“Oh, I don’t go to school anymore. Fitch said it was a waste of time, that I’d learn a lot more working for him.”
“Fitch!” Glenda hit me on the arm with a menu.
“What?” I said. “I never.”
Ellie winked, full of mischief. “I’m busting your balls. No school this week so I’ve been helping out ol’ Fitchy here.”
Glenda hit Ellie on the arm with a menu, twice.
Ellie shot Glenda a wounded look. “What’d I do, lady?”
15
- Taffy, good buddy.
- Hey, Fitch.
- Long time no talk.
- I guess. Listen, I—
- What gives? You don’t sound your usual jovial self. Bad time for a chat?
- Yeah, I’m a little stressed. Vacation starts today. Bahamas.
- By yourself?
- Nah, with the wife.
- Oh. Still should be fun.
- Yeah, if we can get to the airport.
- What do you mean?
- Ah, my no-good cousin just called to say he can’t give us a ride to the airport no more. His appendix or something. Being rushed to the hospital yadda yadda. I swear that thing’s ruptured a few times already.
- Can’t you take a cab?
- Nah, the wife hates to fly and thinks if a stranger drops us off we’re more likely to snuff it in a crash. I can’t figure it, but it’s always got to be someone we know.
- Taffy. Buddy.
- Yeah?
- Come on.
- What, you?
- Yeah, of course. Anything for an old friend.
- You serious?
- Absolutely. Except I only got the tow rig, so I’ll have to use your car.
- Fitch, you’re a lifesaver. Three o’clock, okay?
- I’ll be there.
The drive to the airport was uneventful, as far as traffic went. As far as the mood in the car, it was a battlefield and I had to keep my head low so as not to get hit by a stray bullet. Taffy and his wife were the kind of career soldiers that wore camouflage and hid in bunkers and sniped at each other over familiar territory that made precious little sense to anybody else.
“You said you packed it.”
“You didn’t pack it?”
“You said you would.”
“I never.”
“You did.”
“You didn’t even use it last time.”
“Well, what if I want to this time?”
“Then why didn’t you pack it?”
“I asked you to.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Their war was truly hell, endless and circular in nature. I probably didn’t help matters much when, in the few silences there were, I shared lurid details from an article about plane crashes I’d read a few months back. Taffy kept shooting me stern glances from the front passenger seat. “Shut up, Fitch,” he’d say, low, under his breath and then scramble to interrupt with a random observation, anything to steer the conversation in a different direction, far away from his wife’s flying phobia.
“Well, will you look at that coat she’s got on…”
“On vacation for ten minutes and he’s already lookin’ at other women. Wait until we get to the beach.”
“I’m not lookin’ at her I’m only sayin’ it’s a nice coat.”
“So you don’t like any of my coats?”
“Of course, but you don’t have one like that.”
“And why’s that?”
“Let me guess: because I don’t buy you one.”
“No, because I’m not a whore.”
It was good times.
So good that when I pulled Taffy’s car up to the departure’s drop-off he looked like he already needed a vacation from the vacation. I was pretty satisfied with my efforts on that front. Taffy took all the bags out of the trunk, then leaned in the window and handed me a two-dollar bill.
“Be a pal and top it up, okay? That way when we get back it’s a full tank.”
“Pook,” I said. “You can count on me.”
“Thanks, Fitch. And be care—”
I didn’t hear the rest. I was too busy popping the clutch and speeding away with a screech of tires and a plume of exhaust. Frankly, I’d been surprised Taffy let me use his car again, what with our history. But I’d been lucky and caught him at an opportune moment when his need was big and his options were few.
So, yes, Taffy, you can count on me…to do the opposite.
I drove the car for another two hours, revving the engine, peeling the tires, having a blast, until the engine sputtered to a stop on Royal Avenue in The Royal City, New Westminster. I parked it best I could, got out, walked three blocks to the nearest payphone, flipped through the yellow pages hanging there and dialed the number for A-One Towing, Rolly’s old company. A few minutes later and the dispatcher said she’d send someone right out. I walked back to Taffy’s car, enjoying the cool evening air and the feel of pavement under my feet. My recent stint indoors hadn’t been good for my constitution or my waistline and the ol’ 1-2-right-left felt good, redeeming.
As I reached the car, I checked the scene. Sure, I could work with it. I ruffled my hair, undid a few buttons on my shirt and loosened my tie. I took the money, including Taffy’s two-dollar bill, out of my wallet and tucked the bills into my sock. I reached in the window and flicked on the headlights and sat on the curb, at the edge of the light, knowing it would make me look even more pathetic and desperate. I put on my best forlorn face and waited.
Five minutes later, the tow truck pulled over in front of Taffy’s car and the driver stepped out. He was a little shorter than me, wearing overalls shiny and stiff with grease and oil and had a peaked cap perched on his head. Said his name was Tucker and asked if I was okay. I muttered a quiet “Depends who you ask” and played the part. I had my head in my hands. I was losing. Life was winning. He seemed to buy what I was selling and hooked up the car with practiced efficiency.
“If you just sign here,” he said, approaching with a clipboard.
“About that.”
“Buddy, come on. Dispatcher said you’d be paying cash.”
I turned out empty pockets, an empty wallet. “I got nothin’, pal. I’m tapped. Ran out of gas and can’t afford to get home.”
“You know I gotta take this to the yard now, right?”
“I know.”
“You can get your sled out when you got the dough. The bill’s gonna be steep though.”
“Sure, I love running uphill. Fall down, you get to the bottom real quick.”
“Sorry, pal.”
“Not your fault I’m a loser on a losin’ streak.”
“The least I can do is get you home.”
“How about my Gastown local? I got a tab I can pile another whisky onto before it topples like a house of cards.”
He thought about it. I kept my head down while he did so. “Into Vancouver? Sure, why not? I could use a drive. And if you want to try and drown your sorrows with booze it’s no skin off my nose. I ain’t your mother. Hop in.”
I got in the front seat and shut the door. He got in and started driving, turning right on 8th Street and heading us back towards Vancouver.
“That Rolly was quite a character,” I said. “May he rest in peace.”
“That he was,” said Tucker. “You knew him?”
“Nah. Only by reputation. Who bought him out?”
“Some outfit out of Manitoba. Fell Brothers, Inc.” He gave me a side glance then looked back at the road. “You a reporter or somethin’? Awful curious.”
“Sorry, pal, didn’t mean to bend your ear so it hurt. Only makin’ conversation. Along with no gas money, no more real friends anymore either.” I stared out the window. I played the sad sack. I let him bring it up like I suspected he would.
“Havin’ a rough go of it, eh?”
“Buddy, you ain’t kiddin’. There is not a defeat
I can’t snatch from the jaws of victory these days.” I listed my recent accomplishments: broke, no job, no prospects, ditched by fiancé for a rich lawyer-type.
We drove in silence for a few minutes. Then he reached over, cracked open the glovebox and handed me a pamphlet from a stack of pamphlets inside.
“Listen,” he said, “I can’t vouch for these people, but I hear good things. They might be able to help you.”
I opened up the pamphlet. It was slick and glossy, professionally done.
Becoming a Disciple of the Sacred Glow means becoming part of our family.
A family that watches TV together, stays together.
Let the warmth of the glow soothe your troubled soul.
I wanted to shout, “Bingo!” but played it cucumber cool.
I had Tucker drop me off a block down from the Four Corners. Time to stretch my legs, my brain. I told him my local was around the corner and hopped out at a red light. He wished me good luck and drove away fast on the green, Taffy’s car trailing behind, leaving me alone on the sidewalk. Tucker wasn’t a bad guy. Only trying to do his job, make a buck or two while he did so and follow the new regime’s orders. He told me there was a cash bonus for any recruit that came to a DSG meeting and said a certain driver referred them. Said it made him uncomfortable but who couldn’t use some more cash, right, buddy? I couldn’t disagree with him. Had it worked out another way, I would’ve called the number on the pamphlet and checked out a meeting. Let Tucker get his reward and see what Janssen was up to. But part of my “let’s empty out Taffy’s gas tank” adventure had been a quick drive past the Brasher warehouse and it was locked-up tight from the looks of it. I didn’t dare get closer, not yet, but it seemed Janssen and his cronies had gone to ground.
I wondered if it was some other play? Did he sense me out there, looking for him? It was impossible to say. Certainly, I knew some things but not enough to hurt him. Not really. I had pieces of ragged supposition chipped from a square block of wild imagination. He had two brute henchmen and a network of tow truck drivers and former winos turned upstanding card-carrying members of the Disciples of the Sacred Glow. What I couldn’t figure, other than the God complex he clearly possessed, was what purpose the whole racket served. Damn sure had to be easier ways to be admired and make a buck at the same time.
Instead of heading for home, I decided to slap some shoe leather against Gastown concrete, a tried-and-true tradition. My head was spinning like a top and a walk usually helped it slow to a stop so I didn’t get too dizzy. And I was in no rush to get home. I had time. My main play on the Janssen front had a complete script but I needed the curtain to open and the spotlight to shine. Having identified three funerals in the obituaries I thought Janssen might be likely to show up at to perform his schtick, the next part was competing in the waiting game. I’d struck out so far and the last funeral of the three was tomorrow afternoon, so until then I had nowhere in particular to be.
My walk brought me to a slice of city where waves from the boats in the Burrard Inlet lapped up against concrete barrier wall and the blue-and-red flashing lights from the roof of the police cruiser cast an eerie spell. The crime scene was taped off and I stood as close as I could get, among a small group of night owl gossipy types. True to form, they were very informative. It seemed a body had just been pulled from the water after getting caught up in the net of a fishing trawler. Seemed it had probably been in the water for a couple of days.
“Homicide?” I asked the guy closest to me.
He nodded and said he overheard whispers that the corpse had been ventilated several times post-mortem with a blade so it wouldn’t be a floater.
My mouth went dry. “Gruesome business.”
“You said it, pal. And someone ripped out all his teeth, too. Way I heard it, he’s got nothin’ but gums and exposed nerves.”
A plainclothes cop flashed a badge our way. “Hey, lookie loos, move on, why dontcha? Police business.”
I moved on but only as far as the nearest alley mouth, where I lurked, seeing what I could see. It seemed while I was waiting for the right funeral, Janssen was making one of his own, one that served his ends, whatever those may be. I caught a glimpse of the ventilated corpse as they removed it from the water and it sure looked a lot like the guy I’d happened to sit next to at the warehouse when I first discovered the DSG and Janssen as Quincy Quest. The nervous guy. The one sitting right beside me, who definitely would’ve heard me call the man billing himself as Quest “Janssen” just like Mrs. Brasher said.
I wasn’t a betting man, per se, but my money would be on him having been the old lady’s “molar.” Ironic, considering he had none anymore. I shuddered at what his last moments must’ve been like. Janssen was getting more vicious, more brazen. But was he spinning out of control or in a controlled turn, getting ever closer to his goal?
And then there was the fact that Mrs. Brasher had gone into the mansion and not been heard from again, at least as far as I could find. I’d swung by the Sylvia Hotel on my way to New Westminster and they said she’d checked out several days ago. But according to the front desk the guy that checked her out must’ve been a new assistant of hers because it wasn’t the chauffeur and he didn’t seem to know much about Mrs. Brasher. Taffy’s car idling outside to burn more gas, I’d quickly asked, “This new assistant wear a Fedora, look like a bulldog and have a limp?” and the desk clerk nodded.
Now, watching the cops zip the body bag closed, I gulped. Janssen was removing rotten teeth, both figuratively and literally. Was I next?
16
The cabbie gave me a quizzical look through the rearview mirror when I told him Shaughnessy and to make it snappy. “Nice neighbourhood,” he said, obviously not thinking I belonged south of Broadway.
“It’s okay,” I said, winking. “If you don’t mind tiny houses.”
“Oh yeah, you’re Richie Rich, huh?”
“Can’t you tell?”
He lifted his head to get a more comprehensive look in the rearview. “In them rags, no.”
“How do you think I got so rich? By not spending dough on fancy clothes, that’s how.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do say. Everything’s invested in the market. Bulls and bears, you bet.”
The cabbie said something about me only lookin’ like I had potatoes in a vegetable market but it was mostly under his breath so I didn’t press him for clarification. He was not impressed by my financial jargon. Though what he lacked in imagination he made up for with an extremely heavy lead foot. Plus, he must’ve been colour blind because several of those lights were extremely yellow. But who was I to judge? We made it to Shaughnessy in record time.
I had him turn right off Granville Street on to 33rd Ave and told him here was good. I handed over the fare. He made a sour face.
“Now I know you’re loaded,” he said.
“Oh yeah, how’s that,” I asked, one foot out the back door.
“Because you must be savin’ a lot of dough there, too. You tip for dog shit, Jack.”
I stepped out. The cab sped off.
I walked the remaining blocks, approaching the Brasher mansion from the side, hidden from view by the giant hedge surrounding the property. I’d learned from my past indiscretion of parking a tow truck with my name on it down the street and hoped this venture would be more on the sly side. Though I was counting heavily on Janssen’s continued belief in my stupidity and pigheadedness in order to pull this caper off.
Until earlier today, I’d been zero for two on funerals and hoping the third time was a charm. And it was. Twenty minutes ago, Ellie had called me to say, yes, Janssen and his doggies, Butch and Reynold, had shown up at the funeral home in Hugo’s Lincoln Continental. Wouldn’t sound like much to an outsider not in the know, but for me it was headline material and exactly the news I was waiting to hear.
“No one’s sticking with the car? No driver?”
“Nah, the on
e with no neck drove and they all went inside a few minutes ago.”
“Fat city. So you know what to do?”
“Have Ichabod tow the Lincoln.” I’d asked Ellie if she knew anyone who could help and Ichabod was the first name off her lips.
“He know how to tow a car?” I asked.
“I’ll run him through it,” said Ellie. “Not to worry.”
“Make sure and scoot down in the seat. No need for you to get mixed up in this.”
“Get? Aren’t I already? By the way, my mother kinda hates you right now.”
“She found out?”
“Yeah. But she knew she’d never convince me not to go, so instead, once she found out Ichabod was going with me, she okayed it.”
“Phew.”
“So, don’t get caught but do try and make enough of a scene that they see our rig, the one with your name on it?”
“Exactly.”
“Do we need their car or is this to piss them off?”
“The latter, mostly. And what do you do when that happens?”
“We drive like hell and stash the car somewhere in the sticks.”
“You’re a star.”
“Two weeks and this is what you came up with, huh? Plan A?”
“And B and C.”
“And I’m fourteen years old, you know that, right?”
“But you’ve got the resourcefulness and the coffee habit of a 40-year-old.”
Ellie grumbled a “Sure, whatever you say, daddio” and hung up the phone.
I hightailed it to a cab and now here I was, about to sneak in the Brasher mansion knowing the master and his hounds were away for at least an hour or so. Maybe more, considering they’d have no car to drive home.
I needed an entry point and figured the rear of the property might be the best chance. I walked slowly along the sidewalk—whistling, nothing to see here, simply a guy with no money in clothes and all in the vegetable market going about his day—until I saw a small gap in the hedge. Not much of one, merely a glimpse of light on the other side. It would have to do. I knew success would hinge on a combination of will and velocity. I took a two-step windup and bolted for the gap, crashing past branches, leaves and several thick spider webs, only disturbing a scurrying animal or three on my way through.
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