The Chairman's Toys

by Graham Reed

  The warm sunshine and heavy cogitation were resulting in uncomfortable amounts of perspiration on my own corpus. Sensing impending dehydration, I stopped in at the Cambie for a quick pint of the bar’s tasteless draft beer, just in case my meeting with Mickey Wu didn’t create any headaches of its own.

  A familiar cast of local reprobates ebbed and flowed around me according to the workings of their internal, sometimes audible, cuckoo clocks. The guy on the next stool kept asking me to watch his beer while he exited the pub and entered the alley with customers who required stimulants to balance out their depressants. It gave me a pervading sense of calm, knowing that a few of the city’s traditional dysfunctions persisted, at least in this part of town. These were degradations on a level I was familiar with, occurring for reasons I understood.

  Once sufficiently lubricated, I left the Cambie behind to penetrate the contiguous but disconnected district that was Yaletown. Navigating its cobblestone corridors filled with galleries and brewpubs, I dodged bodybuilders in puffy vests, ladies of leisure walking micro dogs, willowy youth in scarves and blazers carrying their skateboards. It was a diverse and discordant populace drawn together by a shared love of high-end hair product and happy-hour Bellinis.

  When I reached False Creek I got in line behind a beefy, fresh-faced family from Minnesota to squeeze onto one of the little bathtub ferries that zigzag up and down the waterway, redistributing tourists according to a secret formula devised by the Vancouver Chamber of Commerce.

  The Minnesotans were generating more heat than the sun as they jostled and gawked at the forest of condominiums that lined the shores of False Creek. My canvas jacket was proving far more effective at keeping sweat in than it had ever been at keeping rain out. I managed a passable Houdini impression as I wriggled out of it in the close quarters, the reactivated body funk of the jacket’s previous owner permeating the cabin air around me. Dismayed, mouth-breathing Minnesotans edged away from me as I discreetly dropped the jacket to the floor and wedged it under a bench seat with my foot. I made a mental note to stop shopping at the Value Village thrift store on Hastings Street.

  Now clad only in my prized powder-blue sateen cowboy shirt with navy accents and pearl snaps, I had no choice but to remain inside as we approached Granville Island. Venturing onto the ferry’s tiny outer deck in search of fresher air was to risk getting strafed with the intestinal residue of the seagulls conducting air raids on the untended picnic lunches of the Gore-Tex-clad tourists crowded along the edge of the wharf watching seals picnic on bycatch fish guts.

  When the ferryman deposited me at the Maritime Museum in Kitsilano, I made a quick detour up to Siegel’s for sesame bagels, delivered hot and fresh straight from the eternal fires of their brick oven. Spiritually and physically fortified, I resumed my journey westward.

  By the time I reached Point Grey Road, I was fatigued, footsore, and starting to regret my ambitious perambulations. The clouds were halfway across the harbour, the beer had long since worn off, and I had sesame seeds stuck between my teeth.

  Fortunately, my objective was in sight. The bamboo forest surrounding Mickey Wu’s house was half a block up, with my car parked on the street in front of it. I had arrived just in time because some nimrod was letting his overgrown pitbull sniff around my car. Only when I got closer did I realize it was actually Mickey Wu and Thaddeus. I chastised myself, recalling that pitbulls seldom wear tracksuits.

  “Hello, Mr. Wu.” I surveyed the street signs. “I didn’t realize this was an off-leash area.”

  Mickey Wu glanced over. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it. “This is your car?” Thaddeus ignored me entirely.

  “It sure is.” The car was a silver 1983 Porsche 911SC. It wasn’t worth much anymore, and I would have been well-advised to drive around with a mechanic if I could have found one small enough to fit in its miniscule trunk. But as far as I was concerned, it was a classic.

  Thaddeus continued to circle around it, peering through the windows. I attempted to brush him away with an olive branch. “Like it?” I asked in a not-unfriendly tone.

  “No,” he grunted, exhaling a moist cloud onto the glass of the passenger window beneath the oily imprint of his forehead pressed against it.

  “I was beginning to wonder whether you had abandoned it here,” Mickey Wu said.

  “Well, I haven’t. So if you’ll excuse me.” I put a hand on Thaddeus’ shoulder to pull him away from the car. It was like trying to grab a boulder wrapped in quick-dry polyester.

  Mickey Wu watched impassively. “I assume you’re here not only to collect your car, but also to return my fee?”

  “Of course. Personal cheque alright?”

  His eyebrows said “seriously?” but his mouth said, “I suppose.”

  “Perfect, I just need somewhere to write it out. Shall we go inside? ”

  Mickey Wu smiled. “Right here is fine.”

  I decided to do a little fishing while I wrote out the cheque on the hood of my car. “I hope you didn’t have much trouble cleaning up after we left?”

  “No.” Mickey made a show of checking his watch.

  “Great.” So much for being circumspect. “Did you figure out who the dead guy was?”

  “Yes. As a matter fact, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Mickey Wu nodded, his expression grim. “It turns out the dead man was the cousin of one of my business associates.”

  I stopped writing but kept my eyes down, uncertain of what to say. “I had no idea he was a friend of yours. I’m…sorry for your loss?”

  “I didn’t know him personally, but had been asked to meet with him to see if I could provide him with some...guidance. The man was very troubled. Apparently he had been struggling with addiction for some time. My associate was deeply saddened, if not surprised, to learn that his cousin had overdosed.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “So I guess it was just bad luck that he showed up the night I was there. No one’s fault, really.”

  Mickey Wu considered this for a moment before replying. “He came to the house looking for me. Instead he stumbled into your party and somehow got his hands on narcotics. Call it bad luck if you wish, but this in no way excuses your own failings.”

  “Bummer.” I elected to ignore the implicit accusation. If Mickey was really hung up on how the guy got the drugs, I’d give him The Norwegian’s number. Who, I was relieved to realize, had this whole thing backwards—I hadn’t screwed up his business, he had screwed up mine by selling dope to the poor schmuck. “Even though I personally had nothing to do with it, I’m sorry your associate’s cousin died.” Whoever said apologizing was hard?

  “Are you, indeed? Because it seems my associate’s tragedy is your good fortune. He has requested that I handle this shameful incident discreetly. I have therefore not contacted the police to report your own negligence and trespasses. In exchange, I expect your absolute discretion. It is, after all, very much in your own interest to keep this matter quiet. Are we agreed on this?”

  I nodded, trying not to look too delighted. “I’m just glad we can put this tragic incident behind us now.”

  Mickey Wu folded his arms across his chest. “Not quite yet, I’m afraid.”

  I stopped nodding.

  “Apparently, some of the man’s personal effects have gone missing and the family has asked for my help in recovering them. Naturally I agreed, but we didn’t find them when we cleaned up my house.” Mickey Wu slipped my cheque into his jacket pocket without looking at it. He was too busy watching me intently. “I was wondering whether you might know where they were.”

  I tried to look both thoughtful and puzzled. “I’m assuming you aren’t referring to the bag of dope that was lying on the bathroom floor?”

  Mickey Wu ignored this. “We found the man’s wallet, but apparently he also had a cellular phone,
which had some content of sentimental value—family photos and the like. They’re very keen to recover it.”

  “Makes sense.” Now I actually was puzzled, but attempted to look disinterested. “Wish I could help but I didn’t find the phone.” Not the one Mickey Wu was describing, at any rate.

  He frowned. “You’re absolutely sure you didn’t find a phone in the bathroom? Or anywhere in my house?”

  I shook my head. “Like I said, I wish I could help you.”

  “What about your friend. Richard, was it? Might he have taken it?”

  I felt vicariously offended. “Richard and Dante run a highly professional cleaning service. I assure you that they would never have taken anything from your house.”

  Despite my indignant assertion, Mickey Wu looked anything but convinced. “I guess we’re just going to have to broaden our search.”

  Unsure of whether he was talking to me or Thaddeus at that point, I said nothing. And neither did he. Mickey Wu simply turned and started up his driveway, with Thaddeus obediently falling into step behind him.

  So far, the only thing I had learned was that the dead guy had a family. I hadn’t even managed to get inside the house to have a look around. The pressure was building inside me. “Mr. Wu. hold on!”

  He glanced back impatiently.

  “Any chance I could, uh...use your bathroom?”

  Mickey Wu rewarded me with a humourless smile. “Not a chance,” he said as he strode away.

  I knew I shouldn’t have had that second pint.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I sat in my car and stared out across the ocean toward the North Shore, which had entirely disappeared behind a veil of God’s tears. It left me feeling in the dark in more ways than one. The air had become totally still, as if hoping to escape notice, embarrassed by how quickly it had gone from bracing to dank. The thick carpet of grey clouds was gone as well, most likely recalled due to water damage, leaving something that looked like the cement subfloor of the Heavens. The heavy stillness felt at once portentous and peaceful. I always enjoyed the arrival of the west coast winter weather. The problem was it didn’t budge for months on end.

  I saw from the dashboard clock that I still had a couple hours to kill before Richard finished work—just enough time to take care of some of my own dwindling supply. I flicked on the headlights to illuminate the premature dusk and hit the gas.

  I stopped in at three houses, two of which the owners had never set foot in (possibly because corporations don’t have feet). The first one didn’t even have any furniture, but it did have a bathroom. After making use of it, I did my usual walk-through, changed the position of a few window blinds, checked the appliances, disposed of the junk mail. None of the unoccupied houses owned by my numerous offshore clients were quite as big or fancy as Mickey’s, but it occurred to me, belatedly, that they would still have made much better choices for our party. They might even make nice homes for people to live in.

  Even after my brief detour into the world of work, I arrived at Dante’s condo half an hour early. Located on the north side of False Creek, it was a stylish little fishbowl with an excellent view of the water, as well as a hundred other fishbowls. What made it truly special was that it also had guest parking. I pulled into a spot, shut off the engine, and settled in to listen to the pitter patter of little feet as the raindrops ran down my windshield. I was just starting to doze off when Richard rapped on the driver’s side window, looking worried but dry beneath the blue and white sprawl of a Palm Springs Hilton golf umbrella.

  “So I guess you haven’t heard from him?” I locked the car with the key. Classics do have their inconveniences.

  He shook his head and hurried toward the building with me right behind him, chasing after the unused real estate beneath his gargantuan umbrella. “Not a word. It’s not like I expect him to report in all the time, but still.”

  “Relationship Commandment Number 5,” I said supportively.

  “He’s played hooky from work a couple times before—we both have. But we’ve always texted each other when we do to make sure at least one of us shows up for the job.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “And finding his condo broken into? That totally freaked me out.”

  After Richard convinced the keypad to unlock the front door of the building for us, we waited for the elevator in silence since I had nothing new or comforting to share. We rode it up to the seventh floor, got off and headed down the hall. I heard Richard suck in his breath as we rounded the corner. Looking past him, I saw Dante’s door hanging open.

  “I closed the door when I left,” said Richard excitedly. “He must be back!”

  Before I could reply, he raced ahead and disappeared into the condo calling Dante’s name. I ran after him. As soon as I was through the doorway, my rib cage short circuited. Or at least that’s what it felt like when a jolt of pain on the right side of my chest sent me reeling. I bounced off the wall and lost my footing in the tangle of coats on the floor in front of the hall closet, ending up flat on my back.

  I opened my eyes and turned my head to see a pair of day-glo Nikes mere inches from my face. “Oh, shit,” said a female voice.

  I looked up to identify their owner. “Wii...mindy?” I attempted a smile, but grimaced instead as an aftershock coursed through my body.

  She frowned down at me. “Say what?”

  Richard reappeared in the doorway of Dante’s bedroom across the hall. “Wendy! What did you do, girl?”

  “Richard! I’m so glad it’s you. I was in the kitchen when I heard someone come charging through the door. I got back just in time to zap him.” She gestured toward me with a small black device that resembled my TV remote control. The main differences being that this one wasn’t at the bottom of my aquarium, and obviously it still worked.

  “Sorry about that, by the way,” she added before looking back at Richard. “Where’s Dante? His door was busted open and the whole place is a mess. I was just about to call the cops.”

  “I don’t know where he is. I’m totally worried. Some pretty weird stuff is going on.” Richard waved his hands in frustration. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  I lay on the floor trying to breathe while I listened to Richard bring Wendy up to speed on the post-party break-ins. From their discussion, I learned that she was Dante’s upstairs neighbour and a good friend. Wendy was also a sales rep for a nutritional supplements company and had stopped in to drop off Dante’s latest order.

  “Hold on,” I cut in. “So that actually was Vitamin C you gave me at the party?”

  Wendy stopped talking to Richard long enough to frown at me again. “How many fingers am I holding up?” She flashed me a peace sign.

  “Two. Why?”

  “I was worried I might have scrambled your brains with my stun gun. No, of course that wasn’t Vitamin C! It was E, as in Ecstasy. And you owe me thirty bucks, by the way.”

  I frowned back at her. “That seems a little steep.”

  She snorted. “Those tabs were pure, man. You wanna pay ten bucks and get spiked with fentanyl, go ahead. But you’re not going to get that shit from me.”

  “Okay, okay. No need to get pissy about it.” I took the high road and dug into my pocket for my wallet as I stood up. Customer service had never been my strong suit either, and there was no disputing the quality of Wendy’s product.

  “Do you mind?” Richard cut in testily. “If you two are finished talking business, can we get back to Dante?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dante’s condo had been thoroughly searched, but as far as Richard could tell, little was missing, same as ours. In the hallway by the front door, a table had been smashed and there was a dent in the drywall, which Richard was convinced was exactly the size and altitude of Dante’s head. And of course the door had been forced open.

  “So tell me again why you think a Norwegian did this,�
�� Wendy said.

  “Not a Norwegian, The Norwegian. He did it because he’s a drug dealer and a thug. As well as Jake’s ex business partner,” Richard said testily.

  Wendy raised her eyebrows. “Putting aside Jake’s business acumen for a moment, I still don’t get why this Norwegian guy would come after Dante.”

  “As payback for Jake messing up The Norwegian’s business the other night.”

  “Which he did by having a party?”

  Richard folded his arms across his chest. “Exactly.”

  “That makes no sense. How could having a party mess up his business? Drug dealers love parties.” Wendy took another sip of the excellent Rioja she had convinced Richard to pilfer from Dante’s wine rack. We thought it would calm him down to have a drink. Instead, he gulped down three and was now even more worked up than before.

  “Ask Jake,” Richard snapped.

  Wendy looked over at me. “How could having a party mess up a drug dealer’s business?”

  “No idea. But that’s beside the point anyway. If he’s going to punish anyone for screwing up his business, it’ll be me. The Norwegian barely knows Dante—he thought his name was Donny.” I grinned at Richard, hoping he might find a bit of humour in this, but he avoided my gaze.

  I tried again. “He barely knows Dante, right?”

  Richard said nothing and reached for the wine bottle. Finding it empty, he got up and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “So whose house did you have that party in, anyway?” Wendy asked while we waited for Richard to reappear.

  I put my hand on my chest. “Why do you assume it wasn’t mine?”

  “Multimillionaires tend to have matching shoelaces.”

  This sounded plausible so I decided to let it pass. “The place belongs to a guy I work for. Or used to, anyway. A Chinese thong magnate named Mickey Wu.”

  Wendy contemplated this for a moment. “So you’re big into thongs?”