Summer of the Gun

by Warren Court

“You went all the way down there?”

  “This General Markinson—he knew Kiet Du while he was in Vietnam. They were involved in espionage, secret agents. Kiet was one of his guys. Markinson said that Du told him, just before the general flew out of Saigon for good, that a Marine stationed at the embassy had raped and killed his wife. Kiet Du saw that Marine in Toronto. He called Markinson and told him about it. It was the first time they’d spoken since seventy-five, when the Americans finally pulled out. Kiet got left behind.”

  “Thought that was in the eighties.”

  “Do you have Netflix?”

  “Of course. Amazon Prime, Hulu— “

  “Then watch the Ken Burns documentary and learn something. Now just listen. There were a number of countries that fought in Vietnam—the US, the Australians, New Zealand, South Korea.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Canada didn’t send troops, but a lot of Canadians went down south to join up and go fight. Maybe they had dual citizenship; maybe they gave up their citizenship to become an American. What if our guy, the one who ordered the hit on the restaurant, was one of these Vietnam vets, a Canadian who joined the Marines and was stationed over there just before the end?”

  There was silence on the end of the line, then Temple heard a yawn.

  “Are you following?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sure, John. A Canadian Vietnam vet. Sounds plausible. How do we find one?”

  “I want you to look into it, and I’m going to talk to Vic Dellaware, the reporter.”

  “That creep?”

  “You get a good look at him the other night?”

  “Not really.”

  “He’s got ‘veteran’ written all over him. I never saw it before. Canadian–American flag pin, his combat vest, his boonie cap. He’s got that stare, that thousand-yard stare.”

  “You like that Dellaware for the hit?”

  “Not exactly. But he was in the area, right around the corner in a noodle shop. And like I said, he fits the profile. I’m going to find him; you hit the keyboard. See if you can find any organization for these vets.”

  “Okay, Chief.”

  “And by that, I mean don’t go back to bed. Get on it. Grab a coffee and start hacking away.”

  “Okay, okay. With no overtime, I suppose.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  42

  The police tape around the Beautiful City restaurant and the police notice that had been affixed to the door were gone, though the restaurant was still closed. Two men, one holding a clipboard and one wearing a hard hat, though Temple could not fathom why he was wearing it, were halfway into the street discussing the buildings that made up the block.

  “Going to knock it down, huh?” Temple said to them.

  “Yes, we are,” Clipboard said. Hard hat gave Temple a hard stare to protest the intrusion. Temple was dressed casually in jeans and sneakers. A Led Zeppelin T-shirt covered the holstered Glock. He’d parked a block away.

  “When does the wrecking ball swing?”

  “We should have it down by end of the month. Your favourite restaurant?”

  “Used to be, until five people got killed in it.”

  “Too bad,” Hard hat said.

  Temple continued further up the block and saw the noodle shop. It was dirty and closed. A health department sign was taped to the window. Shut down due to numerous infractions. The date on the notice was almost a year past.

  Vic had lied to him. Temple looked around and saw no other noodle shops in the area. He then caught a whiff of something that he hadn’t smelled in years. Not since Aylmer police College; the lecture on drugs and how to detect them. He had gotten high that day with all the other cadets; they’d been forced to, in order to learn the characteristics and effects of various drugs. The fact that probably the entire class had been more than aware of the characteristics and effects of pot from their adolescence had been a source of much giggling. They had also been exposed to the smell of frying crack cocaine and the distinct smell given off by crystal meth gave off. But there was one other narcotic, and the instructor had saved it for last. One of the cadets had said it reminded him of Kung Fu, that old-fashioned TV show, one of Temple’s favourites. It was the smell of opium.

  That’s what he smelled now outside the shuttered noddle shop. He raised his head and tried to detect it again. A curtain moved up above the shop. Like the Beautiful City restaurant, this block had living space up above it, and now he saw that there was a door next to the entrance.

  Temple tried the handle; the door was locked. Pushed the buzzer; no answer. There was a Coffee Time across the street so he crossed over and went inside to wait. He popped some Advil and washed it down with a coffee. His shoulder was throbbing.

  The locked door opened and a woman emerged, a garbage bag in her hand. Temple was up and across the street fast and intercepted her as she was coming back from the garbage bin. She was glassy eyed and she reeked of opium. Temple caught the door just as she was entering. She turned, and he pushed her against the wall and put his hand across her mouth. It was an unnecessary precaution; the woman was so dazed she didn’t let out a sound.

  “Take off,” he said.

  He removed his hand. She said something in Chinese or Vietnamese and was away down the street.

  Temple took the stairs two at a time. There was a door at the top of them; it was ajar. He pushed it open slowly. It was pitch black inside and he was hit by the overpowering smell of opium. It was a den, a real honest-to-goodness opium den, and in Chinatown too. Not too much of a cliché, he thought.

  The air was sickly sweet and heavy; it was hard to breathe, and he feared he might slip into a drug-induced coma if he stayed here too long. There were red curtains in front of him. His eyes were adjusting now. Beyond the curtains were a half dozen people lying on yoga mats with cushions under their heads. One person was turned on his side, his lips pressed to a pipe. A woman came in from a back room with a tray of rolled-up wet towels, and she stopped when she saw Temple.

  He put his hand up to silence her and she backed up the way she had come. He saw a flash of light as she went through the back door to the fire escape.

  Despite his eyes adjusting, it was still very dark in the room. There were muted red lights in the corners, but the forms on the floor were just black lumps. Temple took out a pen-light and went from person to person, shining the light in their eyes. Most did not even respond. They wore smiles on their faces, their mouths twitching. There were five men and one woman. Temple got to the last guy and put the light to his face. It was Vic Dellaware.

  “Hey, Vic. Wakey wakey,” Temple said, and he nudged the reporter. Vic was dressed in his standard uniform: dirty ripped jeans, a denim long-sleeved shirt and a tan combat photographer’s vest. Temple looked more closely at the pins on the vest this time. One was an American flag, the other a Canadian. There was a POW/MIA pin as well. The smell coming off the reporter was a mixture of booze, opium and body odour. He had a five-day growth of beard, but for Vic that was as much a part of his uniform as the vest was.

  “Hey, Vic,” Temple said, raising his voice. Dellaware slowly opened his crusted-over eyes. Temple watched his dilated pupils slowly constrict as he played the light across them.

  “Come on, pal. Let’s go.”

  “John,” Vic said, his voice weak. His mouth was all gummed up.

  Temple lifted him up. The other dope fiends paid them no mind as he led Vic from the room.

  Temple took him across to the Coffee Time and ignored the manager’s annoyed look. He dumped Vic into a chair and got him a large coffee and a small one for himself. He could feel a flutter in his chest already from too much caffeine.

  “You want anything to eat?” Temple said.

  “No. It kills your appetite. Not like pot. How’d you find me?”

  Temple sniffed.

  “Yeah, I guess I kind of reek.”

  “How long you been in there?”

  “What day is it?”
<
br />   “Monday.”

  Dellaware groaned.

  They drank their coffees for a while. Temple watched the woman who’d dropped off the garbage come cautiously back and re-enter the den.

  “So, did you pick your habit up over there?” he said.

  “Over where?”

  “Vietnam.”

  “I was never in Vietnam,” Vic said.

  “You sure about that?”

  Vic cocked his head. “Yeah, I think I would remember. I made a choice not to go.”

  “You’re an American?”

  “I was. Dodged the draft. Burned my draft card and everything. Marched on Washington with the vets against the war. Man, the stories they told me. No way was I going. I’m a writer, not a fighter.”

  Temple nodded and sipped his coffee.

  “I was watching the documentary last night—Ken Burns. You seen it?”

  “I sold my TV.”

  “I thought Jimmy Carter gave all you guys amnesty.”

  “Think I don’t know that? I was afraid it was a trap. Get us all back there and then charge us with not paying taxes or something. I was just a kid. Funny thing is, even if they pulled my number just before the draft was abolished, I probably wouldn’t have been sent over.”

  “Nixon had started to reduce combat numbers.”

  “Uh huh. We were effectively pulled out of Vietnam by seventy-two.”

  “Are you a legal Canadian citizen?”

  “Yes. I got that first, then changed my name. Just a bit more protection, you know?”

  “How many of you are up here still?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Not like we have reunions or anything.”

  “What about Canadian vets who fought in the war? You ever run into any of them?”

  “I have run into one or two. They see how I’m dressed. We don’t get along. They’re messed up, man, just like all those boys back home. Now, they have reunions, those guys. Share their stories. They got something to bond over, I guess. I’d just rather forget the whole thing.”

  “Really?” Temple said, and he nodded at Vic’s apparel.

  Vic smiled and shrugged. “I started wearing it, you know, to give myself an edge. Like I had been in the shit, seen it all. My boss bought it. Not like they would hire a draft dodger, a criminal.”

  “What was your real name, before you changed it?” Temple said.

  Vic’s shoulders sank and the smile went from his face. “I’d rather not say, Detective. Not if I don’t have to.”

  Temple nodded and smiled and sipped his coffee. “You were in the Beautiful City, the night of the shooting?” he said at length.

  “Earlier, yes,” Vic said. “I like to have a big meal before I go up there.” He nodded at the opium den. “I ate, talked with the owner. He was a good guy. Then they came in, those punk kids. In a world of their own. They ignore loser di tieus— shits, like me. Unless you cross them or have something they want. I just got out of there.”

  Temple stood up and dropped a twenty on the table. “Get something to eat.” He took two steps and paused. “You never answered my question. How did you get on that stuff? The opium?”

  “You know, I don’t really remember. It was a long time ago. During the eighties, when the Asian gang war was going on, I was spending so much time down here. I tried to immerse myself in the culture—you know. I guess I went a little too far.”

  Temple nodded and left.

  43

  The Kalinka Restaurant was locked up tight. It wouldn’t open until dinner. Maybe not at all. Temple gave it a miss and drove out to Kumarin’s house in Leslieville. A young woman in tight orange shorts and a white top, almost like a Hooters uniform, was mowing the grass. Temple recognized her as one of the waitresses from the Kalinka.

  She had finished a stroke of lawn and spun the noisy machine around as Temple walked up. She had a set of ear buds in and was oblivious to his approach. When she got to the top of the lawn and spun the mower around again, she saw him standing there. It gave her a start and she shut the mower off.

  “Where is he?” Temple said.

  “What?” she said. She still had her ear buds in. Temple pointed at them.

  “Where’s your boss?” Temple said when she had pulled the buds out.

  “He’s gone. Back to Russia for funeral.”

  “I bet,” Temple said. “He take his driver with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re doing a good job; I’ve never seen a woman cut lawn so good before.”

  “Please,” she said, and motioned for him to move. She put the ear buds back in and fired the mower back up.

  “Don’t forget to do the edging,” Temple said and left.

  Temple got a call from Maranelli when he was back in his car.

  “Hey, John, we just got a call about the bodies from the Beautiful City. They’re still on hold. Family is demanding they be released. The family of Kiet Du wants to hold a memorial service.”

  “That’s great. I intend to be there.”

  “Why bother?”

  “Because I want to talk to the daughter. They’re already planning on taking the restaurant down; can’t wait to get their hands on it. Putting up more condos.”

  “Density, John,” Maranelli said.” Everyone living on top of each other. It’s the city’s future.”

  “Soylent green is people,” Temple said.

  “It is indeed. Cheers.”

  Temple dialled Mendoza. “Hey.”

  “I’m working, I’m working. You checking up on me?”

  “You bet. What’d you find?”

  “I found a website for Canadian Vietnam vets. They have a chapter here in Ontario. It’s got a clubhouse out in Milton.”

  “Send me the link. How’s the warrant coming along for Kiet Du’s apartment?”

  “Dalupan took it out to a JP this morning. It’s ready to go.”

  “Why didn’t you do it?”

  “He was going out there for something else, one of Tim’s cases.”

  “Okay. We’re going to hit it in a couple of hours. Start making your way into College, get it organized. We’re going to want two uniforms. I’ll be in by two.”

  There was no answer.

  “I know. It’s your day off. But there’s no such thing in homicide.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “This guy, Du—he’s definitely alive, and he’s jerking us around. I want to put him in a small room. He’s going to tell us where he saw this ex-Marine.” Temple meant an interrogation room. They were small, intentionally; they put the suspect in close with a detective to throw him off guard, make him uncomfortable.

  “Okay, boss,” Mendoza said.

  44

  Temple drove by the veterinary clinic in Whitby and spotted Carmen D’Souza’s car in the parking lot. He pulled in across the street and waited. It was ten to one when Temple saw Carmen leave the clinic and walk over to the bank next door. He got out and crossed the street, dodging traffic.

  He watched her withdraw money from an ATM. She looked good in her hospital scrubs, her hair up in a bun. She came out tucking bills into her pursue.

  “Carmen?” Temple said. She looked up. “It’s Carmen, right?”

  “Yes,” she said. She cocked her head sideways in faint recognition.

  “We met a couple of years ago at the Wozniaks’ barbecue.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah.”

  “You work around here?” Temple said.

  “The animal clinic, there.”

  “Oh, right. I remember you saying you were a vet.”

  “Vet’s assistant. Haven’t passed all the tests yet.”

  “Takes a lot of time, does it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t leave you much time for anything else, like hobbies or romance?”

  “No, afraid not.”

  “You on your lunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me too. I was just out here on a case.”

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nbsp; “Oh, right. John Temple. You work with Tim.”

  “Can I buy you lunch?”

  “No, I have it back at the office. Sticking to my diet.”

  “I should be doing the same. How are you coping, I mean, with Sylvia…?”

  Temple watched her face closely.

  “Okay, I guess. It’s hard. I miss her.”

  “Yeah, we all do. I know Tim does. He’s still my partner. Usually in homicide, when a detective faces a personal loss like that, they can’t carry on seeing all the misery that life throws them on a weekly basis.”

  “How’s he doing?” she said. Temple spotted the phoniness; she knew damn well how Wozniak was doing.

  “Oh, fine. I’m not worried about him doing anything stupid. I just meant that he’s close to retirement. He could transfer out of our unit, take something easier. But he’s one of the good ones, hangs in there. Do you know if he’s seeing anyone?”

  “Why would I?”

  “It’s been a year since Sylvia’s death. I think he’s lonely. I asked him if he wanted to go hit a bar, maybe try and meet someone. He said he wasn’t ready.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, I just wanted to say hi.”

  He watched her walk back to the clinic.

  45

  Temple nodded at Mendoza and Dalupan as he came onto the fifth floor. They both looked odd, standing there in their street clothes. There were several members of Team Three there as well, decked out in their detective garb—sport coats and ties. It was not unusual for the off teams to come in to the fifth floor; the cases they worked didn’t shut down while they were on their break. Dedication to the job was a constant test. Temple knew that Mendoza was dedicated, as much as he might grumble about coming in on his day off. He got the same jolt of excitement Temple felt when they were close to clearing a case. Dalupan he wasn’t so sure of.

  Temple grabbed a coffee. There were Danishes there too. A bit stale but good. He saw a large envelope on his desk. He opened it and out slid his phone. It was a little banged up; the screen had a long crack across it, but he could get that replaced at the Pacific Mall. Charge it to homicide. There was a note attached: Look what those knob-head firefighters found. Carlos.