Ride the Lightning

by Dietrich Kalteis

  Marty and Karl made it policy to let any skip come in easy, no guns, no cuffs, skip’s choice—but not this time. Dragging Miro out in his briefs, hands cuffed behind him, Karl stuffed him into the back of the Cooper. Waiting at the top of the stairs till Alice got dressed, Marty escorted her out, trying to talk some sense to her, asking where her parents lived, staying with her until the cab showed up.

  At the West Precinct, they caught a hard time from Pender, the desk sergeant who didn’t like the condition of their prisoner, Miro shivering in his underpants, ugly welts on his midsection. Karl told the sarge they found him getting beat up by some teenaged girl, no other clothes in sight, Karl and Marty just doing the cuffing and stuffing. Miro was screaming about getting even when they walked out of the station, the two of them happy to call it a night.

  every bush a thief

  “So this Artie guy’s been growing dope for a while?” Dom LeGuille asked, wondering what the loot would do if he stuck his Oxford up on his desk. Likely blow a gasket, those veins going at his temples.

  “Thirty grow houses up and down the Lower Mainland as far as we know, runs them like a Swiss watch,” Lieutenant Frederick said. He had twenty years and fifty pounds on either of the detectives sitting across the desk. “Took the tax boys a couple of months to do what we couldn’t do in over twenty years.” He remembered Artie Poppa’s name from his rookie days. Nobody able to take him down in all that time. “Turned up some income he’s having trouble explaining. But it won’t be enough to bury him.”

  “Those guys sniff money like dope dogs,” Luca Botzo said. “I remember when my wife’s uncle was late filing—”

  The lieutenant’s stare stopped him. “What we need is to link him to one of these places.” Picking up a file, he read from it, “Bought his first place in West Lynn for eighty Gs back before Expo, had it titled to a brother-in-law in Gyeongju. Guy’s name’s Choi Sung-Kuk.”

  “That’s a name?” Dom asked.

  Loot looked at him, waited, then went on. “Place sold last year for ten times that. The next one went in his mother-in-law’s name. Third one to a cousin, then an uncle—no shortage of relatives. A dozen places sold off in the last six months.”

  “The Sung-Kuk’s doing alright,” Luca said.

  Pulling some black and whites from a file folder, shots of Artie Poppa taken on stakeout, the long lens capturing Artie sitting on a nude beach, Frederick kept talking. “The wife, Ho Sook, goes by Sookie, got a gift for fudging the books, running their interests through a puppet property-management company called East West Holdings, leasing the houses via a bunch of fake names. Way the tax boys see it, profits get filtered through different accounts, ending in a bank in Gyeongju. Bank’s owned by an uncle. Twenty years of shitting on us, the Poppas pocket something like twenty-four million in real estate holdings alone, looking at early retirement, less we come up with something.”

  Luca and Dom were looking at the photo, Poppa not a big man, trim goatee, dark eyes, heavy brows.

  “Word is the Poppas got a sixteen-room place being built on the East Sea.”

  “That in Korea?”

  Frederick said yeah. “Sookie oversees construction while Artie hangs back wrapping things up. Meaning we haven’t got much time.”

  “We’re on it,” Luca said.

  “Start with the place that got hit, one with the dead guy.” Meaning the grow house, Jeffery Potts lying dead in the kitchen, the shotgun slug blowing him right out of his sneakers.

  “That one of Artie’s?”

  “Far as we know.” The lieutenant nodded. “Dead guy’s one Jeffery Potts, a known dirtbag, worked for Artie since way back.” He laid down another photo, saying, “Artie’s number two is Danny Arlis, goes by Stax. He handles the rough stuff. He’ll likely be looking for whoever made the hit.”

  “He know his boss is ducking town?” Dom asked.

  “Why don’t you go ask him?”

  Dom looked down at his Oxfords.

  “Our people tried to work a deal with Poppa. He gives up some names, we go light,” Frederick said. “He told us what we could do with our witness protection plan. Laughed at us. My guess, his suitcase is stuffed, and he’s set to split town. Bouncing grandkids on his knee’s better than looking over his shoulder in the prison showers. Till he makes his move, he’ll stop at every red light and let Stax dirty his hands. So, find out who put one in Potts, and look for a connection.” He folded his hands and looked at the two of them. “You waiting for me to write it down?”

  deep in the pudding

  “You’re one dumb fuck, you know that?” Stax said, looking past Wolf Klinger at the construction site, the building a skeleton of girders on a muddy patch of ground, the sun beaming through the clouds, lighting Indian Arm and Balcara on the opposite shore. About a dozen guys were on the job, welding in lift buckets, guiding beams with ropes, nobody walking the girders like they did back in his old man’s day. Beyond the crane, a dump truck was on the rise, backing up with a load of gravel, its reverse alarm going.

  “The fuck could I know the bumper came off? I mean we were flying out of there—had my shotgun out the window, covering Vince.” Wolf stood taller, but not as wide as this no-neck with his massive torso set over legs too short for his body, making Stax appear apelike, tats of serpents running up both arms.

  “All you had to do was drive,” Stax said, getting in Wolf’s face. “And you fucked that up.”

  Wolf turned to see where his foreman was, the guy nowhere in sight. “Look, we got the stuff, every fucking ounce, right? Put a hole in your guy, right? So chill.”

  “Chill when I find out what happened to the plate.”

  Wolf felt the sweat under his arms. “What’s it matter, the van was hot anyway?”

  “Problem, brainiac, is you stole it from here.”

  Wolf wiped his hands on his pants, taking a new tack. “Okay, I didn’t want to set you off, figured I’d take care of it myself.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This guy called me . . .”

  “What guy?”

  “Guy that picked up the plate—one of your two mules.”

  “Told you to make sure Jeffery was alone,” Stax said.

  “Thought he was. Guess they were inside. Anyway, guy calls up, doesn’t give me his name, just says he was there and wants five bills for it. Cash.”

  “How’d he know who to call, the van was hot?”

  Wolf shrugged. “Said he’d seen me around.”

  “So he made you?” Stax had to laugh. One of his mules was turning entrepreneur, selling the license plate back. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

  “Telling you now. Said I’ll take care of it.”

  “That’s all you got to say, you’ll take care of it?

  “What do you want me to say, it won’t happen again?” Wolf stood his ground, going eye to eye.

  First thing you got right, Stax thought, turning and walking up the incline toward the Mustang hidden behind the gravel truck. Wolf watched until Stax got to the top, then he stepped through the muck to the Port-O-Potty, thinking next time Stax had a job, he could go fuck himself.

  third party

  The lieutenant had handed them the grow house hit this morning, wanting them to connect Artie Poppa to it, making like it was some big break. Now, Dom stood with clay sticking to his new Oxfords, scratching his head. The sheet on the first dead guy, one Jeffery Potts, read he’d been busted twice for firearms, once for drug trafficking and assault, did time at Ferndale and Mission and was released six months early for good behavior from Matsqui.

  Dom wasn’t convinced this one was related, wasn’t even sure if it was a crime scene or one for WorkSafeBC. Him and Luca were looking at the overturned truck, gravel spilled all over the place, burying both Port-O-Pottys. A couple of bricklayers said they saw Wolf Klinger talking to
a big guy minutes before stepping into the one on the right, just before the truck on the hill backed and tipped its load. Neither of them got a good look. The driver said he went on his lunch break with the foreman, the two of them having bologna sandwiches his wife made, swearing he pulled the brake before he got out. Finishing their interviews, Dom and Luca wanted to get away from the stink of shit and chemicals.

  Luca made the call to the lieutenant, touching base, while Dom checked his chicken-scratch notes, witness statements not worth a damn. None of these construction guys saw a thing. Typical. He slapped the notebook closed. Half a dozen guys working overhead on the beams, each with a different story, the foreman and driver eating bologna when it happened. Aside from the two bricklayers who saw Wolf step into the shitter, nobody got a good look at the guy he’d been talking to.

  Only thing for sure, eight tons of gravel flattened both Port-O-Pottys, and Wolf Klinger picked a bad time for a crap. The two paramedics on the scene guessed death was instant, standing around waiting for the firefighters and the guys with shovels to clear the gravel away.

  Dom was thinking, what do you put on the guy’s headstone? Making a doodle in his notebook.

  Luca clicked off his cell phone. “Gonna be hours before they get this cleaned up.”

  “What did the loot say?”

  “Scrape our shoes before we come back.”

  “Nice. Wonder which one of us pissed him off?”

  Luca shrugged, saying it never took much, checking his watch, thinking he could use a coffee. “There’s a Tim’s down on Main. What say?”

  Luca hailed the rookie standing over by his unit, telling him they were done here, wagging his notebook. The young cop said he was sticking around, told to call the ME once the firefighters and work crew got done shoveling, said he’d call them when they got to the body, Dom wondering what the rookie did to deserve this duty.

  They got into the Chevy minivan and drove off, clay splashing up at the fenders.

  “How about we take a spin by the grow house, take another poke around, knock on a few more doors?” Dom asked.

  “Why not?”

  “Pull in at Park Royal, we’ll grab coffee there.”

  “Starbucks or the other one?”

  “The Bean, they got better muffins.”

  tit for tat

  Back in Seattle. First smart thing Miro Knotts did was find the junk shop with the photo booth in the back, a dump of a place down on Aurora. The sign on the booth read four shots for a buck. Miro took a fistful of change and got behind the curtain, stripped down to his skivvies and stuck in his quarters, showing the lens his bruises, the shutter clicking.

  Next thing, he walked into the Salvation Army store up the block, flipped through a rack of sour-smelling clothes and picked out a navy jacket. He found a pair of pants that more or less fit, and a shirt and tie, and haggled the price down from sixty to forty bucks for the works.

  Standing next to his appointed lawyer in his mix of short sleeves and long cuffs, Miro listened while his lawyer addressed the judge, trying to get the charges dropped, pointing out the lack of a warrant by the GIU cops who showed up at his door in the first place, then pointing out the subsequent mishandling by the bounty hunters who had dragged his client to the station, saying with the right amount of outrage how his client was apprehended in just his briefs. Miro played the model citizen with his hair in place, keeping his mouth shut. Tired of the legal showboating, the judge pounded his gavel and handed down ninety days, ordering Miro to pay a two-thousand-dollar restitution for the farm animal he had gunned down.

  Muttering “fuck me” got him a two-year suspended DOC commitment, the judge explaining next time Miro ended up with a conviction, he’d get an automatic two years tacked on. Miro fired his lawyer on the spot, the lawyer saying not to do him any favors, grinning as the bailiff led his former client from the courtroom.

  After serving the ninety at Coyote Ridge, Miro handed in the orange jumpsuit and was released with his new prison tat. Worst ninety days of his life he told his grandmother. He put on his Sally Ann outfit once more and headed straight to the Department of Licensing with the shots he took back in the photo booth on Aurora. Demanding to see the director got him a smile, the clerk handing him the appropriate service complaint form, telling him to tick off where it said the complaint was against a bail bond agent, told him to print neatly and paper-clip the photos to the form when he was done. Asking how long the process could take got Miro another smile.

  forte

  Vince Vetri wiped his hands on the striped apron, getting his attitude right, toughening the look that said no way. He was looking at the deadbeat who lived under the Capilano bridge. A couple of regulars had talked about the guy yesterday over mocha cappuccinos, couldn’t get over a deadbeat drinking four-buck coffee and living under a bridge. Deadbeat left his shopping cart, plastic bags full of returns hanging from the sides, and walked across from outside the insurance office. Vince blocked the door, telling him no way, didn’t want bums smelling up the place. The only other customer looked up from his newspaper, flipped a page and went back to it.

  “But I can pay.” Deadbeat showed a palmful of change.

  “Heard what I said.”

  “Takeout, then. Just something hot.”

  “Take a hike.” Vince pointed down the avenue, folding his arms the way his wife used to when she was through talking. He was still pissed at the way Stax had talked to him on the phone. He’d put a slug in Potts, and they got the kilos. Now Stax had a bee up his butt on account of a stupid license plate.

  Deadbeat shoved his coins back in his pocket, Vince watching him shuffle back to his cart, sitting next to it on the curb. Vince went behind the counter and got the French roast going, playing the grow house scene through his head: snapping the lock on the garage, going around the far side of the house with the Mossberg, leaving Wolf to load the bags of weed from the garage into the van. Kicking in the side door and firing a round into the house, he’d hurried around to the front, waiting with the barrel pointed, nailing Potts coming through the front door, the king of handguns no match for the Mossberg.

  The black Shelby GT pulled up out front, the throaty rumble of the V8. Vince figured it for a shadow of the 428s Carrol Shelby was putting out in the late sixties; only thing, this Shelby belonging to Stax Arlis. Patting the pit bull sitting in the passenger seat, Stax got out and said something to the bum on the curb, pulled his ball cap down and headed for the door.

  The clock told Vince the West Van squad should be coming in for free coffee, cheap fuckers talking about their wives and kids and cases they were working on. Occasionally, Vince picked up a tidbit Stax found useful. He wished he had one now.

  “What’s with him?” Stax asked, coming to the counter, looking out the window.

  “Tossed him out.” Vince shrugged. “Soon as the cops come around,” he looked at the clock again, “they’ll drive his ass across the bridge.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t need them around here.”

  “The cops?”

  “The bums.”

  Stax eyed the menu board, tapping his Ford fob on the melamine. “Give me a large black.”

  “Forte,” Vince said.

  Stax put his eyes on Vince.

  “That’s what they want us calling large, forte,” Vince said, pointing to the menu board showing the sizes: pico, fisso and forte.

  “You a corporate boy now, Vince?”

  “You know me.” Vince smiled and got to work, this guy unraveling his nerves. He drew the Italian roast he had on the go, slapping on a lid and a sleeve, setting the cup down. “On the house.”

  Stax glanced at the guy reading the paper, asking in a low voice, “Want to tell me what happened?”

  Vince leaned close. “Did like you said, took out Jeffery, picked up the pot. What you wanted.”


  “Then how come I hear one of my mules is auctioning the plate off your van. Wants five hundred for it.”

  “You kidding?”

  “I look like I kid?”

  “Talk to Wolf. Dumb shit panics and hits a mailbox.”

  “Dumb shit you brought along,” Stax said, keeping his voice down.

  “Heard sirens, you know . . . anyway, the van was stolen, right?”

  “Except you bozos stole it from his work.”

  “Talk to Wolf, man.”

  “Already did. Now I’m talking to you.”

  Vince put up his hands like what could he do. He felt them shake.

  “Those new?” Stax finally asked, looking at the pastry case.

  “Yeah, streusel-tops and fruit fritters came in fresh this morning.” Vince got his tongs and plucked a few into a bag, put it on the counter. Vince wishing Stax would just pay him for the hit and get out of here.

  Stax looked at him a moment, then said, “Fill another one.”

  “What?”

  “Fritters and a forte—stick them in a bag.”

  Vince got to work, thinking Stax was going to feed fruit fritters to his psycho dog.

  “Now take it out to that guy.”

  Vince looked at the bum out the window, hesitated. “How’s he want it—the forte?”

  “Why don’t you go fucking ask him?”

  Vince got a handful of creamers and sugar packets from the island and walked them out to the guy. Handing the bag to the bum, he said if he ever came back he’d kick his ass; that’s when Vince saw the minivan pull up, letting out a sigh as Dom and Luca stepped out.

  “You’re turning into a regular Saint Francis, Vince,” Dom called to him. The two cops walked to the door, Dom holding it for Stax as he left, Stax thanking him and wishing them a good day. Nudging his partner, Dom watched Stax get in his car and drive off.

  served up hot