Slow Curve on the Coquihalla

by R. E. Donald

  "Did you check with El to see if she knows of anything?"

  Suzanne's jaw stiffened. "I'll find something on my own," she said, unable to keep the anger out of her voice. "You know, that goddamn El dispatched Pete without going through me yesterday. She claimed it was an emergency but that's bullshit!"

  "Hey, kitten, settle down. El's a big, tough broad, but her heart's in the right place. Don't be so sensitive about it."

  Suzanne frowned. There he was, accusing her of being too sensitive again. Was she overreacting? El would never have dispatched Pete that way when her father was running the operation, why should it be any different now? Was El simply trying to help out, or was she trying to steamroll Suzanne and take control? Either way, it was a clear message that El didn't think Suzanne was capable of staying in control of the company herself.

  "Suzanne?"

  "I heard you."

  They talked about the kids, and Gary promised to call when he reached Terrace.

  "I love ya, babe," he said, sounding serious, almost intense. "Don't you forget it."

  ""I love you, too. Gary?"

  "What, babe?"

  "Be careful," she said.

  Hunter had just tried to call John Semeniuk at work for the fifth time in two days. Each time, the shipper-receiver at Waicom in Edmonton had either been on another line or on a break or in a meeting. Hunter didn't want to leave his number, or even his name. He didn't expect John would return his call, anyway. In fact, he didn't think John would be willing to say much once he did get through. He had decided to connect with him at work first, in order to verify that the number on Randy's note was indeed his, and to ask for permission to call him at home. Hunter didn't want to spook the man. He seemed frightened enough already, maybe too frightened to talk, even from home.

  He was packing his duffle bag for his next trip out. El had a trailer for him to deliver to a freight forwarder near Sea-Tac Airport this afternoon, and then he was scheduled to make a pick up in Tukwila bound for Edmonton. He owed El for coming up with the job, because it meant that he'd be able to keep in close touch with Sorry, who was picking up the Waicom load in Seattle and would be following roughly the same schedule to Edmonton. With luck, Hunter might even be able to set up a meeting with John Semeniuk after hours while he was there.

  The phone rang and he answered it left handed, a ball of clean underwear and socks occupied his right.

  "Hey, man. I need a lift to Annacis." It was Sorry.

  "I thought Simone was going to drop you off."

  "Goddamn battery died."

  "Sorry, ... ." Hunter began, then sighed.

  "Cheer up, boss. I got some stuff to tell you. I talked to that scuzzbucket at The Post last night, eh? The frog."

  "Okay. I'll come get you. See you in about an hour."

  An hour later, Hunter was navigating the Pontiac through the winding residential section of River Road, heading for the bridge that spanned the Fraser River between the south side of the delta and Annacis Island. Sorry had just told him about Rick Bilodeau coming face to face with Chuck Wahl in The Goal Post.

  "So you think the two of them know each other?"

  "Maybe they do, but they aren't buddies. I'd put money on it." Sorry gave a little laugh. "Chuckie's a die-hard booze man, for one thing, and String Bean's an equal opportunity substance abuser, and a shameless dope pusher. Being somewhat of a redneck, I don't think Chuck approves of String Bean. Much like you don't approve of me." He vented a big laugh. "But you at least like me, don't ya? Admit it, Hunter." He prodded Hunter's shoulder. "You can't help yourself, can ya? You like me!"

  "Okay, okay. I admit it." Hunter grinned at the big biker. "I like you, you drug addled clown. Even envy you sometimes."

  That got a bigger laugh. "Yeah. Sure. What's to envy? C'mon. Out with it. What's to envy?"

  Hunter shrugged.

  "C'mon, you dirt bag. Now you gotta tell me."

  Hunter shrugged again. "You're ... loose."

  "Loose?"

  "You have fun, you party, you don't let stuff bother you. You can let it all hang out." Hunter looked out the driver side window, then back at Sorry. "I'll bet it doesn't even bother you to go to bed without brushing your teeth."

  "Yeah, you're right about the teeth." Sorry bared his gums, showing off a set of front crowns. "Most of them aren't really mine anyway." He nodded, quiet for a moment. "But sometimes having fun and being happy are a zillion miles apart."

  "You're not happy?" asked Hunter, surprised.

  "I didn't say that." Sorry's laugh boomed again. "I was just trying to be deep. I can have fun AND be happy."

  "There. That's it. I envy you for that. And for being – I don't know – I guess for being an `in your face' kind of guy, for not giving a damn about what's the socially acceptable thing to do."

  "I can't see you being that way, boss." Sorry shook his head, grinning.

  "That's my point."

  Sorry's grin faded. "Good," he said. "That makes us even. You envy me for being an outlaw, and I envy you for being respectable. Sort of." Then he muttered, "I can't believe I've spent almost twenty years bein' friends with a fuckin' cop."

  Sorry finished filling Hunter in on his conversation with Rick Bilodeau. "I'm not sure whether the scumbag really knows who did it, or if he was just trying to impress me. What do you think?"

  "I don't know, but it sounds like he's worth a closer look." Hunter told Sorry what he'd found out about Steve Mah. "From the way the receiver in Edmonton behaved, I'd say that the one to work on at that end is the warehouseman, the mean looking one with the ponytail. I hope to find out more about him today or tomorrow, so I can fill you in before you get there. It'd be nice if we had the time for you to ease yourself into their confidence, but we can't afford it. The longer we wait, the harder it will be to put the pieces together well enough to convince the authorities. Besides, in spite of what Gary says, he could be a target and if he is, the sooner you find out what's going on at Waicom, the better."

  "Since when did I become Gary's fuckin' fairy godmother? He's a big boy. I don't want to put my ass on the line for him, tailor-mades or no tailor-mades."

  They'd just come to a stop in the left turn lane, and were waiting for the green arrow. Hunter leaned back against the seat and eyed Sorry with alarm. "Whoa! Let's get something straight. I don't want you putting yourself in any kind of danger. All I want from you is to talk to these guys, try to get some information, like you did last night. That reminds me ...." He dug into his pocket. "I guess you smoked your expense money last night. Here's another hundred bucks. Mah likes to talk about little white pills."

  Sorry's eyes lit up. He licked his big thumb and counted the bills, then shoved them deep in the front pocket of his jeans.

  Hunter pulled away from the light, making a left turn off of the highway onto a curving two lane road. On one side of the road, bumper to bumper and fender to fender, there were acres and acres of imported cars, recently off-loaded from freighters at the Fraser River docks. On the other, large expanses of land sat empty, waiting for development. It was covered with long matted grass and tangles of young trees. "Remember, just ask questions. Make them sound like stupid questions if you can, so you aren't seen as a threat."

  Sorry snorted in amusement. "I'm a natural!"

  "You are a natural. I have total faith in you, Dan. You're like some kind of snake charmer. You play your flute or blow in their ears, or whatever it is you do, and these felons all seem to want to tell you how bad they are. I guess they're trying to prove that they're as bad as you are, you think?" They both grinned, and Sorry preened his moustache.

  "And whatever you do, don't put yourself at risk. All you have to do is talk to these guys and get them to talk to you. Got that?" When Sorry just laughed, Hunter continued, "Sorry, do you understand what I'm telling you?"

  "Yes, boss. I got it, I got it, already. No rough stuff. I'll just try to get over my natural tendency to keep my mouth shut, and I'll try very hard to t
alk to these guys."

  They were passing through an area of light industry, on either side were buildings with small offices attached to large warehouses, with trailers of all sizes and colors backed up to loading doors and parked against chain link fences. They were just blocks from Watson Transportation's yard.

  "What time will I have to be on the road?" asked Sorry suddenly.

  Hunter shrugged. "I've got to leave right away, but you probably don't have to go until one o'clock or so. Lots of time yet."

  "Great. Stop! Stop here. I got a good idea. Let me off here, and nobody has to even know you gave me a lift."

  Hunter braked the Pontiac, easing over to the shoulder. He surveyed the signs along the low sprawling building beside the road. "Oh," he said. "I see."

  Sorry reached into the back seat for his backpack, hiked it onto his shoulder, and gave Hunter a cheerful wave. Hunter smiled as he watched the big biker stride purposefully towards The Island Kitchen cafe.

  Suzanne had fed the kids their lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and alphabet soup, and now they were playing in the fenced yard behind the house. Even with the windows cranked open and their happy chatter clearly audible, she made a point of looking out the big back window now and then to make sure they were alright. It was while she was watching them, her back to the office door, that Pete Whitehead arrived, clearing his throat and scraping his dry boots on the door mat to let her know he was there. Pete's long face was as morose as ever. The man hardly smiled at the best of times, so it didn't mean much. She greeted him cheerfully, started looking through her out basket for his check.

  He stood in front of her desk, eyes on the baseball cap with a Ford logo he was holding in front of him with both hands, like a little boy in front of the school principal. He cleared his throat again before he spoke.

  "I ... uh ... heard about the trouble Gary had, with his brakes, I mean. Uh ... a man's got to look out for his own, you know? I ... uh ... I don't wish you any harm, but me and Jason, we've been talking about it for a couple years already, and we've decided the time is right." He cleared his throat again, looked briefly up at her face, then back at the hat. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, me and Jason have decided to buy a truck, go out on our own. We aren't going to drive for Ranverdan anymore."

  Suzanne was holding out the envelope containing Pete's check. She let it drop to the desk. "What? Pete? You can't be serious."

  He nodded, eyes closed. "I'm sorry, Suzanne. Normally I would've given you a month's notice, but what with Randy's accident and now Gary's brakes ... like I said, a man's got to look out for his own. I made the down payment on a truck this morning. I'd like to stay on, but ... you see what I mean?" He gave a helpless shrug, hit the hat against his thigh.

  "Who told you about Gary's brakes? Did Gary?"

  Pete shook his head.

  "El. It was El Watson, wasn't it?"

  Pete said nothing, just continued to stare at his hat.

  Suzanne swore under her breath. "But, Pete, you were with Dad at the very start, you're a part of this company. Mom and Mrs. Whitehead, they were best friends. Don't all those years count for anything? Please, Pete, give it some more thought. Give it some more time. I'm sure you're not in any danger."

  "Are you?" He looked her in the eyes for the first time.

  No, she wasn't sure. And she couldn't say it again. "Well, I can't give you any guarantees." It was her turn to look away. "But, listen, Pete. You know Hunter Rayne? He's ex-R.C.M.P. He's looking into it. He'll have some answers soon. Soon we'll all know what happened. We'll know who tampered with Gary's brakes, and what caused Dad's accident."

  "That's what guys are saying, that it wasn't any accident. They're saying Randy was murdered, and the police won't do anything about it."

  "That's not true, Pete. The police are on top of it, too. Hunter's keeping them informed and they'll be reopening their investigation. They never really closed it, in fact." She knew she was losing the battle. Pete's jaw was set. He was immovable. Suzanne picked up his check, handed it across the desk.

  "I'll have final checks for both you and Jason ready on Friday," she said. Her voice displayed her hurt and anger, but she didn't care.

  Pete put his hat back on, nodded once, unsmiling, and was gone.

  With the big Newfie leading the way, Sorry had no trouble finding the Waicom warehouse in Seattle. The Newfie left his engine running and jumped down from the cab to check in with the shipper, then came trotting back out. He hailed Sorry, pointed to a loading door, then pulled his rig ahead and out of the way so Sorry could back in first.

  "Oh, Christ!" Sorry ran a hand across his mouth, leaving behind a grimace of dread. It had been a few years since he'd had to back a forty odd foot trailer up to a loading dock, and now he had to do it with that wise-ass Newfie sitting right there, watching. "Oh, Christ!" He took a deep breath and, face grim with concentration, started slow and easy.

  The Newfie clapped him on the back when he caught up with him in the warehouse. "Never mind, buddy! Comes with practice. I seen a lot worse. Don't be sorry about it, now, will ya?" He winked.

  Sorry growled. "Go ahead, Murph. Make jokes about my name. I haven't heard a new one since 1978, but I keep hoping." He'd worked up a sweat in the last ten minutes, so the cool of the concrete building was a pleasant change. They had come up to what appeared to be the shipping and receiving counter, but there was no one behind it. The sound of male voices came from behind the warehouse stacks, until they were drowned out by the roar of a forklift motor.

  "So I don't have to say I'm sorry, then?" Murph's round face beamed good naturedly.

  "Heard that one a million times, at least. Better luck next time." Sorry caught sight of a Chinese guy with curly hair and a goatee walking towards them between the rows of metal shelving loaded with skids of cardboard cartons. He figured that had to be Steve Mah.

  "Well, then, what's your favorite joke about your name," Murph continued, "just so's I know what I'm up against."

  Sorry stroked his moustache thoughtfully until the Chinese guy was within earshot. "I like it when people tell me that if I do drugs, I'll be Sorry. I figure if I ever have an identity crisis, I'll know exactly what to do." He ended with what was, for him, a restrained laugh. He was trying to create the right impression on Mah. When he'd dug up information for Hunter in the past, it usually just required making small talk with guys he already knew, or else he had his bike and his buddies as props. Character references, like last night at The Post. After what Hunter had said about this Chinese guy and his obsession with little white pills, Sorry hoped joking about drugs would help him get his foot in the door.

  "Well, I'm always sorry when I drink too much." The Newfie gave him a little nudge and continued, "So I guess we'd best not get drunk together or we'll both be sorry."

  Sorry gave the Newfie a weak grin, too preoccupied to enter into the spirit of the conversation. "Yeah. Especially not today. We wouldn't want to fall asleep at the wheel while carrying this good gentleman's very important cargo now, would we?"

  Sorry looked at Mah. "We'll get your shit ... er ... shipment delivered on time and in tip top condition."

  The Chinese guy's brown eyes were studying him, mildly amused. "I never doubted that for a minute," he said. "You look like a fine, upstanding driver, and it only took you five tries to back your trailer up to the loading door."

  Sorry didn't like Mah's smug smile. "I had a bad night," he grumbled. "Didn't get much sleep."

  The Chinese guy's slanty eyes narrowed appraisingly. "You're new. You from Kamloops, too?"

  Sorry shook his head. "Nope. Born in Yreka, California, raised hell in Surrey, British Columbia, just outside of Vancouver. Drug capital of Canada, from what I'm told." He held out his hand. "Nice to meet you. My name's Dan Sorenson, but as Murph here will tell you, most people say I'm Sorry."

  "Steve Mah. You want me to say I'm sorry?" He gave Sorry's hand a firm and friendly shake.

  "Hell, no," said Sorry. "I'
m Sorry enough for all of us."

  Murph and Mah both groaned.

  Mah went to talk to the dock workers to get the loading underway, leaving the two drivers standing by the counter. Sorry felt hot breath on his neck, and Murph whispered, "Don't trust that fellow." He continued in a low voice, "If you want to hang onto your new job, then keep your nose clean and your gob shut and don't let that Chinaman get anything on you."

  Sorry drew his head back and squinted at the Newfie. "How so?"

  "Just a friendly warnin' is all." Murph grinned. "Just wouldn't want you to be sorry, is all." Then he turned his broad back and walked away.

  Sorry watched the freight being loaded. The diesel forklift nosed in with a full skid and backed out again empty, like a big stinking bumblebee dumping pollen in its hive. Every now and then, Murph would lean in and say something to the forklift operator, but Sorry couldn't make out the words over the noise of the engine. He looked around for Steve Mah, and eventually saw him stepping lightly off the running board of a second forklift as it slowed down near the shipper's counter. The driver sped up again, and entered Sorry's trailer with a skid of big square cartons. Sorry leaned against the counter. He had already dropped enough hints, and it was time to sit back and wait for the Chinese guy to nibble the bait.

  Mah kept messing around with paperwork behind the counter, his unnaturally curly hair all that Sorry could see of his head. Sorry coughed a couple of times. Eventually, Mah looked up at him and said, "Aren't you going to count the pieces we're loading on your trailer? You're going to have to sign for them, you know."

  "Aren't you guys counting them?" Sorry asked coolly.

  "Yeah. You're going to take our word for it?" There was a ghost of a crafty smile above the Chinaman's goatee.

  "Shouldn't I?" said Sorry with a crafty smile of his own.

  Mah went back to this paperwork. "Sure, you should. You can trust us. We're your best customers."