins or Max Levine?”

  “A couple.”

  “Good, let’s grab a sandwich somewhere and get back at it.”

  “We can do better than that — head down to Chinatown. We do dim sum and talk to a couple of guys I know. Longshots maybe, but worth trying.”

  Cobb looked at his watch.

  I said, “There’s a place that’ll get us in and out fast. One of the people I think we should talk to works right near there. The other guy won’t be hard to find. Both of them are … uh … connected.”

  Cobb nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  Twenty minutes later we had miraculously found a parking spot on 3rd Avenue just off Centre Street and were sitting at a corner table at the Peking King. The “King-King” as it’s known to the locals is one of those best kept secrets, virtually unnoticed and unknown except to the Chinese residents of the area and a few non-Asian types like me who have stumbled across it by accident.

  Cobb told me he didn’t know dim sum from chop suey so I ordered a few things I thought were conservative enough for the fledgling diner: shrimp dumplings, steamed wheat buns with pork filling, a couple of bowls of duck egg and pork congee (a kind of porridge with non-porridge-like stuff mixed in), some lotus leaf rice and, to test Cobb’s limits at least a little, a few Phoenix talons — deep fried chicken feet served in a black bean sauce.

  Cobb did well, eating at least a little of everything — he seemed to like the dumplings a lot, the congee somewhat less and, to my surprise, he went back at the Phoenix talons a second time.

  As he chewed on a wheat bun, he looked at me and nodded. “I wanted to thank you for this.”

  “I don’t need much of an excuse to come to King-King.”

  “I meant helping me look for the kid.”

  “Haven’t helped much so far. You think he’s in real danger?”

  Cobb’s shoulders moved up a couple of centimetres, then back down. “If I was a betting man, I’d lay five to two on they go after the kid. Show the world nobody fucks with them, that kind of thinking.”

  “A lesson.”

  “Something like that. These two guys you mentioned, what’s the deal with them?”

  “One of them, Jackie Chow, works down the street, runs an adult video store. Sells more than videos there. The other guy is a part-time pimp, part-time dealer. Buys and sells guns as a sideline. I only know his first name, Yik. Bigger player than Jackie Chow but not the top banana. Not a nice man, but I did him a favour once and if he’s in the mood he might tell us something interesting.”

  “Yik.”

  “Yeah, he doesn’t like it if people make humorous remarks about his name.”

  “Maybe he should change it.”

  “That would be the kind of remark I’d avoid.”

  Cobb shrugged. “What kind of favour?”

  “It was while I was doing the series on drugs in Calgary. I’d met with Yik and he’d filled me in on the coke scene — without any names, of course — in this part of the city. While we were having coffee at a place not far from here, a couple of cops came into the place wanting to be macho. They spotted Yik and thought this would be a good time to interrogate, aka hassle, him. I let them know I was a newspaper guy and then made a big deal of taking down badge numbers, descriptions, anything I could think of; I wrote down their questions as fast as they could ask them. They either got nervous or pissed off and finally stomped out of there. I didn’t think it was any big deal but Yik liked that I backed him. We’ll see if he remembers.”

  “That notebook of yours is a handy little implement.”

  “Sometimes.” I grinned.

  We finished the main course and though I recommended he try the Malay steamed sponge cake for dessert, Cobb settled for green tea. I ordered an egg tart and opted for oolong tea.

  When my dessert arrived, Cobb pointed at it, not in a good way. “What is that?” It was an accusation disguised as a question.

  “It’s called an egg tart.”

  “I know that. I heard you order it. What’s the stuff on top that looks like hay?”

  “Bird’s nest.”

  “Sure, that’s what they call it. What is it?”

  “Bird’s nest.” I tucked into it.

  “Nice.”

  He watched me eat for a while. “I haven’t asked you because I think I know the answer but did anything further come up in connection with your wife’s death? Any leads? Suspicions?”

  I shook my head, set my spoon down. “Nothing.”

  “I wish I could have helped you more than I did. That damn thing still doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “You did all you could. I wasn’t unhappy with your investigation.”

  Cobb nodded. “I know you weren’t. But I was. I wanted to get the son of a bitch.”

  I nodded.

  Cobb stared at his tea cup, not seeing it. “I think about it sometimes … even after all this time. That there must have been something we … I missed.”

  “The arsonist didn’t give you or the police and fire investigators much in the way of clues.”

  “Maybe. But there’s something or someone out there that if we could just find it, or him, we could finish this thing. I’ve thought about it a lot. Sometimes I even wonder if we shouldn’t have looked a little closer at your wife.”

  I stared at Cobb. “What do you mean?”

  “I know you said she didn’t have any enemies but I sometimes wonder if there wasn’t something, maybe, in her past.”

  I shook my head. “I know it’s tempting to think about especially when we’ve got nothing else, but as I said then, there just isn’t anybody who could possibly have any reason … Look, I know every guy thinks his wife is perfect, but —”

  “Not every guy thinks that.”

  “You’re right. And I know I sound like a parent with the smartest, best-looking kid in the world, but Donna was the person others came to when they were having some spat or other, they’d ask her for advice, like an unofficial counsellor. I just don’t think —”

  “I know. I get that. But what about before she knew you? Something in her more distant past. Not necessarily something she did or even knew about. Maybe some guy that had the hots for her in college and years later the guy’s a whack job and decides to show her that nobody gets away with dumping him. I know it sounds far-fetched, but believe me, Adam, weirder shit than that — a lot weirder — has happened. And does happen.”

  “Believe me, I’ve thought about it, gone through every moment of our lives together, every conversation … I just don’t buy it. Even her growing up. We talked about that, the way couples do. Donna was the braces and glasses kid in school, kind of geeky, she didn’t become the beautiful woman … okay, there I go again.”

  “It’s okay. I saw pictures.
She was beautiful.”

  “But she wasn’t that way all her life is all I’m saying. She didn’t really bloom until she was pretty well through university. Didn’t even date much. And if there had been a guy like the kind you’re talking about, she’d have told me.”

  Cobb took a last drink of tea. Nodded. Not looking convinced. “Anyway,” he started to rise. “We’ve got other things we have to take care of. Let’s go talk movies with Jackie Chow.”

  The video store was as unpleasant as I’d remembered it. A big window that faced the street didn’t let much light in, mostly because it was covered in posters that announced “XXX Rated,” and had the word ADULT plastered all over it in foot-high capital letters and repeated at every angle possible, sometimes the letters overlapping. Artistic.

  When we went into the store, a bell jangled to announce our arrival. We were the only people there. No one at the counter. I figured the jangling would bring Jackie Chow or someone at a dead run to head off shoplifters on a street where shoplifting was like breathing. I was wrong.

  The store was decorated in a minimalist motif. A couple of posters on the chipped plaster walls, all of which needed painting. The most recent coat had been a light blue once, now it was the colour of washed-out denim. The floor, however, looked relatively clean, maybe because it’s easier, and cheaper, to sweep than it is to paint. There were a couple of aisles of empty DVD cases. Not a lot of stock. I was reminded that renting movies wasn’t the primary business conducted in the store.

  Cobb checked out some of the merchandise while I read the titles on a flyer that was stuck on the wall with a single piece of aging Scotch tape. “Top 10 Adult Films of the Month.” No indication what month. Probably didn’t matter. The Virgin Surgeon, Depth Chart, and Insatiable Nurses were the top three. The latter had a promo line that read, “In this hospital anything goes and everybody comes.”

  I quit reading. “This place always makes me want to have a long bath in disinfectant.”

  “Roger that,” Cobb looked around, impatient. “Much as I’m enjoying all this exposure to culture, we need to keep moving. Is our boy here or not?”

  On cue Jackie Chow came out of the back part of the store carrying a newspaper and a half-filled Styrofoam coffee cup. He stepped behind the counter and looked at us. “Gentlemen.”

  He hadn’t changed much. Average height, still thin, too thin to be healthy. He was wearing a Les Miserables T-shirt. I guessed Value Village. Jackie Chow didn’t strike me as a guy who got to a lot of Broadway musicals. The makings of a moustache sat above his mouth, dark eyes set close together, grey ball cap with the letter L sitting fashionably off-centre on his head.

  I wasn’t sure he recognized me at first. I stepped closer to the counter.

  “Hey, Jackie. Adam Cullen. Writer … freelance. I interviewed you a couple of times. Drug stuff. Crack and a few things.”

  Chow raised a pair of glasses to his face, studied me, took the glasses off again and set them on the counter. “Sure, I remember. Newspaper dude. Didn’t use my name. Kept your word. That was good.”

  “Yeah. Jackie, this is Mike Cobb. I’m helping him find a kid who’s missing. Might be in some trouble.”

  Chow smirked. “Most of the kids around here are missing. A lot of them are in trouble.” He kept looking at me. Hadn’t glanced at Cobb. “Cop.” Cobb pulled his wallet and showed Chow his PI card. Chow didn’t bother to put his glasses on and barely glanced at the card. “I’m pretty busy here so if you don’t mind —”

  “I can see how busy you are and Mr. Cullen and I don’t want to keep you from all that industry any longer than necessary.” Cobb set an elbow on the counter, just grazing the eye glasses. “Just like you to take the time to look at a picture.” He held out the photo of Jay Blevins.

  Chow glanced at it. “Don’t know ’im.”

  “Yeah, maybe try again. With your glasses on. Just in case.”

  Chow looked at Cobb. Not scared but wary. Cobb straightened, lifted the glasses, held them out.

  Chow took the glasses, set them on his face, looked at the photo, then handed it back to Cobb. “Like I said, I don’t know the kid.”

  Cobb said, “So he’s never come in here to buy any ‘movies’?”

  Chow looked down at the counter then up at me. “I ain’t seen this kid. Here or anywhere else. And I got work to do.”

  I moved closer. “Jackie, you hear about what went down last night?”

  A flicker of interest. “As in?”

  “As in a couple of dealers getting wasted.”

  Slow nod. “Yeah, I might have heard about that. This kid have something to do with it?”

  “He’s what the police call a person of interest. We’d like to find him before they do.”

  “If the kid had anything to do with those two guys getting blown away, the cops are the least of his problems.”

  “Any idea who might be a bigger problem for him?”

  “Nope,” Chow shook his head. Too quickly. “But the word is that the people who are behind the residence where the two gentlemen were shot are not happy. And when they aren’t happy, it’s not a good thing.” Chow looked at Cobb for the first time. “For anybody.”

  Cobb pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket, dropped it on the counter. “If he happens to drop in, or if you see him somewhere or hear about him, I’d appreciate a call.”

  Chow picked up the card, crumpled it in his fist. “Nice chatting with you gentlemen.” Still avoiding eye contact with Cobb.

  “Thanks, Jackie,” I said.

  I looked at Cobb to see if he had anything else he wanted to say or ask. He turned away, not doing a real good job of hiding his disgust. Back out on the street, both of us took deep breaths. Like we were trying to get the place out of our lungs. Bad air out, good air in.

  Cobb grunted, “I didn’t like that guy.”

  “No one would have guessed. At least now I know who’s who when we do good cop, bad cop.”

  “I could use some of that disinfectant you mentioned.”

  “The next guy makes Jackie Chow look like Robin Hood.”

  Three

  “We can walk. It’s not far.” I pointed south on Centre Street, toward downtown.

  We stopped at a kiosk where all the publications were in Chinese. I bought two coffees, handed one to Cobb, and we continued walking south, turning left after another block. I thought about how bad the odds were that we’d find a drugged-out kid who didn’t want to be found. On the other hand, Jay Blevins wouldn’t know that some real bad guys might be looking to use him as a lesson in street cred, and he also wasn’t aware of Cobb and me.

  So maybe.

  “How’d you come to know about this Yik?” Cobb’s eyes were busy, taking in windows on second and third floors, alleys, people passing us, cars on the street. I was reminded that he’d been a cop.

  “When I was researching the drug stuff, his name came up a lot. Mid-range importance. Tough guy. Has a lot of people who work for him, more or less.”

  “More or less?”

  “It’s not like a corporation. Not at this level. No job descriptions, no benefits. You sell for the man, you get paid, you buy to feed your own habit, get wired, wake up, and start over. Yik keeps a set of books, very businesslike; he knows who owes him what and when it’s due on a minute-to-minute basis.”

  “Plus he’s got hookers and guns.”

  I nodded. “Different sets of books. Same business principles apply.”

  “And you have no idea who’s above him?”

  “No. I heard lots of names, most of the time from people who knew less than I did. Rumours. Wishful thinking. Pulling names out of thin air, a lot of that.”

  “Wishful thinking?” Cobb looked at me.

  “Somebody hates somebody, they hope they’re involved in something crooked so that someday they’ll go down. So they suggest that person actually is involved. Sort of start the ball rolling.”

  Cobb didn’t get to respond. Yik
and two guys, both Caucasian, who looked big enough to play on a defensive line and mean enough to eat people’s pets, came out of a doorway with a sign above it that read, Lam Fong Soon Tong Society. They started toward us and Yik saw me, didn’t recognize me at first; then a glint of recognition came to his face. His mouth moved maybe a millimetre; it wasn’t a smile. Yik wasn’t a smiler.

  I tapped Cobb’s arm to let him know that the guy approaching us flanked by two gorillas in expensive suits and overcoats was Yik. He wasn’t wearing a suit but his clothes were designer all the way, topped with a leather coat that went to his knees. It was open to show starched jeans and a western plaid shirt, all a perfect fit, all expensive.

  Yik stopped in front of Cobb and me, held out a hand. I shook it.

  “Cullen, long time. Last time I saw you, there you were helping me with a bit of cop unpleasantness and now the next time I see you you’re packing a cop with you. Why is that, man?”

  “Ex-cop. Private investigator now.” I figured BS’ing Yik would be a bad way to start the conversation. “Mike Cobb, this is Yik.”

  “And friends,” Yik indicated the two guys with him. He didn’t offer a hand to Cobb. “I hope you’re not investigating me, Mr. Cobb.”

  “No reason to do that that I know of,” Cobb said.

  “We’re looking for somebody,” I told Yik. “A kid. Kind of a favour to his dad. He’s worried about the kid.”

  Cobb pulled out the picture of Jay Blevins, held it out. Yik took it, made a show of holding it in front of each of the goons, neither of whom took his eyes off Cobb. Yik looked at the photo, shook his head, handed it back to Cobb.

  “Sorry,” he said, though his face didn’t look real regretful. “Kid a user?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can’t help you. See you again Cullen.” He started forward.

  “It’s kind of important. If you have any idea where we might look for him.…”

  Yik stopped, looked at me, then shook his head and started forward again.

  “Uh, one question, I’m also doing a little research. You know me, always working a story, trying to make a buck.”