Slow Curve on the Coquihalla

by R. E. Donald

  "Nah. Rick's an asshole, but his bark is worse than his bite. I'll be okay." She took a deep drag on her cigarette, then emptied her glass and pulled a full one over in front of her and sucked on her cigarette again. Her hands were shaking.

  "Look. I've got a friend who lives near here with his wife," said Hunter. "He's an ugly son-of-a-bitch, but he and his wife are good people. They'll probably put you up for the night if they've got room. Give Rick time to cool off. What do you say?" Hunter smiled to encourage her.

  Carla shrugged and flicked the ash off her cigarette into the black plastic ashtray. "I'll be okay," she repeated. "I don't want to be no trouble, you know? I'll be okay."

  By the time Murphy and El escorted the other two out to Hunter's car it was almost eleven o'clock. The parking lot was dark and quiet, except for another party saying their goodnights a few cars away. Hunter held the door open for her as Carla threw her cigarette on the ground and slid into the passenger seat. Hunter started up the Pontiac's engine and let it run while he watched El get into her pickup, and Murph enter the hotel where he had a room booked for the night.

  "So Randy showed your ex ..." Hunter fumbled for a word before deciding he didn't need one, "… the door last time he was here, did he?"

  "Hah! Rick's my ex, alright – an ex-mistake on my part. Yeah, Rick got really choked at Randy. Randy was a pretty skookum guy for his age." Carla looked over at Hunter with a grin and added, "Take it from me, he was in good shape for a guy his age."

  Rummaging noisily in her big purse, she continued talking. "He backed Rick up against the wall, grabbed him by the front of the shirt, and threw him on his butt. Told him to leave me alone. Shit! Was he mad!"

  "Who was mad? Randy or Rick?"

  "They both were, but I'm talking about Rick. Before he left, he yelled across the room, like he did at me tonight, only worse." She sneered and tried to imitate Bilodeau's voice. "You're such a big man with your friends around, but wait'll I get you alone." She went back to her own voice, but the sneer remained. "Hah! Randy still would've wiped the floor with him. Asshole."

  Carla pulled a lighter and her cigarettes out of her purse. "Mind if I smoke?" she asked. Hunter wrinkled his nose, and she said, "Nah. I can wait. And thanks, eh?"

  He looked at her questioningly.

  "For helping me out with Rick. He can be such a creep when he's drinking. I can handle him pretty good usually, but I've been feelin' kind of low lately, eh? Because of Randy, you know?" Her face looked almost comically mournful, sagging like an old hound's.

  "Are you and Rick still married?" asked Hunter.

  'Hell, no! Never were. We lived together for about a year, then I threw the bastard out, but he still hasn't got it through his thick skull that it's over." She snorted loudly.

  "Is Rick a driver, too?"

  "Hah! Since I met him, Rick's never done an honest day's work!"

  "By the way," said Hunter, "what happened afterwards? I mean, after Randy had that little dust up with Rick? Did you see Randy again before his accident?"

  Carla seemed to be staring at something just beyond the tip of her nose. "Well, yeah. I stayed with Randy that night. In the hotel." She nodded back over her shoulder, then cocked her head to one side, a sad smile on her face. "In the morning we had breakfast at the White Spot, and walked from there over to the mall at Surrey Place. Randy bought me a nice pair of shoes, white sling-backs, for the summer, and I helped him pick out a couple of little sun hats for his granddaughters. He always liked to bring them little presents, he said." Her lips trembled. "I haven't worn those sling backs outa my apartment yet. I don't want them scuffed up, you know? I want them to be always brand new, like he just gave them to me." She started sniffling.

  "There are some unanswered questions about his plans for that night, his daughter's trying to piece them together to solve a problem for one of their customers. Did Randy say anything to you, or did he talk to anybody that you know of, about what he was going to do?"

  Carla frowned. "You sound like a cop," she said.

  Hunter chuckled. "Nope. I'm just trying to get his daughter out of a jam."

  "I can't help. Talk to Murph. He's the one Randy discussed business with. In fact, Murph was a little pissed at Randy that night, something to do with work. After we left the Post, Randy stopped to have a talk with him, sent me on up to the room. Don't ask me. Talk to Murph."

  They fell silent as Hunter turned the Pontiac into the driveway of a small bungalow in Whalley. The headlights revealed a lawn in need of mowing, but the house looked tidy, with a fairly recent paint job. A battered and rusting mustard colored Volvo sat in the driveway. Through the house's front window they could see the flickering purple lights of a television.

  The front door was open before they reached it, and a tall burly man stood bare chested and barefoot on the concrete stoop under the light of a naked bulb. He had very blond hair, parted in the center and hanging to his well-muscled shoulders, and a long drooping moustache.

  "Hey, Hunter, my man!" he boomed. "How the fuck are you!? Long time no see!" He pumped Hunter's arm enthusiastically, animating a tattoo of a black cobra, its hooded head dancing over the muscles of his right forearm, its tail wrapped several times around the thick wrist. "Come in, come in!" He motioned them both into the T.V.-lit living room.

  "Carla, this is Dan Sorenson," said Hunter, "and this is his lovely wife, Simone."

  A slender brunette wearing short shorts and an oversized black tee shirt rose like a dancer from a fat, afghan covered sofa and extended her hand with an elegant smile. She turned on an old-fashioned floor lamp and turned off the T.V.

  "Hunter, it's nice to see you again!" Simone had a soft voice with a light and delicious French accent. "Sorry and I were just talking about you the other day, wondering what you have been doing these days. Sorry, get Hunter a beer or something."

  "No beer left, Mo. I think we've got some of that unbeer crap, though." Sorry turned to Hunter and said, "Hey, man, want some dealcoholized shit? Some dork brought it to a Christmas party and it's been in the back 'a the fridge ever since." He grinned broadly.

  "How about coffee?" Hunter replied. "You got any?"

  "Sure, Mo can make some. Carla, was it? That okay with you?" Sorry winked at Simone, and she padded off to the kitchen.

  "Sure. Can't stand that dealcoholized shit, myself." Carla laughed hoarsely. "Mind if I smoke?" she asked, with a cigarette already halfway to her lips.

  Sorry reached out his hand. "Sure, but it'll cost ya." His braying laugh bounced off the walls as she offered him the pack.

  Carla and Simone settled into the sofa on either side of a sleeping doberman while Sorry and Hunter sank into two massive, mismatched armchairs. A pasteboard coffee table sat on a brown rag rug in the center of the small living room. A large grey cat prowled around the outskirts of the room, then disappeared into a dark hallway. The walls were decorated with Harley Davidson posters and the window was flanked by limp curtains of some shiny, lime green fabric. The coffee was instant, but it was hot and strong. Hunter took a sip, then balanced it on the arm of his chair.

  "Carla's ex was giving her a hard time at The Post tonight, so I was wondering if you might have room for her to stay here, just for the night till he cools off." He looked first at Simone, then at Sorry.

  "No problem, so long as she don't mind the animals," Sorry indicated the sleeping Doberman with his chin, "she can crash here on the couch. Will that do for ya?"

  Carla shrugged and smiled. "Sure. Just great. So long as the dog don't mind."

  "We have three bedroom, but the kids are in two already," apologized Simone. "But you are very welcome, Carla. We often have a guest on our couch!" Simone's laugh rang like a tiny silver bell.

  "What are you doing these days, Sorry?" Hunter asked. "Last time I saw you, you were driving for a vegetable farm near Cloverdale, right?"

  "Christ! That was last summer, man. They wouldn't let me take a week off to go camping, so I quit in August.
I was working as a bouncer at the King George, but I just got fired." He laughed and slapped his knee. "I liked my work too much! I sometimes get a few hours swamping for a guy who does local moving, has a couple five tons."

  Simone made a face, her lips pushed out in an attractive pout. "That man hasn't called you since two weeks already." She turned to Hunter. "And when he does call, that's only a few days work."

  Sorry shrugged. "No wonder we can't afford beer and smokes, eh?" He laughed, then mirrored Simone's petulant expression. "Is it my fault that people only move on the first and the fifteenth?" He turned back toward Hunter with a grin. "The big problem is, I can't afford to fix my bike either."

  "You've still got your Class 1, don't you?" asked Hunter. "Is your license still clean? Want to do a trip to Winnipeg tomorrow, as a team?"

  "Do you know what you're saying? You and me, cooped up together for three thousand miles? Think you can stand it?" Sorry's laugh bounced off the walls again. "You're on, Hunter! I could sure use the dough. What's it worth?"

  It was well after midnight before Hunter managed to get away. He'd settled the details for the trip, admired Sorry's Harley, parts of which were spread out on an old pink blanket in the garage, and bid the two women goodnight. As he headed back to North Vancouver on the 401, he tried not to dread travelling to Winnipeg with the jolly biker. He didn't much like team driving at any time, but he could think of worse partners than Sorry. In spite of his devil-may-care lifestyle, Sorry was a good driver and a hard worker when he wanted to be. Besides, most of the time Hunter was driving, Sorry would be in the sleeper and vice versa. This way he could be back from Winnipeg in less than half the time, and be able to devote more time to investigating Randy's accident.

  No, he corrected himself as he drove across the newly renamed Ironworker's Memorial Bridge to the North Shore. He could no longer think of Randy's accident as an accident.

  He thought of it as murder.

  CHAPTER 11

  – – – – ELEVEN

  Sorry watched Hunter's no-name car back out of the driveway and saluted its dark windows as it cruised away. He took a last deep drag of his cigarette and flicked it into the driveway before he closed the door, then killed the front porch light with an easy blow from his fist.

  Simone and the blonde sat side by side on the couch, making female small talk. Sorry leaned an elbow up against the archway and rubbed his nostrils with the back of his hand. Damn but Mo was still a fine looking woman! Some of his friends' old ladies looked almost as wasted as the blonde. Deep lines on her face, grey pouches under her eyes, that Carla looked like she had been driven hard, a lot of miles over some bad roads. But his Mo was still one fresh and sexy mademoiselle.

  As if she sensed his thoughts, Mo looked up at him and smiled. "It was nice to see Hunter again after all that time," she said.

  Sorry shrugged. Yeah, he had been glad to see Hunter again, it's just that Mo was always trying to steer him towards so-called good influences and he didn't like to encourage her. He just wasn't as enthusiastic about good influences as she was.

  "So it looks like you'll be getting some work?" she asked.

  "Yeah. For sure, I will." Sorry nodded. "Yeah. It's good that he came by."

  Mo braced her hands on her bare thighs and stood up. Looking down at the blonde, she said, "It's been very nice meeting you, Carla. I'm working early tomorrow, so I must go to bed now. Perhaps I will see you in the morning. Please, make yourself right at home."

  She padded over to Sorry and raised up on her toes to kiss him on the mouth. He caught her in a quick hug, then slipped one hand down to grab a handful of her soft butt. Her butt tightened in his hand, and she pushed herself away. "Behave yourself! We have a guest!" she whispered.

  Sorry thought he detected a saucy glint in her eye. He grabbed for her again as she walked away, but she slapped his hand down with a little giggle. "Good night, Carla," she said as she left the room.

  The blonde settled herself in the corner of the sofa and tucked her legs up under her, then began rummaging in her gigantic purse. The clicking and clunking noises made Sorry think that she must carry around lots of makeup. He studied her face again, and couldn't see where it had helped.

  "Whatcha lookin' for?" he asked, grinning and stroking the moustache that crept down both sides of his mouth. "Got somethin' else to smoke, by any chance?"

  The blonde looked at him and grinned, flashing a gold tooth. "Maybe. Now that the coast is clear. Your friend reminds me of a cop."

  Sorry laughed heartily. "That makes two of us. In fact ... sa-a-a-y, what's that you got there?"

  She was holding up a big fat joint, waving it in front of his face as if she were trying to hypnotize him. He decided to be a willing subject.

  "You light it," she said, tossing it into his lap. "Yeah, a lot of truckers are straight that way. Randy was."

  Sorry looked up at her from under his bushy brows as he sucked the flame of his Bic into the other end of the joint.

  "Randy was straight like that," she repeated. "He was a friend of mine that just died. Sometimes I figured he was just too straight for his own good." She reached out to grab the joint from his outstretched hand. Her fingers were skinny and knobby. "He didn't like me to do weed."

  Sorry nodded, holding his breath.

  "Yeah, your friend's a hard guy to figure," the blonde continued. "Right off he struck me as standoffish, not real friendly like, then suddenly he's playing some kind of white knight and fixin' me up with you guys."

  "Yeah," Sorry said, trying not to let too much smoke out of his lungs. "I always figured he must've OD'd on Roy Rogers when he was a kid." Sorry waved wildly towards the joint, exhaling in a rush. "Aren't you gonna smoke the fucker!? Don't let it burn itself up for Chris'sake!"

  She took a big toke and passed it back, then dove down into her bag and came up with a roach clip made out of silver and turquoise. She waved it at him with another flash of her gold tooth. "Be prepared, that's my motto," she said with a raw laugh. "Me and the Boy Scouts."

  By the time Sorry's lips couldn't get around what was left of the roach, the blonde was giggling and primping like Sorry's six year old daughter, Sasha, except she wasn't nearly as cute.

  "It's just so-o-o-o-o funny," she managed to get out between giggles. "Brain washed by Roy Rogers." Giggle. Giggle. "I'll bet he calls his truck Trigger." Giggle.

  "Tee hee hee," Sorry responded, frowning. Nothing worse than an ugly broad trying to act cute. He sat watching her for another couple of minutes. Looked like Mo had already brought her a pillow and a blanket. With any luck, she'd be gone in the morning by the time he got out of bed. He yawned loudly, stretched himself to his feet, and said, "Nitey nite. Don't worry about bedbugs, but watch them fleas."

  She giggled again, reached over and tousled the doberman's ears. The dog, still curled up on the couch, looked up at Sorry beseechingly. "Hang in there, Doobie," Sorry said, and slapped the poor mutt's rump on his way out of the room.

  He tiptoed down the hall to the bedroom, peeled off his jeans, and tucked himself under the sheet beside Mo. He ran his hand along her hip, but she whimpered softly in her sleep and pulled away, so he turned over and settled himself on his stomach.

  Just before he fell asleep, he heard the blonde giggling again in the living room. "Brain washed by Roy Rogers," he muttered, then chuckled into the pillow. "Too fuckin' funny ... ."

  Hunter slept until half past eight. The skies were clear again and his bedroom was flooded with yellow light. He could hear the whine of the landlord's vacuum upstairs, and the squawking of a crow from the direction of the tall cedars at the foot of the yard. He started the coffee maker before heading into the shower, and emerged to the final gurgles of a fresh pot. He picked up yesterday's clothes from the floor where he'd dropped them. The unhealthy reek of stale smoke wafted up from them until he'd buried them under a load full of laundry and closed the lid of the washing machine over them. After two mugs of coffee and a quick breakfast of
cold cereal, he headed out to deposit his check and pay some bills.

  His credit union was in a small strip mall on Marine Drive. As he drove through the parking lot, he noticed signs plastered across the drug store windows reminding shoppers of Father's Day on June 19th. Last year he'd made a point of being in town on Father's Day. He'd sat around all day, catching up on his reading, doing laundry, he even borrowed Gord's vacuum and cleaned the four rooms of his downstairs suite. Finally, at seven o'clock when he still hadn't heard from either of his daughters, he drove to West Vancouver and went for a walk beside the Capilano River and along Ambleside beach, then treated himself to a hamburger, fries and a chocolate milkshake at the Park Royal White Spot. He sat at the lunch counter along with several other solitary men. At home afterwards, he found a message on his answering machine. The girls had called him from Penticton where they'd gone camping with friends, and wished him Happy Father's Day in a giggling chorus. He wondered what they had planned for him this year.

  When he got back to his suite from the credit union, the answering machine was flashing. He pushed the play button, half expecting to hear the ghost of Happy Father's Day. Instead, he heard El's voice. "Hunter! Goddammit! Why don't you have your cell phone on! It's Gary. He just called from an emergency call box near the Coq summit. Looks like somebody fooled with his brakes and he just about ended up like Randy. Call me!"

  Since Gary's frantic phone call, every time the phones went quiet for a minute or two and gave her time to think, El started fretting. She had wanted him to report his suspicions to the police, but Gary'd refused. "What the fuck can they do?" he'd asked. She didn't know if they could help, but she thought they should be told. Hunter would know what to do. Who the hell would want to hurt Gary? Or Ranverdan? Was whatever happened to Randy, and now to Gary, the product of some stupid vendetta against the company itself? Or was somebody trying to force the sale of the company? What the hell was going on? Where the hell was Hunter?