Seaweed on the Street (22 page)

I said, “You got me worried, pal, shaking in my boots. Only, I'm not scared in the same way as that little girl just now. I'm worried that you're gonna get scared and leave town before I get around to dealing with you personally.”

The pimp wasn't impressed. He shot me a look of genuine amusement and said, “You gonna stand still, give me another chance to shoot you?” With a soft chuckle he added. “Say, I got a handle on you now. I been thinking you was maybe just a jive-turkey, a naïf, taking my gold. But I see you stupid. A dumb-ass hero. You a man with a mission.”

“I'm a man with a mission. You're a man who needs elocution lessons.”

The waitress arrived with Cal's order — two coffees to go and a bag of pastries.

I said, “Tell you one thing, Alex. If nobody else, the parking patrols will be sorry to see you leave this town.”

A white-bearded commissionaire was ticketing the Viper. Jiggs Murphy stamped about the sidewalk, waving his arms and shouting. The commissionaire's hide was bulletproof. With stolid indifference he closed his notebook with a snap, turned his back on Jiggs and marched off.

Cal picked up his order. Leaving the coffee shop, he said, “I'll be catching up with you, bigmouth. Somebody around here gonna get closed up, only it won't be me.”

As the Viper pulled away, a harried-looking man came over to my table. He was new here; I'd never seen him before. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, wringing his hands nervously. “I'm the manager. That big guy, the one who just left … ?”

“You mean Alex Cal.”

The manager licked his lips. “He's a friend of yours?”

“Alex Cal has no friends.”

“I'm not surprised, the way he carries on. He disturbs the customers and frightens my staff. Some of the girls who work here are just teenagers — he's old enough to be their father. But he asks them for dates, follows them home.”

“Call the police. You pay taxes, you're entitled to protection.”

“I've telephoned the police. By the time they arrive he's gone. Nothing gets done.”

“That's the way it is. We have to operate within the law.”

“We? Are you a policeman?”

“I am, but my mandate is a bit different than most. I'm a neighbourhood cop, an intermediary between the law and potential jailbirds.”

“So why didn't you do something just now?”

“Do what? I can't arrest a man because he tries to pick up girls in restaurants. You've probably done it yourself.”

“Maybe, but I haven't made a practice of chasing girls young enough to be my daughter. I don't tell them how much money they can make as prostitutes.” The manager shook his head and said bitterly, “I've heard stories about him. They say he's a drug dealer.”

“He's the cocaine king of Victoria. Cal is smart, cagey. The narcotics squad has shaken him down a hundred times, but it's hard to nail him because he never carries. Others do his transactions, take all the risks.” I reached into my pocket, drew out a business card and gave it to the manager. “The next time Alex Cal bothers you, call this number.”

≈ ≈ ≈

It was my first visit to the office after being shot. It had a musty, cooped-up smell. Maintenance had patched several holes where bullets had penetrated the gyproc and repainted them with splashes of latex that did not quite match the original faded beige.

A mountain of junk mail lay under the letter slot. I dumped it on my desk. Irresolute, I raised the blinds and stood at the window, eyeing the spot on the building opposite where the sniper had stationed himself. Cal had boasted about being the triggerman, but perhaps that's all it was: a boast.

Had Patty Nolan set me up? How? And what did she have to gain?

I thought about Fred Eade's murder.

Bernie Tapp's theory was that either Patty Nolan or her fat friend Sidney Banks had killed the old biker during one of their wild parties. I imagined the scene — Fred Eade and the fat man, drinking heavily in the
Ocean Reaper
's cabin. Kidding each other and showing off in front of Patty Nolan. Maybe Fred had pulled his commando dagger, waved it threateningly. Banks, overreacting, had drawn a gun …

Well, I didn't know who'd shot
me
, but I knew, or was beginning to think I knew, who had murdered Harry Cunliffe. It seemed likely that the same person had murdered Fred Eade.

For something to do I checked the junk mail. There were a couple of gas-discount coupons from Esso — Payless Gas was increasing its market share and Standard Oil was trembling in its boots. The Bay's fall fashions were on parade. I could have a Christian Dior camel-hair jacket for less than a thousand dollars. If that didn't attract women irresistibly, I could drench my body in Fendi Uomo, a fragrance for men of extraordinary passion at 80 bucks a splash.

My phone rang. Lou said, “I saw you going in, Silas. It's been a while. How you been? They got all those bullets dug out of you?”

“I'm fine. I'll be doing 10 rounds in Moran's gym before long.”

“Your boxing days are over, who you kidding? Say, I got a spaghetti special going today. You want any?”

“Send some over, along with apple pie and coffee.”

“You got it, pal. Keep away from that window 'cause I hate to lose my paying customers.”

I sat down, put my feet on the desk, leaned back and looked at Queen Victoria, frowning at me from her picture frame. What a woman. Today, though, her gaze seemed distinctly chilly.

I thought: Yeah, I'm over the hill. Lou had spelled it out — my boxing days were over. I was 40 and a failure. My neighbourhood policing dream was on the verge of being cancelled. Charles Service thought I was a lightweight.

The phone rang again. I picked it up and said, “Silas Seaweed.”

Nobody answered, but I could hear the caller's heavy breathing and street noises. I waited 10 seconds and said, “Is anybody there?”

A man said, “Who … who is that?”

“Silas Seaweed.”

The caller said, “Hang on a minute,” and put his hand over the mouthpiece. The hand was removed and the caller said, “You the cop, the guy was shot?”

“That's me.”

“Just wait,” the caller said.

He was speaking for somebody else, probably somebody sharing a phone booth. The pause dragged on. I did not recognize the voice. It was male, slightly slurred. He sounded like somebody nursing a toothache. The caller said, “Somebody wants to give you a message.”

“Fine, go ahead,” I said patiently.

“You gonna be around there for a while?”

“I'll be here as long as you want.”

The phone went dead.

I began to brood about Sarah Williams and pillow talk, but all that did was prompt stirrings of sexual desire. I picked up the phone and called Sarah's mother.

A girl with a French accent answered and said, “Mrs. Phyllis Williams' residence.”

I told her who I was and asked to speak to Mrs. Williams.

The girl asked me to wait. After a longish interval she came back and said, “I'm sorry, sir. Mrs. Williams is not at home.”

The phone went dead. Well, that was that.

Calvert Hunt was not interested in me anymore. Phyllis Williams never had been interested in me, apparently. Maybe she'd heard that her expensively educated daughter was running around with lowly Aboriginals?

I brooded about this until the sound of approaching footsteps brought my reverie to an end. I reached for my Glock, clicked off the safety catch and held the gun below my desk. The Glock had one round in its chamber and 15 hollow-points in its magazine. If I ever shot anyone with it, the bullets would expand on impact and make one helluva mess of a human body.

A shadow appeared in the door's frosted glass. The door opened. Lou came in carrying a tray covered with a tea towel. He saw me return the gun to its holster and gave me a long sideways look. “Expecting trouble?”

“No, Lou. I'm just an old scaredy-cat.”

Lou put the tray on my desk and said, “Gotta run, pal. Drop by later, have a chat. I got a plan for catching the guys who done you. Used it a couple of times during the war.”

“Right, Lou,” I said as he went out.

Lou made his own spaghetti sauce, using lots of onions, mushrooms, a touch of olive, a little garlic. I was enjoying the food when my mystery caller phoned again. I heard the same nasal breathing, the same background traffic noise. He said, “You there?”

“I'm trying to eat my lunch. Make it snappy.”

“I got a message for you.”

“Let me have it.”

“She didn't do it.”

“Who didn't do it? Do what? What are you talking about?”

“She had nothing to do with the shooting, that's all.”

“Listen. I'm not clear on this. Which shooting are you talking about? Mine? Fred Eade's?”

“Never mind,” the man said crossly. “I don't answer no questions. I give you the message straight, that's all. Things is all stirred up.”

The guy hung up. I picked up my fork and toyed with Lou's spaghetti, but my appetite had gone. I pushed the plate away and sagged in my chair. A cobweb was under construction between coat rack and wall. Dust motes danced in the sunlight falling through my window. I looked at the queen. No help there.

Options? I could talk to Gregarious George. I could look for Jimmy Scow. I could go to headquarters and try to see Chief Mallory. Request permission for a quick trip to Reno. But in my heart I knew Mallory would nix it.

Nobody could tell me what to do on my
own
time, though. If I twisted his arm, Dr. Cunliffe was sure to approve a few more weeks of paid disability leave.

I phoned Denise Halvorsen's pager. Denise sounded less than overjoyed when she responded.

I said, “What are you doing for the next hour?”

“I'm busy.”

“I'll be interviewing a woman and I need a female pc along. Meet me in my office in 10 minutes.”

I hung up.

≈ ≈ ≈

Effie Yokwats lived in a small townhouse in Vic West. Denise Halvorsen drove me over there. When I banged on Effie's door, nobody answered. I put my eyes to the letter slot and saw a tiny hall and the foot of a flight of stairs. Shadows moved where window blinds fluttered in a breeze.

I said, “Denise, you stay here. I'm going round back.”

I reached the back door just in time to catch Jimmy Scow. He was trying to decamp, barefoot and naked except for Jockey shorts, with the rest of his clothing bundled under his arm. I frogmarched Jimmy back inside, unlocked the front door and asked Denise to go upstairs and fetch Effie.

Jimmy was cursing police officers everywhere eloquently and imaginatively. He could scarcely look at me, and when he did it was with unutterable loathing. I hardened my heart and told him to get dressed. Effie came downstairs wearing a bathrobe. She was embarrassed and wouldn't look at me either.

I said, “Effie, I want to know. Why did you quit working for Mr. Hunt?”

Effie muttered indistinctly.

I said, “Effie, you won't tell me so I'll tell you. You're the one who put that rush effigy in Calvert Hunt's room.”

Effie put her hands over her ears and shook her head from side to side.

I nodded toward Jimmy and said, “You asked Effie to do it. You made the effigy and asked her to put it there. And you're the one's been prancing around Ribblesdale in a wolf mask, scaring the bejesus out of Iris Naylor.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Jimmy said. “You're a disgrace to the Salish Nation and you don't know a fucking thing. What you are is a stooge for the White establishment.”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence, Jimmy. Thanks for being so upfront about things you know fuck all about.” I smiled sweetly and added, “It's natural to be upset about the shit that's been coming your way. I understand that. But all you've accomplished so far is losing Effie her job and putting yourself on another hit list.”

“What do you mean? What hit list?”

“You know what I mean. The hazard that put you into the big house still exists. It lives on Foul Bay Road.”

Jimmy told me to fuck off again. It was pathetic.

I said, “Effie. Please. Look at me.”

Effie raised her face, but her gaze was fixed on my shirt.

I said gently, “Effie. This is what happened: Sarah Williams told me that she'd discovered you and Jimmy were having an affair on Mr. Hunt's premises. Jimmy's a convicted criminal, and Miss Williams overreacted. The upshot was, you quit. Everybody is extremely sorry about it. You've been much missed by everyone, by Mr. Hunt in particular. Mr. Hunt likes you, he liked having you around.”

“That's a crock,” Jimmy said. “You don't know what's been going down.”

“Of course I know what's been going down,” I said patiently. “You're putting your head in a noose, that's what's going down.”

“I ain't scared. I'd rather be dead than a coward. And she's not going back there to that goddam house,” Jimmy said angrily. But instead of appearing tough he seemed helpless, like an animal chewing its leg off to get out of a trap.

Effie's eyes glistened with tears.

I said, “Jimmy, I want to know who taught you Ghostfinder ritual.”

The question caught him like a blow. “I'm into T'sumqalaks. I'm into Wolf ritual and Wolf Song,” Jimmy said evasively.

“You're into Ghostfinder ritual as well,” I said. “People have been talking. Where did you practise it, Canoe Cove way?”

Jimmy Scow folded his arms. After a few seconds he nodded.

I said, “Keep your head down. The pair of you. For the time being you'll both stay away from Ribblesdale. I mean it. Trust me, things will work out.”

“Nobody tells me what to do,” Jimmy shouted. “You sold out to the White establishment but I got a plan. I got reasons for doing what I been doing.”