Seaweed on the Street (20 page)

The next time I woke up, my room was in near-darkness. I thought I'd gone blind until a shadowy outline moved in a corner. When I croaked, somebody pushed a button on the wall and crossed to my bed. I concentrated. Bernie Tapp's ugly mug swam into view.

“How am I doing?”

“You been shot up pretty good, pal. But like I told the medics here, you're too mean to die before you collect your pension.” He grinned down at me. “I just rang for a nurse. You need anything?”

“An Aspirin. Maybe two.”

≈ ≈ ≈

Dr. Cunliffe dropped by and checked my charts. He said, “I spoke to the specialists. They expect your headaches to disappear in a few days, don't anticipate any long-term ill effects. Your collarbone seems to be healing nicely. How does your head feel?”

“I think the surgeon sewed a couple of riveters inside there. Two angry men with hammers.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Worse. When do I get out?”

“Three or four days if you like. You'll need in-home care for a while.”

Nursing staff kept my visitors to a minimum, but investigators from Serious Crimes came by a few times. Charles Service snuck in with Sarah Williams for one brief visit. Sarah brought flowers. Service delivered grave nods and sad shakes of his distinguished white head. Denise Halvorsen sent flowers and a huge get-well card signed by 100 street bums.

Meanwhile, I didn't know which was worse: residual headaches or my sister's nagging.

Linda stood by my hospital bed, arms folded across her chest, tapping the floor with one foot and saying angrily, “I suppose you're satisfied now. Here you are in a sickbed, you could be dead, and you probably don't even have term insurance! Don't you know that if your skull was normal flesh and bone instead of solid wood you'd be history? Do you know it's a miracle you weren't blinded permanently? And what do you think about that, smart guy?”

“Nothing.”

The tempo of Linda's breathing increased and her eyebrows nearly vanished into her hairline as she added, “And who are all these cards and flowers from? Are they from people who'd take you home and nurse you from death's door like I have to?”

“Why don't you read them and find out?”

“I suppose I must, you being too sick to move a muscle,” she said, getting angrier with every word. “You big dumb animal. Well, there's a card from Chantal somebody. Another from Sarah somebody. A stupid note from Denise somebody. And here's a nice note from a Mr. Service. When are you going to settle down with one woman? Then I wouldn't have to run around picking up the pieces of your life, blood being thicker than water! All these women are probably no better than common streetwalkers. I've seen some of the women you hang out with. You make me so mad, you big galoot! Who's Mr. Service anyhow? And Denise? Who's she supposed to be? Why don't you meet some decent girl for a change and settle down and get married instead of running all over, chasing women and carrying on?”

Linda's husband, Dick, was behind her, shrugging his shoulders and winking sympathetically until Linda wheeled around and saw him.

She said, “So, smart guy. Why don't you finish packing Silas's things so we can take him home?”

“Sure, honey,” Dick said.

Spinning on her heels to stare at me again, Linda said, “I suppose you know how stupid you look, one side of your head shaved bare where the doctor had to patch that big dumb brain box of yours, two black eyes. And your shoulder all smashed up.”

“I know,” I said. “I'm sorry, Sis.”

Linda sniffed and started to cry.

≈ ≈ ≈

Linda and Dick's house overlooks Colby Island on the opposite side of the Warrior reservation from mine. I moved into their spare room and tried to be invisible. The fishing season had closed, so Dick had taken a contract to repaint suites in a James Bay retirement complex to keep busy. Every day Linda made breakfast for the three of us. After breakfast Dick drove off in his pickup truck, while Linda went across to her clerical job in the band office.

Chief Mallory, Victoria's top policeman, dropped by to see me, kitted out in his full-dress regalia. As usual he spent half an hour retelling stories about the great times that he and my father had enjoyed when they were young together a million years ago, killing grizzlies and trophy bighorns and 200-pound Tyee salmon.

When the chief ran out of exaggerations and I could get a word in edgewise, I asked if anybody else was pursuing the Marcia Hunt inquiry. Apart from absently twirling his moustache, he acted as if he hadn't heard. Then he coughed and said, “For financial and other reasons, Victoria is rethinking the entire neighbourhood policing experiment.”

This was serious. I said, “What, permanently?”

“Ah, well, my boy,” he said evasively. “That's not
entirely
my decision. Victoria's police budget is set by others and isn't bottomless. But to be frank, Silas, we've had the odd complaint about your methods … ”

I tried to interrupt. Chief Mallory raised his hand to shut me up. “But you're an invalid and mustn't trouble yourself about these things. Concentrate on getting well. We'll talk again.” He gave me a wink and trundled off in his chauffeured limo.

The next visitor was Bernie Tapp. I was sitting in Linda's yard, studying a book on Canada's western birds, when Bernie showed up. The Eade murder was still a big mystery. Bernie had found out that the green Toyota Corolla had been stolen from a West Vancouver shopping mall.

Bernie said, “I'm just a bit curious, pal. Why did somebody shoot you?”

“I don't know. Alex Cal and Jiggs Murphy are the obvious suspects. But maybe it was the guy who bumped off Fred Eade.”

“Fine, same question. Why would the guy who rubbed out Fred Eade want to do the same to you?”

“I still don't know.”

Bernie said, “Somehow, there's got to be a tie-in between Harry Cunliffe's killing, Marcia Millions and Fred Eade.”

“I think so too, but if there
is
a tie-in, I haven't yet found it.”

“But you're looking. Maybe Frank Harkness is a key link?”

I nodded.

Bernie said, “While you were out of action I took it upon myself to call California Corrections. Asked them about Frank Harkness. For some undetermined reason they haven't been too co-operative. Some cockamamie bullshit about prisoner's rights. So we took it up the ladder. Still nothing.”

I didn't respond immediately, and for some reason Bernie thought I was holding something back. His frustrations began to show. Abruptly he said, “What's that book you're reading?”

“Nothing.”

“Looks like a bird book.”

“That's what it is. I picked it up at Munro's.”

“So it's not nothing,” he exploded. “It's a bird book! Are you ashamed of having a bird book? All kinds of people have bird books.”

“Well, at least now I know the difference between a hawk and an eagle.”

“How about vultures? You got pictures of vultures in there?”

“What kind?” I asked, turning to the index.

“The kind that hangs around back alleys and bars.”

His own unwavering glare reminded me of eagles. I said, “What's up?”

“I'm talking about that Ruger Blackhawk you
found
in Waddington Alley. Ballistics did a good job on it. A bullet from that gun was extracted from the dead body of an Edmonton street hustler three months ago.”

“What? Pimps battling for turf?”

Bernie nodded.

“So,” I said, “what next?”

“What I did, I brought Jiggs Murphy in and asked him where he was when the Edmonton pimp got shot. Murphy told me he was in Calgary at the time. I couldn't shake him.”

≈ ≈ ≈

It was time for me to get back on the horse. Charles Service wanted to see me and I had questions for Dr. Cunliffe.

Service asked me to meet him in the Ross Bay cemetery. I idled in the bushes near the Fairfield gate and watched him arrive in the Lincoln town car. I limped behind, keeping an eye on him as he strolled along tree-shaded avenues to our designated meeting place. He paused several times to shake his head at vandalized statuary and gravestones. After he'd seated himself on a park bench overlooking the sea, I joined him.

Two full-rigged barques were racing up Juan de Fuca Strait. One was the Russian sail-training vessel
Pallada
. The other ship was the
Cuauhtémoc
, from Mexico. The massive barques were accompanied by a flotilla of smaller square-riggers and schooners, all of which were headed home following visits to Victoria's sea festival.

Service said, “One of my ancestors immigrated to Canada on a ship like that, in 1850. He was a carpenter. Hired by the Hudson's Bay Company in London. Some of the shops he helped build are still standing on Government Street, including the general store once owned by Richard Carr.” Service looked at me and said, “You know who Richard Carr was, I suppose?”

I did know, but I shook my head because Service was enjoying his talk.

“Richard Carr was Emily Carr's dad,” Service said and pointed. “That's Emily's grave, over there. The Service family plot is about 20 yards away from it.”

I expected Service to segue into a familiar yarn — the one about how, if one's Victoria forbears had only been sagacious enough, they could have snapped up Emily Carr's paintings for $5 each, those then unsell-able paintings now being worth hundreds of thousands each. Mercifully, Service refrained.

There was worse to come, though. After a rambling discourse about the weather, the latest from Iraq and the wonders of medical science, Service cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Hunt wants me to tell you, Silas, how grateful he is for your heroic efforts.” Struggling to get the proper ring of sincerity into his utterance, he added, “It's a shame, but Calvert Hunt's medical condition is deteriorating rapidly. Physically, he is now quite feeble, his mental condition is fading. He is forgetful and incoherent. Dr. Cunliffe doesn't think he has Alzheimer's, precisely, but Mr. Hunt's senility is fairly advanced.”

The lawyer stopped speaking and stared at the grass.

I said quietly, “In other words, you want me to call off the search for Marcia Hunt?”

Service looked relieved. “It's nothing personal,” he said. “We're impressed with your work. But the fact is, we've had quite a lengthy discussion … that is, me, Sarah and Sarah's mother, Phyllis Williams … After taking everything into consideration, we're all agreed that Marcia is certainly dead. We won't try to influence matters further. We all think this would be Mr. Hunt's decision also, were he capable of making rational judgments.”

I said abruptly, “How old is Dr. Cunliffe?”

Service seemed taken aback. He frowned and said, “I think Harry's close to 80.”

“And still practising medicine. He doesn't look 80.”

“Perhaps not. But I know for a fact that Harry's about the same age as Calvert Hunt. Why?”

“It strikes me as a bit curious. If Dr. Cunliffe is about 80, he must have been at least 55 when his son was born.”

“Harry's first wife died childless. He was about 50-odd when he got a woman called Evelyn Boothroyd pregnant and married her. I say ‘woman.' Evelyn was scarcely more than a high-school girl. The marriage was a complete disaster. Evelyn stayed around long enough to give birth to Harry Jr.. Then she ran off to join a commune.”

“Does Dr. Cunliffe keep in touch with her?”

“Dunno. Why don't you ask him?”

“Perhaps I will. It's not too important.”

Service moved on the bench and said, “Don't be a stranger, Silas. As soon as you're fully recovered we want you to visit us at Ribblesdale. Sarah and I will be giving a pool party. You must come.”

“I don't think so. Ribblesdale's a dangerous place for Indians.”

Service's smile vanished. Flushed and indignant he got to his feet, and for a moment I thought he was going to storm off without speaking. But he calmed himself with an effort, shook my hand and said with an attempt at levity, “You enjoy cemeteries, Seaweed?”

“Love 'em,” I said. “Cemeteries give me the long view.”

≈ ≈ ≈

i'd arranged to meet Dr. Cunliffe for lunch at the Oak Bay Marina Restaurant. I got there early so that I could stretch my atrophied hamstrings with a stroll along the waterfront.

Pensioners were throwing day-old bread at the ducks. Tourists were posing for photographs near the plastic killer-whale sculpture. A 100-foot sailboat was putting out from the marina. A helmsman and a bikini-clad woman seemed to be the ship's entire crew. I was wondering how one couple could possibly handle the large ship by themselves when the helmsman touched a button on his steering console. Electric motors whirred and the huge mainsail unfurled itself from the boom and climbed the mast unaided. On the shore by the boat shop a man was painting a rowboat. I watched him until a kingfisher flashed across my sight. The bird swooped into the water and re-emerged with a wriggling sliver of silver in its mouth.

Dr. Cunliffe arrived.

I knew the marina's maitre d' and he gave us the best table in the house. I ordered halibut steak. The doctor ordered green salad. He drank herbal tea. I sipped Foster's lager, thinking that the doctor, skinnier and greyer than ever, would benefit from steaks and ale himself.

Outside, a man was standing on the wharf, dangling herrings by the tail. Every once in a while a big seal's snout appeared from the water and snatched the herrings from his hands.

I said, “Did you know that they want me to drop the Marcia Hunt inquiry?”

“Yes. How do you feel about that?” The doctor's voice creaked like an old door opening.

“What Charles Service wants is irrelevant. I was too polite to tell him that, of course, but I won't quit any job half done.”