“Time to get back in the game,” she said to herself.
THE NEWS WAS about to break all at once.
Nancy reached Water Street and hailed a cab. On her way to the Vancouver Sun office, she tore open the envelope and read the missing names—the signatories to the Lucky Strike Manifesto.
“Oh, no . . .” she said, as her eyes fell on one of the familiar names. She grabbed her cell phone from her pocket. “Pesh, it’s Nancy. I’ve got the rest of the names.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m two minutes out. I need some help on this, and I’ve got to call a couple of people. This needs to all happen at once.”
“I’ll have two senior writers in your office in five minutes.”
Nancy paid the five-dollar fare and ran through the Sun’s lobby, catching the elevator just as it was closing. When she stepped out, Pesh was there. She handed him the list as they walked through the corridor to her office. He read as he walked.
“Well, that one’s no surprise,” he said, pointing to a name. “But that one . . . Ah shit, this isn’t going to be pretty.”
“Frank, we’re not going to be able to get these people to talk.”
“I know.”
“What about Veronica?”
“She’ll have to live with it. She works for me. You got your source face to face. That’s going to have to be good enough.”
Nancy reached her office. Two of the Sun’s senior City Desk writers were already standing there. “Okay,” she said. “Here’s the plan.”
They began to prepare material to post on the web, and after making several phone calls, Nancy joined them. As she was writing, her cell phone rang.
“Nancy, it’s Cole.”
“Can’t talk now,” she said. “I just got the missing names.”
“Can you tell me?” Cole asked.
Nancy looked around the room. “No. I’ll call you when I’m posting to the web. I’m afraid you won’t be surprised.”
“Well, I’m calling with a heads up. Mary took a call from a female caller at City Hall, leaking the news that the mayor is making an announcement tomorrow on a new project called ‘A New Vancouver.’ You heard about this?”
“Just what he told me last week when I interviewed him after the riot,” Nancy said, typing. “It’s supposed to be his response to homelessness, poverty, crime, etc.”
“Details?”
“I got none.” She cradled the phone in her shoulder as she typed. “What time will it be?”
“Eleven. City Hall.”
“I guess I’ll see you there,” said Nancy.
“I’ll try to be there. Hey, Nancy . . .”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Denman and I braced Charles Livingstone this morning.”
“Really?” She stopped typing.
“I guess I went a little overboard.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“Funny. We almost got our butts thrown in the cooler. He’s tied up in this. His client is Frank ‘Captain Condo’ Ainsworth.”
“Cole, Charles Livingstone’s name is on my list. So is Frank Ainsworth’s.”
NANCY POSTED A teaser story on the web at 4:15. By 4:45 Livingstone, Grey and Barnes had called the Sun demanding an explanation and threatening a lawsuit. Veronica White, grinning, encouraged them to file. Calls came in from City Hall, the VPD, and other media seeking confirmation of the information before they posted or aired it over the radio and TV.
Nancy sat in her office and looked at the names. Her cell phone rang again and again. She checked the call display and ignored most of the calls. She picked up at Cole’s number.
“Sorry, I forgot to call.”
“It’s okay, busy afternoon. Wow. You’re right. I had my suspicions.”
“Yeah, it’s still going to hurt.”
“There’s something else. Denman and I met with Marcia Lane this afternoon . . .” Nancy smiled and was about to say something, then thought better of it. “I showed her the map. We got to hypothesizing. You know, where have these missing people gone? If they weren’t put on a bus, why haven’t they shown up somewhere? A dumpster? In a dark alley? Lane says she’s got a dozen uniforms prowling for this sort of thing. We were sitting there looking at the map, and thinking about who might have done this, what kind of person. I’m not giving up that this is connected to the Manifesto, you know? But Lane thinks differently, and I’ll admit, she made a few good points.”
Nancy felt suddenly weary. “Cole, what are you getting at?”
“Bodies, Nancy. Where are the bodies? These missing people, they haven’t turned up. No bodies. So I looked at the map. Only a few blocks from where all of the missing people were last known to hang out is a place called Portside Park. It’s right on Burrard Inlet. I think Lane dispatched divers there this afternoon.”
“Jesus, you’re kidding me!”
Nancy hung up the phone and ran from her office to Frank Pesh’s door.
“Frank, I need a photographer, now!”
SEAN LIVINGSTONE SAT in the backyard of Juliet Rose’s Salisbury Street home, listening to the sound of birds in the trees and watching the momentary band of sun that had pushed its way through the opaque gray sky. He studied the clouds and thought that by midnight there would likely be rain again.
He looked around the yard and up at the house where he had been a guest for a week. It was a great setup, he thought.
Sean took a moment to appreciate how his plans were coming together. Though he had known for a long time what his end game would be, he hadn’t figured out how he would get there until one evening two years ago. His father had a couple of business associates over for dinner and afterward they retired to his study to talk, smoke fancy cigars, and drink port. Sean had made himself scarce, but when he heard the men enter his father’s den, he crouched outside the door, his heart racing. He simply couldn’t help but eavesdrop.
“We’re running out of room, Frank,” he heard his father say.
“In the West End, Charles. But there’s always more land.”
“We’re running out of room in the West End, in Kits, in Yaletown, and even on the North Shore,” said his father.
The man his father addressed as Frank said, “It’s simply a matter of waiting for the economics to be right. Burnaby is already attractive. So is Mount Pleasant. Who would have imagined that ten years ago?”
“Yes, but you’re spending as much to build there and only getting two-thirds the price per unit, and half the height.”
“You worry too much, Charles,” said Frank.
“That’s what you pay me for.”
“What do you think?” Sean heard Frank say.
The third man in the room had been silent through the exchange so far. “I think this is damn fine port,” he said, with only a hint of a Chinese accent. “And I think that the two of you are overlooking the best development opportunity this city has to offer.”
“Where’s that?” asked Sean’s father.
“Chinatown.”
His father laughed quietly.
“Laugh if you like. It’s already started. Tinseltown is done, and it’s attracting more people every day. New condos around the SkyTrain station are going up quickly. Smaller units next to the American and Cobalt hotels are proving to be a good investment. Mr. Ainsworth here already owns one across from the Central Pacific Station. Why is that so funny?”
“It’s not,” said Frank Ainsworth.
“I’m not laughing at the idea. It’s just that the obstacles are enormous. Yes, you call it Chinatown, but the rest of the city calls it the Downtown Eastside. It used to be called Skid Row until twenty years ago. And while you might have pretty street lamps and ornate buildings in a few areas, the rest of the place is a shithole, pardon my French.”
“You see only the problems. I see a solution,” said the third man.
“Here’s what I see,” said Sean’s father. “I see a massive swath of this city that is overridden with drugs,
violence, organized crime, poverty, and homelessness. What are there, a thousand people on the streets?”
“Closer to three thousand.”
“My case in point, and it’s an open-air drug market. The place is run by people like Hoi Fu, who don’t want condominiums, because that brings an additional police presence, and pushes the drug market upscale. Cocaine, rather than crack. Hash, rather than meth.”
“Hoi Fu won’t be a barrier. He’s a businessman, as am I.”
“What are you saying?” asked Ainsworth.
“Only that Hoi Fu knows that to succeed in his businesses, he must walk the tightrope between two worlds. In one, violence and intimidation get you what you want. In the other, influence does.”
“Don West will be elected but he will be a lame duck mayor. The whole city knows that Fu supported him in the last election. West will get one term but then he is on the way out,” said Sean’s father.
“But I am on the way up.”
“Mayor Ben Chow,” said Ainsworth. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”
“Hoi Fu understands this. He understands that the next mayor of this city will have to solve the problem of the Downtown Eastside. Don West will be a place holder while we work behind the scenes. We are an international city, with international visitors, and they don’t want to be tripping over drunks. They don’t want to stub their toes on HIV-infected needles or to have their kids solicited by whores.”
“So what do we do?” asked Ainsworth.
“We make a plan.”
“A plan for what?” asked his father.
“For the redevelopment of the Eastside. Twenty years from now, Oppenheimer will be the new West End. Chinatown will be as trendy as Kits was in the ’80s.”
“And what do we do about the homeless?”
“Move them out,” said Chow.
“Where?”
“Anywhere. We’ll think of something. We’ll get some of the liberal poverty people on board. Give them their say. Make sure they are a part of this, but not too much a part.”
“It’s an opportunity for you to become mayor,” said his father.
“Oh, yes. And for you, gentlemen, to become very, very rich.”
“Who else needs to be a part of this?” said Ainsworth.
“We need someone in the bureaucracy who can smooth the way inside the system. I know a few people I can speak with discreetly,” said Chow. “And we need the cops. Without them, we’re going to be running into trouble, left, right, and center.”
“You think the cops are going to sit down with the likes of Hoi Fu?”
“They already do. The VPD also knows that men like Hoi Fu keep order, such as it is, in the drug trade and in the gang rivalries. Without him and others of his ilk, the Downtown Eastside would resemble Afghanistan. The VPD won’t mind knowing that Fu is in the background. We, like they, need him, if only in the shadows.”
“I don’t know,” said Sean’s father. “My job here is to keep Frank’s business safe from harm. Having Fu involved—”
“Having Fu involved is the only way we’re going to make things happen, and happen fast.”
“Who else?” asked Ainsworth.
“Someone from the bleeding hearts club,” said his father.
“That lawyer, Denman Scott?” asked Ainsworth.
“Too much of a hard-ass,” Chow stated. “He’d never go for it.”
“No, we need someone who is tired. Who’s anxious for a solution? Whose ego is big enough that we can pander to it?” asked his father.
“Beatta Nowak,” offered Chow.
“From the Community Advocacy group?” asked Ainsworth.
“That’s the one,” said Chow.
“Isn’t she a bit of a raging bull?”
“It will probably seem like that for the first few meetings,” Chow replied. “She’ll come around and she can control things. It will be perfect.” Sean could almost see him rubbing his hands together. “Nowak can run interference for us, keep the End Poverty Now people from getting on top of this.”
“She can’t know about Fu. That would never wash,” said Ainsworth.
“She won’t,” assured Chow.
“What’s in it for her?” asked Ainsworth.
“We build some low-cost housing.”
“Where?”
“We throw some in the mix, but we build the bulk of it out of the main economic zone. We rezone and work with the Burnaby Council.”
The room was silent. Sean thought that maybe they were done and he began to slowly back down the hall, and then he heard his father speak.
“Okay, how do we get started?”
“Let’s invite some folks to supper.”
“Not here,” said his father.
“No, let’s get a space in the Eastside. I know a place on Pender Street that’s perfect,” Chow laughed. “We’ll get takeout from the Golden Dragon. Fu will love it!”
“It’s got to be quiet. We can’t afford to attract attention to this,” said his father. “If we attract attention to ourselves before all the pieces are in place, then this won’t work. We’re sunk.”
Sean couldn’t help but smile, listening outside the door.
“We’ll need to slow down the rest of the development community,” said Ainsworth. “We’re not the only ones waking up to the fact that the last place to build in Vancouver is the Downtown Eastside.”
Chow laughed. “I will take care of that. I’ll introduce a motion at council at just the right moment to put a freeze on conversion of SROs to condos. That will allow us to put our pieces in place, and then when we’re ready, I can repeal and we can move forward.”
“So where do we start, property-wise?” asked Ainsworth.
“The Lucky Strike,” said Chow.
“It’s not on the market,” said his father.
“Not now.”
“Who owns it? We looked into that last year, didn’t we, Charles?” asked Ainsworth. “It’s a numbered company.”
“The property, dear friends,” said Chow, “belongs to Mr. Hoi Fu. I imagine he’d be willing to take a reasonable offer.”
SEAN SAT IN the sun and listened to the birds. That was two years ago, he mused.
For the last two years his father’s life had been wrapped up in the pursuit of a hotel, many hotels in fact, but one hotel in particular. For almost as long, Sean had been thinking of ways to make his father pay for what he had done. The Lucky Strike had become Ground Zero in the old man’s life, and now Sean had made it the epicenter of his own arrangements.
He stood up from the chair and stretched. It was time to check in on his guests.
TWENTY-TWO
COLE SAT SILENTLY IN THE back of a cab, Denman next to him. It was Monday evening.
“I still think—a few beers and this whole problem would disappear.” Cole looked out the window as they crossed the Burrard bridge.
“Yeah, for you. For me, it would just amp up.”
“Well, then it’s you who needs the treatment,” Cole said, turning to his friend, his mouth drawn back in a half grin.
“You don’t have to be nervous, Cole. The guy we’re going to see, well, you’re going to see is a straight up Doctor of Psychology.”
“Didn’t you say something about wiggly eye treatment?”
“It’s called Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing.”
“You read about that somewhere on the internet, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but it’s a common treatment these days for post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“That’s what I’ve got?”
“The doc will make that assessment.”
Denman paid the cabbie and they both got out and walked around the side of the house, following signs to the office portion of the home. They mounted a set of stairs and knocked. A compact man in his forties answered the door. His salt and pepper hair gave him a look of maturity, while his face, tanned and finely lined around the eyes, gave him a youthful air.
“I’m Greg Brady,” said the man, inviting them in. “You must be Cole,” Brady said, extending his hand. Cole introduced himself.
“This is Denman Scott, my cheerleader,” said Cole. Brady shook his hand.
“Slip your shoes off here and follow me upstairs.” They followed the man as he mounted the stairs to a small room containing several chairs.
“You can have a seat here, Denman. If you would like tea or coffee or water, help yourself.” He motioned to a small serving tray with a kettle and the fixings for hot drinks. “Cole, would you like anything?”
“Have you got Kick Ass Lager?”
“Afraid not,” smiled Brady.
“Just a glass of water then.”
Cole waved to Denman, like a child leaving his parents on the first day of school, and followed Brady into his office. “Have a seat,” said Brady, motioning to two leather club chairs by the large windows.
“No couch?”
“I’m not a Freudian.”
“Good, ’cause I’d likely just fall asleep.”
“Denman tells me he believes you’re suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“That sounds serious,” said Cole.
“It can be,” said Brady. “It’s a common issue. We first started diagnosing it in war veterans. We now know that many people who have been exposed to a terrifying event, something that threatened them with physical violence, or actually resulted in them being subjected to it, suffer from PTSD.”
“That sounds about right. I got the hell beaten out of me as a kid.” They spoke for a while longer about Cole’s childhood. Then Brady asked, “Is there a single event that is haunting you?”
The Vanishing Track Page 22
