Wall to Wall chuckled reminiscently. “The ambulance had an intercom, so I turned it on so the assholes could hear our conversation, and then I started on, ‘Do you know how much organs are worth these days? A good heart can net you fifty thousand dollars.’ And Wayne picks up on it. ‘Yeah, eyes, you know eyes are in huge demand.’ And Ray says, ‘So what have we got in the back there. Two hearts, four lungs, four eyes, four spleens.’ And I says, ‘Two spleens, only two spleens, Ray. But still, there’s a fortune in spare body parts in the back of this ambulance. Do you think we should take them to that special hospital?’ And then I go, ‘Oops, I didn’t know this thing was on.’ And then I shut off the intercom. Half an hour later we hadn’t heard a thing from the back. Complete silence. So we pull up at the hospital and I go into emergency and tell an orderly that I’ve got these two guys who are acting sort of strange, very paranoid, does he want to come and take a look. I take him to the ambulance, pop open the back door and say, ‘How much’ll you give me for these two?’ And they came out of that ambulance like screaming banshees from asshole hell. They took off down the street with people leaping out of the way as if naked craziness was contagious, and the orderly right behind them, yelling, ‘You’re number thirty-two. It won’t be a long wait.’ So we left. Mission accomplished.”
I couldn’t help but ask, “And what exactly was your mission?”
Wall to Wall looked disappointed. “Asshole suppression, Ollie. It’s what we do.”
Half a Day Ray and One-Eyed Wayne lowered their eyes and looked modestly virtuous, like men with a calling. And soon they were: calling for more beer.
In the interests of keeping up my end of the conversation, I confessed to them my Ottawa sins—specifically, my rampage against colonial furniture. “I surprised myself, you know? I didn’t know I had that much violence in me, brutalizing a defenseless armoire.”
They all made consoling noises, and about then the dreaded five-beer nostalgia set in. One-Eyed Wayne started it. “Wow, you know what? How long we known each other? And really, you know, we haven’t changed that much. Still the same classy, tight-knit bunch we always was.”
Wall to Wall continued, “Damn it, you’re right. We’re a little older, but we’ve still got all of our fingers and toes, most of our hair, some of our teeth, a few of our brain cells, and all but one of our eyes. That’s fuckin’ amazing, you know?”
One-Eyed Wayne raised his glass. “Four good-lookin’, good-timin’ guys. Here’s to us.”
I was just drunk enough to relinquish the standard male code of reticence and enter the dreaded shared-intimacy zone. “I dunno, maybe you guys are good-looking. Standards have changed. But I’ve never considered myself good-looking.”
Half a Day Ray got all solicitous. “Ollie, what makes you say a thing like that?”
“Well, when you’re young and good-looking, you get laid a lot. I was definitely young once, but I never got laid a lot. Ergo, I can’t be good-looking.”
Wall to Wall laid a paw on my shoulder. “Flawed logic, Ollie. You didn’t define ‘a lot.’ And sometimes geeky young guys grow into distinguished-looking old guys. Ergo, it’s within the realm of possibility that you are good-looking.”
Half a Day Ray had become a little agitated. “Ergo? Ergo? What the hell we talkin’ about the Ergoes for? They ain’t even in the eastern final this year.”
I took the easy way out and let that pass. “Thanks, Wally. So now I’m old?” I looked at my watch. It was three thirty. “Jesus, it’s only the middle of the afternoon and I’m half pissed.”
“Well, you know what they say.” Half a Day Ray raised his glass. “You can’t drink all day if you don’t start in the morning.”
I stood up. “Well, Wally pointed out that I’m old now, so that gives me an excuse to bail. I’ll see you in the morning. Better make that the afternoon.”
I left my truck in the parking lot and took a cab home, reflecting on how the Barely Brothers seemed to exist in a different dimension than the rest of us, sort of a twilight zone outside the constraints of normal life. Although sometimes normal life seemed like kind of a twilight zone to me. My thoughts tended to get deeply self-referential after drinking at midday.
Oshie and Louise and the kids weren’t back yet, so I wandered aimlessly around the house. It occurred to me to do a little research on the two Chinese directors of Crude Operations. I turned on the computer, Googled the company, went to their homepage, clicked on the board of directors, and voilà, there they were: a Mr. Chen and a Mr. Lee. Mr. Chen was the gentleman I’d seen briefly at Ernhardt’s place, the night of the great furniture massacre.
The phone rang. It was Staff Sergeant Stala. “Swanson, I just wanted to update you on the private staff of those two Chinese directors.”
“What a coincidence. I was just checking them out on the Internet. The one called Chen is the same guy who was at Ernhardt’s place the night Phil Trimmer got whacked.”
“That’s encouraging,” Stala replied. “Chen and the other guy, between the two of them, have seven household staff: two cooks, two nannies, two maids, and a driver. The Calgary police are a little interested in the driver. Seems he’s got heavy connections in Vancouver and he’s been fingered as a major snakehead—a people smuggler.”
“So he’s a bad guy. What’s his name?”
“Sun Li ‘Sonny’ Feng. Swanson, he’s a bad guy who’s connected to other bad guys. Bad guys in your area.”
“I hear you, Stala. I’ll let my RCMP friends know that. Anything else?”
“No. We’re still pounding away at Ernhardt and the other committee members, but it’s tough sledding. I want to spend a little more time on this Chinese angle. I’ll talk to you later.”
Not too much later I heard a car door slam, then the front door opened, and then there was pandemonium. The kids had got haircuts, which, they informed me, made their heads feel really funny. They also had new runners, so they obviously needed to show me how fast they could run now. In the background, Oshie and Louise settled down on the couch and looked amused. When the whirlwind had escaped outside, I turned my attention to the two women. “You guys had a good time?”
Oshie laughed. “Do you remember how much fun it can be to go down an up escalator?”
“In Sointula, the stairs don’t move. By the time I saw an escalator, I was too grown up to fool around on them.”
Oshie raised her eyebrows. “Too grown up? Ollie, who started the pillow fight last night and knocked over the hamster cage?”
“But I never pillow-fight on an escalator.” And so we bantered for a while and when Louise left, I followed her out to her car. She looked at me expectantly. “Louise, the Calgary cops think one of our bad guys could be named Sun Li Feng. Nickname Sonny. He’s got gang connections in Vancouver, possible snakehead. Can you see if you’ve got any info on him?”
“No problem, Ollie.”
“And Louise, I gave the Barely Brothers the night off.”
“Okay, I’ll put an unmarked car in the area as well as the uniformed patrols.”
“Thanks, Louise.” When I went back inside, Oshie gave me a look but didn’t say anything.
The next day was Wednesday. Louise phoned to say that Feng was definitely on their radar. He had been tied to a ring that was importing young girls and forcing them into prostitution. They hadn’t nailed him on the human trafficking charge, but they’d got him for aggravated assault for beating up a witness. The girl had almost died, but had had the nerve to testify. I admired her guts.
“Louise, can you send his prints to Staff Sergeant Stala for possible matches with the two murder scenes? And I’d really like to see a photo of Sonny Feng, just so I know who I’m dealing with.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
The Barely Brothers were back on the job, so I took the opportunity to go down to the boat to putter and think. Usually when I was on the boat, I found a sort of spiritual peace. That was partly because the boat always made me think of it
s builder, Oshie’s dad, Otokichi Tanaka. And partly it was because being on the boat was sort of like being in a cathedral; the way certain lines and boundaries enclosed spaces made them special and restful. But now I felt only a restless anxiety. I realized that graceful lines, sublime proportion, attention to detail, and exquisite craftsmanship were not sufficient to insulate one from evil.
Thoughts ran through my brain like cars on a freeway, appearing suddenly and just as suddenly gone. Then one of them honked loudly and parked in front of me. Friday was the day for the evening get together of the Committee. It would be a good opportunity to confront Ernhardt and the Chairman, and maybe Tap Dickens. I knew I was being impatient, but I was sure that if I pressured them they’d make a mistake. But was I sure I could get away with entering the lion’s den? Well, yes. Did I want to tell Stala? Well, no. Did I want to take Danny as backup? Yes and no. Yes, because these were dangerous people who I’d really pissed off. No, because Danny was married to an RCMP officer, and when I was in Ottawa, illegal events often occurred in my vicinity. So I’d do it alone: go in with no warning and get out fast. It was a plan that had never failed in the past.
Oshie was not really pleased with the idea, but I assured her I’d only be gone for three days. On Thursday I flew to Ottawa and took a cab to my hideout. All day Friday I fidgeted and watched TV and wished I dared go for a walk. At eight that evening I pushed Dougie’s dirt bike out onto the back driveway and took off for Ernhardt’s place. His house didn’t look quite so attractive as I approached it this time. It seemed tarnished, and somehow less substantial. But the same maid answered the door and sensibly didn’t try to stop me as I brushed past her and made for the living room.
The same important-looking men were arranged impressively around the room, but I received a much different reception as Ollie Swanson than I had as Jimmie Johnson. The room fell silent and I became the focus of attention, sort of like a cadaver at an autopsy.
“Hi, everyone.” I grinned and waved. “Staff Sergeant Stala sent me over to talk to a few of you. Thought you might feel more comfortable with no police in the room.” God, the lies came so easily whenever I was in Ottawa. Must be something in the air.
Most of the assembled power brokers started divesting themselves of drinks, picking up their coats and moving toward the door. “Actually”—I tried to make my voice more authoritative—“it’s only necessary that I talk to you and you and you.” I pointed at Cliff Ernhardt, the Chairman, AKA Paul Salinger, and Tap Dickens.
When the others had gone I walked to the bar, poured myself a scotch and water and perched on one of the barstools. The others hadn’t moved, their eyes fixed on me like, well, like a cadaver on a morgue table. I tried not to feel intimidated.
“So here’s how we see it, Stala and me. There’re a couple of different agendas at play here. There’ve been two killings. We want to solve those killings. You gentlemen, on the other hand, only want to pursue your various projects, of which the most important right now is getting oil to China. Now, there may appear to be a conflict between those two agendas, but there doesn’t need to be. But there sure as hell could be if we don’t start getting some cooperation.”
The Chairman spoke. “I understand your real name is Ollie Swanson. Swedish, I suppose. My family had a Swedish handyman once. Dedicated chap, but not very bright. Couldn’t take instruction at all.”
I refused to take the bait. “I don’t take instruction well either. Maybe it’s a national trait.”
Tap Dickens eyed me suspiciously. “Swanson, you mind if we check you for a wire?”
I put my drink on the bar and began disrobing. “Don’t get excited, guys. You can look, but don’t touch.” With my jacket and shirt off, I dropped my pants to my knees and slowly turned in a full circle. I didn’t hear any whistles, although I knew they wanted to. When I was all rebuttoned, the Chairman spoke again. “Mr. Swanson, we have absolutely no idea who killed Gerry Steadman. I know the police, for reasons unknown to us, think that Mr. Ernhardt was involved, but I can assure you that he wasn’t.”
“Mr. Salinger, I’ve heard you on a tape, appealing to Gerry Steadman for Chinese muscle to help, in your words, to ‘eliminate opposition.’ One of Dickens’s Chinese board members was visiting Cliff Ernhardt the same night that Ernhardt’s employee, Phil Trimmer, was ‘eliminated.’ You telling me that was just a coincidence? We know that Mr. Chen’s driver is a gangster. We know that both he and Chen were in Ottawa the night Phil was tortured and killed. And we know that Phil died from being injected with a Chinese poison. Are you mugs going to keep stonewalling me on this?”
The three of them exchanged looks and there was a long pause. I could swear that the possibility of negotiations was in the air. Then Dickens broke in angrily. “Fuck you, Swanson. You’re an insect, and all you can do is annoy us. Well, I’m annoyed. If I see you again, I’ll swat you like a fucking fly.”
I looked at Ernhardt and the Chairman. Their faces were professionally impassive. I gave them some time to open the door just a crack. Nothing. I made one last try. “Ernhardt, if you help us prove that Dickens’s boys were in town the night of Steadman’s murder, it might let you off the hook.”
“Goddamn you, Swanson!” Dickens took a step toward me. But only one step.
I looked back at Ernhardt and the Chairman. They were both looking at Dickens. I gave them lots of time to say something. Anything. They didn’t. So I did. “Well, gentlemen, I came in the spirit of reconciliation. There has been a failure to reciprocate. Let the hostilities resume.”
I left by the front door, and as I was walking down the driveway to where I’d left the bike, a black SUV appeared from behind the house. I mounted the bike and turned left out of the driveway. The SUV followed. I realized, with a sense of apprehension verging on panic, that my bike was not only considerably outweighed by the SUV, it was considerably slower.
I turned off Ernhardt’s street onto a less residential feeder road, and the SUV drew closer. Just as I was considering ditching the bike and taking off on foot, I came abreast of a mall. Wheeling into the parking lot, I searched for some sort of terrain where my bike might have an advantage. There were no dirt hills or ravines, but there was a set of stairs leading up to the mall’s second level. I gunned the bike up the stairs, earning a thumbs-up from a couple of teenagers, and exited the mall on the opposite side. The SUV was nowhere in sight, but just to be safe, on the way back to my hideout I detoured through two parks and a schoolyard.
I spent a restless night at the hideout and in the morning was faced with a decision. My flight home wasn’t until three in the afternoon, so I had plenty of time to see Stala if I wanted to. But did I want to? I hadn’t really learned much, and he’d probably be upset at my meeting with the Committee. In the end, I decided that I owed Stala an update and he couldn’t arrest me for meeting with Ottawa’s most upstanding citizens.
At one that afternoon I phoned for a cab to police headquarters. Stala received me with a sort of resigned surprise. When I told him about the meeting, he rolled his eyes. “If you keep doing that,” I said, “your eyes will stay that way and then you’ll have to wear dark glasses and learn to play the guitar.”
Stala ignored my warning. “So, did you get any of those characters to confess?”
“Not exactly. But there’s a potential split there between Dickens and the other two. I just didn’t have the tools to exploit it.”
“Well, at least you tried,” Stala said. “And you never know: you might have planted the seeds of something. By the way, the prints that the Richmond RCMP sent of Sun Li Feng didn’t match anything from either of the murder scenes.”
We sat and cogitated for a while and then I said I needed a police escort to the airport. Stala almost rolled his eyes, but just sighed and got up and put on his jacket. Just before I entered the secure area, he said, “Who’s going to watch you on the other end?”
I hadn’t thought of that. It hadn’t quite sunk in that Ollie Swanson cou
ld be personally threatened on his home turf. “I’ll make a call,” I said as I waved goodbye. In the waiting room I phoned Danny, thinking no one would dare tackle two Swansons. He said he’d meet me when I got in. Which, five hours later, I did and he did.
There was a bit of a traffic jam leaving the airport, and as we sat in Danny’s truck, he said, “Okay, threat assessment. It looks like these guys have killed two people, they’ve threatened you and your family, and Louise informs me that they’ve got ties to gangs in this area. How seriously do we have to take this? Should we send Oshie and the kids up to Sointula?”
The question made me uncomfortable. Up to now, the threat had always seemed sort of hypothetical, and my safety precautions had been in the spirit of better safe than sorry. But now the threat loomed closer out of the fog of uncertainty, and I felt increasingly nervous. I didn’t want to pull the kids out of school, and, most of all, I didn’t want to admit to Oshie that I’d been downplaying the risks. I dithered. “Let me think about it. I’ll call you in the morning.”
After supper, I sat on the back patio and mulled things over. From mulling to mindlessness was not far to go. It wasn’t long before all my thoughts fled like seagulls, and I was staring at them as they soared and glided across the horizon. They refused to return to roost in my brain. The evening sky imagined our fate.
Seventeen
IN THE MORNING I TOOK the kids to school and then went back to the house to drink coffee and try to convince myself that everything would be okay. I could hear the Barely Brothers banging away in the basement, but I knew I couldn’t keep them hanging around forever. Oshie could tell something was bothering me, but she always gave me the space to work things out. She sat opposite me at the kitchen table, paying bills and sorting through the mail. Occasionally she would smile and tap the back of my hand with her pencil. Just when I was about to decide to think seriously about making a decision, there was a knock on the door followed by a loud “Anybody home?” and Danny and Louise walked into the kitchen.
The Fourth Betrayal Page 18