Slow Curve on the Coquihalla

by R. E. Donald

  Hunter hung up the phone and left the detachment.

  CHAPTER 17

  – – – – SEVENTEEN

  The rusty yellow Volvo rattled to a stop in the parking lot at The Goal Post and the driver's door swung open, adding another dent to the side of the multi-colored K-car parked beside it. Sorry slammed the door shut, then bent to examine his reflection in the side mirror. Hunter had given him a hundred bucks for expenses while he sussed out this Bilodeau guy, and he just might have to buy some foxy chick a drink. As part of his cover, of course. It had been a while since he'd been out to a bar with that much cash in his pocket. Hell! It'd been a while since he'd been out to a bar! He preened his moustache, turning his head from side to side, then licked his finger and straightened his eyebrows. He stood back and patted the snarling grey wolf on his teeshirt. Satisfied, he blew himself a kiss. As he walked across the parking lot, he flexed his wrist as if his fingers were curled around the throttle of his Harley. The hooded black cobra slithered along his forearm, sexy as ever. He chuckled out loud. Sexy as ever.

  Just as he was reaching for the door handle, the door swung outward and there stood the blonde hag Hunter had brought by to spend the night. Behind her, with a hand on her rump, was a big man, middle aged, wearing jeans and a light colored plaid shirt. A small paunch strained the two buttons above his belt buckle, and a baseball hat sat back on his head exposing a tall, pale forehead.

  "Hey, Sorry. Hi!" she said in her smoke and whiskey voice, grinning. "Remember me? Carla. I was at your place last week, with Roy Rogers, remember?"

  "Right. Carla," said Sorry. "Roy Rogers. Right." Hunter had told him not to let his target know that he had any connection with Hunter, and this big-mouth blonde could easily blow his cover.

  Carla reached behind her and grabbed the guy following her, pulled him up beside her, wrapping both her arms around one of his like she thought he might make a run for it. "Sorry, this is Skip," she said.

  Skip didn't look too friendly. "Let's go," he said to Carla, heading on through the door and letting it close behind him.

  "Gotta go!" she said to Sorry, then lowered her voice to a whisper. "Guess what Skip does for a living? You know what they say, eh? Lonely truckers make good ..." She flashed her gold tooth roguishly, "... lovers!" She winked and followed old Skip out the door.

  Sorry heaved a sigh of relief. He hoped they were leaving for good.

  It was just after eight o'clock, a time at the Post when plaid work shirts and steel-toed boots start to give way to clean jeans and cowboy boots. A band was setting up on the raised stage, and a few "test, test"'s burst sibilantly through the speakers. The room welcomed Sorry with the familiar smells of smoke and beer. He leaned against one of the tall tables that ringed the outside perimeter of the room and took stock. At the far side were three or four guys he knew, one of them had worn the patch of the now defunct Black Cobras, like himself. If necessary, he could always approach them and see if they could point out his target, but he'd just as soon not involve anybody who might ask stupid questions. From the description he'd been given, the guy was a string bean over six feet tall, sloppy and ugly, with an overgrown moustache and a broken front tooth. He'd laughed when he heard that, of course, and observed that the description fit most of his friends, except for maybe the string bean part.

  "Name your poison, pal!"

  Sorry put on his best scowl as he looked the waiter up and down. "Where's the chicks with the big tits and the short skirts? I didn't come out to a bar to get served by a friggin' man!"

  "You want a drink, or don't ya?" The waiter's expression as he rested the rim of his empty tray against his hip told Sorry he didn't care one way or the other.

  "Coke. Straight up!" The waiter rolled his eyes and turned on his heel. "With a lime!" Sorry yelled after him. "And you're not even fuckin' pretty!"

  He'd finished five Camels and two Cokes, with ice and no lime, and the band was half way through its first set by the time he saw a guy fitting Hunter's description of Bilodeau. The skinny guy, wearing grubby jeans and a brown shirt that looked too small even for him, was standing beside one of the booths talking to a young, clean looking guy sitting alone behind a glass of beer. Sorry watched String Bean walk out the door, then kept his eye on the kid with the beer. The kid drank the rest of his beer in forced spurts, like a five year old who has to finish drinking his milk before he can go out to play. Then he searched in his front pocket for a coin, slammed it down on the table, and left. Less than five minutes later, String Bean was back. Sorry grinned into his empty glass as he tipped the last piece of ice into his mouth. Lookin' good!

  String Bean was much too sociable a guy. He kept stopping to talk at tables, clapping men on the back and putting his arm around women's shoulders, his mug of beer getting lighter the farther he got from the bar. Sorry noticed that most of the women he cozied up to drew their heads away, as if String Bean's breath stank. Two and a half Camels later, during the band's rendition of Achy Breaky Heart, Sorry followed his target into the can. Sorry was still whizzing when String Bean started zipping up.

  "I'm celebratin'", Sorry said, grinning at String Bean from behind his cigarette. String Bean turned away.

  Sorry spat his cigarette into the urinal. "I said, I'm celebratin'!" he repeated, louder.

  "Yeah? So?" String Bean's upper lip curled back to reveal the broken tooth. He paused with his hand on the door handle, the cuff of his brown shirt riding halfway up his forearm.

  "I just got a new job, and I wanna get stoned!" The last word exploded from the bottom of Sorry's massive, by comparison, chest. He grinned and zipped. "Say, pal, I saw you out there. I can tell you know a lotta people. Maybe you could introduce me to somebody. Let me buy you a drink!"

  String Bean's unruly moustache twitched uncertainly.

  And then Sorry lucked out. The door opened, blocking String Bean's exit, and in walked one of the guys Sorry knew wearing leathers and a Harley teeshirt. "Hey, man! How you been?" He punched Sorry's shoulder. "How's your chopper? You got that stuff done you wanted yet?"

  Sorry tucked in his wolf shirt and hiked up his jeans, saying "Shit, Max! Fuckin' panhead parts are so fuckin' expensive. I haven't been getting much work the last couple months and couldn't come up with the fuckin' dough." He stuck up his thumb and grinned. "I'm workin' now, though, man. Start tomorrow. So, tonight, I'm gonna party!" He lowered his voice. "Came down to see if I could score some quality weed."

  Max nodded discreetly towards String Bean. "Fuckin' A, man. See you around."

  Hah! A character reference. He couldn't have planned it better. Five minutes later he was out in the parking lot with String Bean. Sorry flashed some bills, and managed to cajole the skinny man into sharing a joint first. "Quality control for you, man. Taste test for me. You know what I mean?"

  String Bean cupped his hands around a lumpy cocoon and lit up, then passed the joint to Sorry.

  "You prove you got a good product, then I'm your customer for life, man." Sorry sucked the smoke in through clenched teeth, held his breath and said in a strangled voice, "And I got friends, man. Last supplier we had fuckin' died – fuckin' coronary – and we need a good source." He coughed, hawked, and spit. "Righteous! Good shit, man. Good shit." He clapped String Bean heartily on the shoulder with his big mitt and smiled into his face. "You just made a sale, my man. Lemme buy you that drink."

  It was indeed good stuff. Sorry was flooded with a feeling of confidence and well being, and String Bean's hostile attitude towards him seemed to dissolve. The skinny man was becoming less uptight, almost friendly. Sorry ordered a jug of beer for String Bean and another Coke for himself. "You know how it is, man. I drink, I fight. I smoke, I get mellow. Good business for you, eh? Can't take a chance on booze again, or I'll end up back in the slammer. I got me an ol' lady and a couple 'a kids. Can't take the chance any more. My ol' lady would have my balls." Sorry's laugh boomed across the bar. "For breakfast!"

  "Bullshit!" The skinny man's grin
exposed his broken front tooth. "My guess is you're a mean mother fucker when you get tanked. I don't believe any broad would dare mess with your balls, unless you're married to a fuckin' gorilla."

  String Bean practically inhaled the first glass of beer, so Sorry didn't waste too much time getting to the meat of things. "Yeah, man. What's your name anyway? Bilodeau, eh? You a frog? My ol' lady's from Kebec. Nice to meet ya." They shook hands, exchanging moustache shrouded grins. "Like I was sayin', I got a new job starting tomorrow. Drivin' truck. Yeah. Just call me a mean motha' trucker. I'll be drivin' for an outfit called Ranverdan. Randydan." Sorry roared in amusement. "That's me. My name's Dan, right? Randy Dan Transport."

  "Ranverdan, eh? No shit? I know that outfit. Guy got killed a few weeks back, old Randydan himself. You hear about that?" String Bean emptied another glass.

  "Yeah, I heard. Gotta be pretty stupid to fall asleep on the Coq. You don't mess around with a mother fuckin' highway like that." Sorry nodded grimly. "Gotta keep a few pills in your pocket, keep you outa trouble."

  "That's what you heard? You heard he fell asleep?" String Bean looked down his nose at Sorry, his mouth hanging open.

  Sorry shrugged. "What else?"

  "The guy was a fuckin' prick. Maybe he had it comin'." He lifted his refilled glass and drank. The band was playing Boot Scootin' Boogie.

  "No shit? I heard it was an accident. You heard otherwise?" Sorry tried his best to look and sound impressed.

  "Maybe." String Bean wiped beer foam off his moustache with a shirt sleeve. "Maybe not."

  "Where'd you hear it from? Somebody here?"

  String Bean just sniffed and gave a little shrug.

  "You're bullshittin' me, man. You never heard dick." Sorry leaned closer. "Listen, Bilodeau. This is my new job we're talking about. If somebody's out there offing drivers, I wanna know about it."

  "Cool it, man. Nobody's offing drivers. Maybe I'm just sayin' that somebody had a good reason to want that fucker dead. No more, no less. You understand what I'm sayin'?"

  "You ever drive?"

  "Me? Nah." String Bean flopped a hand in disgust, then pointed to his head. "I prefer to work with my brain, not break my back workin' for some shit-ass company."

  Sorry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Lucky for String Bean he was mellow tonight instead of mean. "Then what would you know about any fuckin' accident? Sounds to me like you're full of shit." He grunted and squared his shoulders, just in case String Bean had forgotten that Sorry's chest was twice the size of his own.

  "I got friends in the business," the skinny man said defensively, starting to squirm.

  "Pah!" growled Sorry. This was fun. He shoulda been an actor.

  "I got friends," insisted String Bean. "Matter of fact, my old lady -- former old lady -- was sleepin' with that Randydan creep. Like I said, maybe he got what was comin' to him."

  "You?" Sorry said incredulously. "You offed the guy?"

  "Fuck, no!" Little flecks of beer foam flew from String Bean's moustache. "You think I'd be stupid enough to tell you if I did?" The skinny guy fidgeted with the cuffs of his shirt, looking like he wished he was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  "Then who did?"

  "Nobody, man. He did it to himself, okay?" String Bean's knuckles whitened around the handle of the beer jug, and his eyes skittered around the edges of the room. "He fell asleep, like you said." His voice was getting loud and squeaky.

  Sorry figured the skinny guy was about to become unglued. "Shit. So the guy's dead. As long as it ain't gonna happen to me, let's change the subject." Sorry lowered a bushy eyebrow. "Chill out," he growled. "I'm celebratin', remember? C'mon, lighten up." He clapped String Bean's scrawny shoulder and grinned.

  "Yeah. Sure." String Bean emptied the rest of the beer into his glass and buried his nose in it.

  "I gotta build a good relationship with my new supplier, right?" Sorry winked. "We're gonna be doin' lots of business, right?"

  "Yeah. Right." He craned his skinny neck to look nervously around the room. "That reminds me, I got people to see. Duty calls." He shrugged, making what looked like an attempt at a nonchalant wave. "Thanks for the beer, eh? See you around."

  Sorry watched String Bean's hand stop just short of patting Sorry's shoulder. "Yeah, right. Brain duty. See ya." Sorry flashed him a sardonic grin. Under his breath he said, "Fuck off."

  He sat there a while, watching String Bean making his rounds and generally enjoying the mellow feeling. He and Mo didn't do pot much any more. They were both getting old, he guessed. Somehow they'd come to prefer comfortable and sober over exciting and stoned. Life was good. He loved Mo. He loved the kids.

  He was still sitting there, propped comfortably on his elbows with his back to the table, feeling too mellow to move when he noticed Chuck Wahl heading up to the bar. Old Chuckie looked rumpled and all one color, a drab olive green, and he walked with a limp that reminded Sorry of the gout he'd had in his big toe just after Christmas. The old trucker ordered a beer and stood there watching the bartender pull the bottle out of the cooler and jack off the cap. Sorry looked for String Bean. He saw the skinny man walk right up behind old Chuck. Wahl paid for his beer and stepped back, barely missing String Bean's scruffy size twelves. The two men exchanged a few inaudible words, obviously not friendly ones. String Bean got a pint of beer and attached himself to a group of losers at the pool table. Old Chuckie sat alone and gloomy on the other side of the room. Sorry continued to sit there watching, mellow and contemplative, until he started to feel sleepy. The band was on a break. Time to get up.

  It occurred to Sorry that there might be a reason for him to talk to old Chuckie, but he couldn't quite remember what it was. Couldn't hurt to say hello, now, could it? He carried his empty Coke glass over to Wahl's table and relaxed himself into the chair beside the old trucker.

  "Hey, man! Remember me?"

  "Sure. Hope. On the weekend." Wahl barely touched Sorry's extended paw, then edged his chair away.

  Sorry took that as a hint that maybe he was behaving a little too mellow. He straightened up and combed his blond hair back from his forehead with the fingers of both hands. "That's right. We were talkin' about that guy who died, remember?"

  Old Chuckie nodded, thrusting out his lower jaw. In regret, or was he annoyed? Sorry couldn't tell, and didn't care.

  "Well, guess what? I got a job drivin' for that company, starting tomorrow. Funny thing, eh?" Sorry raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. "What you might call a real coincidence, eh? A real ko-inky-dink!" He laughed heartily, he wasn't sure for how long. The pot was playing tricks with time.

  Wahl made a disgusted face, obviously not amused. He was altogether not very sociable. If old Chuckie was such a tight ass, reflected Sorry, he should fucking stay home to do his drinking.

  "So. Anyway." Sorry nodded, pushed his chair back from the table. "Thought you might find that interesting." The old man just took another determined sip of his beer. "Enjoy!" said Sorry. He was glad to get out of there. What a fun bunch of guys!

  He smoked half a joint on the way home. It was good stuff, all right. When he pulled into the driveway, CCR's "Who'll Stop the Rain" was playing on the oldies station. Those were the days! Young and tough, they'd raise hell till dawn. He leaned the Volvo's seat back and listened, a warm smile spreading across his face and waves of contentment washing over his whole body.

  That's where Mo found him in the morning.

  CHAPTER 18

  – – – – EIGHTEEN

  The phone rang seconds after Suzanne had punched off her alarm and tucked her arm and shoulder back into the warm bedclothes. She raised herself on one elbow and rattled the receiver out of its cradle, almost dropping it. She pressed it to her ear, worrying that she'd cut the line. "Hello?"

  "Are you in bed?", breathed a husky male voice. "What are you wearing?" A throaty growl. "Answer me, woman. Are you wearing anything at all?" the voice continued, and began to pant heavily.

  Suzanne snuggle
d down into her pillow, trapping the receiver between her ear and shoulder, hugging herself with both arms. "Silk," she whispered. "Soft, smooth black silk."

  "Oooh, foxy lady. Tell me more."

  "I'm all alone here in a big cold bed," she said sulkily, "and my manly husband is miles and miles away."

  "Your husband must be a fool," said the voice. "Don't you move, you little sex kitten, I'll be right there."

  Suzanne giggled. "Great timing, sweetheart. My alarm only just went off."

  "I knew that, babe. I wanted to be the first thing on your mind."

  Her smile dissolved. She wondered if Gary knew that her father being dead had been the first thing on her mind every morning for the past three weeks. He couldn't know, she decided. "Are you on the road already?" she asked.

  "Nope. I just washed up in the restaurant john and I'm about to go for breakfast. Then I'm goin' to Houston, Houston, Houston," he sang.

  She laughed. Houston was a tiny town about halfway between Prince George and Prince Rupert in northern B.C. "Well, I hope you're goin' to Terrace, Terrace, Terrace, 'cause that's where you're supposed to be by two o'clock." She wriggled up to a sitting position against the headboard. No black silk. She was wearing an oversized white tee-shirt sprinkled with valentines.

  "No problem, babe. You got me a load out of there yet?"

  "I think I'll have one in Rupert, but it might not be ready until tomorrow. I'll know by this afternoon. I've called our tap accounts near Terrace, but nothing's moving out of there today."