by Graham Reed
Nina nodded. “You didn’t tell them anything about that, did you?”
“Of course not. But are these guys investigating Mickey Wu or your uncle?”
“I don’t know.”
“Shouldn’t you at least tell your uncle that they came nosing around?”
“I don’t know.”
In that moment, Nina looked scared and out of her depth. Providing comfort and assistance in such moments was not something I knew anything about because there had never been any during our time together. “What can I do?”
“I don’t know.”
At least I gave it a shot. “I’m going to bed.” I gave the tetras a pinch of dinner and left the room.
Nina had proven long ago that she was capable of finding her own way to my bedroom. And the front door.
Chapter Nineteen
I woke up alone, and not all that unhappy about it. Catching up on my sleep had been only a little further down my “to do” list than the other thing.
The living room was empty but the Eames chair still bore Nina’s scent, if not her warmth. I briefly rifled the memory bank for a mental image of her curled up in it but came up 404. The neon tetras didn’t say how long she stayed and I didn’t ask. Respect for each other’s privacy was one of the reasons the fish and I got along so well. I sprinkled a pinch of stinky flakes into their water and vacated the premises.
After a leisurely breakfast with George, I joined a fragrant parade of middle-aged men with nothing better to do than hang out in the public library and read old newspapers. I hadn’t been able to recall any cozy domestic scenes with Nina, but her anxiety about the government investigators had conjured up something else from my sepia-toned memories of our time together.
It was right at the beginning of things, when each moment still felt unpredictable and indelible. Most of the details of this particular morning had now faded into obscurity, but I recalled mimosas, homemade waffles with ice cream and syrup, a swapping (yes, a swapping) of t-shirts retrieved from beside the sofa where they had been discarded hours earlier, and the New York Times. It was January. Later in the month, if my visual and olfactory recollections of the desiccated state of Nina’s Christmas tree were to be trusted.
Waffles demolished, I was working hard at looking like I wasn’t working hard on the crossword, but “bird of prey with a woman’s face,” five letters, had me at sixes and sevens. Nina hadn’t noticed. She was engrossed by an article about China in the paper. Something about its potential impact on her family and her business had set her on edge. I nodded solemnly and made sympathetic noises, all the while trying to name the elusive creature.
If only I had paid more attention to Nina when it mattered, truly listened to her. Maybe I wouldn’t be alone now, crammed into a carrel covered with grammatically-suspect graffiti and the odd sticky patch, waiting for a man wearing two hats and orange striped pajama pants to finish reading the obituaries in a four-year-old newspaper.
Nina subscribed to the Sunday edition of the Times, which narrowed my search down to four papers. Each one the size and word count of a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. I made it through the first two by lunch but nothing jumped out at me. After three dollar slices of pizza (two Hawaiian, one pesto), I perused the third.
When I returned from an espresso break, the fourth issue was nowhere to be found. After bothering the denizens of the study carrels long enough to have to explain myself to the periodicals clerk, I finally spotted it, pinned to a communal reading table beneath the virulent outposts of psoriasis that were Mr. Two Hats’ elbows.
For three-quarters of an hour, I watched as he alternately frowned at, napped on, and scribbled in the newspaper I needed. I finally paid him ten dollars for it. After another three-quarters of an hour, I deemed it money well-spent. It wasn’t difficult to narrow down the possibilities since only five articles in the paper mentioned China.
One profiled a panda at the Beijing Zoo named Ling-Ling, who delighted visitors by repeatedly hugging a zookeeper’s legs. Nina wasn’t what you’d call an animal lover, but I nevertheless felt confident this wasn’t the article that had vexed her. Two articles focused on China’s attempts to outmaneuver its neighbours in claiming portions of the South China Sea. I dismissed those as well since Nina had even less time for politics than animals.
Which left two articles, companion pieces. One discussed the diaspora of wealthy Chinese expats, many of whom were former state officials, buying up luxury real estate throughout North America. This must have been newsworthy at the time, but it was a state of affairs that has been commonplace in Vancouver for years now. I moved on to the next article.
The second article described the Chinese government’s attempts to not only stem this outflow of citizens and currency, but to reverse it. Primarily through a quasi-covert initiative called Operation Fox Hunt. There was an unattributed quote from a U.S. government representative stating that Uncle Sam was Officially Pissed Off that Chinese agents were sneaking around trying to strong-arm rich expats into returning home, but the article was otherwise short on details. I found it an enjoyable read nonetheless for having successfully walked a suggestive line between hard news and conspiracy theory. What it didn’t bother to do was paint the targets of Operation Fox Hunt as “little guy” victims of government oppression (I read the phrase “robber barons” more than once in between-the-lines font).
After finishing the articles, I relocated to one of the library’s computers and did an Internet search on Operation Fox Hunt. Most of the stories I found online didn’t so much walk the line between hard news and conspiracy theory as trample it into oblivion. After filtering out some of the more sensationalistic cloak-and-dagger allegations, I was left with descriptions of two tried-and-true techniques employed by the Fox Hunters. The first was nailing the expat for one of their crimes back home, which were apparently legion. This actually sounded more difficult than I would have expected, due to a lack of extradition treaties combined with an enervating web of jurisdictional issues in which the globetrotting expats attempted to entangle themselves. One website described how the mastermind of a billion-dollar smuggling ring in China submitted multiple claims for refugee status in order to remain in Canada for years. The claims were ultimately rejected, possibly undermined by his habit of going on month-long, multimillion-dollar casino gambling sprees and getting chauffeured around in a ninety-thousand-dollar SUV.
The second approach appeared to be the Chinese government’s response to all the judicial red tape. It was alleged that pressure was applied on the expats indirectly, via vulnerable family members. According to sources who wished to remain anonymous, any family members the expat had in China were at risk of incarceration (inevitably on “trumped-up charges”), while those living abroad were subject to harassment. There were even a couple reports of people disappearing from various locations only to reappear back in China as loyal and obedient citizens.
Having reached the limits of my research skills and patience, I turned my attention back to the New York Times with the hope of resolving the other outstanding issue from that cold day in January. In doing so, I also discovered the reason for Mr. Two Hats’ feverish scribbling. I looked up and scanned the library, but he was gone. I would never have the chance to apologize for underestimating the man. Forty-five minutes wasn’t close to record time for completing the Sunday crossword, but it was still impressive. Particularly if you factored in the naps.
The clue that I should have gotten four years earlier was “harpy.”
Chapter Twenty
Things started out well. The Norwegian arrived just after nine p.m., knocking on my door rather than kicking it off the hinges. The presentation of my mason jar, empty but intact, bordered on ceremonious. “Like I texted. You were looking for this, yes? I confiscated it as punishment for screwing me up with your party.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Very good weed, Constable. You haven�
�t lost your touch.”
“Glad you liked it. Come on in and make yourself comfortable—on the sofa. Want a beer?” I knew I could use one. A house call from The Norwegian was categorically not a good thing.
He shook his head. “Get your coat. We’re going for a drive. I want to show you something.”
With him being so cordial, it seemed impolite, definitely unhealthy, to argue. I got my coat.
We didn’t talk on the way. Not because I didn’t have questions in need of answers, but because I couldn’t scream as loudly as the lead singer of Dimmu Borgir—a symphonic black metal band from Oslo that, judging from his serene smile, sated The Norwegian’s patriotic and/or primal requirements. I found myself pining for Dante’s Gregorian chants.
Although The Norwegian enjoyed working with his hands, he was no handyman. Which is why I had never understood his choice of vehicle—a shiny, black, crew cab pickup truck with oversized, dual wheels in the rear and heavy-duty suspension that made the thing ride like a buckboard. It was almost as excruciating as the noise coming from under the hood, which sounded like gravel being fed through a sausage grinder. The Norwegian had to crank the truck’s stereo to full volume to compete with the roar of what must’ve been an enormous diesel engine. Or Satan, chained up under the hood receiving a motor oil enema while singing backup for Dimmu Borgir.
The resulting cacophony overwhelmed all thought, including the second ones I would have otherwise had when The Norwegian left busy, well-lit South Granville Street and turned into a quiet, dark alley. After another half block, he nosed the truck into a makeshift driveway, basically a collapsed section of fence, behind a ramshackle bungalow with peeling paint and blacked-out windows.
After he turned off the ignition in the truck, I could still hear the traffic on Granville Street, only a couple hundred metres distant, but at the same time a world away. The only signs of life in the immediate vicinity came from the family of raccoons cowering beneath the steps leading up to the back door of the house. When we approached, they chittered at us indignantly before scuttling off to disappear over the fence of the similarly derelict house next door.
Inside, I was greeted by empty rooms and a dry, musty smell suggestive of windows and doors that seldom stayed opened for long. When The Norwegian closed the door behind me, the comforting drone of traffic went silent. It was replaced by a faint electrical hum from the basement. Which is where The Norwegian took me.
At the bottom of the stairs, he pushed aside a heavy velvet curtain that looked like it had been stolen from the Rialto movie theatre around the time talkies were becoming popular. We were instantly bathed in bright light. Temporarily blinded, I heard the crinkle plastic and felt it brush against me as I followed my ex-business partner into the basement.
Heat and humidity closed in on me, causing a sheen of sweat to spring up on my forehead even before The Norwegian started questioning me.
“Why did you lie to me the other night, Constable?”
“Are you serious? You know I’d never be stupid enough to lie to you.” I heard the nervousness in my voice, even though I was telling the truth. To calm myself, I inhaled deeply, taking in the cloying fragrance of the rows of marijuana plants that surrounded us. The glare of the hydroponic lights added an undeniable sense of drama to The Norwegian’s interrogation. As did the six millimetre plastic sheeting I was standing on, the kind used to create vapour barriers in walls. Or airtight enclosures around grow ops in basements.
The third use that came to mind was the one that was throwing me—containing the mess made by assassins in Hollywood movies. I couldn’t get the image of the victim standing on the plastic sheet while the killer screwed the silencer onto his pistol.
I stopped admiring the forest of buds long enough to risk a quick glance at The Norwegian, relieved to see that his hands were empty. Less comforting was the fact that they were clenched into fists the size and abrasiveness of cinder blocks.
I resumed my inspection of the grow op since the hydroponics were throwing off less heat than The Norwegian’s scowl. Exclusively an outside grower, I didn’t claim to be any kind of expert but was nevertheless impressed by his setup. Stud framing had been erected around the plants, with plastic sheeting stapled on and seam-sealed with Tuck Tape. Rows of hydroponics and a powerful ventilation system hummed within it. When we came into the house, my knowledgeable nose hadn’t even suspected the existence of a thriving indoor jungle in the basement.
No doubt about it, The Norwegian could really hide evidence of criminal activities with a few metres of poly sheeting and some tape. I wasn’t thrilled to see leftover rolls of both lying in the corner.
“If you’re not back in the business, then why did my supplier mention your name?” he rumbled.
“I have no idea. I don’t even know who your supplier is.” I racked my brains before The Norwegian did it for me. “I did, uh…bump into Martin Farrell recently. He seemed pretty up to speed on your connects these days. Maybe Martin mentioned me to your supplier?” If someone had to go under the bus, I figured it might as well be the guy who feels no pain. Plus, I knew The Norwegian had far too good a head for business to rough-up a cash cow like Martin.
The Norwegian looked unconvinced. “No way Farrell would ever get near my supplier.”
I took a small step backwards only because there wasn’t enough room to take a big one. My heel hit a 2x4 offcut from the grow op’s framing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw The Norwegian smile as I maneuvered into position to grab it.
“Calm down, Constable. I’m not going to hurt you. The boss can bring in more than enough product for both of us, but I need to know what your angle is.”
I threw my hands up in frustration, if not surrender. I got into enough trouble for the things I actually did, and horning in on The Norwegian’s business definitely wasn’t one of them. I had no idea how to convince him I didn’t know or care who he was dealing for, but I knew I had to try. “Was your supplier around, back when you and I were working together? Because we did have quite the rep for top-quality product. Maybe he remembered me and figured if we worked on this grow op together, we could… ”
“This?” The Norwegian cut me off with a dismissive gesture. “This is just to pay a few mortgages.” A wave of childlike enthusiasm thawed his facial fjords. “Come with me.”
I wasted no time in following The Norwegian up the stairs and back out onto the porch.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“A chronic lack of lawn care.” Glowing white eyes watched us through the slats in the fence. “Raccoons.”
“Wrong.”
I studied the shapes in the darkness. They were definitely raccoons but it seemed unwise to argue the point. “Okay then, what do I see?”
“Condos,” he proclaimed with an obstinacy birthed by ancient and obscure Norse gods. “What do you think the population of Vancouver will be fifteen years from now?”
I shrugged. Somewhere between the six-mil poly sheeting and the imaginary condos, I had gotten completely lost.
“More than three million people! Where do you think they’re going to live?”
The Norwegian saved me the trouble of shrugging a second time. He stomped down on the porch with enough force to crack one of the half-rotten boards beneath our feet. “Right here.”
On the other side of the fence, four sets of eyes widened in alarm before winking out entirely.
“There, too.” He nodded toward the neighbouring house. “I own them both,” he announced proudly.
“Impressive,” I admitted. Now for the delicate part. “Did you, uh, set up two grow ops right beside each other? I assume you’re running them off meter, but BC Hydro still might notice the spike in power-consumption.”
“I’m not an amateur, Constable. The other house, I just use for… storage. And this is my last grow show, anyway. I can’t afford to go back to jail
.”
“You’re an ex-con? You never told me that.” I hadn’t asked for his résumé when we went into business together, but it still seemed like the kind of thing he should’ve told me.
“It was after you quit on me. I was handling some collections work that went wrong, ended up doing a couple years for aggravated assault.”
I made an “ouch” face. “Sorry to hear it.”
He waved off my attempt at commiseration. “It was actually really good for me.”
“How so?” I immediately regretted my question. The last thing I wanted to hear was some hokey inspirational tale of how he had found Thor.
“I was expecting a murder rap but it turned out the guy was only in a coma.” Before I could dodge it, one of his elbows buried itself in my rib cage. “What do you think happened?” He tried to suppress a grin.
“He woke up?” I wheezed.
The Norwegian chortled with delight. “Yes! Sloppy work on my part, but also lucky—my lawyer says if I get sent up for anything like that again, I’ll be growing old in there. So that’s that; I’m going legit. No more rough stuff. I’m even getting out of the drug biz.”
I waited for the punch line but none came. “What about the, uh…incident in the bathroom at the party? That was you, wasn’t it?”
The Norwegian looked surprised. “You know about that, eh? The guy got what was coming to him, that’s all.”
“But you just said you were done roughing people up.” Judging by The Norwegian’s growing irritation, it seemed an opportune time to remind him of this.
“What’s your point?”
“So you didn’t, uh…kill the guy?”
“What? No, I didn’t kill him!” The Norwegian’s leather coat protested audibly as he crossed his arms. “What’s with all these questions? Do I need to pat you down for a wire?”
I raised my arms. “Go ahead.”