The diner's records were stored in an unlocked drawer underneath the lunch counter. It took no time at all to find the file containing Maria Alfred's local address, along with her Social Insurance Number, her date of birth, and other information. Suddenly, I remembered the Tolstoy quotation that had eluded me earlier. It was:
Pure and complete sorrow is as impossible as pure and complete joy
.
A gruff male voice said, “Hold it right there, pal, you're under arrest. Police is on its way.”
A lightweight rent-a-cop was standing in the front doorway, tapping his left hand with a nightstick held in his right hand. He was wearing a wrinkled blue uniform with the words Marlowe Security printed across the front of his jacket. He looked pleased with himself.
When my brain resumed its normal functions, I said, “Under arrest for what?”
“Whadda you think, you dumb bastard? Breaking and entering for a start. Stupidity.”
“Not so fast, I own this place. The Ballard Diner belongs to me.”
The rent-a-cop's grin faltered. “Since when?”
By then, the bleep-bleat-bleeps of approaching police sirens were shrieking in the night.
I reached across the counter, picked up a pepper shaker and said, “Pay attention please. Buster sold the diner to me last week. Look, my name is on this shaker.”
When the poor idiot leaned in for a closer look, I shook an ounce of seasoning into his eyes and leapt backwards beyond his reach. Howling, temporarily blinded, he thrashed towards me, his arms flailing, but by then I'd jumped over the counter. He tried to follow as I went outside. In his half-blinded state, he tripped over a stool and measured his length on the floor. Those sirens were louder now. Red and blue flashers winked as two police vehicles banged into sight around a corner two blocks away. Resisting a strong temptation to run, I walked out onto the unlit rubbish-strewn wasteland behind the diner. Next to invisible in my dark clothing, I stepped across a double set of railroad tracks and put uphill distance between myself and the diner, until I was brought to a stop by a brick wall crowned with razor wire. I skirted along the wall to my left until I reached a wet ditch separating a warehouse from an RV storage yard. The storage yard was fenced and well lit. I continued uphill. A bum asleep inside a wooden crate groaned when I tripped across him in the darkness. After a while, I came upon a row of 1890s brick-built houses with fenced back yards. I went through a garden without waking any dogs and got clean away.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Safely back in my car, I tried to think of something comic to tell Bernie Tapp if Internal Affairs knocked my door down and arrested me for burglary in the middle of the night. Blue-and-white cruisers were more numerous than prowling cats when I drove back to Nanaimo's. By then it was about two
AM.
Rave noises poured from the club's windows and from the open patio where I had been sitting earlier. Before getting out of the car, I took my Glock from its clip beneath the MG's dashboard, and stuffed it into my belt. The bouncer who had patted me down for weapons the first time was still on duty. He recognized me. This time he just waved me straight through.
Nanaimo's alcohol-and-drug-fuelled drama had kicked up a notch. Girls who a year or two earlier had been playing with dolls were washing down ecstasy tablets with kamikaze shots. Stockbrokers, visiting firemen, and lone-wolf sailors blowing their pay while they sought less-than-eternal love were revealed spasmodically beneath the club's pulsating strobe lights.
The waiter who had served me earlier was beside the counter. He said, “You must be a glutton for punishment.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Are you still waiting for the woman in white?”
“That might be nice, but she gave me the brush-off. I'm here to see your boss.”
“I'll see if he's in his office.”
“No need, I'll find my own way.”
“The boss doesn't like unannounced visitors.”
I badged him and said, “I'm a police sergeant. Policemen don't do announcements.”
The waiter's eyes widened.
“And here's another thing,” I said. “That pimply kid standing near the stage is dealing Ecstasy.”
“What's a rave without rave drugs?” the waiter replied. After placing a glass of milk on a silver tray, he picked it up and said, “Follow me, sir.”
“I'll follow you if you add a Chivas and water to that tray.”
Smiling slightly, the waiter did so. I trailed him up a flight of stairs and along a crowded balcony to an unmarked door. With the drink tray expertly balanced on one hand, the waiter knocked. A shadow dimmed the judas hole set in the door, and then the door opened on silent hinges. The woman in white came out. Her eyes were narrow, her lovely mouth was tight with anger. Watching her stride away along the balcony and down the stairs, I concluded that she hadn't even noticed me. Her ass was spectacular in the white clingy dress she had on. I followed the waiter inside. He placed my Chivas and the glass of milk on the manager's desk, and exited with the silver tray under his arm.
Twinner Scudd's office reminded me of a butcher's shop. It was about twenty feet by fifteen, lit by fluorescent tubes. The room's smooth plaster walls and ceilings were coated with glossy white paint. Scudd was standing with his back to an open window behind a big white desk with a white marble top. Half a dozen high-end white moulded plastic chairs were scattered here and there on the room's white ceramic floor tiles.
Scudd's bodyguard was a pierced and tattooed thug named Eddie Cliffs. Cliffs was another Native, and I'd brought him down for pandering, once. Eddie Cliffs scowled menacingly until Twinner Scudd pointed to the drinks on his desk, whereupon Cliffs came over and put the glass of milk in Twinner's hand. After a slight hesitation, Cliffs handed me my drink and returned to his station by the door.
Twinner Scudd was a fat Native Indian from up Desolation Sound way. His thick black hair was buzzed close to his scalp. His face was the colour of olive oil. He wore a dapper white suit, a white T-shirt, and white shoes. His eyes were invisible behind dark glasses.
“So, Seaweed. How long's it been?” Scudd asked as he sat behind his desk.
I sat down, rolled a little Chivas around my tongue. “Five, six years?”
“It's been eight years,” he said in a voice of subdued menace. “Eight years since you guys busted my Saltspring grow-op.”
“Baloney,” I said negligently. “I'm not interested in busting back-country grow-ops. Besides, Saltspring Island is Mountie country. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Somebody blew the whistle, and a lot of serious people think it was you.”
“Serious? The same people probably think that the earth is flat and that the moon is made of green cheese. When I go after you, Twinner, it won't be for growing bc bud, it'll be for something serious. Murder, for example.”
I couldn't see Scudd's eyes behind his glasses, but his fat shoulders straightened at the word “murder.”
I went on, “After the formality of a trial, the outcome of which will never be in doubt, we'll bolt you up and you'll never see daylight again. There's a cell in a Supermax with your name on it. You'll sit inside a rubber cube for the rest of your days. You won't hear another sound except the sound of your own screams. You'll never set eyes on another human being. Your food will be shoved through a slot in a door. There'll be no books for you to read, no TV to look at. You'll be stark raving mad in a year, or less, because you'll know we'll never let you out.”
Scudd said, “The jail that can hold me hasn't been built.”
I threw back my head and laughed. Eddie Cliffs lurched forward and grabbed my shoulder. Before I could do anything about it, Scudd waved a lazy hand and Cliffs backed off.
To me, Scudd said, “Cliffy's got a short fuse, best you don't mess with him. You're still the cocky bastard you've always been, but when you're on my turf, you better watch your manners. Start throwing accusations of murder around, and Cliffy's likely to lose his temper, drag your head off by the roots.”
“And you can tell that moron Cliffy something. Tell him that if he touches me again, I'll break his heart.”
Cliffy started moving. By then I was ready. He ran towards me, his arms wide, yelling. Maybe he was expecting me to throw a punch, but I didn't. I have too much respect for the fragile little bones in my hands. Instead of breaking them on Cliffy's thick head, I aimed a kick at his balls. My kick missed its target and landed on his left knee instead. Howling with pain, Cliffy leaned forward. I grabbed him by the hair and brought up my knee simultaneously. Cliffy's nose exploded into a brilliant ball of blood as he collapsed. I put my foot on his throat. I said, “Listen, Cliffy. If you move a muscle, I'll crush your larynx. You'll suffocate to death, right here on this floor. It'll be the last move you ever make. Savvy?”
Cliffy made a gurgling sound. I interpreted it as an assent. I went back to my chair and watched him. Twinner seemed amused. After a minute, Cliffy managed to get to his feet. He went out of the room, trailing blood.
I said to Twinner, “Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?”
Twinner smiled. “We were talking about murder, as I recall. Just remind me. Who am I supposed to have murdered this time?”
“A Chinese guy from Vancouver.”
“There are lots of Chinese guys in Vancouver. Nothing personal, but I hope them slant-eyed fuckers all stay over there.”
“His name was Raymond Cho. He was a Big Circle Boy.”
“Oh yeah? But I didn't kill no Chinaman, because Chinamen ain't no threat to me.”
Standing up and waving a finger in my face, Twinner added more forcibly, “Around here, I'm the boss and don't you forget it. There was a woman in my office just now. She was trying to shove me around too. The bossy little cow even had the nerve to threaten me, till I showed her who was running this show. Before you flap any more gum, keep this in mind: Cliffy's gonna get better, and he's gonna be mad. I could get Cliffy to blow you away. You'll end up in a landfill somewhere. Nobody would know, nobody would shed a tear, you'd be forgotten in a week.”
I moved slightly in my chair. Then I took my Glock out and laid it gently on the desk. Twinner Scudd's eyes widened and his patronizing grin faded. Slowly, he sat down again.
I said, “Think you're a hard ass, Scudd? Tell you what, let's play a little game. Let's see who can pick that gun up first, aim it and shoot a hole in the other guy's head.”
At that moment, fortunately perhaps for me, Scudd wasn't in the mood for games. He placed his hands flat on the desk, well away from the gun. I put the gun in my side pocket, where it made my jacket sag but was in easy reach if I needed it in a hurry. I said in a neutral voice, “It must be very annoying for you. You build up a nice little illegal monopoly, then complete strangers ride into town. Try to steal a piece of your action.”
“What illegal monopoly is that?
“I'm talking about your giant share of Vancouver Island's cocaine trade. You or one of your associates killed the Chinaman because you thought he was going to horn in.”
Scudd took his dark glasses off, dabbed his dark eyes with a white handkerchief and then put his glasses on again. He said, “This is interesting. Tell me more.”
“Well, it's a rough business, wholesaling illegal drugs. But you've been in the business for years and you've learned how to cope. We know that you came to an arrangement with the Hell's Angels and that you have split the business fifty-fifty from Nanaimo northwards. Apart from a little penny-ante stuff, Victoria and the whole of the South Island has been your drug domain almost exclusively. Until now, that is. Today, there's all kinds of people horning in.”
Scudd slowly raised his hands from the desk, sipped a little milk, and said, “For instance?”
I said, “The Big Circle Boys. The Red Scorpions. The United Nations Gang. Tubby Gonzales.”
Scudd laughed. “What a crock. Red Scorpions? Are you kidding me, they're a bunch of fucking nitwits. Headbangers who can't find their asses in the dark. Tubby Gonzales is a personal friend of mine, for chrissake.”
“Lucky you. I didn't know Gonzales had any friends. And by the way, the dead Chinaman was a fancy dresser with a yen for naughty girls. You may have read about him in the newspapers.”
“There's a lot of fancy dressers with a taste for naughty girls, but I don't read newspapers. I don't even watch much TV. All I do is count the money this club is earning for me, every cent of it legal. You have the wrong idea about me, Seaweed, because in spite of what you think, I am a changed man now. I am a solid citizen. I've turned over a new leaf. Given up my life of crime, because it's easy to make money legally. Income tax auditors check my books every year. A bunch of pen pushers with smelly armpits, dandruff and cheap suits. Sometimes they beef about my expenses, but when they come sniffing around, I tell Cliffy to feed 'em hamburgers and all the liquor they can drink. Free of charge, so we don't get any serious hassles. Besides, if I do get hassles, Cliffy leans on people. Otherwise I claim racial discrimination and invoke the Residential School Defence. It works every time.”
“You never went to a residential school. You were born on Quanterelle Island. You went to school at Surge Narrows.”
Scudd grinned.
I said, “I'm looking for a missing woman. She was friends with a woman called Maria Henry. Maria was born on Quanterelle Island too.”
“Yeah, Maria, my hot little kissing cousin. Somebody told me that Maria's enjoying life at Wilkie Road jail right now. Have you accused her of murder as well?”
“Right now, all I want is to talk to Maria's friend.”
“Well, Seaweed. I can't help you there.”
“I'd just like to talk to her, and I'm certain that you know the woman I'm talking about. The next time you see her, tell her that. Tell her that I just want to ask her a few questions. She can phone me at my office, anytime.” I stood up. “In the meantime, Twinner, try to behave yourself. I think we'll meet again real soon.”