Cut You Down

by Sam Wiebe

  Pahwa reached through the window and passed Kay the black leather wallet my mother had given Kay for her birthday.

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” Pahwa said to her, smiling. “You put up with male bullshit for so long, you almost forget. Almost.”

  She walked back inside. Kay began explaining how she’d left the wallet on purpose, knowing if she insulted Baker it would be Pahwa who’d bring it out to her. “I know it was a gamble but you’re always saying go with your instinct, so I did, and—”

  “When you get tired of being right,” I said, “you can drive us to the school. Coffee and apology’s on me.”

  Thirteen

  We wanted to see Paul Mastellotto after lunch, but were told by the instructor sharing his office that he didn’t teach Tuesdays. Mastellotto would be in tomorrow after class.

  “I’d come early,” the instructor said, taking down my name. “This close to midterms, His Eminence always has a lineup.”

  Dana Essex’s office was down one floor in the English department. Her door was locked. I phoned her as we headed to the car, but didn’t leave a message. On the drive back to Vancouver, she returned my call.

  “Sorry,” she said in lieu of salutation.

  “Were you in class?”

  “No, just indisposed. Has there been any news?”

  I filled her in on the investigation, leaving out for the moment the darker possibilities.

  “What do you know about Paul Mastellotto?” I asked.

  “He’s an instructor here. But you probably knew that. He’s ABD—all but dissertation. Meaning he doesn’t have his doctorate.”

  “What’s he like as a human being?” I asked. “Good guy? Sleazebag? Popular with the kids?” Essex didn’t respond. “All three?”

  “He’s very passionate,” she said tactfully. “Some students appreciate that about him.”

  “And the rest?”

  “I’ve heard complaints.”

  “Sexual?”

  “No,” she said, almost scoffing at the word. “Just that he has very strong political convictions, and doesn’t perhaps enjoy the dialogic element of teaching.”

  “Meaning the back-and-forth? He more of a this-is-how-it-is type?”

  “And as I said, some students are very drawn to that.”

  “Anyway, I’m talking to him tomorrow afternoon. Might see you on campus.” I hesitated. “There’s a good chance we’ll find Tabitha, and this whole thing will be over nothing. She’ll be on a Greenpeace barge, or backpacking through the Ardennes, or whatever twentysomething kids do.”

  “I got the impression,” Essex said, “that you yourself were recently of that age group.”

  “I’m thirty,” I said, “but I’m not exactly in step with people my age. Ever read William Gibson?”

  “I’m somewhat familiar.”

  “He has that line in Neuromancer, ‘Don’t let the little shits generation-gap you.’”

  “Right. So?”

  “Well, they generation-gapped me.”

  Essex’s laughter seemed to contain surprise at its own existence.

  “I have confidence you’ll find Tabitha and that everything will be all right,” Essex said.

  “I’ll try to keep my billable hours low.”

  “See you tomorrow, Dave.”

  Fourteen

  Back at head office, I commandeered the boardroom, opened a company laptop, and researched Dalton and Cody Hayes.

  Both brothers still lived in their parents’ three-story house in Abbotsford, a fifteen-minute drive from the subdivision where Tabitha’s father lived. Dalton had been arrested twice for possession with intent. Months ago he’d been shot at in the drive-through of a Dairy Queen. The bulletproof windows of his Cayenne Turbo had saved him. There’d been another attempt, where an associate of his had died, shot three times at a strip club in Surrey. Dalton had made it out unscathed. No one was in custody for either shooting.

  Cody had served six months for aggravated assault and dodged another complaint. He’d been implicated in a nightclub incident where three people were wounded. No witnesses, despite the crowd, and the victims couldn’t ID him. Or wouldn’t—the news articles seemed to imply the victims feared speaking out.

  Brains and muscle, and both living with their parents. Their father taught high school gym. Their mom had been a teller at a credit union before taking early retirement. Dalton was thirty-one, a few months older than me, and Cody a couple years younger. I found myself wondering, if I’d had a few more advantages early in life, would I have ended up like them.

  Spoiled kids these days, wanting everything and wanting it now: I could see the appeal of that line of thinking. I thought of my small office on Pender, which in a few months would be dismantled, the building pulled apart and carted off in pieces. Condos filled with wealthy singles and their pedigreed dogs would stand in its place.

  So where do you go, and what do you do, when the world has no place for you? When the idea of owning a home, the cornerstone of your parents’ security, is only a cruel joke?

  To live in Vancouver in the twenty-teens, and maybe to live anywhere, you had to accept two facts. That you lived in the best possible period of history, and that it wasn’t going to last. That didn’t excuse gangsterism, but the Hayes brothers might have sensed that the middle-class stability their parents preached wouldn’t be there for them. Not the way drugs would. And when even that began to change—well, at a certain point, you figure out what you’re willing to die for.

  I stood up and stretched, trod down the hall to Jeff’s office. For once he was alone.

  “I need you to talk me out of doing something stupid,” I said.

  “What else am I here for?”

  I sat down and outlined to him the direction the Sorenson case had taken, the roadblock waiting for me in Abbotsford.

  “You have the address for these brothers?” Jeff opened a drawer and began pulling out wallet and keys. “Through Burnaby’s probably the fastest route there.”

  “I can’t ask you to go with me,” I said.

  “Didn’t you get beat up, last time you pulled something like this by yourself?” When I didn’t answer: “I wasn’t getting much done today anyway.”

  Ten minutes later we were in the elevator, going down. Jeff paused at the entrance to the parking garage, noticing a figure between us and the company van.

  “Was hoping to avoid him,” Jeff muttered. To the man he said, “Hello, Tim.”

  Arms crossed, his sunburnt wrists emerging from the confines of a cheap tan suit, Tim Blatchford looked as if he’d be more comfortable wearing pelts. Taller and wider than me, Blatchford had the look of a brawny primitive dropped into modern society. Last I’d heard, he’d been working for Aries, one of our less than reputable competitors.

  Blatchford said to Jeff, “We had an appointment.”

  “You asked to see me,” Jeff corrected, “and my assistant told you I was busy.”

  “‘Mr. Chen is very busy but he’ll try to fit you in.’ That’s how the geezer put it. Hiring senior citizens, that could only be a Jefferson Chen penny-pinching scheme.” Talking to me, he said, “And when I asked for you, that nice old piece of prune-tang said, ‘Mr. Wakeland is currently indisposed.’ That right, Dave? You look plenty disposed to me.”

  “What do you want, Tim?” I asked.

  He rubbed the rim of his nostrils. “Job, of course. What else? I figured since we all used to be close, you could spread some of that wealth around.”

  “Are you licensed?”

  “Think my ticket lapsed.”

  “Lapsed, or was taken away?”

  “Does it matter?” His belligerent expression mellowed into a confident smirk. “You and Jeff sign me on, the licensing board’ll print me another.”

  “We’ll think on it,” Jeff said. “Leave us your number.”

  Blatchford pointed at Jeff but spoke to me. “’Bout what I ’spected outta him. How ’bout you, Dave? Your first years, who
was it showed you the ropes?”

  It was true. I’d been in limbo after resigning from the police. It had been Tim Blatchford who’d helped steer me toward the PI business. Who’d taught me what to do, and shown me by example what not to.

  “How ’bout it?” he said. “You know I’m a worker and I’ll hustle my own cases. Just the ticket and insurance is all I need.”

  I looked at Jeff. Jeff shook his head.

  “No,” I told Blatchford.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a joint decision. Jeff’s not on board.”

  “Don’t put this on him,” Blatchford said. “You won’t go to bat for me and I want to know why. Don’t hold back on account of my feelings.”

  “Because we don’t need you,” I said. “Because you’re a liability. Because waiting down here for Jeff is your idea of tact. Because you’re only listening to this so in a minute you can make a point about how it’s us that’ve changed, and not you that stopped caring.”

  He made a show of pressing his knuckles into the van’s side mirror and flaring his nostrils. “I’m better than the pair a you put together and you both fucking know it.”

  “You’re right,” Jeff said. “We’re sorry we can’t accommodate you. Best of luck, Tim.”

  “That’s tact,” Blatchford said to me. He removed an orange pill vial from his jacket and poured its contents down his throat. I noticed the scars on his cheeks and hands, his forehead a latticework of pink slashes beneath the suntan. He hobbled past us, toward the door.

  “You did change,” he said.

  Jeff’s face was impassive, but his eyes followed Blatchford’s back. Once he was gone, I unlocked the van.

  “Would it really hurt us, helping him out?”

  Jeff shook his head. “Just ’cause we started with him doesn’t mean we owe him. He’s too aggressive for this business. Anyone who spends his weekends getting smacked in the head with a chair for fifty bucks lacks common sense.” He started the engine. “And anyways, you can’t save guys like that. They drag you down.”

  We rolled up the ramp into a bright rectangle of sunlight. I half-expected to see Tim Blatchford waiting for us on the sidewalk. He was gone, though. Another ghost with claims on the future.

  Fifteen

  Ridgewood Crescent was the name of both the street and the subdivision. Narrow houses on yardless tracts filled the winding cul-de-sac. No ridge, no wood. Traffic from the freeway lent a baritone rumble to the still neighborhood.

  We drove a slow loop around the crescent. No cars in the driveway of unit 14. Parked opposite the house, on the curb, we saw a black sedan. Its windows were tinted and I couldn’t see inside.

  “Cop car,” I said, pointing at the exposed spokes on the wheels. Police vehicles didn’t have hubcaps, due to the fear they might fly off during pursuit. Even unmarked cars were easy to spot by the absence of chrome on the tires.

  We rolled past, stopping three car lengths up the street. The front door of unit 14 was just in our sightline. Jeff killed the engine.

  “Doesn’t look like they’re home,” he said.

  “Someone is.” I pointed to the lights on in the upper window on the side.

  “Think the Hayeses know the cops are set up on their house?”

  “Might be the point.”

  Jeff opened the takeaway bag from Budgie’s on Kingsway. He unpeeled and bit into his burrito. He said through a mouthful of cabbage and cheese, “What d’you think their connection is with Tabitha?”

  “I had to hazard a guess, I’d say she went to them with money. She had access to millions in clean currency.”

  “And then what—double cross?”

  “It’s possible. They’re both gang-connected.”

  “You bring your gun?”

  The question surprised me. Jeff knew I’d bought a pistol last year during another case. He hadn’t approved. Our security guards had firearms, and we were both licensed, but guns had never sat easy with Jefferson Chen.

  I shook my head and pulled the Maglite out of the passenger’s side footwell.

  “Gonna swat bullets away with that?”

  “We’re just asking friendly questions,” I told him and myself. “No need for things to escalate.”

  We waited twenty minutes. Nothing disturbed the stillness of the street. At five I nodded to Jeff and opened the car door.

  “What’s our play?” Jeff asked as walked up the drive.

  “Let’s try the direct approach.”

  “Honesty,” he said. “Something different, at least.”

  We stepped onto the ratty welcome mat and I rang the buzzer. Discordant chimes went off inside the house.

  Jeff nudged my shoulder and pointed toward his feet. Beneath our shoes the letters on the mat spelled F C RIGH FF. I shifted my right foot and uncovered a K.

  “Fuck right off,” Jeff said.

  The door was opened by an old woman carrying an axe.

  Her clawed bare feet stuck out from beneath what looked like a nylon kimono. She was tall and solidly built, her hair dyed a blackish red and piled up in a sloppy bun. Her face showed pissed-off curiosity, wondering who’d dare intrude. The axe was new, still price-stickered, and she carried it with a fist clutched below the head, as if the blade was the fancy ornament to a dandy’s walking stick.

  “Yuh-huh?” she said to Jeff and I.

  “Mrs. Hayes?” I asked. “We’re looking to speak to your sons.”

  Her expression melted into a sneer.

  “We’re looking for a young woman who went to high school with Cody. If we could—”

  “You fuckers leave or I’m calling the cops.”

  I craned my neck and looked at the unmarked car across the street, wary of a sudden broadside from the axe.

  “We could walk over to them,” I said.

  She followed my gaze. A momentary confusion settled on her, as she worked out who would ask for her sons and know the police but not be associated with either. Jeff solved it for her by holding up his card.

  “We’re private investigators, Mrs. Hayes.”

  “Hold it closer.” He did and she squinted and read off his name, her lips moving.

  “You remember Tabitha Sorenson?” I asked.

  “Nope.” She spoke quickly before the recollection hit her. “Oh, you’re talking about Mitch’s kid.”

  “That’s right. She’s missing and I wanted to ask your sons for their help.”

  “They don’t know her,” Mrs. Hayes snapped. “That’s years ago, anyway. What happened to her?”

  “What we’re trying to find out.”

  She nodded at the cop car. “Should catch real criminals, ’stead of framing my boys. Making ’em look bad.”

  “Where are they tonight?” I asked.

  “Fuck you’s where.”

  I was tempted to ask directions. Fortunately Jeff said, “If we could talk to them for five minutes we could clear this up and maybe help the Sorensons.”

  “Full of themselves,” she said. “Too fuckin’ good for us, ’specially that new wife of his. Little Miss Big Time.”

  “Tabitha is still missing,” Jeff said delicately.

  Mrs. Hayes seemed flummoxed, caught between resentment and sympathy and matriarchal protection. Not caught for long, though.

  “My kids are good kids,” she said. “They should be allowed to play their games same’s anyone else, ’thout people casting ’spersions on them. Like you’re doing.”

  “No aspersions,” Jeff said. He handed his card to her. “We just want to find Tabitha.”

  She struck the door with the head of the axe and it swung shut.

  As we walked back to the van, I thought I saw a red light blinking behind the tinted windshield of the unmarked car. I nodded in its direction.

  “Guess that could’ve gone better,” Jeff said. “Think she’s put that axe to use?”

  “Wouldn’t put it past her.”

  “It looked new. Meaning maybe she wore out her last one.”<
br />
  We entered the van. Jeff had another bite of his burrito. “Home?” he asked.

  “‘Play their games the same as anyone else,’” I repeated. “Kind of games you think she means?”

  “Christ, Dave, she’s not the fucking Riddler.”

  I plugged an address into the van’s GPS.

  “Let’s take a look here, and if we don’t see anything, we’ll go home.”

  “This is your show,” Jeff said.

  The Fun Time Palace was five minutes down the highway, a dilapidated, selectively maintained arcade and mini-golf built a quarter-century ago. Caution tape and maintenance signs were strung across the go-kart track. A covered walkway led over a bridge to a front entrance beneath a plastic facade of castle turrets and spires.

  “Think I was here for a kid’s birthday once,” I told Jeff as we circled the parking lot. “Looks about the same.”

  “Guess every town’s got to have a place for high school kids to get drunk on the weekends,” Jeff said. “Aw, shit, look.”

  Parked across two spaces near the entrance was a Cayenne Turbo.

  Sixteen

  Just inside the arcade we found a concession booth and ticket stand, stuffed animals and bags of popcorn shelved behind the cashier. The overhead lights were dim, illumination supplied by the neon piping along the walls. Machines for buying and spending tokens spewed noise and light as we passed. Street Fighter II, Cruis’n USA. Clusters of teens and ironic young men danced and drove and shot dinosaurs and blew up Russian tanks.

  “Bad Dudes,” Jeff said. “Remember that one?”

  Near the entrance to the batting cages, a half-dozen men were gathered in an alcove, drinking and talking loudly. They were arranged around a punching machine, where for two tokens you could swing at a speed bag suspended from a metal bar and it would tell you how strong you were.

  I motioned for Jeff to hang back as I approached. They were all in their late twenties or early thirties, wearing matching black shirts with THRIVE OR DIE in gold glitter on the chest. Two wore black bandanas. The largest wore camouflage pants and a bulletproof vest over his shirt. This was Cody Hayes.