Slow Curve on the Coquihalla

by R. E. Donald

  "Just came by to drop off your checks." He thought he sounded almost apologetic. He cleared his throat and raised his voice. "Got time to go for a walk? Get some ice cream, maybe?"

  "Sorry, Dad. I'd love to, really, but if I don't hurry I'll be late for work. I've got a job at Ricki's in Metrotown, just started last week. It doesn't pay much, but it'll give me spending money and I can probably work there part time all year. And I get a discount on clothes, see?" She twirled on her bare feet in the doorway. Hunter thought he had never seen anyone look so vibrant, so very beautiful. His throat constricted with pride. He took a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck and looking out towards the street, struggling to hide his emotion.

  "Oh, well, next time ... I guess." He shrugged. "How about Jan, is she home?"

  "Nope. Jeez, Dad, you're really out of touch!" Lesley shook her head and laughed. "Jan's started this great job with a high tech company. They phoned her Marketing teacher at B.C.I.T., and he sent her to see them, and they hired her right away! She's doing some kind of a marketing research project for them over the summer that fits right in with what she was taking last year, and it might turn into a permanent thing." She banged her forehead with the heel of her hand. "What was that name again? Oh, yeah! Digi-Lab Systems. In Discovery Park, off Gilmore Street. Have you heard of them? They were in the paper a couple of times."

  Hunter shook his head sheepishly and pulled the checks out of his shirt pocket. "Here you go. I don't get to read the papers much."

  "No, I guess not. You're always out of town."

  "How's your mom?"

  "She's fine. You should come by for dinner sometime, Dad. It'd be really nice for us all to be together for once. Listen, sorry, I gotta run! My ride will be here any minute."

  Hunter raised his hand in an understanding wave. "Okay, Les. See you again soon, I hope." She smiled and swung the door shut.

  He started to walk away, heard the door open, stopped and looked back. His daughter's head poked sideways out the doorway, her hair swinging lightly across her lower shoulder. "Dad! Thanks!" She waved the checks as if to fan her cheek. "And next time ... phone first, okay!?" The grinning young face disappeared and the door banged shut.

  Hunter walked slowly back towards his car. He leaned his arms on the Pontiac's roof and rested his forehead against them for a moment before jerking open the door and getting inside. Why was it that he so often ended up feeling angry with himself after talking to his daughters? He felt like he was out of the loop, and that he could do something to get closer to them, but he didn't know what, he didn't know how. He felt suddenly frustrated and restless and vaguely dissatisfied with life. He was sure it was all tied in with his daughters, but he didn't know what to do about it.

  He drove the short distance to the golf course, grabbed his golf bag out of the trunk, and was lucky enough to get onto the course almost immediately with a threesome of seniors. He clobbered the ball so hard on the first tee, his drive hooked badly and ended up on the far side of the second fairway.

  His second drive must've been a good two hundred and eighty yards.

  The sun was shining in Surrey as Hunter drove up to The Goal Post, an establishment euphemistically billed as a "sports bar". In fact, it wasn't much more than an old fashioned beer parlor attached to a third rate hotel called The Riverside Inn which abutted a rundown industrial area in Surrey. But the rooms were clean and cheap and the place catered to truckers, so there was always a tractor trailer or two parked in the back lot and a driver or two parked in the beer parlour.

  Hunter's eyes took a while to adjust to the dim light inside the double sets of doors. It seemed almost criminal to be walking into a dark smoky room before the sun went down. There was the usual hubbub of voices and sporadic cracking of billiard balls, overlaid with an old Bruce Springsteen song. A television screen flickered at each end of the bar. Before he could see them, El's voice boomed across the room from a booth on his left.

  "Yo, Hunter! Get your cute butt over here!" Several heads turned in his direction, appraising eyes moving up and down his torso. He frowned when he caught sight of her, and her laugh rattled like a tommy-gun in his direction. He slid in beside a beefy man with a round, florid face, who was seated on the red vinyl bench across from El. The man wore army green, and had a black baseball cap pushed back on his head. He grinned at Hunter and extended his hand.

  "Murphy. Stan Murphy," he said, "but most of the boys calls me Murph." The big man had a none too subtle east coast accent, making his pronunciation close to 'byes' and 'Marph'. "I hear you're drivin' for us these days, fillin' in part of the big hole that Randy left behind."

  Hunter shook the man's hand. "I just go where El tells me," he said with grin. "Nobody can take Randy's place." He poured himself a glass of beer from the nearly empty jug in the center of the table.

  "You got that right," said Murph. "Me and Randy knew each other for years, eh? We worked together ever since I come out here from down home. I'm gonna miss the old bugger, that's for damn sure." He raised his beer glass and drank.

  "Speaking of going where I tell you," El said to Hunter, pushing the sleeves of her faded purple sweatshirt up above her elbows, "you're confirmed for the Waicom pickup in Seattle tomorrow. Gary's going back on the road, so I've got him doing the Edmonton run. That way he won't be away from home very long. It means you'll be hauling the Winnipeg load. You okay with that?" She scratched the pale underside of her fleshy forearm without looking at it.

  Hunter nodded, then caught the waiter's eye and signalled for another jug of whatever draft brew they were drinking. "Yes, Miss Watson," he said, trying to think of a way to repay her for the 'cute butt' remark, but determined not to make any reference to her ample size, even in jest.

  The 'Miss Watson' drew a chuckle from Murph who, like most of the drivers, probably had trouble thinking of El as anything but one of the boys.

  El made a face at Hunter, then turned on Murph. "You shut up, Newfie! You're treading on pretty thin ice there 'bye'! How long's it been since you kissed a cod, anyway?" Her machine gun laugh barked again.

  "Elspeth, my girl, you've never been kissed till you've been kissed by lips that've kissed the cod." Murphy puckered up and leaned towards El, who drew back in mock disgust.

  "You look like a friggin' cod yourself when you do that," she said. "Say, Murph, they say that Newfoundlanders always go home. Isn't it about time you went back to the Rock yourself?"

  "I'll go when you least expect it, darlin'. Line me up t' haul a load of cigarettes or liquor, and I might suddenly get an irresistible urge ta go back and visit all my buddies down home."

  "Don't hold your breath, 'me bye'. I'll never trust you any farther than I can throw you, and I don't think I could get my arms around your belly to even lift you off the floor."

  "That's cause your poor arms have too much of your lovely self to go 'round first, precious," Murphy said with a wink, and poured El another glass of beer. Unlike Hunter, Murphy obviously had no compunction about taking a shot at El's size, but Hunter decided Murphy had the right, being of similarly generous proportions himself.

  The first time Murphy excused himself and disappeared to the men's room, Hunter said, "I've got to ask you something, El, about Randy." El's expression sobered immediately. "Now that the experts have ruled out medical and mechanical causes for Randy's accident, what do you figure the chances are that Randy really did fall asleep at the wheel?"

  "They have? No medical or mechanical causes?"

  "That's right."

  El frowned, "Well then, how the hell ... ? To answer your question, not a chance. There's no way Randy would've fallen asleep at the wheel. He was too cautious to ever let that happen. Besides, he'd just had a layover in Vancouver. It's not like he was pushin' himself."

  "You figure he would have swerved to avoid a deer, a moose maybe?"

  "No way. With all the experience he'd had? He knew better. He must've hit half a dozen over the years." She scratched her chin. "W
hat's left?"

  "There's always the chance that he swerved to avoid another vehicle, maybe even a pedestrian."

  "A pedestrian. Way out there?"

  Hunter shrugged. "It's possible. Not probable, but possible."

  "And?"

  "The other possibility is that it wasn't an accident."

  "What do you think, Hunter?"

  "I'd be willing to bet it wasn't suicide."

  El nodded. "The medical and mechanical experts could be wrong." It was more of a question than an assertion.

  "There's always that chance."

  "Hard to believe it could've been Randy's fault in any way. He practically wrote the book on driving the Coq, helped a lot of young drivers make it through the mountains their first time." El sighed and peered into her beer glass, then hoisted it towards Hunter's.

  "Here's to the best goddamn driver either of us have ever worked with," said El, her voice ragged.

  Hunter acknowledged El's toast. A silent minute passed.

  "Hunter," El said, "if Randy's death was no accident, if it was ..." she lowered her voice to a whisper, but her eyes were intense, "... murder .... If it was murder, I want you to find the bastard who's responsible for it, and I want a piece of him. You understand? I'm not normally a violent woman, but I'd gladly rip his fuckin' head off." She glanced towards the washrooms. Murphy was threading his way between tables on his way back to the booth. "Later," she said.

  They both watched Murphy, who had changed direction and was hailing someone who'd obviously just come in the door. "It's that aging bimbo from the funeral," whispered El as Murph escorted a rough edged blonde woman towards their table. Hunter threw her a quizzical look, but there wasn't time for an answer.

  "Carla, meet Elspeth Watson, our illustrious dispatcher." Murph gestured grandly. "And Hunter Rayne, truck driver extraordinaire, not unlike my good self. Pardon me, I should say, Miss Elspeth Watson," he said with a bow. El gave him a raspberry. "Friends, this is Miss Carla Hurley. I've invited her to join us."

  The blonde slid in beside El. The woman's age showed in her skin, which was slack and lusterless, although the style of her hair and dress was youthful, in an almost trashy sort of way. Hunter guessed she was about his own age, but had lived hard.

  "You're lookin' good, darlin'," said Murphy. "Nice to see you without them dark glasses. Not a trace of that shiner any more." He gently tipped her chin up with a thick finger to get a better look, then turned to El. "Carla's ex is a mean bugger. Last time Randy and I was here – come to think of it, it was the night before his accident – this fellow ... Bilodeau, right, Carla? Anyway, this Bilodeau come in here all tanked up and started hollerin' at poor Carla, tryin' to drag her outa here. Randy gave him right what for and he backed off. The man's a coward at heart, like all bullies. Later, when we wasn't watchin', he socked the poor darlin' over by the ladies' powder room there," he pointed at the washroom, "By Jesus, Randy scared him off right proper after that." He turned to Carla. "I still say you should've let them call the police and had him put in jail."

  Carla looked around nervously. "Let's not talk about that bastard. Rick, I mean." The waiter placed a glass of rum and coke in front of her and she lifted it up high. "To Randy," she said in a smoke roughened voice. "The best damn driver I ever met! And I miss him like hell!" Her glass was half empty when she set it down to light a cigarette.

  Hunter couldn't help wondering how many drivers Carla had met, and how she went about determining which one was the best. Her manner seemed artificially gay, and Hunter saw her hands shake as she held a transparent pink lighter to the end of her cigarette. She smiled with an obvious effort, and the creases of her smile emphasized the heavy texture of makeup on her skin. She had one gold incisor, and her hair looked heavily sprayed.

  "So," began El, smiling in Carla's direction, "how long did you know Randy?"

  Carla took a long drag on her cigarette and screwed up her face as if thinking were a painful process. "Since about February, maybe early March, wouldn't you say, Murph? I split up with Rick just after New Years, and Randy and me started seeing each other a couple months later." El's face looked blank, almost uncomprehending, leading Carla to elaborate. "Whenever he was in town, that is. We saw each other here, mostly," she said, gesturing around the room with her cigarette. She giggled at Murphy. "At least until closing time, hey, Murph?"

  Hunter didn't know what kind of a relationship Randy might have had with this woman, but watching her simpering, he was pretty sure he didn't want to hear any of the details she might be prepared to divulge about it right now. He cleared his throat and nodded towards Murphy. "Say, Murph? I guess you weren't born in Canada, then, were you?"

  Murphy seemed to welcome the change of subject. "Right you are. Newfoundland was still a free country in them days, I'd hate to say just how long ago."

  "Sheesh," said El, "it sure ain't free any more. It's costing B.C. taxpayers a bundle."

  "Don't get started on Newfoundland, now, El." Murphy looked hurt. "Why don't you pick on Quebec, instead?"

  "Or the Yukon," added Hunter, again hoping to change the direction the conversation was taking. "Ever been to the north, Murphy?" He smiled at Carla. "Did you know that, in Dawson City, they have a big baseball game every year on the longest day, on a hill overlooking the town?"

  "Yeah? So?" she said, with a puzzled smile.

  "The game is played in broad daylight, but it starts at midnight."

  They ordered food soon after Carla's arrival, and Hunter switched from beer to Coke. By ten o'clock he was ready to leave. He was about to say his goodbyes when a tall, skinny man with unkempt brown hair, an out-of-control moustache and broken front tooth came striding up to the table and grabbed Carla's arm. He wore torn blue jeans that sagged low on his bony hips and a black muscle shirt that revealed two indistinct, blue tattoos on his stringy upper arms.

  "Where the fuck have you been?" he demanded, ignoring the others at the table. "You said you was coming to Pat's place tonight!" He looked around the table and added with a sneer, "Excuse me. I need to have a little ... uh ... discussion with my wife."

  "I am not your wife, you asshole! Take your hands off me!" Carla jerked her arm away and knocked over El's full glass of beer.

  El shot Hunter a look of alarm. Murphy stared down into his beer, concentrating as though he were counting to ten. Hunter's eyes narrowed as he watched the newcomer closely, then his jaw stiffened.

  "Stop fucking around and get off your butt, girl!" Bilodeau grabbed for her arm again.

  "NO! Get out of here! Fuck off, Rick!"

  Without taking his eyes off Bilodeau, Hunter nudged Murphy, and the big Newfie slid along and stood up so Hunter could get out. Murphy sat back down, and Hunter stood face to face with Carla's ex. The skinny man, already inches taller than Hunter, stretched himself upward and looked contemptuously down his nose into Hunter's face. A ghost of a smile played over Hunter's mouth, and he kept staring straight into Bilodeau's eyes. The skinny man's sneer gradually gave way to an angry frown, his chin thrust stubbornly forward.

  "Might be a good idea if you left," Hunter said in a low and even voice. "Carla's spending some time with friends."

  The skinny man's moustache twitched as he spat out, "Who the fuck are you?"

  "I'm a friend of Randy Danyluk's," said Hunter.

  Bilodeau snorted. "That asshole." He looked accusingly at Carla. "You still snivelling about that prick? He's history, got that!? Dead meat."

  Hunter took a step forward and lowered his head slightly, his eyes boring straight into Bilodeau's face. He jerked his thumb towards the door. "Might be a good idea if you left," he repeated levelly.

  Bilodeau raised his right hand to shove his palm into Hunter's chest. In a split second, Hunter had the man's skinny wrist immobilized in the grip of his left hand. Hunter took another step forward, pushing Bilodeau's raised hand back behind his ear. Bilodeau, looking surprised and confused, tried unsuccessfully to free his arm, his head rotati
ng from side to side to avoid Hunter's eyes. He finally took a step backwards.

  "I can't leave if you're fuckin' holding my arm, can I?" His sullen frown returned. "Let me go, asshole."

  Hunter released the skinny wrist, and Bilodeau started angrily towards the door, throwing chairs out of his way as he went. Halfway across the room, he turned and shouted, "Next time you won't be with that dead fucker's friends, you bitch!"

  By this time a burly waiter had arrived at the table. He wiped the sopping table with a smelly cloth, and asked if they wanted another round. Hunter debated with himself, decided that he should stick around for a bit longer. He ordered another Coke.

  El and Murphy made a half hearted attempt at resuming their banter, but the picnic had been rained out. Carla soon relaxed, thanks as much to a double rum and Coke as to Bilodeau's departure. Murphy made a gallant effort to cheer her up.

  "He's bad news, that one," said Murphy, looking at Hunter, heightened respect evident in his expression. "Too much of a shaggin' coward to meet you head on, so you'd better watch your back leavin' here, buddy."

  Hunter shrugged and turned to Carla. "Are you going to be alright on your own tonight" he asked her. He didn't like the woman, but he felt sorry for her. Many of the victims of domestic violence he'd seen during his career seemed to be fighting a fatal instinct beyond their control, being drawn to abusive partners like moths to a flame. Randy must have been like a prince to her. Her relationship with him, however casual it had been for Randy -- and he couldn't imagine Randy intending her to become part of his family -- must have been a valiant attempt on her part to break out of the vicious cycle of her relationship with Bilodeau, and perhaps others like him. "You think he might come back looking for you?"