Property Values

by Charles Demers

  24

  There were no handshakes, but there were no further threats of murder, and Scott was left with the overall impression that, as far these things went, this was more or less how they were supposed to go. The incident with the glock in the bag, which could have been literally fatal to anyone in the room, and figuratively fatal for the ostensible peace talks in which all were engaging, had amazingly precipitated a reciprocal generosity of face-saving excuse-making—Danny had even saluted Mike’s evident if inappropriately displayed loyalty to his kidnapped friends, though Scott had the feeling that this magnanimity owed more to Danny’s genuine desire to make the deal; that he was excusing himself as much as his opposite number.

  There had been a few points raised about sales, about territory and mutually beneficial shipping and wholesaling arrangements, dark corners of unofficial capitalism were cleared of dust and cobwebs, and since Scott had no actual power to grant any concessions he simply adjudicated, solemnly guiding the enemies toward cooperation. Angelique had been right—the problems had mostly been caused by explosive egos and genital taunting, and smooth business operations offered both groups of men an incentive to consign the past to the past.

  As the talks ended, everyone stood and gravitated toward their rides. Peter took Scott by the shoulders, and the two men exchanged loving near-smirks at the surreal evening they’d just experienced. Scott collected the small backpack with fifteen thousand dollars and asked his father to hold it for a few hours. The idea of Pardeep riding alone with Nicky and Josiah riding alone with Frenchie had raised in Scott’s mind the old riddle about the farmer trying to move a chicken, a fox, and the chicken feed.

  “Scott,” said Josiah sotto voce, tapping him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

  “How so?”

  “The gun. I didn’t think to check the bag. I—”

  “Josiah,” Scott whispered, “you don’t owe me any kind of apology. I love you, man. We did it. And each of us has got five grand walking-away money.”

  “No, Scott. Me and Par—we both want you to have it. Take the money, put it toward the house.”

  Tears welled in Scott’s eyes, and he smiled. “It doesn’t matter, Joe. Fifteen thousand. The house will eat that in minutes. It’s gone. But we got through this. I’ll see you tonight, back at my house, okay? Back at the house.”

  “But you’re not, Scott.”

  “Not what?”

  “You’re not through it yet.”

  “Formalities.”

  The men walked in the dark to their cars, barely visible in the feeble porch light thrown by the Young Brethren dining hall. There were omnidirectional grunts of goodbye, and Scott, who was still holding the glock, now tucked in the back of his waistband, took the gun and placed it in the trunk of his car.

  “Mike, once you’re with your boys and Danny has gone, you get the piece back, okay?” Mike nodded. Danny did too.

  Everything had been said in the dining hall, or at least everything that could be said, and so Scott turned on the radio as he pulled out onto the Trans-Canada Highway and was surprised to hear the voice of an angry white man complaining about bike lanes and the Canucks’ weak defense.

  “What happened to oldies?”

  “It’s sports talk now,” Mike said from the backseat.

  “Isn’t there already a sports station? They really killed the oldies? No more CISL 650?” Mike nodded wistfully in response.

  “This city is dying,” said Danny, leaning his arm out the passenger window.

  Nine minutes later, as they approached the exit for 104 Avenue, Scott saw the red and blue lights splayed like sun rays across his broken rearview mirror, and all the gravity in the world pulled his stomach into his ass.

  “Fuck,” said Mike, as Danny did too.

  After handing over their drivers’ licences, all three knew that within just a few seconds, the constable would realize who he had on the line. Mike and Danny read the rearview mirror like a stock-ticker, while Scott sat calmly, putting the pieces together. He looked out through the open window at the sleeping mountains, the cool quiet night of his imperfect home. He spoke with confidence when it was time.

  “The gun is mine, but I have conditions.”

  “That fucking gun.”

  “What are the conditions?”

  Scott turned in his seat, dictating terms.

  “Kevin and Patty, they walk right now. They’re out. You guys hold to the peace. That’s one. Danny, you make the call.”

  Mike nodded as Danny hunched to text.

  “What’d they say?”

  “Give it a second.”

  “Okay, two is Polis. Danny, I want you to ween the Dhaliwals from the laundry service, but I don’t want them to feel it too hard. You guys work something out. They get severance, but they’re done washing.”

  “That’s up to them, I’m afraid.”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s up to me, and those are the conditions for you walking away from this car, and me going to prison.”

  Danny stared through the windshield while the sound of Mike’s breathing filled the car. “That’s fine,” Danny said.

  “Three is that you both send the word, all the way down the line, that nobody fucks with me while I’m gone. My bid, that’s going to be it for me, I’m cashing my chips. This is my first and my last time behind bars. The whole time I’m up, I want a Riders honour guard and any stray Da Silva soldiers letting everybody inside know that I’m in there to get fucked by the calendar, and only by the calendar. If that’s amenable, then—the glock is mine.” Danny nodded.

  “Mike?”

  “Only if Kevin and Patty walk now.”

  “That’s what I said,” answered Scott.

  “So then? You heard back from your man yet?” Mike asked Danny.

  “No,” Danny said, slightly embarrassed by the delay. “But, Jesus, Michael, it’s your gun he’s saving us from.”

  “Cops don’t know that. It don’t have my goddamn name on it.”

  Scott watched the mirror and saw the constable open his car door, standing behind it, waiting.

  “Mike.”

  “Fuck this.”

  “Jesus Christ, man, the deal is just as much for you as for me. In fact it costs you nothing. I’m the one who needs to find a new laundry for three-and-a-half hundred K a year. I’m the one with the headache.”

  “So why aren’t your men answering?”

  “I don’t know, Christ. They have their hands full.”

  “Bullshit. You never sent the message.”

  “Tell me why I wouldn’t?”

  “Because you’re a hateful, slippery fuck.”

  Scott watched the back-up vehicles arriving, the sounds of the sirens slipping in behind the pulsing in his ears. “They’re going to ask me to open the trunk, guys.”

  Mike screamed: “There’s no fucking deal until this piece of shit’s phone rings!”

  They sat in silence.

  Danny’s phone did not beep or buzz.

  Mike’s did both.

  “It’s Kevin,” he said.

  We’re out.

  As the RCMP officers, fingers on their pistol grips, approached the car, each bringing an unsteady energy out into the night air with them, Mike shook Scott’s hand. Several tears ran down each side of Scott’s face, and both of the other men pretended that they hadn’t noticed.

  Scott picked up his phone and sent a message to Angelique, this time not from a concerned citizen but from an active participant.

  Sorry for the short notice, but if you want to come and break the story of The Peace, do your best to make it as quickly as you can to Highway 1, just east of the 104 Ave exit.

  Scott looked up from his seat and smiled, seeing a familiar, handsome face with braced teeth.

  “Oh Saint-cibole,” said Constable Gaulin. “Not this fucking guy again.”

  25

  “IT’S ALL OVER!”—3 ALLEGED LOWER MAINLAND GANGSTERS STOPPED, 1 CHARGED
/>   Angelique Bryan

  SURREY—RCMP officers from Surrey and Coquitlam believe that on Friday night they may have stumbled onto a “peace summit” after stopping three alleged Vancouver-area rival gang leaders riding together in one car. Scott Clark, 30, co-founder of the Non-Aligned Movement (NAM), was arrested and charged with possession of an illegal firearm. After questioning by police, alleged Da Silva family boss Daniel Da Silva, 41, and full-patch Underground Rider Michael Portland, 36, were released without charges. A rivalry between the two men’s organizations is believed to be at the root of a long summer of Lower Mainland gang violence, which began with the brazen mid-day murders of alleged Da Silva associates Wayson Tam and Brody Miller outside of a Kamloops eatery in July.

  The car carrying all three men was initially stopped headed west on Highway 1 for a traffic infraction, when a constable behind the vehicle noticed a broken rearview window. The broken glass was the result of a shooting earlier this month at Mr Clark’s residence in Coquitlam. Several more cars were called to the scene when the constable realized whom he had stopped.

  There were no official statements from RCMP on the significance of having found the three men together. But one officer, speaking on condition of anonymity, was cautiously optimistic.

  “It looks good. Ideally, when we see these guys sitting down to talk, it means everybody’s tired of the violence. We’ll see what happens over the next few weeks, but personally, I think it’s a very good, hopeful sign.”

  It is unclear whether Mr Clark, shouting audibly from the back of the police cruiser in which he was being detained, shared the constable’s optimism—though he was visibly smiling as he yelled: “It’s over! It’s all over!”

  When asked why he was carrying an illegal firearm, Mr Clark was equally cryptic, saying, “Because in Coquitlam, we don’t play. There’s no pretending, baby. NAM till I die!”

  Neither Mr Da Silva nor Mr Portland offered any comment.

  26

  The year Scott spent in prison was easily the worst year of his life, but it had been a pretty easy life, up to that point, and so that offered a bit of context.

  Both Mike and Danny had been true to their words, and Scott had gone into his cell having already made all the friends he’d need to stay relatively safe and comfortable. Four months into his bid, just as he’d begun to feel the power of the initial vouchsafe wearing off, a Rider named Kevin Dartmouth, a man with a Mosaic aura that split seas of yard-thugs effortlessly, was sent up for a trafficking charge and brought with him a seemingly boundless reserve of loyalty to Scott that allowed him to spend his time inside reading, working out, and, with some help from Angelique’s research, establishing a correspondence with an old friend.

  Brother, what an amazing thing, to hear from you, after all these years. Looks like we both went rogue. I had a good run—they’re so racist over here, being a brown guy called “The Canadian” was as good as being invisible. Once we’re both out, you’ll have to visit, bring the rest of the NAM boys; you’ll meet your NAM niece and nephew, my Fatima and my Saeed, the lights of my life—the reasons for all of my stupid misdeeds as well as for my early retirement. Brother, do keep writing. I miss Vancouver. I even miss Coquitlam.

  Adnan

  Now Scott was free, and in his freedom, he admired the kitchen sink, which stood where the elliptical trainer had been; he took the whole thing in and smiled. Almost fifteen-thousand-dollars-on-the-nose worth of renovations. And prison had seen to it that he didn’t need an elliptical anymore anyway.

  “I can’t believe you did this,” he said, crying again, this time making no effort to disguise it. Josiah placed his palm on the back of Scott’s neck.

  “It was never going to work with five grand, Scotty. And it was your scam. We’re just—I’m just glad you’re home, brother.” The two men hugged, and the baby cried upstairs.

  “It’s not soundproof.”

  “I wouldn’t want it to be soundproof.”

  “The door at the top of the stairs locks from both sides. The laundry room is shared, but otherwise, that’s it. Did you want to go up and see Michelle and Luis? Meet Jimena?”

  “Michelle’s got her hands full. I’ll pop upstairs later.”

  “She left that,” he said, pointing at the hibiscus flower floating in a clear glass bowl filled halfway with water, a card reading WELCOME HOME!!! leaned up against it. Scott smiled warmly, listening to the sound of the baby wailing upstairs.

  “Let’s go to Polis,” he said.

  “Under new management,” Josiah smiled.

  “I have to see this.”

  The shift in authority that had taken place at Polis while Scott had been away was underwhelming in its effects. Although Pardeep had technically and officially taken the helm, Gurdeep still heckled him back to work when the reunion hug lasted for longer than the marketplace dictated it ought to.

  “Okay, okay, it was a year. You’re not married!” he said, eyes watering, pushing his boss-son away in order to slap Scott’s back himself.

  “Buddy,” Pardeep said. “Goddamn did we miss you.”

  “You just saw him, shit! Not three weeks ago!”

  “Oh my God, Dad, it’s not the same thing! He’s out, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Don’t swear in my place.”

  “It’s my fucking place.”

  “Bloody fucking kid,” Gurdeep said, batting a hand in surrender, walking back to the kitchen, past the debit sign and the credit card reader. Pardeep smiled at Scott.

  “What do you think of my place?”

  “It’s a truly authentic Hellenic experience.”

  Pardeep and Josiah smiled.

  “I’m going to go get you some hummus.”

  “No hummus, please. It still tastes like an ass-kicking to me.”

  “Tzatziki?”

  “Please, Par. Thanks.”

  “Your friend is here.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Over by the window,” Pardeep said, indicating with a sideways nod.

  “I’ll give you a minute,” said Josiah.

  “I’m going to run out of thank yous here.”

  Scott approached Angelique’s table and made sure that he was watching her eyes as they crawled up his post-prison body.

  “Jesus, boy. You lost that baby fat.”

  Scott smiled as Angelique stood and hugged him, and he could smell the perfumed August sweat on her neck and thought that he could die now. He hadn’t seen her since a quarter of the way into his sentence, as she had been completing the last interviews for her second feature to win the National Magazine Award: “The Make-Believe Gangster Who Brought the Peace.” Scott had bristled slightly at “make-believe,” but staring at her now, that face, that perfume, he was willing to take all slights, all blows.

  “Ah, moussaka. A woman after my own heart.”

  “There you go. You know what? I’d take it over lasagne.”

  Scott smiled. “So? What’s changed since I went away?”

  Angelique did an exaggerated parody of thinking deeply, of consideration.

  “Well,” she started, “the houses on Raven Place are selling for eighty thousand above asking price …”

  “So all is right again with the world.”

  “Something like that. And …” she said, flaking the sides of her potatoes with her fork. “I’ve accepted a buy-out.”

  “What? You’re not serious.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “That’s unbelievable. Jesus, Angelique—you just won a National Magazine Award. Your second one!”

  She shrugged. “And I wasn’t writing about hockey or cars, so fuck it, right? It’s like it didn’t happen. They said the current climate didn’t support crime as a distinct reporting category. That it could be covered along with all the rest of the news.”

  “No different from the rest of what’s going on.”

  “Maybe they aren’t so wrong, sweetie.”

  Scott blushed.

  “Wh
at are you going to do now?”

  “I’m not sure. It was a decent package, all things considered. I’ve got at least a book in me, maybe more than that. And there’ll be some money for it.”

  “Will you write a chapter about me?”

  “I don’t know if there’s a whole chapter there …”

  “Ouch.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “No clue at the moment. If I were smart, I’d monetize my infamy.”

  “Yeah, that’s how the winners do it.”

  “It’s not insane actually, especially if you write your book. We could go on the road, give talks together. We’d be a show they’d pay for, the cocktail-speech circuit, dinners, that kind of shit. Lots of money in it, you find the right agent. Plus, we’d get to hang out. The retired gang leader and the retired crime reporter.”

  “Retired? Hell, Scotty, there are certain words you do not use when you are trying to flatter a beautiful woman who’s reached a certain point in her life.”

  “Former. Sorry.”

  “That’s only a little bit better.”

  “What do you think? Would you go on the road with me?”

  Angelique smiled. She took a bite of her moussaka.

  “It’s an idea, I suppose,” she said. “Separate hotel rooms, though, right?”

  “Of course,” Scott said, confidently. “Everyone needs a place to call their own.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As a fourth-generation Vancouverite, I feel deeply rooted and at home in a very beautiful place that I am nevertheless not indigenous to; in a story about the scramble for space in an off-the-wall colonial-settler real-estate market, the first acknowledgment should be to the Squamish, Musqueam, and Tsleil-Waututh nations, on whose unceded traditional territories I live and work.

  The characters in this book—each and every one of them—are fictitious. But if there’s anything realistic about the world they inhabit, I owe it to the sorts of details unearthed by the brave and diligent journalism done by the Vancouver Sun’s Kim Bolan. I also made use of the true crime writing of Jerry Langton in helping me to more fulsomely imagine a fictitious Lower Mainland crime universe. The science book to which Josiah makes reference is Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari. The story of bergamot and the origins of the Sicilian mafia can be found in John Dickie’s book Cosa Nostra: A History of the Sicilian Mafia. Meditations by David Harvey on housing, and by Stan Persky on the arbitrariness of beauty, in their books Seventeen Contradictions and the End of Capitalism and Buddy’s, respectively, were jumping-off points for observations made by the characters and narrator of this novel