Pardeep had shaken his head, doing everything he could to keep from melting, collapsing.
“We should have, Mr Dhaliwal,” Scott had interjected. “Everything was … clouded.”
“And now? It’s clear?”
“Soon.”
Gurdeep had been reluctant to call his contact in the Da Silva organization until Scott had shown him the tightly-packed envelope with the two thousand remaining dollars and promised to hand it back with contrition. Now they were waiting for Gaspar Ferreira, a Portuguese enforcer who had grown up on the Azores where he had worked as a plough horse until moving to Vancouver in his teens and becoming a nightmare. Gaspar had done his first time in prison as a fifteen-year-old, after pulling an East Vancouver vice-principal renowned for his toughness out of his car and slamming him repeatedly into the side of it over what Gaspar had taken to be uncharitable language directed at a friend during an assembly.
Scott tried to make eye contact with Pardeep across the table, and when he did, he indicated around himself with his eyebrows and smiled. Pardeep had no idea what he meant. Scott laughed and dismissed the exchange with a shake of his head. But since having levelled with Gurdeep about the robbery, Polis felt like home again.
“That’s him,” said Gurdeep, staring out at the parking lot as a white Camry turned its lights into the windows before killing them, along with the engine.
Gaspar turned sideways as he came through the door of the restaurant, and as he did he gave the impression that it was the only angle at which he’d fit. Ferreira was the kind of man who it was impossible to fathom had once gestated inside of another person, as though a quail’s egg could hatch a mastiff. He moved through life with the confidence of a man who could never be strangled, since no one pair of hands could ever wrap themselves around that neck.
“Yeah, Gurdeep,” Gaspar said with just a hint left of a bouncing Portuguese accent. “You’ve got something for me?
“Gaspar, yes. Please,” Gurdeep said, and Scott felt guilty about surprising him with the change of plans.
“Actually, no.”
“What?” Gurdeep and Gaspar had asked the question at the same time, in two different registers, spanning menace and panic.
“Scotty, Gaspar is the fellow I mentioned to you. He works for—”
“I know, Mr Dhaliwal. I know who he is. And I’m sorry, Gaspar, but I don’t have anything for you. I’ve got money for Nicky and Danny, that’s all. And something I need to talk to them about. You take me to them.”
Gaspar turned his empty eyes to Gurdeep in cretaceous confusion, then turned angrily back to Scott.
“Give me the fucking envelope, faggot, or I’ll stuff your boyfriend’s dick in your mouth.”
“Gaspar, please!” said Gurdeep.
“If he was my boyfriend, wouldn’t I want his dick in my mouth?” asked Scott petulantly, and Pardeep laughed, then clapped his hand over his mouth.
“I meant I’d rip it off, bitch!”
Pardeep recognized nothing in his friend’s response. Scott’s face, his words; they were someone else’s completely, delivered with absolute assurance: “Listen, I’m looking at you, I can tell math isn’t your strong suit. But there’s three of us, one of you. So fucking try me, sweetheart. The internet loves mourning dead gorillas.”
“What the fuck is this, Gurdeep?”
“I don’t know, Gaspar. It’s nothing we can’t deal with. Let’s all try to calm down, right?”
Gaspar lunged at the three men as Scott pushed the table forward, Gaspar falling over it in a blind, animal rage. He grabbed at Scott, who leaned back onto a neighbouring table, tipping it over after grabbing a fork and managing by a lucky shot to stab it into his assailant’s ample cheek. Gaspar Ferreira grabbed the side of his face and fell back onto the floor. Scott knew that he was more shocked than hurt, and so he spoke quickly.
“Listen, there’s two thousand dollars in here,” he said, hoisting the envelope. “I’ve got an offer to make to Danny and Nicky face-to-face that’s going to make them one hundred grand. You leave here with this envelope, you don’t bring me to them, I got no choice but to tell them you lost them ninety-eight thousand dollars.”
Gaspar was rubbing his red cheek now with the back of his hand, breathing deeply and glaring acidly at Scott.
“Actually, it would be a hundred thousand dollars he’d lost,” Pardeep said, from where he was standing next to his father, now holding a serrated bread knife. “I mean, they’re still getting the two grand with the sit-down. So all in all, the visit with you is worth one hundred and two thousand dollars.”
“Fine, up to you. Makes no fucking difference to me who puts the pill in you,” Gaspar said, wheezing. “I’m parked outside.” Scott smiled.
“No, I’ll follow you, please.”
Gaspar pulled himself up to standing, stared at the Dhaliwals with a face like he had carpet cleaner in his mouth, then wedged his way once more through the door.
“Pardeep,” Scott said. “Can I borrow your keys?”
“What in the fucking hell was that, Scott?” asked Gurdeep.
“I’m sorry.”
“He could have killed us, bhenchode! What were you thinking, you stupid asshole?”
“I knew you wouldn’t let me do it if I told you. But this is the way it’s got to be. I’m fixing this, Mr Dhaliwal, I promise. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I’ve got work I still need to do. Plus, you know. A reputation now.”
Gurdeep stared at Scott, then Pardeep, then raised his hands and dropped them in dismissive disgust. “I’m surrounded by goddamn imbeciles and half-wits.”
“Wait, what did I do?” said Pardeep.
“Everything is going to be all right,” said Scott.
“Oh, well,” Gurdeep said. “When you put it like that, fine.”
21
Pit bull owners, more than any other dog people, want strangers to love and lavish compliments on their animals. It helped, in this case, that the pearly grey dogs that Scott had read about in Angelique’s column were just as gorgeous, smooth, and sinewy as any he’d ever seen. It was immediately clear, once Scott released the first volley of kind words, that only Nicky Da Silva had any affection for the animals—that for Danny, they were merely biological weapons, an alarm system, and very evidently nothing more. But Nicky was full of facts, explaining how loving the dogs were, full of rhyming slogans about banning deeds and not breeds, promising that his girls wouldn’t hurt a fly. Then, with a perceptible degree of irritation, his older brother brought the subject matter to a close, reasserting the animals’ primary purpose.
“Those bitches wouldn’t hurt a fly, but I’ve seen them pull a man’s calf muscle off without jerking their shoulders.” The description was vivid enough that Scott was left with the distinct impression that this was anecdote and not abstraction.
There are few things in life more cruelly unjust or capricious than families made up of one beautiful sibling and one ugly one, but that’s what God had done to Danny and Nicky Da Silva. It was the kind of thing that ought to be a reproach of vanity or superficiality, pointing up the unfairness of beauty, its state of completely unearned advantage—the same family features played out on two different faces, first as beauty, then as farce; it was deeply unfair, and Scott could tell instantly that Nicky Da Silva had done everything he could to develop enthusiasms and talents that would compensate for the grotesque burlesque he presented of his brother’s countenance.
Danny, his dark eyes bright, no smile but still holding a bit of warmth on his face, asked Scott to sit down. Scott had planned to do everything he could not to be too visibly impressed by the house, and it was easier than he’d thought it would be. There were a few large, gaudy pieces of furniture, but for the most part it was empty floor and wall space, besides a portrait of Pope John Paul II hanging beside a large silver crucifix. What was impressive about the Da Silva home was how completely relaxed, even extravagant, they were with square footage that three-quarters of th
e city would have killed for.
“Before we start,” Danny said, indicating Gaspar, to whom Scott now turned in his seat, nodding apologetically until Gaspar bashed the side of his head with an elbow made of concrete. Scott’s limp body fell onto the edge of the coffee table, overturning it and emptying several glasses of water and a bowl of chevda onto himself and the floor. Gaspar then kicked him in the ribs in a way that made Scott realize that, if they were ever stranded together on a desert island, Gaspar could, and likely would, eat Mike the Biker.
“Okay,” said Danny, stilling Gaspar with his hand. “Sit back up and tell me what you came to say.”
Scott fought down the urge to puke, squinting hard against the stars he saw in front of his eyes, just like in the old, usually-racist cartoons, and lifted himself back onto his seat. He looked up at Gaspar, locked eyes, and nodded. Gaspar nodded back. Danny Da Silva smiled, and Nicky Da Silva replaced the bowl of chevda.
“First of all,” Scott said, reaching into his pocket.
“Simmer,” Danny said, though they had searched Scott on the way in.
“No, the envelope,” Scott said, producing the two thousand dollars from the pocket of his cargo shorts. He lifted it, turned to Gaspar, and Danny nodded his muscle over to fetch the package. Danny looked inside the envelope for less than a second, then raised his shaking head.
“It’s light, gotta be by five, at least.”
“Yeah,” Scott said, catching his breath. “That’s about right. There’s about two grand in there.”
“You stole seven grand though, right?”
“Yes.”
“Right, so …” Danny waved another of Gaspar’s punches down on Scott, this time right in the chest, and he was certain that his heart had burst.
“Where’s the rest of the money?” added Nicky uselessly.
“Listen—and listen, just keep your fucking goon at heel for two fucking seconds, all right?”
“Watch it,” Danny said quietly. Scott doubted that he had ever yelled.
“We did not know whose money this was. I apologize. I’m returning what is left, with apologies.”
“But where,” Danny asked slowly, “is the rest of it?”
“It’s gone,” Scott said, just as slowly. “And again, you have my apologies. But with your permission, I’d like to write that mistake off, in light of a much bigger transaction I can help you to effect. One hundred grand.”
“Fucking faggot—where’s our money?” growled Nicky, but Danny shook his head.
“Let’s just sort this out first. What’s this one hundred grand transaction?”
“The two UR soldiers you kidnapped—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“What?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Danny said, standing, and Scott held up his hands in supplication.
“Look, I—” Scott tried, but Danny ripped open his shirt. “Oh, Jesus. Jesus Christ, it’s not like that. I’m not—”
Danny lowered his face to meet Scott’s eyes, and Scott realized that this was as scared as he had ever been. All of it, every flight-or-fight response he’d ever had, every anxious tic of biology, had been leading up to this. Feeling rushed in from his fingers and toes, leaving his limbs in order to collect with an unbearable energy in the middle of his chest.
“You did not kidnap anyone. I know that now to be true.”
“I have never kidnapped anyone.”
“I know.”
“You know that?”
“I do, yes.” Scott tried to think, but his mind wouldn’t move. His mouth went first. “Two men were kidnapped recently, though. Two men associated with the Underground Riders. And they would like your help to get them back.”
Danny stood for a few more seconds, humidly breathing a light smell of Crown Royal into Scott’s face before smiling gently and taking a seat. “That’s different.”
Scott nodded his agreement and gratitude. “It is, yeah,” he said, and Nicky Da Silva laughed. “I’ve been authorized to put together a meeting where you and the UR can iron out your differences on neutral territory. I will guarantee everyone’s safety. You guys can air whatever grievances need airing—”
“My friends are dead, son,” Danny said with an impossible frigidity. “Tread fucking easy.”
“And their friends are missing,” Scott said soberly and waited for a balled fist or reproach, but none came. “The last few years have been good for everyone. No one wants another full-fledged war. Nobody wants the cops keeping them out of restaurants downtown, nobody wants to spend money on an arms race that’s no good for anybody but a couple American cowboy gun-runners. It’s time to bring all this shit to a close.”
Danny Da Silva didn’t say anything, which meant that Nicky and Gaspar stayed in silent contemplation too. Scott continued.
“I’ve had my beef with the UR in the past too,” Scott said, stretching the truth to breaking, but wary of outright lies. “But I can say with some authority that there are people on the other side of this who know that what happened to your friends was wrong—”
“It was a fucking travesty.”
“It was. It was a travesty, and they know that. And they’re offering to pay a tax here, put some money down that keeps their friends breathing and goes some small way, some very small way—”
Danny shook his head. “Infinitesimal.”
“An infinitesimal way toward making things right by your friends’ families. And they forget that their boys went missing for a little while, went camping.”
“And I forget your five thousand dollars.”
“And I forget that you sent men to my house, into my home, rooting through my dead mother’s things like fucking hogs at truffles. We all forget a great many violations and indignities, with the greatest offenders making a show of apology in the only way that’s left to do so. And then we all move on with the business of making it in this impossible town.”
Danny stood from his seat abruptly and left the room, heading into the kitchen. Scott could hear the tap running and Danny filling a glass of water. From a room on the far side of the kitchen, he heard someone stirring awake on a couch, asking in a soft, high, broken voice what sounded like a disoriented question in a language that Scott didn’t understand. Danny answered sweetly in the same tongue.
He walked back into the room and stared at Scott, taking long sips from his water.
“Okay,” he said. “Set it up.”
22
“You know, it’s funny, looking back. Your mother and I had such a fight when you were a baby about whether or not we’d baptize you. I was very cynical about it—my mother and father were such proud Anglicans, I wanted to do it just to keep them happy. They already thought your mother was a communist, and I figured, ‘What the heck, it’s just a few drops of water.’ But your mom was so adamant, and she had just carried you, so my vote certainly counted for less. And that’s probably as it should be, isn’t it? And I remember, she said—because your birth was very hard, I don’t know if she ever told you that? You were resting your chin on the ball of your fist and that made it harder to deliver you. You didn’t want to leave! And your mother, she said to me, ‘During that whole time, in pain and in terror, I wasn’t calling out for God, I was calling for the doctor. I was calling out for drugs.’ But Bojana was right, you know? For the wrong reasons, but that’s how God works sometimes. In her wisdom, even from the wrong sightlines, she allowed you to have the chance to meet Christ on your own terms, to choose, as an adult, when and how to join the brotherhood of Communion.”
“Yeah, that’s a riot,” Scott said.
Scott regretted his sarcasm, but it didn’t seem to matter—the beaming widower full of Christlove that was his father had moved into a place of peace and guilelessness that was beyond irony. He couldn’t hear the sarcasm; like a fundamentalist can’t see his child’s evident homosexuality because he won’t even entertain its possibility.
It was still not
entirely clear to Scott exactly which denomination his father had joined; it seemed, from the outside, to be like one of the Amish or Mennonite-type ones, but to begin with, Scott was cloudy on the difference between Amish and Mennonites, except that Mennonites seemed to him to be slightly more chilled out; they were the Anglicans to the Amish Catholics in the Anabaptist world. Scott had mistakenly labelled his father a newly-minted Lutheran at one point, and had set himself up to be on the receiving end of a long lecture about Luther’s perfidy, his greed, his betrayal of the German peasantry and their godly fury. Luther had sided with the landlords, when even a child could tell that the Kingdom of Heaven would never be built by those who owned property. His father’s sect seemed to be for those who had come to Christ later in life, the religious equivalent of a high-end online dating service catering to boomers who didn’t trust the internet. When Scott passed the hand-painted but professional-looking YOUNG BRETHREN IN CHRIST sign on the highway in a rural area, he would wonder how “young” corresponded to the largely middle-aged group of prayerful farmers, but that was his only real consternation. The Young Brethren Church that his father had joined, in what was either the fog or the clarity of grief, seemed to be at the more or less lucid end of spiritual and the harmless end of kooky.
Peter Clark emptied the Mason jar of cold, mildly sweetened lemonade into his gullet and smiled at his son. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” he asked, indicating the fields. Scott smiled and nodded. It was nice—in the city, everyone’s grass had been brown and brittle for weeks now, the few short and feeble bouts of rain during the summer having been insufficient to call off the water advisory, but the fields here were deep browns and greens, rich earthy colours redolent of months earlier, when it seemed like the melted snowpack from last year’s mild winter might be enough. Big blue plastic barrels scattered around the heart of the property, outside of the gender-segregated dormitories, the dining hall, and a small wooden chapel, had been gathering rainwater all year long, insurance against dry days such as these.
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