Seaweed on the Street (10 page)

“Not today. I have hospital rounds at the Royal Jubilee. Maybe tomorrow. Thanks, Silas. I'll call you.”

Dr. Cuncliffe hung up.

My most important priority at that point was finding Jimmy Scow. I wanted him to know that I had reopened the Cuncliffe file. I wanted to ask him to forget about trying to exact personal justice and to give the White man's law one more chance.

I stared at
Dear Barbara
for a couple of minutes, wrestling with troublesome ideas concerning love and death and effigies. Then I had another brainwave. I went out.

≈ ≈ ≈

Joe McNaught opened the envelope that I had just given him, gazed at the contents and laid it all down on his desk. With a long sigh he swung around in his swivel chair and looked out of his window. McNaught was a burly man, and when he spoke his voice was slow and suspicious.

“A thousand dollars?” he said at last in tones of incredulity. “
You're
donating $1,000 to my church?”

“The money isn't a donation,” I said. “It's a bribe. You can keep the money if you tell me where I can find Jimmy Scow.”

“Funny thing, Silas. I never knew you were a Christian.”

“I'm not a Christian. I'm Salish.”

“Salish isn't religion. It's pagan witch superstition.”

I don't mind being kidded, but I wasn't going to be kidded about that. I didn't answer him. He swivelled around and stared at me. I still didn't say anything.

McNaught pushed a button on his desk. A young volunteer poked his head in at the door. McNaught said, “Ask Jimmy Scow to come in here.”

The volunteer's face registered extreme inner confusion. “Jimmy Scow?” he said in a puzzled voice. “I've never even heard of him.”

“Thanks,” McNaught said.

The volunteer departed. McNaught put both hands on the arms of his chair and heaved himself upright. He gave me a long sideways look. “See? Nobody here knows anything about Jimmy. If you need him, you'll have to look elsewhere.”

“I spoke to a man in the kitchen here, couple of days ago. He knew Jimmy Scow.”

McNaught shrugged, and I had counted to 10 before he added slyly, “Can I keep the money anyway?”

“You can't think of a single thing that'll help me find Jimmy Scow?”

McNaught looked at the envelope and sighed. “Well, there
might
be something. Somebody did say they'd seen him fuelling a boat at the Canoe Cove marina.”

“When?”

“It's a complete blank.”

“See,” I said. “There's no telling what a Christian can do when he tries hard. So keep the money, Joe. If you hear anything else, give me a call.”

“Go with God,” McNaught said. “A thousand dollars, that's extremely generous. It'll keep this mission going for two whole days.”

≈ ≈ ≈

I went to my office and checked my answering machine. A man with a fake street-jiver voice was now calling me a candy-assed chicken-fat motherfucker. Brian Gottlieb wanted to talk to me about Native artifacts. Detective Sergeant Bernie Tapp wanted to talk to me about a robbery in Waddington Alley. Somebody called Fred was interested in the reward that I'd advertised in the
Times Colonist
.

I called Fred first. A woman with a tentative voice answered the phone and said, “Hello?”

I identified myself. She made me wait and put her hand over the mouthpiece. Twenty seconds later she came back on and said, “This reward. How much money we talking about?”

I said, “It's negotiable.”

She said, “You better not be jerking people around.”

I said, “Look, I'm busy. If somebody has news and wants to sell it, let's talk directly.”

She grunted deep in her throat. I overheard a muffled conversation between her and somebody else. Then she said, “Can you meet Fred in the coffee shop at Fisherman's Wharf in an hour?”

“Yes. What does Fred look like?”

“Like a biker,” she said, slamming the phone down.

Boots clattered and Denise Halvorsen came in. The edges of her mouth were down. I looked up from my desk and said, “Hi, Denise, good to see you. How are you enjoying the foot-leather patrols?”

“We need to talk, Sergeant.”

“Okay. I've got a few minutes to spare. Let's go to Lou's for coffee. I'll tell you a few things you need to know about these streets.”

“No thanks,” she said. “No offence, but I think your MO needs an overhaul, frankly.”

Taken aback I said, “I may be out of date, but nobody can say I'm not results oriented. If I wanted routine I'd still be on the detective squad.”

She let out her breath, making an impatient, angry noise. “Results oriented?” She planted her feet wide and put both hands on her hips. “If you think that punching guys out in back alleys, intimidating taxpayers, and socializing with known prostitutes is the way to get meaningful results in this neighbourhood, you're wrong.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, Sergeant, that's right!” She was leaning forward, her pretty head poised above me like a hammer over a nail.

I tried to ignore the contours of her body and said, “Where did you learn about policing? Cop college?”

“No!” she barked. “
Police
college, where scientific research shows … ”

“Forget other people's research and do your own,” I said. “First thing you need to do, Halvorsen, is put your old ideas away and get to know real people.” I pointed through the window. “In this neighbourhood, a traditional cop affects some people the way a red flag affects a bull.”

“Bull?” she snorted. “Bull, Sergeant, with all due respect, is what you're talking.”

“Another thing,” I said. “Your face is dirty.”

She stamped out of the office and locked herself in the bathroom.

I opened the office safe, retrieved the Ruger Blackhawk I had taken off Jiggs Murphy and put it in my pocket.

≈ ≈ ≈

Detective Sergeant Bernie Tapp was waiting for me at Lou's. Tapp is a tough-looking guy with hair a quarter of an inch long, an 18-inch neck and eyes the colour of coal. He has the same hard leanness as men who chop down trees for a living. He was wearing a white shirt with the top button undone, a maroon necktie that had been slackened off and a pair of green twill pants. His red golf jacket had burn marks on both pockets. The first thing he did was repeat some of the bad things Constable Halvorsen had been saying about me.

“All this discipline,” I said. “What happened to
esprit de corps
? It beats me.”

Tapp gave me a gloomy look and began to fish around in his coat pockets. Dragging out a stubby pipe, he pressed the ash down with a calloused thumb and rammed fresh tobacco into the bowl. “So you don't know a thing about a recent mugging in Waddington Alley, Silas?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“You'd lie to your grandmother.” Tapp struck a kitchen match with his thumbnail, lit his pipe and puffed smoke in my eyes.

I batted the smoke with my hand and said, “I don't know why you're worried. A pair of pimp-traffickers get hijacked and one of them is roughed up. What do you care?”

“I don't care if they get roughed up, pal. I don't even care if they get rubbed
out
. It's just that I don't like unsolved mysteries.”

“Speaking of unsolved mysteries, Bernie, what's the latest on the Cuncliffe murder? You making any progress there?”

“Brazening it out, eh?” said Tapp, showing his teeth in a wolfish grin. “Think you'll change the subject, take my mind off Jiggs Murphy.”

“Jiggs Murphy?” I said, putting on a blank look.

“Yeah, Jiggs Murphy, Alex Cal's driver. The guy you mugged and robbed in Waddington Alley.”

He drank some coffee and stared at me. “You heard something about the Cuncliffe case I should know about?”

“I was just taking a polite interest in your career.”

“Yeah, that's the thing about you, Silas, always the gentleman. Did you apologize to Jiggs Murphy before or after you hit him?”

“Give me a break, Bernie.”

“I'll give you a break, but I dunno about Jiggs Murphy and Alex Cal. You mess with those animals, you'd better get yourself a bullwhip and a steel chair or they'll claw you to death.”

“I'll keep it in mind.”

“What is this, a personal vendetta?”

“I hate those fuckers, Bernie. I hate traffickers and I hate pimps. Every time I see a wasted young life I hate 'em more.”

“Who doesn't? You think you're the only cop in town with a social conscience, for Chrissake?”

Tapp thought for a while and said, “The Cuncliffe case, eh?” He tipped his head sideways like a bird and stared across the table without blinking. “That was DCI Bulloch's case and he got zapped on it. You know as much as I do. The murderers drove off in a florist's van with some stolen paintings. Aboriginal driver. Nobody saw them except that lawyer … ” Tapp fumbled for the name. “Service, Charles Service. Then they vanished.”

“And no leads since?”

“I told you, nothing. Those paintings never showed up again either. Every once in a while I pull the Cuncliffe file out, take a look at it.”

“Even though it's DCI Bulloch's case?”

Bernie's face was about as expressive as an Easter Island statue.

I said, very carefully, “There are people, I've met some, who think that somebody, I won't say who, put pressure on the department. What happened was, Jimmy Scow might have ended up in a frame.”

That went nowhere. Bernie had gone wooden on me.

I continued doggedly, “If you have a detective with some free time, this would be a good time to take another look for those missing paintings.”

Bernie gave me a blank look.

I said, “The paintings stolen from Calvert Hunt's house.”

Bernie nodded. “So that's what you want. Even though this is Chief Detective Inspector Bulloch's case? Even though Bulloch hates Nosy Parkers almost as much as he hates you?”

“Even so.”

“Okay, we'll take another look. But what will you do for me?”

I brought Jiggs Murphy's pistol out and slid it across the table. Tapp stared at it for a moment, then slipped it into his pocket. “There you go,” I said. “A nice little Ruger for you. I found it in an alley near my office.”

“Waddington Alley?”

“I think that's what it's called.”

Bernie stood up. He paused to relight his pipe, and as he was leaving I asked, “What's the deal on Halvorsen?”

“She's beautiful, smart and has a master's degree in criminology.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but what kind of cop is she?”

“The best kind.”

“All she's done so far is use my office as a comfort station and spread malicious gossip.”

“So what? You're a bad person and your office is a disgrace.”

“Street people feel very much at home in there.”

“Yeah, no doubt. It reminds them of a back alley.” Bernie nibbled his bottom lip with nicotine-stained teeth, trying to maintain his artificial bad humour, but we had been friends for too long. He said, “I
know
you hammered Jiggs Murphy, and you need a new brain if you think you can rob him and get away with it.” It appeared that he wanted to add something. After hesitating, Bernie changed his mind and left the café.

≈ ≈ ≈

At Fisherman's Wharf, sunlight glinted off the water. Seagulls screamed. Fishermen mended nets, scraped paint or idled in the sun. One rusty old ship of a type that I did not recognize rode at an outside berth. It looked like a big ocean-going tug, but stood higher out of the water and lacked the usual towing equipment at the stern. Three men were using a gasoline-powered winch to load it with stores.

Every few minutes noisy float planes took off from the Inner Harbour, bound for the Gulf Islands or Vancouver or Seattle. The departing planes thrashed along slowly at first, throwing big rooster tails and rocking in the choppy waves. Then the rooster tails diminished and disappeared as the aircraft accelerated and became airborne. Freed from the water, the planes banked to the west and disappeared into the sun. The tang of salt, tarred ropes and creosoted pilings filled the air.

Mom's Café was an old clapboard and corrugated-iron building overlooking the marina. A telephone-repair vehicle and several pickup trucks stood in the café's gravelled parking lot. I parked my Chevy alongside the telephone truck and went inside. Two men wearing orange hard hats were at the lunch counter having coffee. Other customers occupied vinyl-upholstered booths. An old-fashioned Wurlitzer was belting out Elton John's “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.” Inside the kitchen somebody rattled pots and pans. The hum of conversation in the room subsided when I entered, then picked up again as I sat at the counter. A chalkboard advertised Mom's world-famous homemade pies. A girl came out of the kitchen and, without being asked, put a plain white mug in front of me and splashed coffee into it.

“I'd better have one of those world-famous pies. What kinds you got?”

“Cherry, banana cream, blueberry and apple,” the girl recited mech-anically, wiping dishwasher-red hands on her apron.

“Make mine apple. À la mode.”

The two men in hard hats went outside. Moments later the telephone truck's engine started with a roar and the heavy vehicle lumbered away, spinning its wheels on loose gravel until the tires bit.

A rough, wheezy voice said, “So I took the stuff, jammed it in a paper bag and fired it through the window.” Laughter greeted this remark.

Across the room, two men and a woman occupied a window booth. The person who had just spoken was a stocky, middle-aged man with long dark hair, streaked with grey, receding from a high forehead. He wore a black woollen shirt with Harley Davidson patches. The shirt had an attached hood that, resting on his shoulders, gave him a slightly humpbacked appearance. The woman sharing his booth crossed to the Wurlitzer and began feeding it coins. She was about 25 and had a mane of yellow hair, noticeably darker at the roots. Heavy breasts and nipples were prominent beneath her white T-shirt. Blue stretch pants strained across her buttocks. She had a cheerful face and exuded a raffish sexuality. After making her selections at the Wurlitzer she returned to the booth. As she sat down, the Beach Boys started on “Surfer Girl.”