Slow Curve on the Coquihalla

by R. E. Donald

  "I'd better get a move on," he said. "But I'm hoping to spend some time on my way back, maybe Saturday morning. Any chance I could take a look at the drivers' logs? And toll receipts. They would help to verify times in the logs." He took his hand from the door frame, and she saw that the star had disappeared from the milky stone.

  She nodded. "You won't need the toll receipts. We've got an account, so they fax us weekly statements with all the dates and times on one page."

  "Is the back open?" he asked, glancing towards the rear of the van. "I'll just put the box in there, if you like. There are no papers in it, so you don't have to go through it right away. The R.C.M.P. are holding onto all the documents for now."

  "Thanks," she said. "That'll be fine."

  With the girls coloring on old computer printouts on the floor of the office and the telephones quiet, later that afternoon Suzanne unloaded the cardboard box from the van. She recognized her dad's duffle bag, and decided to put the whole carton in his bedroom closet, out of sight for now. She carried it upstairs. There was a rustling sound as the box shifted in her arms, and she noticed a department store bag. Something on the bottom of the box rattled as she placed it on the floor beside the closet.

  She just stood there, looking at it, her hand on the open closet door and her foot ready to slide it deeper inside. Then she reached down and pulled at the corner of the white bag. It rustled again as it finally gave way and broke free from where it was pinned beneath the duffle bag. It was very light, it felt almost empty. She looked inside.

  Jolene came thudding up the stairs, her little voice coming closer and closer. "Mommy? Mommy, where are you? Mommy? Can me and Veri have some Kool Aid? Mom?" Jolene fell silent, swinging back and forth, holding on to the door jamb of her grandfather's bedroom. "Mommy? Why are you crying?"

  She ran over and wrapped her little arms tight around Suzanne's knees.

  "Poor Mommy. Are you all sad about Grampa again?"

  When Sorry woke up, his head was fuzzy and when he reached over to touch Simone he banged his elbow on a metal wall instead. He peeled open one eye. He was in the sleeper of a green truck. He ran his tongue around inside his mouth, tasting the acrid residue of several kinds of smoke. Right. He was in Hinton, and had climbed into the sleeper stoned on hash and warm with the camaraderie of his new friends.

  They were brothers. Yesterday he'd crossed the Rocky Mountains and run across some brothers discussing their choppers in the parking lot of a hotel in Hinton, Alberta. One thing led to another, and as the evening progressed they were happy to partake of the hash he bought with the money he hadn't spent on little white pills, and he recalled being happy to share it with them. He covered his face with both hands and groaned. His hands were sweaty and grimy and smelled of smoke and grease and piss. So, what else was new?

  He poked his head out the door of the sleeper and had to avert his eyes from the brilliance of the sun. He figured he was about three and a half hours away from Edmonton. He should be able to get there by noon, for sure. Squinting at his watch, he swore aloud. It was already after eight thirty. He didn't even have time for a decent breakfast if he was going to get this load delivered on schedule. He plodded half a block to a service station, and asked for the restroom key. The attendant looked like he was going to say something negative until Sorry straightened up and glowered over his tousled moustache, bracing his arms on the counter and rippling his Black Cobra tattoo. The attendant gave him the key. When Sorry came back with the key wearing a clean black Harley teeshirt, looking washed, combed and immeasurably more benign, the attendant even threw in a free coffee and dried up donut for the road.

  It wasn't until he was back on the Yellowhead cruising just above the speed limit that he thought about giving Hunter another call. He was a little pissed off at Hunter, although he had to admit that it probably wasn't Hunter's fault they hadn't managed to connect yet. If Hunter was somewhere in the mountains, he probably couldn't even get a signal on his cellular phone. But being pissed off made it easier for him to justify not stopping to make another call. Besides, by the time he parked the stupid truck, found a payphone, collected enough change and pulled the damn number out of his wallet, he'd make himself late for the delivery. He was on schedule and had nothing to report anyway. The only reason for calling was that Hunter might have found out more about that mean looking dude at Waicom's Edmonton warehouse so that Sorry could do his fantastic snake charmer number on him, too. But Sorry figured he had a good instinct for identifying criminal types. He'd just follow his nose.

  By the time he reached the Waicom warehouse in Edmonton, he was being bullied and harassed by his stomach. It was just about noon, he was so hungry he could feel the thin edge of a headache, and he was going to have to back the goddamn trailer up to another fuckin' loading dock. He pulled into the yard and left the engine running while he went in for instructions. He felt downright provoked when the shipper, a jowly slob with greasy fingers, bit into a fat sandwich right before he directed Sorry to door number ten. Sorry returned to his truck tormented by the smell of garlic sausage and swiss cheese, but at least it made him mad enough to back right up to the door on his first try. After he turned off his engine, he headed back inside.

  The fat guy was whining at a black haired stud with a small ponytail who reminded Sorry of van Damme, cool and lethal. No question that he was the mean guy Hunter mentioned. "Just today, Frank. Sidhu's booked off sick, and I can't get anybody else to start until three. Just this once, can't you put off your lunch, just till the trailer's unloaded?" He looked furtively in Sorry's direction, then continued in a furious whisper, "I can't ask this ... driver to wait around here for you to come back from your lunch break."

  The cool stud looked over at Sorry, then back at the fat man. In a smooth, lazy voice, he said, "I'm hungry, John." He smiled like a lizard. "Unload it yourself, John."

  Sorry cleared his throat and pulled a crumpled five-dollar bill from his jeans. He waved the bill in their direction. "Say, can either of you gents tell me where I can go around here to get a decent lunch for under five bucks? I'm fuckin' starved!"

  John the fat guy just stared slack-jowled at him, but Frank the stud's face eased into a self-possessed smile. "I'll go one better. I'll take you to the best greasy spoon on this side of the city. C'mon, man." He walked towards the door, throwing back over his shoulder, "Don't shit yourself, John. We'll be back by one."

  Sorry hitched up his jeans and hurried off behind him.

  Frank drove Sorry about a mile in a late model, black Jeep Cherokee. The restaurant featured a brilliantly-colored Chinese smorgasbord -- yellow deep fried prawns, crimson sweet and sour sauce, crisp green broccoli. It wasn't the best he'd ever eaten, but Sorry was half way through his second plateful before he slowed down enough to talk.

  "Thanks. I needed that." He patted his stomach. "I partied some in Hinton last night, ended up sleeping in this morning. All I had for breakfast was a fuckin' donut. I'm glad I didn't sleep any later, or I would've missed this." He gestured at his plate with a canary colored prawn impaled on his fork. "If I'd'a had to watch that fat dork take one more bite out of his fuckin' sandwich, I would've ripped it out of his hand and used him as a wheel chock." Sorry grinned, chow mein noodles draped over his chin. "Thanks, pal." The prawn followed the noodles under his moustache.

  "De nada," Frank said. "Mind if I smoke while you eat?"

  Sorry laughed and waved him to go ahead.

  "Hinton, eh? Get ripped last night?"

  Sorry nodded as he shovelled fried rice into his face. "Hash," he said. "Damn fine hash."

  Frank smiled. "Got any more? Too bad. It's not my drug of choice, but a little good hash now and then helps keep the world in perspective." He fingered what looked like a tiny gold whistle that hung on a fine chain around his neck.

  "Yeah, I know what you mean. It's not something I do every day. Can't afford it, for one thing. The old lady always has my paycheck spent before the ink has fuckin' dried." Sorry
laughed. He was feeling much better now. "You must do pretty good, nice wheels, nice accessories." He winked towards Frank's gold watch.

  "Yeah. That's why I've got to make sure I'm back to the warehouse by one. I can't give fat old John any reason to write me up. I need the job." The stud leaned back and looked at Sorry through slitted eyes.

  "Hah!" Sorry rubbed his chin. "No way you pull down more'n rent money working in a fuckin' warehouse. You screwin' a rich old lady, or what?" He mirrored Frank, leaning back and squinting.

  "The point is, my friend ..." Frank leaned forward across the table. "... sometimes you have to put up with doing something tedious and menial because it puts you in the right place at the right time. My paycheck is peanuts. Working in that warehouse just gives me easy access to the gravy boat, not to mention it makes a good cover. Know what I mean?"

  Sorry's heartbeat picked up, and he knew it wasn't just a reaction to the MSG in the chop suey. He nodded appreciatively. "Yeah. Yeah, I do." He licked some sauce off the ends of his moustache. "I could put up with tedious and menial if the price was right. Hell, I'd fuckin' kiss old sausage face on the mouth if the price was right." He wiped his finger excitedly along his moustache. "Fuck. Would I fuckin' love to be able to give the old lady my paycheck, and then have gravy left over for myself. I could go for that. Fuck, yeah."

  Frank smiled. "You look like you might've been on the wrong side of the law a time or two in your life."

  "Who? Me?" He laughed. "Moi?" he said in his best Miss Piggy imitation.

  "It might be that my partners and I could use another, uh ... associate ... at some time in the near future. You interested?"

  Sorry's eyebrows shot up. He was definitely interested.

  "That is," continued Frank, "if you're planning to make this Ranverdan outfit a long term thing. For the time being, that's what we need." He stabbed the end of his cigarette into a round tin ashtray, blew smoke across the table. "We need somebody stable and, uh, reasonably respectable, someone who won't draw attention to himself, if you get my drift."

  Sorry inhaled Frank's smoke. He was out of tailor-mades again. He was going to have to ask Hunter for a few bucks until payday. That there gravy was looking pretty good. "Like I said, I can handle tedious and menial if the price is right." He paused for a slow, meaningful smile. So what if he had to swear off partying in Hinton. "What do I have to do?"

  "Nothing, yet. I've got to consult my partners. We'll talk more next time." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Want a smoke, Sorenson?" He held out the package. "Here, take them all. I've got a carton in the Jeep."

  Sorry stared him down as he reached for a cigarette. "One's fine, Frank. I can wait." He lit it with a match from a folder of restaurant matches and inhaled deeply. "How do I know that I'm not being set up?" He leaned forward and blew the smoke at Frank. "You got any guarantees?"

  "No more than you do, pal. No more than you do."

  CHAPTER 21

  – – – – TWENTY-ONE

  Hunter was standing in the customer's warehouse in Strathcona Industrial Park on the southeast side of Edmonton when he finally heard from Sorry on his cell phone. Sorry said he was finished at Waicom, but had to pick up another load a few miles away and would be tied up for two or three hours yet. Waicom's warehouse was on the northwest side of the city, a couple of miles north of the gigantic West Edmonton Mall and not far off the Yellowhead Trail. Hunter's own outbound load wouldn't be ready until Friday morning, so as soon as this customer signed off his paperwork, he was free for the evening. Hunter told Sorry he'd be waiting for him in the lounge at the hotel near the Yellowhead where he'd met Mel Collins two weeks earlier. It would be easy for Sorry to find and there was room to park their rigs.

  When Hunter got there, he circled the parking lot and parked the truck nose out, making The Blue Knight visible from the street. He decided to check in to the hotel so he could get a good sleep and a hot shower before he hit the road again in the morning. His room was on the second floor, plainly furnished but large and bright, with a gold and brown patterned carpet and a south-facing window that looked out over the parking lot. He washed the day's dust and sweat off his face, then sat on the edge of one of the twin beds to use the telephone on the nightstand. He called Ranverdan's 800 number, and the phone rang three times before Suzanne answered. She sounded slightly out of breath.

  "Sorry I didn't get a chance to call earlier," he said. "Did you hear from John Semeniuk last night?"

  "He called from home, like he said he would. You met him once, didn't you? Is he as strange as he sounds?"

  "Strange? He's not a personable sort of man, probably doesn't have many friends. He seemed extremely nervous, very secretive. I'd say you hit the nail on the head yesterday when you called him paranoid." Hunter hoped John Semeniuk's fear wasn't contagious. He didn't want Suzanne any more worried than she already was. "Did he say what that note was all about?"

  "Well, he talks really fast and never seems to finish a sentence, so I'm not sure I understood him properly, but it sounds like he's afraid of a guy that works in the warehouse with him. He babbled on about wanting to have the guy fired, but he can't get anything on him. He kept calling the guy `bad news'. When I asked him to explain, he said, `You don't want to know' and then just kept repeating that he was bad news. I got the man's name though. It's Frank Scarfo." She spelled it out. "Will that help?"

  "It might," said Hunter. "I saw the two of them together, and there's no question that John's intimidated by him. I'll see what I can find out about him. What about the shrink wrap? Did he elaborate?"

  "Again, I don't know if I understood him correctly, but I gather that a few times trailers came in with a bunch of loose shrink wrap in them. He thought something fishy was going on, but didn't know what. He thinks they were smuggling something, but it never made it as far as the warehouse, that it had been removed before the trailer arrived in Edmonton. He was hoping my dad could figure it out, because he really wanted to get something on that Frank guy so he could have him fired."

  "Does he seem to connect Frank with your father's death in any way?"

  "I asked him straight out. He said he didn't think that was possible, because Frank was at work all day, both before and after the accident."

  "That would pretty much rule him out, all right."

  "Are you going to try to see John?"

  "Based on what you've told me, I don't think there's much point."

  There was a short silence on the other end, then Suzanne asked, "Why did you stop hauling the Waicom loads yourself? I don't understand. Wouldn't it have been easier to find out what was going on if you were right there?"

  Hunter was prepared for her question. He had decided right from the start that he didn't want anyone other than El knowing that Sorry was doing `undercover' work at Waicom on his behalf. He didn't want it to be leaked, whether intentionally or inadvertently, to any of the other drivers. "Too many of the drivers know my background, so there's no way I'd be able to gain the confidence of anyone engaged in illegal activity there. My presence would just make them more cautious. You putting a total stranger like Sorenson on the run should set their minds at ease. Meanwhile, I'm going at it from another angle, trying to find witnesses to what happened on the Coquihalla that night."

  "If you think they're still doing whatever it is at Waicom, smuggling or whatever, shouldn't we try to do the same thing Dad did? Bring through a load in bond and examine it?"

  "For the present, I'm only concerned about your dad's accident and whatever happened to Gary's brakes. The smuggling, if that's what's happening, may be related, but it's not my main concern. Doing something about it would tip our hand, and I don't want to do that unless it becomes necessary. If it does, I'll get one of your drivers to help, one that you trust."

  "You suspect one of my drivers is involved?"

  "Not necessarily. But they've all had contact with Waicom on a regular basis, and I'm sure you trust one or two of them
more than the others."

  "Stan. He's an old, old friend of Dad's, and they wouldn't have been such good friends if Dad didn't trust him. I'd have to say I trust him the most. Except for Gary, of course, but I don't want Gary going back in there again, not after that scare."

  "I won't let you send Gary back in unless I'm convinced it's safe." Hunter was silent for a moment. If he was right and Randy had been murdered for threatening to expose someone at Waicom, then anyone who got too close to the truth there could be in danger, be it Sorry, Gary, Suzanne, or Hunter himself. He didn't want to put anyone in jeopardy, including Sorry, but at least Sorry had past experience with dangerous criminals and knew enough not to get himself involved in something he couldn't handle. "Like I said, I've put out the word that we're looking for witnesses, so hopefully we'll find some kind of evidence outside of Waicom. Once we do, we'll turn the job over to the police."

  He told her he hoped to see her on Saturday, and asked if he'd be able to borrow Randy's Suburban again. "I'd like to take a run out to Shuswap Lake, visit some friends."

  "Sure," she said. "See you then."

  Hunter tried to reach Bill Earl to see if he'd found anything on the drivers in CPIC, but Bill wasn't available. He left a message that he'd call back.

  Downstairs in the lounge, Hunter picked a table near the window and ordered a beer. He couldn't see the parking lot, so he kept glancing over at the door. He hoped Sorry wouldn't be too long. This time, he was the hungry one. He bought a couple of packages of beer nuts at the bar. Popping the nuts into his mouth between slugs of beer, Hunter thought about the Ranverdan drivers and their possible involvement with Waicom. He hated to think that Randy had been betrayed, maybe even murdered, by someone he considered a friend, but it wasn't as remote a possibility as he would have liked to think. In his experience, most murders were committed by spouses or lovers, close relations or friends. Money and alcohol were important catalysts, but what it came down to was a man would murder someone he was close to because of a threat to himself, be it real or imagined. A threat to his freedom, to his family, to his way of life, even a threat to his self respect could cause a man to take a life.