Last of the Independents (16 page)

Staring Down the Hydra

A
melia
Yeats answered her studio door in a long magenta T-shirt, hair clipped haphazardly out of her face. Seeing it was me at the door she pried open the clip and shook out her dark curls.

“I was just fixing this bass part,” she said as we climbed the staircases. I rationalized the attention I paid to her ass as precautionary, since at any second she could slip and I'd have to catch her.

I put the gym bag down in the corner of her control room and pulled up a chair. Yeats worked the faders on the console and made some judicious mouse clicks. “Pro Tools is the necessary evil of what I do,” she said. “Eli, the bass player, took seventeen passes on this song.”

“That a lot?”

“Not if you're a perfectionist. All he has to do is play the root, but his tempo drags, he misses notes. Not every bass player has to be Carole Kay or James Jamerson, but I shouldn't have to cut and paste each note just to get a few bars I can loop.” She sighed. “I hate people who don't love what they do enough to do it well.”

She had assembled the equipment I'd asked for on the phone, a VCR and an old Sony Trinitron and a few cables. I hooked the camcorder up and began dubbing copies of Zak Atero's confession. I had similar equipment in my office, but I was avoiding that place until I got the phone call. I'd told Katherine and Ben to do the same.

“Funny,” she said, “I don't even know what kind of music you like.”

“All kinds,” I said.

“Everyone says that.”

My iPod was in my jacket pocket. I surrendered it to her and fought the urge to justify every sound file on it with a lengthy explanation or excuse.

“Curious,” she said.

“Is it?”

“Joe Strummer but no Clash. Iggy but no Bowie. I'd've thought you'd have more Rush.”

“I don't really like Rush.”

“But you're Canadian.”

Zak Atero's mouth moved silently on the monitor. Yeats handed me my iPod back.

“It says your most listened-to song is ‘That's What Love Will Make You Do' by Little Milton. In fact, almost all your Top Twenty-Five are blues or R&B.”

“I like blues.”

“What do you think of Canned Heat?”

I made a face. “Can't stand that guy's voice. Plus their big hit song is lifted from Henry Thomas's ‘Bull Doze Blues.' Note for note down to the flute solo.”

“I'm not their biggest fan,” she admitted, “but you have to hear the double LP they put out with John Lee Hooker. Do you have a turntable?”

“Probably my grandmother does,” I said.

“I've got one back at the house, I'll bring it by for you.”

Once I had three copies I destroyed the original tape. I wiped my prints from each one. My hope was that using outdated technology would make it harder to trace back to me. Before I arrived I'd stopped at a PharmaSave and bought mailing envelopes and postage and a blue marker. I had Amelia Yeats address the envelopes: one to Gavin Fisk, one to Nate Holinshed at the
Vancouver Sun
, and one sent to my office. Once that was done, I cleaned up the mess and headed out to dump the garbage and mail the tapes.

“You have any kind of security in here?” I asked Yeats.

“I have one of these.” She pointed to a rusty aluminum bat in the corner. “Alarms, cameras, et cetera.”

“Don't buzz up any strangers,” I said, feeling ridiculous saying it.

“Ever met a musician? How am I supposed to make a living?”

“You know what I mean,” I said. “No unnecessary risks.”

“Besides hanging out with you.”

“That falls under the category of necessary risks,” I said, squeezing her shoulder on my way out.

At the top of the stairs she stopped me. “I want to tell you something.”

“Yeah?” Nonchalantly, which I managed only because her expression wasn't hesitant.

“I take drugs,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Coke. Sometimes others. I don't use needles and I'm not an addict. I don't score on the street and I don't fuck people for drugs.”

“Okay,” I said.

She swallowed. “And I wanted to tell you because last night I felt I had to hide it from you, because you're a cop, or were, and I didn't want to see that disappointed look on your face, and I didn't want to hear a lecture on how I should stop. But I figured you should know.”

“Okay.”

“I don't want us moving any further without you knowing that.”

“Thank you.”

We regarded each other. I couldn't recall seeing her exhibit any of the symptoms. Had I been so love-and-sex-obsessed, so infatuated, that I'd overlooked them? Or was her use so minimal and so regulated that she had it under control? Was that even possible?

“What do you think?” she said.

“You don't want to stop?”

“No.”

I nodded. “Okay then.”

“Is it?”

“I don't know.” She seemed lucid, engaged.

“You should've known there was a downside to all this,” she said, indicating her body with a self-effacing wave of the hand.

Seconds passed as I tried to formulate a response.

“My dog has cancer,” I said, trying to think of something of equivalent importance to share with her, to let her know I accepted and appreciated what she'd shared with me, even if I didn't know how to deal with it yet. “I'm going to have to kill her pretty soon. I mean have her killed, obviously, but it amounts to the same thing. My grandmother thinks I should've done it a month ago.”

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Why don't you have dinner with us?” I asked her. “My grandmother would like to meet you. Assuming you won't steal her cutlery.”

I left the bags on the stairs and went back up to the landing to embrace her. I felt her body beneath the shirt, ran my hand over the trackline of her vertebrae. Her mouth tasted like blood.

My phone chirped. I freed an arm to check the number. C
ALLER
ID W
ITHHELD
.

“Cock-blocked by Nokia,” Yeats said.

“This'll be good news.”

I watched her lock the landing door and walk back to the control room before I took the call.

“Drayton speaking.”

“Michael.”

Crittenden.

“Afternoon; I'm at your office. The Atero brothers are with me. And your friends. I feel we should talk.”

I
told him I'd be right over, but I made a stop at the house to grab my grandfather's shotgun. I hoped it wouldn't come to that. A shotgun is a great persuasive tool, and great when the opponent is unarmed or unaware, but in a prolonged fight, the Glock would be more appropriate. The Glock, however, was back at the office.

Theo Atero's Mustang and a Lincoln that probably belonged to Crittenden were parked on the corner of Beckett, in flagrant disregard of the law to keep two meters' distance from a fire hydrant. Atero's car was empty. I pulled up across from the Lincoln so that the driver's side windows lined up. I saw Crittenden behind the wheel. Theo Atero sat next to him, tapping the butt of a stogie out the passenger's window. Zak sat in back. I put my foot on the brake and let them see the barrel of the Winchester.

“Afternoon,” I said.

Crittenden nodded. Theo Atero scowled at the gun.

“Nothing's going to be solved by that,” Crittenden said, nodding towards the shotgun.

“Where are the others?”

“Your friends barricaded themselves in the office. The girl was quite the pragmatist — she wouldn't let me in even when I explained we were friends of yours. The other one, the heavyset man, had some unpleasant language for us.”

“What were they doing there in the first place?”

“It's your office, Michael.”

“Tell these two —” I indicated the Ateros “— to exit slowly, hands touching their ears, walk to their car, and drive back to your restaurant.”

“Just who the fuck do you think you are?” Theo Atero said to me. “Break into
my
house, order my brother around?”

“We'll talk back at the restaurant,” Crittenden said.

“Tell them to toss their guns before they exit. Put them on the dash where I can see them, two fingers on the butt.”

“None of us came strapped,” Crittenden said, enjoying the slang of the last word. “We came to talk, believe it or not, to come to some sort of amiable resolution.”

“Not going to happen,” I said. “It's in the hands of the cops and the press. If I knew how to convert that tape to digital, it'd be on YouTube by now.”

“Listen to this mutt,” Theo Atero said.

“You and your brother out of the car.”

Out they came and walked back to their car. After lingering there for a moment, they drove off.

“Still want to talk?” I said, calling the office line with my free hand, getting a busy signal.

“I think that's best,” he said.

I parked and together we went inside, the shotgun tucked into its leather carrying case. At the top of the stairs I rapped on the glass. Katherine sat in my spot, the Glock on the table in front of her. Ben stood by her desk, setting the phone back on its cradle.

I gave Katherine the thumbs-up sign through the door and she unlocked it, stepped aside to let us enter, avoiding the polite gaze of Lloyd Crittenden.

“You're both okay?” I asked.

“Fine,” she said. “Where are those other two?”

“Gone. Why didn't you phone me?”

“What do you think I've been doing?” Ben asked.

I held up my cell, showing him the lack of received-call messages on the screen. “What number were you trying?”

“Jesus,” Katherine said. “You were trying the house line, weren't you?”

“Mondays my grandmother goes to the casino,” I said. “The house line goes straight to message.”

Katherine rolled her eyes at him. Ben shrugged. “You told me to try Mike's number, that's what's on the screen. Was I 'sposed to know that wasn't the right number?”

“You know the area code of his cell starts with seven-seven-eight, and the home line's six-oh-four. That didn't clue you in?”

Embarrassed at the infighting, I said to Crittenden, “It's nice to know we can all think on our feet during a crisis.” To the others I said, “This is Lloyd Crittenden. He and I need to talk. You two should leave — though why you're here at all eludes me.”

“Studying,” Katherine said.

“Bored,” Ben said.

“What subject do you study?” Crittenden asked her.

“Don't answer,” I said, tossing Katherine the keys.

“Are you sure you're okay with him?”

“It'll work out.”

“Nice meeting you both,” Crittenden said on their way out. “Good luck with your studies.”

Looking back at him briefly Katherine said, “If you hurt him —” She turned and followed Ben out, leaving the threat unfinished.

I put the shotgun behind me and pocketed the pistol. “Is this what it's got to be like,” I asked, “guns and unfriendly visits?”

“You disobeyed me,” he said.

“You didn't leave me a choice. And I halfway think you did it just to see what I'd do, as a form of amusement.”

“I wouldn't take those kinds of liberties, least of all with work. Although it's been a while since someone fired a shot across my bow so blatantly.”

“In any case it's done now,” I said. “There's no profit in hindering the search for this kid, and whatever happens between us won't stop the police from following up.”

“A stalemate,” he said. He didn't seem angry, but his good humour had faded and with it the sense that he was toying with me. He remained a cutthroat despite his diction.

“If I told you the number and variety of responsibilities I have, you'd think I was an emperor. This was such a minor incident that I tried to remain impartial and let it sort itself out, realizing that whatever happens to the Ateros is of no consequence to me. Truth be told, Theo wanted to deal with you before your session with his brother. I felt there was no point in bloodshed.”

“Do you know what the definition of a weak boss is, Mr. Crittenden?”

He leaned forward in his chair. “Are you calling me that?”

“I don't know you well enough to judge,” I said, “but I know what it's like working for one. A weak boss doesn't want to get involved because he doesn't want to piss anyone off. He justifies his weakness as fairness. A shitty boss hurts everybody, but a weak boss hurts only the good and reasonable people. Two employees have a beef, 'stead of weighing in, he splits it down the middle, ‘Well, you both have compelling arguments,' and so forth. That only encourages them to be less reasonable in the future. One guy says ‘You owe me ten dollars, here's a receipt as proof,' and the other guy says ‘Fuck your receipt, you owe me a million.' If a weak boss arbitrates, it's, ‘Boys, let's not fight, you both have compelling arguments. Let's split this down the middle. You pay him five dollars, he pays you half a million. Nice talking to you fellows, I'll be in the coffee room if anybody needs me.'”

Crittenden had settled his claw-like hands on his knees. “I can't tell if you're trying to insult me or sympathize. Do you think I should have hurt you?”

“You should've helped me,” I said. “Instead, you threatened me. With most people that would have been enough. But I'm not going away.”

Crittenden sneezed into a black handkerchief and held the moist rag in his lap. Gesturing at the room he said, “It amazes me you'd risk this to talk to Zachary Atero.”

“That's just how it turned out this time.”

A droplet of blood fell out of Crittenden's left nostril onto the back of his hand. He dabbed at his nose with the handkerchief. “I get the occasional nose-bleed,” he said. “Stress-related, I expect.”