Seaweed on the Street (34 page)

I wanted Alex Cal dead. Every time I saw a young crackhead or 14-year-old meth freak, I thought of him and my hatred grew.

The hotel had seven floors, but, as I discovered, the elevator would not ascend to the penthouse without a special key. Lacking the key, I had to get out at the sixth floor. Cement stairs stretched up and down the emergency escape route. At the penthouse level I encountered a locked steel door.

Downstairs again, the Viceroy's public rooms and restaurants had closed for the night. I concealed myself in a corner and watched. The night clerk was still bent over his accounts. A minute passed. Then five minutes, ten. I began to wonder whether Jiggs was going to survive in the Buick's stuffy trunk. Maybe he would run out of air, suVocate. I didn't care very much.

A man wearing a black hat and overcoat came into the hotel. He had a white silk scarf around his neck, but for some odd reason had oversized basketball shoes on his feet instead of polished black shoes. A woman in a fur coat and carrying an electric fan was hanging onto his arm. They were both very drunk. The clerk looked up, grinned and reached for their room key. The couple thanked him with the grave courtesy of people who know they are drunk but are trying to conceal it. They staggered across the lobby, got into the elevator and were whisked away. The clerk left his post and went through a door behind the desk.

I snatched a penthouse key from its pigeonhole and got into the elevator. I tried the key in the elevator's penthouse actuator. It fitted. This time I rode all the way up.

At the penthouse floor, an unlocked glass door led onto a roof garden. Outside, a low ornamental iron railing and trees growing in pots partially screened one penthouse suite from its neighbour. I climbed the railing and looked through windows into Alex Cal's dimly lit apartment. The faux embers of a gas fire glowed red. A black cat came out of Cal's apartment and walked straight toward me. The cat mewed, rubbed itself against my ankles, then darted out of sight. The suite's sliding glass patio door was ajar. I took a deep breath and went inside.

Etta James' voice came softly from hidden speakers as I moved around. I saw a big kitchen with a breakfast area, a formal dining room, a bathroom with a Jacuzzi smelling of bath oils. I had to smile. Cal and I enjoyed the same kind of music. I hoped he wouldn't be enjoying it much longer. Thick carpets cushioned my footsteps. I was startled when the cat reappeared. It began to cry, so I picked it up and stroked its silky back. The cat shuddered and dug its claws into my sleeve. I kept stroking until the cat stopped mewing. My heart was racing when I put it down and watched it stalk away.

I was reaching for the bedroom's doorknob when it suddenly moved. I threw myself aside and heard the soft pop of a silenced pistol as I dropped behind a high-backed sofa. Then all the lights in the room came on and Alex Cal was revealed. I could see him, but he didn't immediately see me. His massive figure was completely naked. The gun in his hand would have been entirely concealed in his big fist if not for its extended silencer.

The pimp said softly, “Come on out, whoever you are, or I'll come find you.”

Grinning, Cal advanced into the centre of the room and turned slowly, pointing his gun straight ahead. I picked up a heavy brass table lamp. When Cal's back was turned I hurled the lamp at his head, but it missed and smashed against a window. Cal dropped to his knees, facing the window, and fired a shot blindly as I came out of cover, running. I dived onto his back and tried to seize the gun, but the pimp's body was oily and wet from his recent bath and my grip slipped. His gun went skittering across the floor. The pimp was as strong as he looked. He rolled forward, broke free and dived for the pistol. I kicked the gun away, but Cal grabbed my leg and heaved me off balance. I made a wild grab and caught him around the waist. We crashed to the floor together. A blow exploded against my left ear, lights danced inside my skull. I let go the pimp's waist and reached higher, trying to pin his arms, but Cal was too strong and too slippery. He delivered another blow, this time to my upper arm, and pulled free again. He made another lunge for the gun, but I kicked him hard in the chest and followed through with a punch to Cal's head. A jolt of paralyzing pain radiated up my arm when my blow landed. Cal shook his head. He seemed a bit dazed and backed away from me without the gun.

I faced him from a distance of six feet. My right hand was useless, possibly broken, but the pimp was hurt too.

Cal said, “All
right
, motherfucker. Your time has come. You are going to be put away.”

“You called me a motherfucker once too often and hurt my feelings, you bastard.”

The pimp grinned. “Man's feelings get hurt by words, just imagine what's in store when I start torturing your body. Me and my friend, the Irish man … ”

I strode forward, set my feet on the carpet and swung at Cal's stomach, but the pimp swayed aside and his counterpunch hit my upper arm. Then the two of us were locked together.

The pimp's skin was covered with perspiration as well now; I could not get a proper grip. My arms were being pinned and, at the same time, both of us were aware that either of us would bite the other's neck or ear unless pressure were constantly applied with the side of the head. The pimp gave a sudden heave. I went limp. My sudden lack of resistance sent us crashing, me uppermost. This time the pimp's head smashed down on the floor and at the same moment my knee smashed into his groin. Cal was out cold.

I stood up, trembling, nursing my mangled right hand. It was already blue and swollen. Etta James still sang in the background, Victoria's night sounds drifted in through the broken window.

There was no alarm, no angry telephone ring, no interfering neighbour arriving to complain about the noise. The cat had watched it all from a window ledge. It mewed once. When I dragged Cal out of there it was sitting on its haunches, unconcernedly grooming itself.

≈ ≈ ≈

The deep-sea trawler was named
Treasure Island
. That drizzly dark night its rusting blemishes were invisible. I imagined it slicing through the North Atlantic, dragging mile-long nets across the Grand Banks, fishing for cod and halibut and redfish. But the
Treasure Island
was old, the glory days of the Banks were over. This trip to Guatemala was the old trawler's last chance to prove itself before ship breakers cut it up.

The ship had no lookout. No doubt the crew was ashore, celebrating its coming departure. A diesel generator thudded away in the engine room, a thin plume of steam issued from a pipe behind the ship's funnel. There was a small hatch on the
Treasure Island'
s foredeck. I swung the hatch cover back and went below. Down there it smelled of tar and twine and salt and fish oil. Brand new fishnets lay on the floor, still bundled the way they had come from a net-maker. There were bits of old canvas, baskets, empty buckets and brushes down there too — and plenty of room to hide a couple of gagged and trussed-up pimps.

I heaved Alex Cal and Jiggs Murphy aboard the
Treasure Island
one at a time, wheeling them across the floats on a two-wheeled dolly that I found in the ship's fo'c'sle. I dumped the pair of them down the hatch without too much care. Nobody saw me close the hatch on them except for a few bedraggled seagulls hunched on pilings. How long would the pimps remain imprisoned before somebody found them? Maybe they wouldn't be found at all. For a little while Chantal would be able to keep all her earnings. There'd be a sharp jump in the price of street drugs — until other hustlers moved in to fill the vacuum.

I spent the rest of the night dozing in Jiggs's Buick, monitoring the police band and looking out to sea, until the
Treasure Island
slipped its moorings and struck out for warm southern seas.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Denise Halvorsen was puzzled, but she waited until Lou refilled our coffee cups before saying, “I still don't understand it all. Tell me again why Charles Service set up those phonies?”

I said, “Service knew that the Hunts would never allow Frank Harkness to inherit their wealth. But Service figured that if, after Calvert Hunt died, he produced a poor, sick, brain-dead woman and ‘proved' that she was Marcia, then he would apply to be declared her legal guardian. It was all set up. He was the Hunts' trusted lawyer and I doubt there'd be any serious objections from anyone. Service could continue to loot from Calvert Hunt's enormous wealth. Service's plan was well thought-out. The evidence that he provided to the phonies was real. The things in that fishing box were items that Service had taken from Marcia's old nursery. The master stroke was that rose, tattooed on the phony's shoulder. Nobody would recognize this imposter, but they wouldn't deny her claim.”

“Maybe. But what if the real granddaughter showed?”

“There was only a slight chance of that happening. The legitimate Marcia had turned her back on Victoria, and besides, neither Joan Alfred or Alison knew anything about the Hunt family or its money. Joan had no wish to investigate her brother's past. There was too much ugliness. No, Service's scheme was perfect, a mixture of good planning and good luck. And think of the payoff for him. By his own admission he'd been looting Hunt for years. With phony heiresses parked at Foul Bay Road, the looting would have continued.”

“All right. How about dna testing? Service couldn't fake that.”

“Good question. dna wasn't a factor when Service set the scam up originally. It must have given him a few sleepless nights.”

Halvorsen said, “So it was greed that drove Service?”

“No. Cocaine was driving Charles Service,” I said. “He was a complicated man. He probably loved Iris Naylor. That didn't prevent him from jilting her to romance Sarah Williams. And when Service stole those paintings, he couldn't bear to destroy them.”

“But he killed the son of his friend!”

“Harry Cuncliffe's chance discovery of Alison in Reno was going to destroy Service utterly. He panicked. Harry paid the price.”

Outside Lou's café, Chantal patrolled in the rain, twirling a big umbrella. I said, “But the story ended well for Calvert Hunt. When he met Alison and Joan he was overjoyed. Marcia's death was one thing. Discovering that he has a granddaughter has given the old man a new reason to live. It's also given him a chance to give Alison the love he ought to have given Marcia.”

“So, a story with a happy ending.”

“Happy for some people. Not for Iris Naylor. She really loved Service. It's going to be a long time before she recovers from the shock of knowing she loved a murderer.”

“Sarah Williams. What about her?”

I took a sip of coffee. I said slowly, “I'm not sure what kind of relationship Service had with Sarah. His death doesn't seem to have disturbed her too much.”

“And that young Native man, Jimmy Scow. He served years in prison for a crime he didn't commit.”

“Jimmy's been vindicated and he will be fine now. He hired Sammy Lofthouse to sue the city for wrongful arrest. I understand they're arranging an out-of-court settlement.”

“Well, you did a great job.”

“Yeah? Well I was highly motivated.”

Denise went out.

That's when Gottlieb came in. He leaned over my table and said testily, “
She
can run, but you can't.”

“Gottlieb! I'm pleased to see you.”

“Lying prick. I've been looking for you all week. What's the matter? Do you want this earth dwarf theft kept in the family? Or do I have to call Stolen Property?”

“Stolen Property? What are you going to say to them? That you tricked some poor sap out of a million bucks and got sore when he returned the compliment?”

“I paid good money for that manikin,” Gottlieb said in rising tones. “Do you have any idea how much it cost me to get that wall fixed?”

I told him to sit down. Gottlieb didn't want to sit down. He wanted to hit somebody, preferably a Coast Salish neighbourhood cop.

Lou put a quarter in the Wurlitzer. Frank Sinatra started singing “Nancy (with the Laughing Face).” Lou knows it always makes me blue — I don't know why he does it.

Gottlieb said, “Sheesh, Silas. Your hand's all swollen. What happened?”

“Broken bone. I jammed it in a door.”

“Or between somebody's thighs.”

“Gottlieb,” I said. “That's vulgar.”

“Vulgar? I'll tell you what's vulgar. You and that thieving bastard Gregarious George are vulgar. You make a right pair. George won't talk to me either. I saw him on the street yesterday. He saw me coming and took off. Just like that Halvorsen dame.”

“So you saw George. But what exactly did you
see
?”

Gottlieb pondered for a moment. He said thoughtfully, “George was sober. Clean and sober. Funny. It never registered till this minute.”

“That earth dwarf, it's changed George's life. Twice,” I said. “First it turned him into a drunk.”

“Once a drunk, always a drunk.”

“He's just got himself a seiner job. George is going commercial fishing up in the Queen Charlottes.”

“That's if George isn't in jail, sharing a cell with you,” Gottlieb said. He lowered his voice and hissed, “I'm not kidding, Silas. If I don't get that dwarf thing back, I'm raising a big stink.”

“George hasn't got it anymore. He couldn't give it to you even if he wanted to. Which I can assure you he doesn't. But as it happens, I know where it is.”

“Where is it?”

“If I tell you, will you listen politely?”

“Sure. I'm a businessman. There's no sense getting litigious if you don't have to.”

“It's a long complicated story.”

“Well I ain't got all day, so cut it short.”

“I came into a windfall recently,” I said. “Four thousand that I found in an alley. That's nothing to a man like you, Gottlieb, but it's a big deal to me. I wasted some of it on a noble or a childish impulse, depending on your point of view. The rest of the money, well, for a while I didn't know what to do with it.”