Seaweed on the Street (6 page)

“That's all right, Charles. I broke in before you said anything naughty about me.” Still seated, she laughed and leaned toward him, puckering her lips to be kissed. Her eyes were closed and she had a dreamy expression.

She broke away and extended her hand to me. “I'm Sarah Williams,” she said, acting as if we'd never met. “You must be Silas Seaweed, the mysterious detective.”

“Mysterious?” I said. Sarah's fingers were cool after her swim.

“Well, it's very hush-hush isn't it?” she said, recrossing those long, beautiful, suntanned legs. She turned to Dr. Cuncliffe. “Be a pal, Harry. Pour me a coffee and pass those doughnuts. I'm famished.”

“Calvert's asked the sergeant to have one more look for Marcia,” said Service. “We don't want everybody in town to know what's going on, but we have no secrets from you.”

“I'll bet!” she said, arching her eyebrows and taking a doughnut from the tray. She took a bite and said to me, “I hope you do find Marcia. I've been hearing stories about her all my life. How bad she was and all that. I only met her once, when I was nine. We lived in Montreal then and the Calvert Hunts came east for a visit. Marcia was only a bit older than me, but she acted very grown-up. She got into trouble for wearing eyeshadow and lipstick against her mother's wishes, but she looked very pretty too.” Sarah laughed. After taking a sip of coffee she added, “Poor Marcia, staying away all these years. Such a waste.”

Sarah Williams's arrival put an end to our conference. Small talk dragged on until Service tried to pour more coffee and discovered that the flask was empty. He said, “If anybody wants more, I'll run into the kitchen and get this refilled.”

“Forget it,” Sarah said hotly. “The servants are ready to mutiny because of that bloody creature Effie.”

In a jittery voice Service said, “Don't upset yourself. It wasn't your fault.”

I rose to my feet and said, “Well, I'll be going.”

“Heavens,” Sarah said. “You're not leaving this lovely company? Don't you have things to talk to
me
about?”

“Another time perhaps. If you don't mind.”

“Mind?” she said, looking into my eyes and giving me a smile I felt all the way down to my feet. “Why should I mind?”

Dr. Cuncliffe said, “I'll walk you to your car, Silas.”

As the doctor and I strolled off, Service and Sarah put their heads together and began a whispered conversation.

When we were out of earshot I said, “
Somebody
must have helped Marcia escape from that mental hospital. Was it you, Doctor?”

Surprise made Cuncliffe's eyes widen. “Yes. Conscience got the better of me. That postcard she sent me from Seattle was a thank-you note.” In a thoughtful voice he added, “I suppose you know that Marcia was traced to Seattle by a private investigator?”

“I know that Patrick Coulton was on the case for a while. I don't know how much progress he made.”

“What you also may not know is that hiring Coulton was Calvert's idea. Mrs. Hunt knew nothing about it. Her cold-hearted attitude toward Marcia was pathological. The breakup with her daughter, when it came, was total. She was completely unforgiving. She went to her grave 10 years ago, still hating her own child.”

We reached the doctor's red Mercedes and he stood with his hand on the door. More things were troubling him, but he wasn't ready to tell me what they were just then. He flung his medical bag onto the passenger seat and got in the driver's seat. He looked like an old man, slumped forward over the steering wheel. He said, “Ever been married, Silas?”

“Uh-huh. Once.”

He stared past the rhododendrons. “There's a lot of pious nonsense spoken about the blessings of family life. As a doctor I see its curses. I see lives wrecked by ignorance and pride.” He got into the car and waved toward the big house. “To Marcia, this place was a prison. Her parents were a couple of jailers.” He poked a skinny arm through the car's window and we shook hands. The doctor's skin felt dry, withered, but his grip was firm. He said suddenly, “That man, Jimmy Scow. Did he kill my son?”

“No.”

Dr. Cuncliffe released my hand. I watched him drive off, the back of his white head contrasting sharply with the Mercedes' red leather upholstery.

I got into my battered Chevy with its ripped leatherette seats and its stained roof lining. The car needed work. It needed new shock absorbers. The passenger seat was defective. Half the time the seat was stuck; the rest of the time it slid around without restraint. The last time my ex took a ride with me, she flew forward when I jammed the brake on suddenly and banged her nose against the dashboard. I needed a new car. I needed a lot of things. I felt a vague uneasiness. Half-captured ideas were struggling to be comprehended.

A hand came through my car's open window and tapped my shoulder. The hand belonged to Sarah Williams. It was a very nice and beautifully manicured left hand, with a diamond ring adorning its fourth finger. She said, “You're amazingly good-looking, aren't you?”

I grinned at her and got out of the car.

She said, “I'm still waiting for you to explain the effigy thing.”

To give myself time to collect my thoughts I said, “Let's go back to the pool.”

She shook her head.

I said, “In the religious life of the Coast Salish, the most important element is the concept of personal spirits.”

Sarah smiled.

I said, “Am I boring you already?”

“Not at all. I took a course on Indian mythology at McGill and found it quite fascinating.”

“There are two kinds of personal spirits.
Skaletut
and
shzudab
. Skaletut is the spirit of the layman. It brings luck in gambling and in the acquisition of wealth. A few other things. In the days when Coast Salish were still warring with other tribes, skaletut spirit helped us to win battles. In general, skaletut spirits are harmless, or at least not dangerous.” I looked directly into her eyes. She didn't blink: she was listening attentively. I went on, “It's impossible to obtain any kind of spirit without doing something to earn it.

“Shzudab spirits are shaman spirits. Shzudab spirit is powerful, and it is exceedingly difficult to acquire. The only people who can explain or describe spirit properly are those people who actually possess it.”

“I suppose you have shzudab spirit, do you? You being big and powerful and all.”

I ignored this sarcasm and went on, “All spirits have songs, with unique words and tunes.”

“What about that effigy?”

“I'm getting to that,” I said. Thinking hard, wondering how much to tell her. “Salish spirits travel around the earth. It takes them a year to complete a circuit. On these journeys, spirits gamble or trade among each other, their owners' fortunes rise and fall accordingly, depending how much luck these spirits have with their endeavours. Spirits return to their owners at Winter Dance. At this time, everybody with spirit gets sick. When he begins to get sick, he has to sing his song, perform his dance, some other things. Spirit sickness can last for several days during which a man fasts and goes without sleep. At this time a man needs a lot of friends to help him.”

“A
man
?”

“Women have spirits, but female shzudab spirit is rare.”

Sarah reached out and touched my arm.

I said, “A shaman's power comes from shzudab spirit and it can be lethal. It is never used for killing game, only men. In olden times, when a warrior grew too powerful, people became afraid of him and would have a shaman secretly kill him with his power. Sometimes the shaman sent spirit snakes or spirit lizards into people's bodies. Shamans with powerful shzudab killed people by hanging rush effigies on their house poles.”

Sarah's eyes widened. She let go of my arm. “Somebody is trying to kill Calvert Hunt?”

“No. Calvert Hunt is perfectly safe. So are you.”

“How about Calvert's employees? How about Charles Service?”

“They'll be all right.”

Sarah was satisfied, I think. Turning away, her face darkened. She said coldly, “You don't fool me, Silas. I've met men like you before. You're one of those dark dangerous bastards. You have no more sympathy for people like us than a fox has for a rabbit.”

She was right. Frankly, I didn't give a damn for Marcia's family. They struck me as being completely worthless human beings, and that went double for Charles Service. The only person I had any real sympathy for in this whole deal was Jimmy Scow, a convicted killer.

≈ ≈ ≈

I spent the rest of that day reviewing the file on Jimmy Scow and transacting routine business. Darkness had fallen by the time I cleared my desk and left the office. It was the height of Victoria's tourist season. Double-decker sightseeing buses and horse-drawn carriages passed back and forth beneath the city's ornamental street lamps. Sailboats and canoes drifted about the harbour.

The nocturnal hunting cycle had begun. It was the time of the owl and the coyote — and the greedy pimp. Halfway down Waddington Alley a woman screamed. I froze, staring into the darkness, and saw two people scuffling near a big metal garbage bin. A sharp curse rang out and the couple fell down together. I moved forward and came across Chantal, the prostitute, lying in the dirt. Jiggs Murphy was kneeling over her, slapping her with his meaty hand.

Rage set my pulses hammering. “Back off,” I said and grabbed Murphy's shoulder. The pimp turned an angry face. From a crouch he drew back his arm and threw a fast punch. I sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, pulled him close and hit him in the stomach. He went sprawling. I circled until I felt the bin against my back and watched as Murphy, on all fours, sucked air. He reached inside his coat, and metal glinted. I kicked his arm with the hard toe of my shoe. He squealed, and a pistol fell to the ground with a clatter. He made a grab for it but I seized a handful of Murphy's hair and shook him like a rat. When I let go he fell backward and his head hit the ground with a thud.

Chantal had picked herself up and was leaning against the bin, massaging her neck. Angry tears spilled from her eyes but she made no sound until I took her in my arms and hugged her close. Her voice breaking, she said, “You didn't kill him?”

“I didn't try to. He just fell. Guys like Murphy are harder to kill than a virus.”

She began to sob.

I said, “Come on, I'll take you home.”

She shook her head and pulled away, looking up into my face. “It ain't that easy,” she whispered hoarsely. “You don't just walk away from pimps, Silas. Not when they're Alex Cal and Jiggs Murphy.”

“There's an easier way than this, Chantal. Why don't you lay charges against those bloodsuckers? You know I'll protect you.”

Her eyes met mine in an instant of shared knowledge. She knew and I knew that even if I drowned Murphy in a sewer, other parasites would crawl out of the slime and take his place immediately.

“You're such a bloody romantic, Silas, but I hope you know what the hell you're doing,” Chantal said and walked off, a little unsteadily, her high heels clacking on the dark pavement.

I felt my rage returning as I knelt beside Murphy to frisk him.

He was carrying two thick envelopes full of money, collected that night from Alex Cal's stable of hookers and addicts. A leather billfold made Murphy's hip pocket bulge. I stuffed the envelopes inside my shirt and flipped the billfold open. It contained half a dozen credit cards and a driver's licence with photo ID identifying the pimp as Jason Murphy. Inside was another stack of money in 20s and 50s. I pocketed all of the cash and tossed the billfold into the Dumpster. Then I poked around in the dark until I found Murphy's pistol. It was a .30 Ruger Blackhawk. I jammed it inside my belt. I thought about running Murphy in, but I knew he'd be back on the street inside of four hours and I wanted more. I'd deal with this business in my own way.

Somebody came around the corner of Waddington Alley. It was a rummy. He faced the brick wall and began to fumble with his zipper. Murphy was groaning and nursing his head now, so I went out of the alley.

I walked to the place where I had parked my Chev and forced myself to breathe deeply, calm down, stop thinking about that filth in Waddington Alley. I unlocked my car and stood there, my arms resting on the roof. My racing thoughts turned to the beautiful woman I had seen with Jiggs and Alex Cal in the Bengal Room the night before — another filly being broken in for the pimps' stable of hookers.

Murphy staggered out of the alley, stooped forward, holding both arms across his gut. He steered a wobbly line up the street. My anger started coming back as I got into my car.

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning I got out the money that I had lifted from Jiggs Murphy and put it on my desk. After admiring it for a while I took two manila envelopes from a drawer and stuffed $500 into each. I still had about $3,000 left over that I didn't know what to do with. For the time being, I locked it in my office safe. I wrote Chantal's name on one envelope and Sally's on the other, then went next door to Lou's Café.

When Lou brought me coffee, I ordered bacon and eggs and gave him the two envelopes. I said casually, “Give these to the girls next time they come in. Don't tell them who the envelopes came from. Okay?”

Lou seemed preoccupied. He nodded absently and slipped the envelopes under his counter.

I used my cellphone to call a man I know in the parole branch and asked him about Jimmy Scow. I had to prod his memory: “Scow's the guy got five years for the Cuncliffe killing.”

“Yeah, right. Calvert Hunt's house. What's it called again?”

“Ribblesdale.”

“Right. I knew it was something goofy. Hang on a minute.”

After a while he came back and said, “Scow's probation ended months ago. He behaved himself and is now free to sleep on the streets or do whatever else he wants to do.”