by Shilo Jones
“Didn’t bow out easy?”
Clint’s hands skitter over the steering wheel, to his knees, to the steering wheel, to the dash, where he fucks with some dials on the GPS.
“I need to say this. Marky? You asked the other day. After you met Peele. You can get lost. You’re out.”
“That right? What about the money? I still owe—”
“Fuck the money. Chump change. You’re out.”
“Peele wants me out?”
“Maybe. Yeah.”
Stretch my shoulders until my lower back pops. “That the truth? I had a long chat with Peele, remember? I know his kind. Any chance he gets to put a guy like me under the thumb, he takes.”
Clint gives me a sideways look I don’t like at all. “I don’t think he’s in it for the money. Not really. I think he’s…more like you? He’s got…something else going on. In the head?”
Clint picks his fingernails, reaches in the glove, pulls out the wolf’s tooth, tries to tap out a bump but he’s shaking so bad he spills half the blow on his lap, says aargh fuck me dead and licks his fingers, sticks them in the blow-mess, sucks on his fingers one by one until most of the blow’s gone and here I am looking at my brother all sketched out because of fuck knows what horror and something inside me goes zip-shoo like a pressure valve releasing and I’m real calm, breathing regular, thinking clear, leg not hurting, colours brighter, landscape crisply defined, hands steady and this is how it was in Afghanistan during my only firefight, no one thought I had it in me until OPFOR rounds started whipping in and the shit-talkers shrivelled up and it was me first out of the LAV, not rushing, mellow, sighting the enemy down slow and careful, smiling, returning fire.
“That’s a smart way to think about Vincent Peele, brother. I think you’re right about him not caring about the money.” Ryan shuts down the concrete saw, glances at the truck. “He’s going to come over here,” I say, nodding toward Ryan. “You top up his phone?”
“Phone?” Clint mutters. “Gets a pay cheque is all.”
Ryan’s peeking over the retaining wall, trying to play it cool, but I know he’s trying to think of some legit-sounding excuse to come bullshit with the grown-ups. “So. It’s you that wants me out? Not Peele?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
I light a Colt, hand it to my brother. He takes a drag, winces, tosses it out the window. “Can you get out?”
Clint tugs at his tie, paisley, makes me want to puke. “Not now. Don’t think so? No.”
“Why not? Tell Vincent Peele to fuck off. You’re the muscle. Make that known. Bring the knuckles. Bring me.”
Of course Clint can’t do that. But I want to hear him say it. He’s silent for a while, breathing too fast, then he sneer-laughs, bitter, self-directed. “You were right. Peele can talk a steaming pile of shit, but he’s low-level. Not worried about him. But the people he works for?”
“That guy Tectonic?”
“Nah. Doubt that Chinese dude even exists. Mostly it’s us.”
“Cleaning money.”
Clint jerks upright. “Make more money doing it. Perfect racket! The whole city.” Clint sounds proud now, bragging. “I was in small ’til Peele came along. Helped run cash through a few houses. I buy the house, fix it up, get paid top dollar for the reno work, sell the house to a contact for a hundred grand more than it’s worth, flow most of it back to him. I walk away with ten grand, find another house.”
“Contact has a legit house to flip at an inflated market value,” I say, “plus the clean cash from you.”
“That’s how I met Peele. Name got mentioned. Lawyers are exempt from reporting to Fintrac. You want to do a big deal with dirty cash, you use a lawyer. Snakes take a cut and it’s done.”
“Nice play. How you get the cash back to the buyer?”
Clint laughs. “Remember smurfing in high school? Sending the crew to make cash deposits under ten grand, all over town, so they weren’t flagged and flew under Fintrac’s radar? Old-school. Huge hassle. For a while I had a thing going with a precious-metal dealer on Hastings. I’d use cash to buy bullion, gold guy doesn’t give a fuck, takes my money, I get a receipt, give the gold and the receipt to my guy, he banks it, rolls it into a legit investment, sells that and runs it through more properties. Tight.” Clint presses his fists together, bulks up his chest. “With Peele it’s…even better. Top-tier banker connect. I get the cash, banker drops it direct into the client’s account, doesn’t flag it as a cash transaction, takes his cut. Everyone happy.”
“ ’Cept here you are, down at the bottom looking up. Like old times.”
Clint bristles. “Took a risk. Money’s real in the bank. Or it would be, if I hadn’t spun it into Peele’s bullshit syndicated mortgage…fuck! Used it to borrow more—”
“You want out or what?” Clint picks at the blow stuck to his pants. Says nothing. But I see him, and I know. “Only one thing to do. Exactly as they say. Hope when the Solstice is built and sold they let you walk.”
My brother looks me in the eye. Can’t remember the last time I saw him scared. We were kids, for sure. He was afraid of the old man until about grade eight. After that, he was only scared of looking scared.
So there it is. Clint’s fucked.
“That’s it?” he says, hunched over. “Do what they say? You went to school. You know…more about these people than me. Lawyers? Fucking bankers? And that’s all you got? Keep working, hope they let me through?”
“What d’you want? A big plan? Nah. Too big to jail. Only way out is through them. Even me. I probably couldn’t get out now. Look at Peele sending me those texts. So that’s it.”
“What?”
“I don’t like you very much.”
“Same.”
“How it turned out. Didn’t mean it. Not my choice. Different priorities. Philosophies.”
“Hear that. So?”
Ryan takes a step toward the truck. I shake my head. Don’t come over here, kid. “Not gonna cut you loose to them, brother. Not to Vincent Peele.”
Clint gives me a look like he’s trying to figure me out, sets a piece of paper in my lap. A scribbled name, Sebastian Price, followed by an address, vehicle description, licence plate. “Peele says it’s go time. The Reed daughter. Squeeze job.”
“Shit going down in Denmark?”
“Huh? This one’s not too bad.”
“Cuz he’s breaking us in easy.”
“Lord Byng Secondary. Old boyfriend.” Clint taps his hands on the wheel, watches Ryan, tells me to send the kid over.
“What for?”
“Like he said. I’m the boss.”
I tell him yeah, okay, head outside, memorize what’s on the paper, crumple it, toss it down a storm drain, wondering if I’m being played by my own brother and maybe that’s how I end up, willingly marching to the front lines like I did four years ago, full circle, feeding myself to it—
Jasminder Bansal
Home in bed, phone going nuts, a full hour after blowing off a client meeting. Sheets tacked to the ceiling drifting slightly, responding to invisible currents, filtering the late-afternoon light. Wall collage: pictures of friends from high school I’ve been meaning to take down since forever; images of Michael Moore looking harmless and unassuming and intentionally silly in his investigative persona and Sid Vicious with his lip cranked over-the-top cool; black-and-white video stills taken from one of my mother’s performance pieces where she strapped heavy plaster constructions to volunteers and had them walk around the city while she filmed their restricted movements; Amar and me on the river delta, laughing, holding sticks and covered in sand; headlines from news stories I’ve filed away for study; me and Meeta at the PNE, fingers stained cotton-candy blue.
The documents I stole from Marigold are spread out on the bed. Read and reread, highlighted, heavily annotated. Lines and arrows connecting superficially discrete pieces of information, client and company names, account numbers, addresses, building permits, dollar amounts, fragments. I’v
e cut out words and phrases and account balances and pasted them together and moved financial figures from one column to the next and changed names so everything makes sense like it has to.
Not enough emotional energy to get dressed, go to the office, settle into my persona, deal with Vincent and the rest of them. Not enough energy to lie. I take out my notebook, full of scribbled leads, try to find the words to open the story. My mother’s been immersed in her screens all day. Hasn’t spoken a word. Eric texted and reminded me we have dinner plans. Is he the first person I should tell? No. Not him. It has to be someone who wants to believe. I read a series of correspondence between Vincent Peele and a project manager named Russ Fuller. On the surface it seems like a normal everyday discussion about a rezoning application, but when I compare it to the document that shows the projected return on investment from one of Marigold’s condominium developments in Steveston, and combine that with a landscape architect’s conceptual rendering…then it makes sense, what they’re really discussing, between the lines. Doesn’t it?
Seems like I’ve been here for days, secluded in my oak-panelled study, chasing the truth, the dream materialized, in need of a real meal, sunlight…but I did it? I think I did it? It’s all right here?
* * *
“Nothing goes up forever,” Zachary says, his eyes distorted though red-framed coke-bottle glasses and clove cigarette smoke. “That’s an historical fact.”
On Zachary’s balcony, bundled in a plaid Hudson’s Bay blanket, appreciating the glow of the heat lamp overhead, watching a few beleaguered stars peek through a high layer of evening cloud. Made the mistake of answering Eric’s call a couple hours ago; he enticed me out with an offer of G&Ts. I stashed the Marigold corruption research beneath my bed and, realizing I felt like celebrating the breakthrough, agreed to drinks. Zachary owns a web design company named, for reasons no one has ever explained, BLAPT! Another friend of Eric’s, an investment advisor named Brice, is manning the hibachi, grilling pineapple slices for a March-in-Raincouver taste of the tropics, and the charred-sweet smell mixes with Zachary’s clove cigarette and the juniper in my gin. The booze is almost worth a night with Eric and his friends.
“It’s different this time,” Eric answers, half-snickering at aping such an overused line but clasping his hands like a court judge about to deliver a verdict. He’s seated next to me, sharing the same blanket. It’s gotten to the point I don’t even like looking at the man, never mind his voice. A long sip of my drink while I consider the least hurtful way to write him out of my life.
“There are less than fifty thousand single-family homes in Vancouver proper,” Eric continues. “Not enough supply. Never will be, even with the laneways. Interest rates at historical lows—”
Brice flips a pineapple slice. The grill flares up. Flames reflect in Zachary’s glasses and for a second I’m convinced it’s not a reflection but real fire. The image fades as quickly as it arrived. I haven’t suffered a grief vision since I started pursuing the story in earnest.
“It’s true,” I say, tired of the shoptalk but curious to see where it goes. It’s not every day I get to hang out with people like Brice and Zachary, different social strata. I tell Zachary the bar has shifted and it’s a very exciting time, surprised by how the lines sound natural after only a week. “Frankly, Zachary, I’m surprised you haven’t—”
Zachary pinches his clove cigarette like a joint. “I’m very happy renting. Like they do in Europe? This fixation with single-family homes is very North American.”
“So you wouldn’t buy a home even if they were within range?” Brice asks, pointing the barbecue tongs at Zachary while sirens sound ten storeys below.
Zachary pauses. “I’d need to do the math.”
“The math always works, long-term,” Eric says. “Zero financial advantage to renting. Not building equity. There’s a reason they’re called landlords. Property—especially in Vancouver—is an incredible wealth generator. I mean, the average—”
“We know the averages, Eric,” Zachary says. “And there’s more to the equation. But you’re either in or you’re out, correct?”
“Well,” I say. “Everyone needs to make the decision that’s right for them. But for me, personally—”
“I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous,” Brice interrupts, draining his Scotch and handing it to Zachary for a refill. Brice is twenty-eight, wavy blond, wearing thrift shop jeans and a five-hundred-dollar T-shirt. “Take someone like me. Born in this town. Went to school here. Make a good living in investment. Like, a top-three-per-cent kind of living? I care about this town. And I’m priced out. How does that make sense? Top three per cent?”
When Zachary’s finished pouring Brice’s drink I hand him my empty glass, stop myself from pinching Brice’s limited edition T-shirt when I say, “Um, at top three per cent I don’t believe you’re truly priced out—”
Brice sets a charred pineapple slice on a plate, hands it to me while Zachary sections lime for my drink. “Oh, I am. For sure.”
An unwelcome whiff of BBQ ribs is grilled into the pineapple. I tell Brice thanks, set the plate on Eric’s lap.
“That’s the market right now, Brice,” Eric says, adopting a diplomatic tone while he sits up to eat the pineapple. “The best is to get in—”
“It’s an artificially inflated market,” Brice says. “I mean, c’mon guys. We all know what’s going on. Look at the class photos of my high school. Look at the ratios, Caucasian to Asian, between say 1990 and now. Look at who’s buying these houses. I mean, really? We’re all friends here. Tell me I’m wrong?”
“Condos too,” Zachary says, blowing clove smoke rings that wobble toward the window and dissolve on contact.
Eric watches me down my gin and tonic, gives me a fretful look. “I estimate only thirty per cent of buyers are foreign. Most want to move here. This foreign buyer thing…it’s a lot of spin. There’s no hard data. It’s entirely anecdotal. And frankly, Brice, a lot of the rhetoric degenerates into xeno—”
Brice laughs. “Do they pay taxes? Is their money legitimate? That’s what I’m saying. It’s not racist. It’s math. Why aren’t we tracking this stuff? Shit. If you knew how many of my friends, professionals, smart, hard working, had to move to…Langley…or one of these…ugh, suburbs, simply to have a home to raise their family…”
I set a lime slice between my teeth to stifle a laugh or angry outburst. Check my phone. Hoping who called? Sim?
“It’s true,” Zachary says, taking over the grill while Brice is distracted. “People are moving. Especially in the creative industries. Soon Vancouver’ll be banking and—no offence, Eric and Jasminder—people involved with property. And the mega-rich. Is that what we want?”
Brice nods. “And there’s this incredible tsunami of money, and no one has a clue how it’s being earned. I’m not asking to limit foreign investment, people. I’m in investment! All I’m saying is a guy like me should be able to afford what he wants. There should be controls—”
“Controls are a good idea, sure,” Zachary says, serving himself a pineapple slice and turning off the barbecue while Eric sets his empty plate on the floor and I watch two indistinct figures make love in a condominium across the street. “Shouldn’t owning a home be, like, a human right? It’s clear we need government regulation.”
I finish my drink, set it down, tired of putting my teeth through my tongue. Toss the blanket off my lap, stand, stretch. Pour myself straight gin on ice. The men watch, waiting for me to settle.
“It’s the market,” Eric says when I stay standing under the heat lamp and he realizes I’m not going to return to my seat. “Supply and demand’s calling the shots, guys.”
Brice clues in to me avoiding Eric, gives me an interested glance. “I’ve seen it again and again. Junk bonds. Tech start-ups. Mortgage-backed securities in the U.S. only a few years ago. All the boom and busts. Something has to give, and when it does it won’t be pretty. We should act responsibly now to limit the fallout. I
mean, even a goddamned plumber makes six figures in this town. And if he flips houses—he makes millions.”
“Is that terribly unpalatable?” I say, sounding way more snarky than I intended, but I take a quick sip of gin and decide to roll with it, so what?
Brice raises an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”
“Is it so horrid for a plumber to make six figures? Millions? Because he’s a tradesman?”
Brice shoots an accusatory glance at my drink, then at Eric. “I’m sorry, Jasminder, you’ve misunderstood. It’s not horrid. It’s inflated. That a man with barely a high-school education—”
“Has the gall to make as much as a white-collar professional?”
Zachary snickers, lights another clove smoke, apparently keen to play the rebel, sit back, let this drama unfold—
“I make significantly more than a plumber, thank you.” Brice lifts his glass in self-congratulatory cheers. Only Eric obliges. “It’s not a value judgment. It’s an economic truism. The market can only support—”
“Oh, shit, Brice, the market? That’s fucking rich—”
“Jaz—”
“Do not do that, Eric. Please let me finish. Brice? You’re a big fan of the market, right?”
“Well, I—”
“Yes or no.”
“Sure. Yeah. Of course. I mean…what else is there?” Brice looks around, slightly confused, like who is this chick? The men shrug and nod.
My hand’s on the door handle. I could leave now, or take it down a notch like my mother says, but instead I say, “Great! Because this is the free market at work. Right here. And you, Brice, who gets paid to argue why markets should be free from regulatory interference in China, in Cuba, in South America, arguing all day long, lobbying, suing, pressing for so-called free markets so your big-business clients can move in, now, suddenly…when the market doesn’t advantage you over others, suddenly…you’re all for regulation? Isn’t that the fucking straight-up opposite of everything you stand for?”