Slow Curve on the Coquihalla

by R. E. Donald

  Sometimes even his own.

  He refused to let his mind wander down that dark corridor, and forced himself to think about the coming weekend. After putting in a couple of hours on Saturday in the Ranverdan office going over the drivers' logs, he intended to take Gord up on his invitation and spend the night at the Youngs' cabin on Shuswap Lake. By the time Sorry walked through the door, Hunter was on his second beer. The sugar coated nuts had taken the edge off his hunger and he was starting to feel relaxed. Sorry looked a little worse for wear. He held his straw colored hair back away from his forehead and peered into the relative darkness of the lounge. Hunter hailed him.

  "Aha! There's the man!" Sorry pulled out a chair, collapsed into it with a heavy sigh. "I've got till Sunday night to drop this load in Vancouver, right? You figure I could maybe crash here for the night?"

  "I've got a room here." Hunter didn't really want to share his room with Sorry, but couldn't think of a good enough reason not to. "Forty five bucks," he added.

  "Got a couch?"

  "Twin beds." Hunter drained the rest of his beer. What the hell, at least Sorry didn't snore. Much. "You buy dinner."

  "It's a deal. Can you lend me fifty bucks?"

  Sorry brightened up visibly with the prospect of a dinner and a good night's sleep. He ordered a Coke and Hunter asked for another beer. It was one of those days when they went down like water.

  "So, tell me about Waicom," Hunter said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

  Sorry made a face. "You were wrong, man. I ain't no fuckin' snake charmer." He slumped further into his chair. "Your friend Mah did not, shall we say, take to me like he was supposed to. I got almost nothing to tell you."

  Hunter nodded slowly, trying to hide his disappointment. "Just start at the beginning, Dan. Tell me everything. You know – you said, he said, then you did, he did. Everything."

  Sorry was right. Hunter got almost nothing from the conversation Sorry related to him.

  Sorry summed it up. "Only thing worth mentioning is that Mah didn't seem to care that the guy was dead. Oh, and I didn't tell you about the Newfie."

  "Murphy?"

  "Yeah. He whispers at me to watch my back. Says not to trust the Chinaman. The Newfie knows something, I'd put money on it. You got a few bucks for cigarettes? I'm dyin' for a smoke."

  "Did you see Murphy talking to anybody at the warehouse?"

  "Shit, Hunter. I was trying to stick close to the Chinaman, like I was supposed to. The Newfie was over watching his trailer get loaded, shooting the shit with the guys on the forklifts. Couldn't hear a word from where I was standing." He grabbed the bill Hunter held out to him and waved it at the waiter. "Got any cigarettes, pal?"

  The waiter gave him change, pointed out the cigarette machine. Sorry got up and left.

  Hunter felt like pacing, but ended up just spinning a beer-stained coaster around and around on its end on the thick acrylic varnish of the wooden table top. He knew he'd been pinning too much hope on what Sorry would find out at Waicom in Seattle. He was still sure that Steve Mah was somehow involved. Mah had escaped prosecution once, and was bound to keep playing the odds until he lost.

  But for now it was Murphy's behavior that aroused his interest. Sorry was right. The man knew something about what was going on at Waicom. Murphy's warning to Sorry only confirmed what Hunter had begun to suspect earlier, after the cryptic remark Murphy had made at the Waicom warehouse the night he'd pointed Hunter in the direction of Chuck Wahl. It should've been me. Carla Hurley had said that Murphy and Randy had spent some time talking the night before the accident. Even though Murphy was Randy's oldest and closest friend, it was a mistake to assume that he would volunteer information relating to Randy's death. Somehow, Hunter would have to question him further, pressure him to reveal everything he knew about Waicom. Now Murphy was on his way to Winnipeg and wouldn't be back in B.C. until next week. Hunter would have to engineer an opportunity to talk to him as soon as possible.

  Sorry came back, a freshly lit cigarette dangling from his lips. "Okay, boss, I'm all yours."

  "Good. Now tell me what happened in Edmonton."

  Sorry sucked in a lungful of smoke and rolled his eyes at the ceiling as he exhaled. "Tell you what happened in Edmonton," he repeated. "Right. Like, what do you want to know?"

  "Same deal, Dan. You said, he said, all that stuff. Who did you talk to? Who talked to you?"

  "Right." He sniffed loudly, then closed his eyes and twisted up his face, as if in deep thought. "I walked in there just before twelve noon, and this fat guy tells me to back up to door number ten. I fuckin' did it, too. First try." He snapped his fingers. "John! The fat guy's name was John."

  "Then I go back inside, it's twelve o'clock, and the warehouse guy – the mean lookin' stud with the pony tail – he says, I'm goin' for lunch. The fat guy stops eating his sandwich long enough to bitch about it. Seems like he wasn't too comfortable with the idea of waiting around in the warehouse for an hour with a guy like me breathing down his neck. You know, my personal magnetism was maybe a little strong for him, right?" Sorry chuckled. "Nearly shit his pants when the stud tells him he's going for lunch anyway. Frank. Frank's the stud. Unload it yourself, John, he says."

  Sorry took a swig of his Coke. "So then I speak up. Where can a guy get a cheap lunch around here? I asked. And this Frank guy, he says, come on with me, I'll take you where I'm going. So we went for lunch, and left the fat guy alone with his stinkin' sandwich." Sorry crushed his cigarette into the ashtray. "And after lunch we go back to the warehouse, they unload the trailer, I phone in to the little girl in Kamloops who tells me where my pick up is ... oh, yeah. She was bitching at me for not phoning in. It's not enough that I deliver the loads on time, I'm supposed to call her every fuckin' day to tell her the truck still runs, or what?"

  Hunter's face grew hard. "That's routine," he said. "Go on."

  "Okay, okay. I'll phone in every day." He pulled out another cigarette and lit it, muttering "She's too fuckin' young to be my mother."

  "Keep going."

  "That's it," said Sorry, with a shrug, smoke shooting out his nostrils. "I phoned in and the chick sent me off to pick up another load."

  "Give your head a shake," said Hunter, his voice hard as flint. "The only reason I got her to give you this job is so that you would get information for me. If you want to keep it, quit behaving like a smartass. What did you and Frank talk about at lunch?"

  Sorry bowed his head and thought for a few seconds, then sighed. "Yeah, Hunter, I know, man. I'm being an asshole. So, I did the I said, he said stuff up until we leave for lunch, right? So then this Frank guy drives me to a Chinese restaurant with a smorgasbord. I say, nice car. He's driving this Jeep. He asks did I get ripped last night. I tell him I smoked a little hash with some brothers in Hinton." He looked earnestly into Hunter's eyes. "See, I'm not holding anything back. I toked up last night in Hinton, blew the money you gave me, partied with some brothers I met in a parking lot. That's why I almost didn't make it to Waicom before noon. I got wasted and overslept." He shrugged, his eyes wide. "You know me, Hunter. I'm not like you. I like to party. I've never been straight, and I never will be. You know that, man."

  Hunter nodded soberly. He knew that. That's why Sorry could go places Hunter couldn't go, talk to people who wouldn't talk to him. He didn't fully understand why, but he knew that to a lot of people on the other side of the law, he still smelled like a cop. Sorry smelled like anything but. "Go on," he said.

  "So he asks me if I've got any more hash, I say no. He hints that he does a lot of coke. I say, how can he afford it. I say, I figure he's banging some old moneybags broad. Some of them go for guys like him – the mean looking types, eh?" He took another swallow of Coke and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So he says, you may be right. Meaning, maybe he's got this rich old lady. I'm busy stuffing my face with beef chop suey and pork fried rice. I wait to see if he's going to say anything more. He talks about the Canucks-Rangers
series. Who fuckin' cares? He talks about the fuckin' weather, for Christ sake! I say, yeah, you're right, it is fuckin' hot. I eat more chop suey. We order coffee. I bum a smoke. He looks at his watch, says we gotta go, he doesn't want to be late." Sorry shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. "What more can I tell you?"

  Half closing his eyes, Hunter chewed the inside of his cheek. "And back at the warehouse?"

  "Yeah, okay. We get back there and the stud climbs on his forklift and starts to unload the trailer. Fine. I go stand around near the fat guy. He stinks of garlic. I say, can I use the phone? He says sure. The handle's greasy and the whole thing fuckin' stinks of garlic. I phone this Suzanne. She gives me the dope on the load I just picked up, and she says you're probably in Edmonton by then and that I should phone you."

  "So," Hunter leaned back in his chair, "what do you think?"

  Sorry pulled on the end of his nose a couple of times, then ran his index finger underneath his nostrils, snuffling. "What do I think? I think that you think that there's something rotten going on, and I respect that. From past experience, Hunter The Man is usually right. I think that I didn't get the information that you need, and I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry that you're disappointed. I really am. What I think is that these are very cautious dudes, and that nobody should be surprised that they don't tell me their secrets the first time they lay eyes on me." He stuck out his jaw and nodded reflectively. "But I'll get what you need. Count on it. Give me another trip, two maybe three, they'll get slack and sloppy and I'll get you what you need. We go back a long way, man. You know I don't bullshit you when it really counts."

  Hunter had to agree. He trusted Sorry about this, although he'd never been sure of him entirely when he was on the force. He always recognized and respected Sorry's allegiance to his brotherhood, as loose as that brotherhood had been at times, and that it was the most important thing in Sorry's life, a part of his very identity. So he never expected Sorry to reveal information about a fellow outlaw biker unless that biker's behavior posed a threat to the brotherhood. If Sorry had belonged to one of the more powerful gangs, Hunter knew he would never have gotten anything from him. As it was, when Sorry was wearing the patch of the Black Cobras, he had put himself at risk giving Hunter information. So, sure, Sorry had sometimes lied to Hunter in the past, or more accurately, omitted to tell the truth. Hunter had expected him to lie. This time, he counted on his own friendship with Sorry being stronger than any rapport the biker might develop with the men at Waicom. Yes, he trusted him.

  He already knew he'd had unrealistic expectations for the results of Sorry's first exposure to the crew at Waicom. He figured there'd be no problem with Sorry doing the run a few more times, as long as he kept Suzanne reasonably happy. "Remember, in the end it's not up to me that you stay on the payroll at Ranverdan. The ‘chick’ is the boss."

  "Yeah, okay. I'll be a good boy and phone in like I'm supposed to. Mo's real happy that I'm workin'. I've got to admit, I'd really like to keep this job."

  "And let me remind you, Dan, that I don't want you to do anything that's going to put you in jeopardy here. If you can't find anything out by just talking to these guys, don't go any further. If these guys really are responsible for Randy's death, if they're threatened, they may not hesitate to get rough. Don't take any chances. You're a family man now. Got that?"

  "Yeah, I got it."

  "Great!" Hunter banged on the table with his fist, making Sorry drop his cigarette. It rolled to the edge of the table before Sorry managed to snatch it up.

  "I'm starving," said Hunter. "Let's go see if we can rustle up some of that legendary grain-fed Alberta beef."

  CHAPTER 22

  – – – – TWENTY-TWO

  Hunter arrived in Kamloops Saturday morning at around eight o'clock. He parked The Blue Knight just outside the Ranverdan yard, grabbed his duffle bag from the sleeper, and set off on foot for the Rodgers' home. Once he crossed the highway into the residential section, the morning songs of chickadees and robins cascaded down from the trees and bubbled across the green and brown patchwork of lawns and gardens. In spite of the spill of June sunshine across the suburban tableau, it was still early enough to be cool, or at least not uncomfortably hot. He dodged the silvery curtain of an oscillating lawn sprinkler, inhaling deeply the smells of wet earth and grass as he passed.

  Suzanne opened the door before he reached it. She was barefoot, and dressed in white shorts and a lavender colored teeshirt. Her skin glowed fresh from a shower. Little Jolene peered around her mother's slender legs, giggled at Hunter, and skipped back to where she'd come from, whinnying like a horse. Suzanne invited him in for coffee, and he followed her into the kitchen. Her damp hair, giving off the faint scent of soap, was held in a loose ponytail by a black fabric band.

  "Gary's gone out for a run," she said, handing Hunter a mug of fresh coffee. "He's getting restless. I'm not finding enough work for him close to home, so he wants me to put him on the longer hauls again."

  "Hasn't El been able to come up with anything for him?" Hunter asked, reaching for the carton of Creamo.

  She winced. "I'm trying not to use El, if I can help it."

  "Why not? She's got a crusty way about her, but her heart's in the right place."

  "That's what Gary says, but I don't think she has my interests at heart." She peered down into her mug for a moment, then raised her eyes to Hunter's. "Pete's gone to work for her, you know."

  Frowning, Hunter finished stirring his coffee and looked around for a place to put the spoon. He set it down beside the sink. "Yes, I know. It was his idea, she says."

  Suzanne shook her head. "I don't know. It's enough of a struggle trying to keep the business going without her so-called help. I'd like to know how a guy who's bitched for years about just scraping by was all of a sudden able to buy a nearly new Ford tractor. I'll bet she even helped to finance him."

  "I can't believe she'd do that," Hunter said, but wasn't as sure about it as he tried to sound.

  "You know, the drivers are part of the reason it's seemed so important to keep Ranverdan afloat. They'd always been so loyal to Dad, and to the company, I couldn't turn around and put them out of work." Suzanne stared into her coffee mug again. "Now I'm beginning to wonder if it really matters that much to them."

  They both remained standing, sipping at their coffee for a while, then Hunter asked, "Was there anything unusual about your Dad's behavior towards Pete in the past few months?"

  Suzanne looked up abruptly, eyebrows raised. "You don't think ...?" She covered her mouth with her hand, thought for a moment. "Dad was always getting pissed off at Pete, but that's nothing new. Pete and him were good friends on one level, like, they'd spent a lot of time together socially because Mom was such good friends with Mrs. Whitehead, but Dad used to get fed up with Pete. He was always turning down runs, or asking Dad to get someone else to switch with him. Dad said that if it hadn't been for Mrs. Whitehead, Pete would've been off the roster years ago." She smiled and shook her head. "Dad was such a mush sometimes. Even after Mom died, he didn't want to do anything that would have upset her."

  "What about Stan Murphy?"

  "Murph? Why Murph?"

  "Just covering all the bases. Anything seem to have changed recently between your father and Murphy?"

  "Murph has been Dad's closest friend for years, especially since Mom died. Murph got divorced about the same time, so they kind of supported each other through some rough times. They'd go off fishing together sometimes, have a few beers together when they were both in town, that kind of thing. But lately?" She frowned, searching the kitchen ceiling with her eyes. "Yes, I guess things changed a little about six months ago. Murph got a girlfriend, a woman in Cherry Creek. He and Dad started spending less time together, although sometimes lately Dad would drive out to Cherry Creek and have dinner with Murph and his girlfriend and stay overnight. As far as I know, they still got along fine. Dad never said anything to me about problems between them, and I never heard the
m argue. It's just that Murph was busy with his girlfriend more often." She sighed. "Maybe that's why Dad got involved with that ... Carla person in Vancouver."

  "Have you met Murph's girlfriend?"

  "No, but I think Dad liked her a lot. Her name is Kitty. Dad used to call her Miss Kitty of Cherry Creek."

  Suzanne turned to place her mug behind her on the counter, and the black band slipped off her gathered hair and fell to the floor. Hunter picked it up and handed it to her, and she held it in her teeth while she shook out her hair and ran her fingers through it. Her movements brought Hunter a sudden, sharp image of his daughter Jan. As she twisted the elasticized band around a new ponytail, Suzanne drew in her breath, then let it out in a sigh. "I'm able to talk about Dad now without feeling like I'm going to fall to pieces." There was pain in her face as she continued, "You'd think I'd be relieved, wouldn't you? But I'm not. I've lost him physically, and now I'm afraid I'm going to lose him here, too." She pointed to her heart.

  "He won't let that happen," said Hunter. "Trust me."

  The first thing Hunter did after he let himself into the Ranverdan office was call Bill Earl at the detachment office. Bill was off duty so he tried his home.

  "You're lucky, pal. Two minutes later and I would've been out of here for the rest of the weekend. I'm taking my kid on an overnight hike."

  Bill had Hunter hang on while he went to find his notes. "Okay, we got zip on Albert, Buckingham, Rodgers, and Whitehead. Must be good, law-abiding citizens. Or lucky crooks. But this Kubik, we picked him up for a bar fight one time, and same with Murphy. Neither one was out of the ordinary, the usual drunk and rowdy stuff, a few punches between consenting adults. No charges resulted in either case."