by Graham Reed
“We will come with you,” Agent Wang said eagerly.
“No, you won’t,” I countered.
“We must,” Agent Chung said. “From what you have told us, Wu will undoubtedly leave town immediately after your meeting today.”
“Yeah, probably.” I considered the situation for a moment. “Okay, no, you’re right. He will, for sure. But you still can’t come to the meeting.”
Further hubbub ensued. Perhaps our recent shenanigans at Mickey Wu’s place had earned me a modicum of trust or professional respect, because I was eventually able to reach a compromise with Agents Wang and Chung: They could come with us, but Wendy and I would go in alone to make the trade. As soon as we came out with Richard and Dante, they were free to charge in and grab Mickey Wu.
Once our friends were safe, I really couldn’t have cared less what fate the machinery of multijurisdictional justice would eventually churn out for Mickey Wu—though I did hope that Li Wei would see to it that all of them were awarded whatever the Chinese Communist Party equivalent was to the Transport Canada Certificate of Bravery.
“I’m coming, too,” Li Wei declared, possibly already envisioning the award ceremony.
The secret agents exchanged a look but neither spoke. It was clear to everyone in the room—including, I suspected, Li Wei himself—that he would be nothing more than a self-serving liability.
Generally, I preferred to let an awkward silence play itself out, but we had no time to spare. “Great idea. Let’s go.”
Chapter Fifty-two
Apparently, I still hadn’t earned Li Wei’s trust because he demanded that we head to the meeting convoy-style. I didn’t protest. The last thing I wanted was to waste any more time debating operational logistics.
As soon as they disappeared around the corner to get their car, I texted Agent Wang the address and drove away.
“Far be it for me to question your meticulously improvised plan…” Wendy said.
“I appreciate that.”
“But remember when I said you could use all the help you could get?”
“Sure. That’s why I brought along my trusty ninja sidekick.”
Wendy didn’t return my grin. Maybe she just had her game-face on, but more likely it was nerves. Now that we were finally on our way to the meet, I was feeling a bit tense myself. All of a sudden, the gambits I had planned didn’t seem nearly as foolproof as they did at half-past spliff the night before.
“So why didn’t you let your spy buddies come with us into the meeting? Isn’t it their job to deal with guys like Mickey Wu?”
“I suspect they tend to bag more bureaucrats than drug lords. But sure, I suppose you could say they have some broadly applicable experience.”
“Unlike either of us,” Wendy opined.
I held up a finger. “I disagree. I believe we have a far superior understanding of the drug-dealer mindset.”
“It just seems like Mickey Wu would know the jig is up if we walk in with a couple of heavy-hitters from the Chinese Ministry of Public Security.”
“Therein lies the problem,” I said.
Wendy frowned. “Really? Because in my head it sounded more like the solution.”
“Right now, I’m betting that Mickey Wu wants to do a quick, quiet trade so he can get the hell out of town before the cops figure out whose boat they have. But if we show up with the super spies in tow, he’s liable to freak out.”
“Because you ratted him out.”
I winced. “Uncharitable phrasing, but yeah, I suspect he’ll see it that way. And not just him. Mickey Wu set his daughter up with a cushy new life using the ill-gotten gains that the Chinese government wants back. This thing today is about Mickey trying to protect her from getting dragged down with him. So, if he thinks I’ve put them both in the crosshairs…”
“You’re worried he might get nasty?”
I nodded.
“What about your Norwegian buddy?”
“I know he’s going to get nasty when he discovers he’s losing another business partner. Unless I have a chance to paint a bigger picture for him first.” I turned onto French Street, pulled into a spot and turned off the ignition. “Shall we?”
I almost didn’t recognize the place in the daylight, but a quick circumnavigation of the house next to 8551 French Street confirmed it. Mickey Wu was holed up at The Norwegian’s soon-to-be-condominiums.
His neighbours showed more pride of ownership than he did, though I had no idea why. Most of the other houses on the block were “Vancouver Specials,” a stigmatic style of building that proliferated through unloved parts of the city in the Seventies and Eighties. Brick-and-stucco boxes girded by incongruously ornate iron railings. A few daring architects added other brick-and-metal architectural flourishes to draw and punish the eye. I found myself wishing The Norwegian success with his property-development aspirations.
“Is this the place?” Wendy eyed the drawn and battered blinds of the grow-op house apprehensively.
A gust of wind cooled the sweat I hadn’t noticed permeating the soft cotton of my mustard-coloured dress shirt. Like me, it had worn thin in places and didn’t button all the way to the top. A chill scuttled across my back as I sniffed the warm, ganja-laced air being expelled into the atmosphere by an industrial blower fan that had been punched through the basement wall, half-hidden behind some recently planted, seldom-watered shrubbery. The purple, exfoliating house paint chafed my conscience, mostly as a citizen of Vancouver, but also a former grower who prided himself on running a tidy operation. I shook my head. “This one’s where the after-party will be.”
I kicked a moss-laden asphalt shingle back onto the lawn and led her next door to our destination that was equipped with identical drawn and battered blinds. The paint sloughing off this one was gun-metal grey. “Ready?” I knocked on the door without risking an answer.
A leather-clad barrel chest darkened the peek-a-boo window in the front door. We listened as numerous deadbolts were unlocked. The door swung inward with a creaking complaint that bespoke infrequent use or a strong aversion to maintenance.
As I stepped inside, I spotted the super spies’ Chevy Impala turning onto the street.
The door was already closing again when Wendy slid in behind me, oblivious to the surprised scowl aimed down at her.
The entrance would have felt cramped without three people in it. Like angels dancing on the head of a pin, we shuffled awkwardly on parquet flooring scarred by arcane Norse rituals, both social and commercial, conducted in the dark at all hours of the day and night. A dusty bulb burned in a wall-sconce. I winked at my dim reflection in the wall of glass bricks to my right as stucco abraded my left shoulder. Wendy was wedged against me, warming my spleen.
For a moment, no one said anything. I couldn’t. My breath had caught in my throat, refusing to be exhaled into the mix of stale beer, expensive cologne, and mildew that filled the air. From somewhere deeper in the house I could hear the braying of a discount furniture store ad on the radio.
The Norwegian seemed disinclined to relinquish the entryway so I showed myself into the living room, where I found Mickey Wu sitting in one of the two lawn chairs in the room. His expression was equal parts fascism and pathos. The jaw muscles were getting a good workout but the intensity of Mickey’s stare was undermined by the dark circles under his eyes. The blue blazer was gone and sweat stains had washed the starch out of his foundational white dress shirt.
A few feet behind him were Richard and Dante. I could only assume that the lack of home furnishings, rather than Scandinavian hospitality, explained why they were sitting on the floor, cable-locked to a pile of cinder blocks.
“Took you long enough, Constable.” Richard offered up a pale imitation of his usual megawatt smile. His ever-present stubble had gone fallow, now verging on something beard-like. The Caesar hairstyle Richard employed to hide his s
lightly receding hairline lay limp and oily.
Dante’s head hung low but I could see that the left side of his face was covered with a livid bruise.
Rage took hold of me. “Which one of you assholes did that to him?”
The Norwegian sneered. “He slipped getting out of the bath.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Richard put a protective arm around Dante’s shoulders. “It’s true, Jake. There isn’t even a shower curtain in the bathroom. Water gets everywhere. It’s very dangerous.” His tone was admonishing.
Dante looked up at last. “Wendy!” he exclaimed. “Are you ever a sight for sore eyes. Please tell me you brought my MegaMan vitamins. They’ve fed us nothing but Domino’s pizza—I may have to do a cleanse.”
Mickey Wu groaned. “This one never shuts up about the food.” He pointed at Wendy. “Who’s the woman? I thought I told you to come alone.”
“You did.” They say it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. At the moment I wasn’t interested in doing either. “I didn’t.”
Wendy saluted him. “Don’t mind me, I’m just the sidekick.”
“Enough talk,” The Norwegian rumbled. “Give Mr. Wu his documents so we can be done with all this.”
I feigned surprise. “You thought I was just going to walk in here with them? After what he tried to pull last time?”
Mickey Wu’s eyes narrowed as Wendy’s widened. “You didn’t bring them?” they said in unison.
I had just enough time to shake my head before throwing my hands up to stop it from being slammed into the wall. I leaned there, bracing for a second attempt but none came.
“Bad time to be playing games.” The Norwegian frisked me like a baker kneading dough. He lifted my jacket and yanked the manila envelope from out of the back of my pants. “Pathetic.” He tossed it to Mickey Wu, who eagerly ripped it open.
His expression darkened as he scanned the first few pages. “What the hell is this?”
Chapter Fifty-three
Mickey waved the document at me angrily. “This is…” The double-take would have been comical if not for the stakes. “A sales and marketing agreement? You expect me to believe this is what was in the safety-deposit box? It has nothing to do with my daughter.”
“Not your daughter, no. But it does concern you as a shareholder of Dimmu Borgir, Inc.”
“What concerns me right now is what you have done with the information on my daughter,” he snarled, throwing the document aside.
Dante recoiled as the papers exploded around him like sharp-edged butterflies before fluttering to the floor.
Mickey Wu hadn’t taken the bait, but I wasn’t really expecting him to. I was trolling for bigger fish. The Norwegian hesitated only briefly before gathering up the contract from the floor beside Mickey Wu’s chair. “Blue Coast Realty—that’s Nina’s agency?”
I nodded.
Dante straightened up in a hurry. “You’re getting her mixed up in all this?”
Richard let out a low whistle. “Looks like someone grew a pair while we’ve been away.”
“You talked to Nina for me?” The Norwegian’s tone had softened noticeably. His rumbling voice sounded almost soothing, like a boulder rolling down a mossy hillside.
It was a step in the right direction. I was still on slippery terrain and could get crushed if I lost my footing. I cautiously advanced my position. “She was really intrigued by your condo idea.”
“The Norwegian’s going to build condos?” Richard whispered in amazement.
I didn’t dispute the notion. “His company is called Dimmu Borgir. It means dark fortresses.”
“Sounds very dramatic,” Dante stage-whispered. “Sign me up for pre-sales.”
“Who cares about the stupid condos?” Mickey Wu exclaimed, furious, but his partner was too engrossed in reading through the contract to notice.
“Blue Coast Realty LLP is seeking an exclusive sales and marketing arrangement in British Columbia and the People’s Republic of China for all properties developed by or for Dimmu Borgir, Inc.”, The Norwegian announced happily, his basso profundo drowning out Mickey Wu’s increasingly shrill tenor.
“China?” The Norwegian repeated, his voice hushed with awe.
He held up the document with the same tender reverence with which a priest holds a bible. “This is amazing.”
“Most of Nina’s clientele is based there.” I paused. “Weren’t you telling me there’s some serious money funneling out of China into Vancouver real estate these days?”
He nodded dreamily.
“It’s actually Nina’s uncle who drums up business at that end.” I smacked my head. “I almost forgot to mention that he’s a co-owner of Blue Coast Realty.”
The Norwegian paused now and turned, frowning. “I don’t like doing business with people I don’t know.”
“His name is Li Wei. Hey, you know he’s actually in town right now…how about I introduce you guys?”
“He’s a real estate agent back in China?”
“Real estate is more of a sideline.” I brushed some errant flakes of early-eighties stucco off my shoulder. “His day job is Deputy Director of the Department of Infrastructure Development in the Chinese Commerce Federation.” It had taken me ten minutes and two cups of coffee to memorize Li Wei’s title that morning, so I took my time saying it. I sat back for a little while longer to let it sink in.
My arm went numb when The Norwegian hit me, an open-handed slap that sounded like a balloon popping. Or possibly my deltoid. “Good work, Constable. This is huge.”
With my working arm I fished a pen out of my pocket and offered it to The Norwegian. “Should we seal the deal?”
Mickey Wu viciously kicked the lawn chair aside as he shot to his feet. “I don’t want to hear one more word about that damned contract. Where the hell is the information on my daughter?”
“I told you already, it’s not here.”
“You’ve broken our deal,” he spat. His hands closed into fists. “So now The Norwegian is going to break your legs. Then your friends’ legs. Then bones of his choosing until you deliver what you promised.”
Mickey glared at his partner expectantly. The Norwegian missed his cue, busy as he was signing the agreement.
I bounced on my toes, appreciating the continued use of my legs as I walked a tightrope between Mickey Wu and The Norwegian. “I don’t think he heard you, Mickey. We’re cutting deals right now. The good news is I’m prepared to offer you a new one as well.”
He ignored me, his breathing rapid and noisy through flared nostrils, while he waited for The Norwegian to finish up the paperwork. “You’re never going to have any condos to sell without my cash,” Mickey sneered. “And if you ever want to see any of it, you’ll force your friend here to give… me… the… information… on… my… daughter… right… now.”
The Norwegian hesitated, his eyes pivoting back and forth between us. He emitted a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl. “Are you going to give him what he wants, Constable?”
“Eventually, if he behaves. The bigger question is can Mickey give you what you want?”
The Norwegian put his hands on his hips. “What do you mean?”
“How is Mickey coming up with the cash he promised you when all his dope is sitting in a VPD evidence room right now?”
The Norwegian frowned at Mickey Wu, who glared at me and snorted one hundred percent pure spite. The man had the nostrils of a Kentucky Derby winner.
“I was surprised when you guys abandoned ship so quickly that night—I don’t care how rich you are, that boat was way too nice to ditch. It finally made sense when I saw in the paper that The Chairman had a few hundred kilos of opium on it.”
Mickey Wu fluttered his hands in the air dismissively. “I can bring more in through different channels.”
I crossed my arms and raised a hand to tap my pursed lips thoughtfully. “How can you do that if you’re not here?”
When he didn’t respond, I took the liberty of bringing The Norwegian up to speed myself. “The only reason he’s still walking around a free man is because The Chairman is owned by one of Mickey’s companies back in China. The cops haven’t been able to trace it back to him yet.”
The Norwegian didn’t take his eyes off Mickey Wu the entire time I was speaking. His head was cocked like a Great Dane as he hung on my every word.
“You’re not planning to skip out on me, are you?” he asked Mickey.
Recognizing the ominous disappointment in his voice, I experiencing a gut-clenching flashback to when I informed The Norwegian I would no longer be supplying him with Granddad’s Ganja. I hated to draw his attention back to me right then, but I had more deals to close. “Mickey’s got no choice. He won’t be much good to you if he stays in town and gets nabbed by the cops.”
Mickey Wu didn’t speak or move. Even his nostrils had closed for business.
The Norwegian wheeled on me. “You’re defending him now? We wouldn’t have been sitting around on that stupid boat in the first place if it wasn’t for you. What is it, a hobby for you to continually fuck up my business?”
His breath smelled of hamburger, heavy on the secret sauce. I held up a finger. “Technically, Granddad’s Ganja was my business.” When The Norwegian growled deep and low, I quickly moved on. “Don’t forget that I just lined up a new partnership for you. If Mickey’s leaving you short on capital, why not talk to Uncle Wei over at the Chinese Commerce Federation?”
I stopped talking when The Norwegian began shifting his weight from side to side. I recognized the body language. It was a precarious moment. The Norwegian’s gaze slashed the air between Mickey Wu and me, weighing us up as he prepared to cut one of us down to size.