by Jack Batten
“Long as you’re joining me, pal,” I said, striving to come up to the spirit of the occasion.
“Russian again?”
“Or Polish.”
Bam left on the drinks run. With the door shut, the office was satisfyingly quiet after the roar of the room outside. And it was cooler. Truong, behind his desk, eyes on me, was on the frigid side himself. Or was it just a higher level of inscrutability?
“What’s happening, Mr. Crang?” he said.
“Beginning to talk like your boss, Truong,” I said. “‘What’s happening?’”
“I haven’t liked the sense of you,” he said.
“I think Bam would phrase that ‘bad vibrations’.”
“You give me the impression of a man practising concealment,” Truong said. The guy was single-minded. Also accurate.
“Well, I have my little secrets,” I said. “Don’t we all?”
Truong came quickly out of his chair. He took two steps to the old iron safe in the corner, and began to spin the combination dials.
“Was it something I said?” I asked.
Truong didn’t answer. He opened the safe door and removed two long, narrow leather something or others. Truong tugged his shirt outside his trousers and buckled one of the leather things around his waist. It was a money belt, a belt with small buttoned pockets for holding bills. Truong buckled the second belt above the first and tucked in his shirt. He shut the safe door, and reset the combination.
“Can hardly tell there’s anything under there,” I said. “Under your shirt.”
Nothing from Truong. I might as well not have been in the room. He was examining the top of his desk. It was the usual jumble of documents and record books. Truong picked up his pocket calculator and put it in an obvious spot. In his pocket. That was all he picked up. He adjusted his shirt, walked past me, and went out the door.
I got up from my chair and went around Truong’s desk. It wasn’t the desk I cared about. Or the safe. It was the window behind the desk, the window that wasn’t painted over. I eased back the black blind an inch or two and peeked out. The window looked into the street. I could see the two men on the gate. I could see two swell-looking couples strolling toward the gate. I couldn’t see anything else. No cops. No vehicles that might be unmarked police cars. Good. It was too early for the raid. I still had a lot to get done in the booze can. A lot to get done? I had everything to get done. All I’d accomplished so far was watch Truong go through an act that looked like he was taking it on the lam.
Big Bam returned. He was balancing three glasses in his two hands. Behind him, the boom and thump of good times trailed into the office. Bam closed the door. Relative silence again.
“Where’s Truong?” Bam asked.
“Think he’s gone to make a bank deposit,” I said.
Bam laughed. I didn’t think he took me seriously. He settled in his chair with a Scotch. I had my vodka. Truong’s soft drink sat fizzing among the papers on his desk.
“Basically,” Big Bam said, lifting his glass, “we’re getting it on for some business here, you and me, Crang, but nobody said we can’t party at the same time.”
“Business simultaneous with pleasure.”
“I can relate to that.”
“About the cocaine,” I said. “The four kilos. They’re on the way with a third party.”
“Anybody I know?”
“No, but you’re gonna love Darnell.”
“I’m gonna love the delivery,” Big Bam said. “After, I may love Darnell.”
“Delivery’s always tricky.”
“Tell me about it.”
“For instance,” I said. “The cans over there” —I waved a hand in the direction of the film cans beside the safe—“when Trevor brought you the coke inside them, that was crafty of him. Very original form of delivery.”
“Cute, yeah,” Bam said. He looked at the film cans. “Not so cute when the other cans we had to swipe came up empty.”
“Well, not empty,” I said. “Hell’s Barrio was in there.”
“When I said empty,” Bam said, “I’m talking coke, the four K I was short from Trevor. All the damn film in there doesn’t count.”
“What’d you do with it? The film?”
“Still inside the cans.”
“Admirers of Ray Fenk’s movies will be relieved you didn’t destroy it.”
“Who’s Ray Fenk?”
“The man you took the film cans from.”
“Didn’t take them from a guy,” Bam said. “We took them from a theatre.”
“The Eglinton?”
“Movie place up the north end,” Bam said. “Nice place. I could get it on for a theatre like that.”
I congratulated Bam on his taste. But what I was thinking about was his apparent forgetfulness when it came to Raymond Fenk. He couldn’t remember a guy he bumped off?
“This Ray Fenk,” I said, “he was the man Trevor worked with on the cans, the California end. Fenk put the coke in the cans in Los Angeles. Trevor passed them on to you. You took the coke out.”
“Except for the four kilos.”
“Right,” I said. “But that’s who Ray Fenk is.”
“Guy in Los Angeles.”
“No. From Los Angeles. He’s up here now.”
“What’re we talking about, Crang?”
That was what I was beginning to wonder.
“Maybe,” I said, “about why the four kilos didn’t reach you when they were supposed to.”
“I might be interested in that,” Bam said. “But basically not very interested as long as you’re going to produce them any minute now.”
“I am, I am,” I said. “But, see, Fenk put those last four kilograms in Dave Goddard’s saxophone case. Dave’s a jazz musician. From Toronto. And happened to be in Los Angeles. At the time Trevor’s contact was putting together the shipment. That’d be Fenk.”
I stopped. Big Bam was looking at me as if he had spotted an unidentified, unwelcome, and unnecessary object.
“I never was a vodka man myself,” he said. “What do they put in that stuff you’re drinking anyway?”
Bam smiled at me to show he was kidding, but he was also making the point that my story had so far recorded at zero for him.
“That’s the abridged version,” I said. “What I just told you.”
“Crazy about it, man,” Bam said. “But I don’t think I got the time of night for the whole story.”
“You knew about the cans?” I asked, persisting. “You knew that’s how Trevor was getting the coke to Toronto?”
“Right on,” Bam agreed, though sounding a trifle impatient. “Trevor told me the movies the coke was in. Six of them? Whatever, it didn’t matter, ’cause he brought the cans over here himself, the cans that had the coke inside.”
“Except for Hell’s Barrio.”
“I just told you, Crang,” Bam said, close to getting really fed up. “We had to go to that theatre. Break into the damn place Sunday morning and steal the cans ourselves. Waste of a good break-in, it turned out.”
“Sunday afternoon? This was after you couldn’t get satisfaction from Fenk the day before?”
“What’d I want satisfaction from a guy I never heard of? Trevor’s my man on this deal. I couldn’t get anywhere with him. Couldn’t get him to answer the damn phone.”
“Yeah, but—Saturday afternoon at the Silverdore Hotel, ah . . .”
My voice trailed off.
“What went down Saturday afternoon at the Silverdore?” Big Bam asked.
“Fenk got strangled.”
“No shit.”
Someone stepped into the room behind me. It was Tran. He spoke to Big Bam in Vietnamese. I tuned them out. Was Bam having me on? Just pretending he didn’t know about Fenk’s murder? But the way Bam was talking, he didn’t know who Fenk was. If it was true, if I’d fingered the wrong party for Fenk’s murder, where did that leave me? Up to my eyeballs in trouble was where. Tran and Bam finished their chat, and Tran st
epped back out the door.
“Your deliveryman’s arrived,” Bam said to me.
“Darnell Gant?”
“With a woman.”
“She’s not part of the package.”
“Trevor’s on the scene too,” Bam said. “Outside.”
32
BIG BAM’S OFFICE was a squeeze for five people, particularly when two of the five, Darnell Gant and Trevor Dalgleish, were the far side of giant-size. The woman was no shrimp either. She happened to be the sultry redhead from the Victoria Room. Under the green dress she had a full figure, and in her high heels she made a tall and generous parcel.
“Gentlemen,” Gant said, his arm around the redhead’s waist, “let me present Dale.”
Bam slipped easily into his mine-host posture. He held Dale’s hand briefly and gallantly in his. Gave Gant some variation on a soul brother’s shake. And clapped Trevor on the back.
Trevor was acting wary. I moved around to Truong’s empty chair. That put some distance and a desk between me and Trevor. Whatever was going to happen in the room wasn’t likely to improve his mood or his opinion of me.
Big Bam organized Tran into bringing in two more chairs, and everybody settled down. Dale held a large patent leather purse in her lap, and crossed her legs fetchingly. Tran returned to his post outside the door.
“Where are my manners?” Bam said. He gave himself a mock bap on the forehead. “Drinks for my new guests. What’s you people’s pleasure?”
“Tell you what, Mr. Bam,” Gant said. “First, we talk a little bargain. Second, we celebrate over a big drink.”
“Suits me,” Bam said, and smiled at everyone, looking for the room’s consensus.
“Swell,” I said.
Dale radiated delight. She was about thirty, and seemed pleased as punch at what was going on around her. Or maybe the little-girl expression was permanent with her. Her eyes were the same colour as the emerald dress she wore.
“Don’t let me impose, Bam,” Trevor said, doing his best to project the level-headed side of his personality. “But my impression was that Crang here is going to remedy a certain misunderstanding between yourself and myself.”
“Can it, Trevor,” Gant said. “The floor’s mine.”
“I must insist on being heard,” Trevor said, appealing to Bam. The flush was staging a full-bloom return to his cheeks. “Surely I have priority over Gant.”
“Night’s young, Trevor,” Bam said. “Why not we see where our new visitor with the lovely companion is coming from.”
“From Los Angeles, as a matter of fact,” I said.
“Same as the other guy you were rapping about?” Bam asked me.
“Fenk.”
“This time,” Gant said, “I’m representing only me, and Mr. Bam, I got some eighty-per-cent-pure stuff might be right up your alley.”
“How well you read me,” Bam said.
“Four K of the best,” Gant said.
He turned in his chair to Dale.
“Let’s have the goodies, sweetheart,” he said.
Dale opened the big patent leather purse and withdrew four thin packages wrapped in plain brown paper.
Trevor shot to his feet.
“That’s my cocaine!” he shouted, giving a fine rendition of Mount Vesuvius in eruption.
“Cocaine?” Dale said. “Oh my goodness, Darnell, is that what I’ve been carrying?”
Dale sounded shocked but still retained her starry-eyed expression.
“That,” Trevor repeated, “is my goddamned cocaine.”
“Sit down, Trevor,” Bam said. “I’m the chair, and I’m still recognizing Mr. Gant.”
Trevor sat down. He didn’t look happy about it, and his eyes stuck with the packages of cocaine. His eyes had opened almost as wide as Dale’s.
“I’ll pitch it fast and fair, Mr. Bam,” Gant said, tossing the packages on to Bam’s desk. “Trevor told us down in L.A. you were paying him ten grand a kilo. I can live with the same number if that’s still on the table. Ten?”
“Zowie,” I said.
Gant looked at me.
“What’s with you?” he asked. “Zowie ?”
I said, “I think you just got Trevor in the soup.”
“I fronted Trevor twelve thousand a kilo,” Bam said to Gant. “If he told you ten, he was running a number.”
Big Bam smiled the smile of no menace. He gave the impression he was enjoying the soap opera unfolding in front of him.
I said to Gant, “How much did Trevor pay you guys, you and Fenk, for the coke?”
“Eight thousand per K,” Gant answered. “Said his profit was two grand on every K.”
“All right.” Trevor looked like a guy who’d been holding his breath for a long time. “So I used a small business ploy with you,” he said to Gant. “What did it matter? Eight thousand was a fair price anyway.”
“When did Ray Fenk catch on?” Gant asked Trevor.
“It’s ancient history,” Trevor said. He’d developed his tic with the fists. Clenching and unclenching.
“Yeah,” I said. “Ancient for Fenk as in dead history.”
“Just stop right there, Crang,” Trevor shot at me. “All of this is the product of your insufferable meddling.”
“Boys, boys,” Bam said, tapping his hand on the desk for order, but smiling, getting a kick out of the events in his office.
“You want to answer my question, Trevor?” Gant said. “Or you want a kick in the scrotum?”
“That’s no choice at all,” I said.
“When did Fenk realize I was getting twelve and not ten?” Trevor said, trying for a haughty tone and halfway succeeding. “That should be obvious. It was after he’d handed over the twenty kilograms in the movie cans, but before he did anything about the last four kilos, the ones nobody told me were shipped in the bloody saxophone case.”
“That’s what Fenk meant by his message on your answering machine,” I said to Gant. “He must have found out Trevor was giving you the gears on the price.”
“If you must know,” Trevor said, “it was I who told Fenk about the difference in price.”
“Not too bright of you, Trev,” I said. “Letting it slip out that way.”
“It didn’t slip out, you fool.” Trevor was mounting another head of steam. “I was trying to strike a new arrangement with Fenk to get those four kilos. I told him what my true price was from Bam. I told him I’d pay more. I told him I’d go to nine instead of eight. Nine thousand.”
“For the last four kilograms?” I asked.
“Crang, you heinous prick,” Trevor said, spittle flying from his mouth, “will you for God’s sake keep out of this.”
“First insufferable. Now heinous. You got a thesaurus of nasty adjectives?”
Darnell Gant had lost interest in Trevor.
“Well, Mr. Bam,” he said to Big Bam, “we reached an agreement?”
“All you just heard,” Bam said, “you still like ten thousand?”
“Got a plane to catch.”
“The deal’s done,” Bam said.
“Wait,” Trevor said.
“One formality,” Bam said, ignoring Trevor. “I need to bring in my man that does the testing. Have him verify purity.”
“Wait,” Trevor said, a little louder.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Gant said to Bam.
“Wait a damn minute,” Trevor said, back on his feet and at close to a shout.
“Trevor,” Bam said, “you are disturbing my space, and I can’t relate to that.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about your space.” Trevor’s face was crimson, and he had the shakes in the arm that was pointing full-length at Bam. “I’ve put too much money and effort into getting that cocaine to lose it now. I went through hell for those four damned kilos. First, that idiot Fenk didn’t put them in the film cans he was supposed to. Then they weren’t in the lining of that stupid saxophone case. Then—”
“Hold it,” I interrupted Trevor. �
��How’d you know they weren’t in the lining?”
“Because the lining was ripped, you complete moron.”
“Yeah, but how’d you know that?”
Trevor tromped over my question. The guy was on the rampage.
“Then,” he said, speaking to Big Bam, “the cocaine wasn’t in Fenk’s briefcase. Then Crang said he had it. Now, for God’s sake, it’s on your desk, and you’re buying it from Gant. But I’ve already paid for it. Paid Fenk and Gant. So, let me hear you answer that.”
“It’s simple, Trevor,” Big Bam said. “I’m cutting a little agreement with my new man here, Mr. Darnell Gant, and you can bring me another four K. Do that, or pay me back the forty-eight thousand. Take your pick.”
“You bastard,” Trevor said. His voice sounded like it was coming through a strainer.
“Trevor,” I said, “about the ripped lining in the saxophone case.”
“Shut up,” Trevor said, low and hoarse. “You’ve already done me enough damage.”
“What about the ripped lining?” Gant asked me, getting interested again in the Trevor angle. “And what happened to that sax case?”
“I got the case,” I said. “Or rather Dave Goddard’s got it. I gave it back to him. But my point is the only way Trevor could know it was ripped is if he saw it in Ray Fenk’s hotel room.”
“Crang,” Trevor said, “how many times do I have to tell you to butt out?”
“For that matter,” I said, “the only way Trevor could know about the briefcase and the cocaine not being in it is if he took it from Fenk on Saturday afternoon.”
“This is getting rich,” Gant said.
“It certainly is, Darnell,” Dale with the green dress and the wide green eyes piped up. “But why is it getting rich, Darnell?”
“And,” I went on, “the only way Trevor could have taken the briefcase from Fenk is if he killed Fenk.”
Everybody in the room stared at Trevor.
“Crang’s indulging in fantasy,” Trevor said.
“Not me, Trev,” I said. “I was there.”
“You were where?” Gant asked.
“In Fenk’s hotel room,” I said. “That’s how I know about the ripped lining in the case. That’s how I got the flipping case. And, not only that, a few minutes before I went into the room, I saw Fenk with the briefcase Trevor’s talking about. Fenk was practically married to that briefcase, and later, after Fenk got himself strangled, it was gone.”