by R. E. Donald
Hunter nodded. The forklift backed out of his trailer and roared off towards the back of the warehouse.
"You might want to look up a fella by the name of Chuck Wahl. He was an old friend of Randy's. They used to drive together, company drivers with Transcan Express, some years before Randy started up Ranverdan. And before Chuck went to prison. He did time. Chuck." Murph glanced up at Hunter from beneath his heavy black brows. "Light fingers. From what I heard, his loads were often short a few cartons, T.V.'s, car stereos, that sort of thing."
"Did Randy have something to do with him going to prison?"
"No, no, nothin' like that. I don't know how he got busted, but after he got out of the clink, Chuck started running as an owner operator, " Murphy dropped his voice, "and managed to snare a great account. A new company called Waicom Electronics." He raised one eyebrow, pausing for effect. "That was when Waicom brought their stuff into Vancouver and distributed it to Edmonton and Winnipeg. Their stuff, the computers and that, comes from China, eh? One split load a week. A good contract for a single operator, steady work. Then Waicom expanded, and started bringing their stuff in through the port of Seattle." Murphy gestured towards the warehouse. "And the guy in Vancouver wanted Wahl to keep handling their freight, but guess what?
"Our boy-o's an ex-con, so he can't cross the border, right? So he calls up his old buddy Randy and says, can you do me a favor and run this stuff up to Vancouver? No problem, says Randy. Ranverdan hauls the freight to Vancouver, Chuck keeps the Edmonton and Winnipeg consolidation run. Everybody's happy." Murphy dropped his keys. They chunked on the concrete floor and he left them there, leaning closer to Hunter's ear as the forklift roared past again. "Except Waicom keeps growing, and now they want their loads from Seattle to go direct to Edmonton and Winnipeg. And the new traffic manager, the boss's nephew straight from Hong Kong, likes Randy. He throws old Chuck out on his ear."
"And Chuck blamed Randy?"
"Wasn't Randy's fault. Chuck just couldn't do the job. So now Chuck's got a truck to pay for, but no more good customer, and not bein' the most charmin' fella, he's not havin' much luck finding any new ones. So he asked Randy to hire him on with Ranverdan." Murphy bent to pick up his keys. Hunter saw him exchange glances with Mah, who was back behind the shipping counter some forty feet away, out of ear shot.
"And Randy refused?"
"You got it. Randy might've felt sorry for Chuck, but there was no way he wanted a proven thief hauling his customers' freight. Besides, he needed drivers who could cross the border. Old Chuck was pretty bitter about it. Figured Randy owed him."
"What's he doing now? Do you know?"
"Haulin' shit loads for shit rates in some shit bucket of a truck, from what I hear." Murphy shook his head. "Poor old bugger."
They both watched the forklift nose another skid into the trailer, back out and roar away. Murphy went back to spinning his keys. Mah's head was no longer visible behind the shipping counter. He was probably sitting at his desk against the wall.
"You haul the Waicom loads very often?" Hunter asked Murphy.
Murphy shrugged. "I take my turn, like the rest of the boys."
"How about Randy? Did he?"
"Mostly just the Vancouver loads. He gave himself a lot of the short runs, day runs, overnighters, so he could spend a little time in the office every couple of days, be in town for little Suzy, especially when Gary wasn't." Murphy's face went sour. "Him too, eh? Randy gave the kid more than his share of the plummy jobs, too. Gary's never had to pay his dues. The rest of us had to fight for our days home – and nights. The life is startin' to get to a few of us, eh?" He shrugged. "Ah, what the hell. You let diesel get into your blood, you gotta pay the price."
"Us? Who do you mean, Murph?" Hunter watched the big Newfie's face closely. This was the first sign he himself had shown of ill will towards Randy. Although it wasn't surprising in itself, because long-haul drivers are often discontented with their lot -- even the ones who wouldn't trade life on the road for a nine-to-five job and a million bucks -- and their bosses are the first target of resentment. Irregular schedules and up to weeks at a time without a night home take their toll. Broken dates, missed birthdays and anniversaries, lonely wives, all adding up to failed relationships and unhappy truckers.
"We're gettin' on, you know, some of us. Pete for instance. And old Mike." Murph threw his keys from one hand to the other, stuffed them into his pants pocket. "It's nothin', really. Dog in a manger stuff, eh? If I've gotta be on the road and miss my sweetie's birthday, why shouldn't they?" The forklift maneuvered the last skid into position at the back of Hunter's trailer. Murphy laughed, slapping his thighs with both hands and preparing to stand. "All in all, though, Randy was the best. We got nothin' to complain about, but you know how drivers are. Nothin' makes us happier than findin' something to bitch about, eh?"
Hunter nodded, smiling. "Why do you think Randy would have been hauling the Waicom on that particular night then, Murph?"
Murph's big shoulders heaved in a sigh. "Goddamn it, I don't know."
Mah whistled shrilly and motioned for Hunter to come over to the shipper's counter. Hunter and Murphy both stood. Hunter started over towards Mah.
"Should've been me," Murphy said grimly, turning away. At least that's what Hunter thought he heard.
"What?" Hunter stopped abruptly and swung around. "What was that, Murph?" he called at Murphy's broad back, trying to raise his voice above the roar of the returning forklift.
The big man kept walking, and disappeared behind the forklift into the back of his trailer.
When The Blue Knight rolled off the scale at the Pac-Highway weigh station, right on time, Sorry was nowhere in sight. It was just after nine. Hunter parked to one side and dialled Sorry's number on his cell phone, and Simone answered, "'Allo." She said that Sorry's friend, the one who was giving him a ride, had been late coming to pick him up, but they were on their way. "He'll be there. He's very excited, Hunter, to be driving with you again. He wouldn't miss it, don't you worry."
Hunter stepped down from the rig and stretched his arms and back. The asphalt of the pullout was stained with skid marks and oil. Traffic whooshed by on the adjacent highway, and a light breeze played in the leaves of the birches beside the road. A driver Hunter knew passed his tractor-trailer over the scale and pulled over. "Hey! Hunter! How's it going?" he called through the passenger side window.
"No complaints, Bob. El's got me doing some runs for Ranverdan. I'm just waiting here for a guy who's supposed to team with me to Winnipeg. How 'bout you?" Hunter had to shout over the drone of the engine.
"Fine, fine. Just back from a trip east. I'm taking the wife and her two kids camping the rest of the week. I'll have to ask El to find me a good long run after that! I'll need a break!" He laughed. "Maybe Florida. Say, too bad about Randy. Now, there was a good operator. Knew his stuff. Y'know, I saw him here at the weigh scale, and I figure it musta been the night it happened. It was a Tuesday night then, too, just about this time."
Hunter held up a finger to say just a minute, and jogged around the front of Bob's rig to the driver's side. He looked up at Bob and said, "Makes sense you'd've seen him here. Stan Murphy and I are doing the exact same runs tonight. Did Randy seem okay to you that night?"
"Randy? Sure, he was fine, same old Randy. He was stopped right here, where I am, and right there, where your rig is, was Chuck Wahl's old Ford tractor. They'd done a check on his equipment here that night, and pulled him off the road 'cause his tires weren't up to snuff. From what I hear, the money that should go into maintaining his equipment goes down his gullet instead. It's guys like him give us a bad name. The man's in the wrong business!"
"So you saw Randy talking to this Chuck Wahl?" Hunter prompted Bob before he could digress further.
"Sure did. In fact, I stopped to say hello and joined in their conversation for a bit. Randy offered Chuck a lift, since his rig was grounded. Randy and Chuck went way back, I hear. Somebody told me that Chuck tau
ght Randy how to drive."
"So did he give Chuck a lift?" A pickup with a hole in its muffler passed on the highway, forcing them to shout.
"Far as I know. As I was leaving, I looked in my right hand mirror and Chuck was climbing into the cab with Randy. I guess Chuck's damn glad he didn't ride along with Randy any further than he did." Bob nodded emphatically.
"Where did Randy drop him off?"
"Beats me. Some place close by, I'd guess." Bob shrugged, peered into his side mirrors, one after the other.
"Say, Bob," said Hunter. "Where would I find this Chuck Wahl? Do you know?"
Bob snorted loudly. "Where would you find him? Nearest bar! The question is why would you want to find him?"
Hunter shrugged. "Business stuff." Anything he said to Bob would spread like wildfire. He hoped that he could make it sound too dull to gossip about. "We'd like to find out if Randy said anything to him about a problem with customs paperwork that night. If he did, there's some questions he might be able to clear up for Randy's daughter."
"Try the Goal Post here in Surrey, or the Canyon Hotel in Hope. He's been seen parked at both places on more than one occasion. I'm not sure whether he lives here or in Hope, but I think he gets most of his loads from a freight broker in Coquitlam. Wayne McCormick. That's the broker's name, I think. You heard of him?"
Hunter nodded, and glanced behind the trailer. Another rig was just finishing up at the scale. "Say, good to see you again, Bob, but we're holding up the parade here! I better let you go." Hunter gave the door of Bob's Kenworth a resounding slap. Bob grinned and tipped his hat. Hunter heard him turning up the volume on his CB as he drove away. It was guys like him who made the trucker's grapevine as fast and effective as it was.
Moments later, the loud but smooth roar of a Harley Davidson rose above the other highway sounds and came to a purring halt beside The Blue Knight. Sorry dismounted from behind a hefty biker whose beard, sunglasses, helmet and hair obscured his entire face. The faceless man nodded to Hunter, ignored Sorry, who had removed his own helmet, and revved the big bike's engine. It leapt away and swerved easily into the space between two semis that were just pulling away from the weigh station.
"Lookin' good!" Sorry walked around the big Freightliner, rubbing his chest and nodding in approval. He was wearing blue jeans and a plain black tee shirt, and had a grease stained army backpack hanging on the bulky curve of one shoulder. "First class, Hunter! First class! Hey! How come you don't have the name on it? You need to paint The Blue Knight in flashy gold letters right across the door."
Hunter shook his head. "Climb in, Sorry. I'll drive to Kamloops, then you can take over to Calgary. Sound fair?"
"Fair enough. Except I have an important question."
They both pulled their doors shut and clicked their seat belts into place. Hunter looked over at his passenger and lifted his eyebrows. Sorry grinned and rubbed his hands together. His laugh filled the cab and spilled out the open windows.
"When do we eat?"
CHAPTER 13
– – – – THIRTEEN
"Okay, chief." Hunter had thought it over, and decided Sorry's appetite would give him a good opportunity to look for Chuck Wahl, the man seen getting into Randy's truck the evening before his death. "We stop in Hope. The Canyon Hotel. Ever been there?"
"Yep. Buddy of mine works there, slingin' suds. His old lady wanted to move outa the city, go back to the land. So they buy a little house up there, then she gets a job in Aldergrove and spends half her day commuting and the other half complainin' about it! Broads! Right?" He laughed. "So, the Canyon's one of your regular stops?"
"Never been there." Hunter pulled the rig out into the left lane to pass a camper pulling a boat with a massive outboard motor. A great ski boat, no doubt. He wondered if the girls had learned to water-ski. He had intended to take them, when the time was right.
"Ahem," said Sorry. He was looking sideways at Hunter with a sly grin. "What's up? Sounds to me like you've got one of them there ulterior motives."
Hunter shrugged, trying to decide how much he should tell Sorry about the situation. If he expected to enlist the biker's help, he was going to have to fill him in on it sooner or later.
"Don't bullshit me, man! The Canyon isn't exactly on the auto club's recommended list. What's the attraction?"
Hunter told Sorry about Randy's accident. "There's nothing concrete enough to warrant the police getting involved. I'm just poking around, for now, seeing what I can turn up. There's a guy might've had it in for Randy who spends a lot of time in the bar at The Canyon Hotel. Not only that, but it sounds like he was with Randy leaving the Pac-Highway scales that night. It could mean absolutely nothing, or it could be important. Like I said, I just want to nose around a little."
"Yeah. Shake the tree, see what falls out, eh?" Sorry slapped Hunter on the shoulder. "You may look like a trucker, but deep down you'll always be a cop! Like a wolf in cheap clothing." He laughed lustily.
Hunter scowled at him, but couldn't suppress an amused smile.
"So you need information on this guy, I can help. I'll have a word with Crab. That's my bud." Sorry got serious. "I owe you, man. I still owe you."
Hunter and Sorry had a stormy history that went back some fifteen years. The first time they met, Hunter busted the big biker for drugs and it stuck. It cost Sorry twelve months in Oakalla. The next time their paths crossed, Sorry was drunk and stupid and tried to pull Hunter's head off. He sobered up and smartened up in a hurry when he found out, the hard way, that Hunter had been a student of ju-jitsu since the age of twelve. A very good student. He was also bewildered to learn that the taciturn Mountie had a sense of fair play that even extended to bikers. Sorry got out of that encounter with a few bruises and a new respect for Hunter, and the incident led to Sorry becoming a covert source of information and eventually a good friend. Five years after their first encounter, Hunter had put a lot of his own time into an unsanctioned investigation to get Sorry off the hook when he was railroaded into taking the fall for a gang murder. Since then, Hunter had known he could trust the jolly biker with his life. And now Sorry was prepared to help him, as he'd expected.
Hunter nodded. "Dinner's on me."
Hunter was true to his word. He picked up the tab for Sorry's steak, which came with a golden mountain of french fries and some overcooked vegetables, and a piece of bumbleberry pie with ice cream in the hotel restaurant. Hunter only had pie, and stayed behind in the restaurant nursing a coffee while Sorry, feeling well fed, entered the bar. It was a beer parlor, nothing fancy, and about half full. Hank Williams Jr. bellowed a drinking song from the jukebox. Sorry greeted his buddy, Crab, and climbed aboard one of the battered revolving stools at the bar.
Crab held up an empty beer glass, but Sorry shook his head. "Can't do that stuff anymore. Messes up my head. Gimme a Coke." He laughed. "Hi! My name's an alcoholic, and I'm Sorry." He laughed again, and noticed a few heads swivel in his direction. He looked over at Crab and said, "Yeah, I know. My wife always tells me to turn down the volume, I'm way too loud," and laughed some more.
Crab squirted bar cola into a glass. It sloshed over a little when he slid it across the counter to Sorry. They made a little conversation, about their bikes, their old ladies, mutual friends. "So what brings you here?" Crab finally asked.
"I'm lookin' for a guy named Chuck Wahl. You know him?"
Crab nodded. "What do you want him for?" he said, with the emphasis on him.
"It's about work. The guy has a truck, right?" Sorry left it purposely vague, and hoped Crab wouldn't be interested enough to ask more questions.
"Yeah. He hangs out in here sometimes." Crab got around to wiping the spilled cola off the counter. "Don't expect to see him tonight, though." He gestured with his head to a table beside the blaring jukebox, and Sorry turned to look. Two mean looking women in halter tops and shorts sat with an even meaner looking man in a muscle shirt and jeans.
"See the broad with the big tits?" asked Cra
b, leaning forward and speaking softly.
"Hu-mun-ga ma-ma!" cried Sorry, then clamped his hand over his mouth and swung back to the bar.
"Old Chuckie likes to diddle her when her old man's on the road. See the cowboy sittin' beside her, the guy with the big biceps?"
Sorry nodded, grinning guiltily. The guy in question had been scowling in his direction ever since his little faux pas.
"He's her old man." Crab gave the counter a last swipe with his towel and added, "And I don't think he likes you."
Sorry swirled his drink around, making the cola slosh over the sides again, then continued skating the glass around in tight circles on the wet counter. "I heard that old Chuck was here the night that rig went off the Coq, 'bout two weeks ago. You hear about it?"
"Heard something about a wreck. Don't know what night it was."
"Did you know the dead guy?"
Crab shook his head, then rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting back and forth across the room. "Nope." Someone yelled at him, obviously signalling for more beer, because Crab filled two glasses, put them on a wet, cork lined tray, and waded into the room.
Sorry gulped his drink, debated whether it was worthwhile pumping Crab for anything else, decided not to risk it. He put down the glass, which had held more ice than cola, and slid off the stool. He had to take a piss.
He was at the urinal when the door opened and closed. Nobody showed up beside him. He looked behind him and saw Big Tits' boyfriend, the dude with the muscle shirt, standing, arms crossed, in front of the door. It wasn't a very big room. One cubicle, two urinals, and a rust stained sink. Sorry shook Uncle Albert gently and tucked him back in his jeans.
"Hey! Don't be shy," he said, gesturing towards the next urinal with his left arm. "I promise not to laugh." Then he swung around and blocked the attack with his left, let go a piston shot to the guy's gut with his right.