When the bud reduced to resin in the pans, he set them aside to cool. Taking it from under his jacket on the tool bench, he strapped on the holster rig with the hand-tooled floral design and worked his draw, pulling the new Vaquero with the pearl grip over and over, thinking he could use a mirror in this place.
the thing with dara
The wooden floor was killing him, PJ’s head on his arm.
“A girl that sleeps on the ground gets you points where I come from,” he told her, lifting up, wiggling his fingers, trying to get circulation back in the arm.
“Got crawly things on the ground where you come from?” She pinched a puff of Chip’s fur off the floor and blew it at him.
“The odd Seattle sewer rat.” He held his hands apart, showing the size. “Come right up your toilet.”
“Lovely.”
The curry had hit the spot while Roy sang about pretty women and Willy sang of Spanish angels, and the wine worked its magic. The talk was easy, PJ throwing decorating ideas around: cloud white for the walls and ceiling, a sisal rug under a bamboo coffee table, a pair of bookcases, a print of Paris by Doisneau over the gas fireplace. Karl tried to keep up, taking it all in, picturing a sofa facing the window, asking what a camelback was.
They got cozy on the floor like that, talking, looking at each other, then he got her to her feet, bopping to the music with the bridge construction crew working overtime into the night in the background.
“What are we doing, cowboy?” She moved her hips, playing along.
“Dancing.” He tugged her gently down the hall toward the bedroom.
Easing onto the mattress next to Chip, she glanced at his bedside clock, wondering if Dara was home. She’d already decided to stay the night, guessing they were ready for it, just wanting to slow it down a bit, saying, “It wasn’t just the Oompa Loompa hair that held me up today.”
He pulled his shirt off, looking at her, wondering where that came from. “Yeah?”
“Came home hoping for a shower, pissed my AmEx got refused at the Sushi Mart, not looking forward to getting on the phone, straightening it out.” She was looking at him with his shirt off, kept talking, stroking Chip. “I was tugging off my shoes when I saw it—shopping cart at the end of the hall, thing heaped with melting Popsicle boxes, a puddle under it.”
“Yeah?” He eased onto the pillow, looking at her—hadn’t guessed her for a talker.
“Stepped into the living room, dozens of the things leaking like a Vancouver condo all over everywhere. And guess who’s sitting there?”
“Dara?”
“Her boyfriend, Cam the purple-haired groper.”
“Huh.”
“Been sneaking him into the suite with her. Anyway, there he was plopped on my sofa, Jerry Springer on the tube, my tube, assaulting the viewing world with what passed for entertainment. Peeling wrappers like a man possessed, tossing the goop in a Coleman, stacking the wrappers on my table. I come in ‘what the frig,’ and Cam says Popsicle Pete’s giving him Air Miles.”
“Who’s Popsicle Pete?” He cozied up to her, Chip having to move, paws hitting the hardwood.
“That’s what I said. Idiot picks up a dripping box and shows me Popsicle Pete’s likeness, guy’s a cartoon if you can believe it.”
“What was he on?”
“God knows. Cam goes, if the labels are postmarked before the end of the month, Popsicle Pete’ll double the Air Miles.”
“These the Popsicles that break in half?”
“Yeah, used to love the banana.”
He ran his mouth down her neck, hoping for an end to the story.
“So Cam’s sitting in my trashed living room, saying he’s taking the three of us to Venice.”
“You, Cam and Popsicle Pete?”
“Think he meant Dara and me.”
“Yeah.”
“So, here’s Cam buying all the Popsicles in the Lower Mainland when it hits me—my AmEx bouncing.”
“He ran it up?”
“Must have got my account number off a statement. Threw him and his shopping cart of Popsicles out, neighbor looking at me like I was a crazy woman.”
“And Dara?”
“She took off after him.”
“She’ll be back.” He kissed her mouth, fumbling with her buttons. “You know the one thing I don’t get?”
“What’s that?”
“How Jerry Springer’s still on the air.”
the once-over
“This thing’s getting complicated,” Dom said, dumping a packet of sugar into his coffee, not sure if that was two or three.
“Why they pay us the big bucks,” Luca said, looking over, watching Vince stack packs of roasted beans behind the counter. Something about the guy told Luca he was up to more than grinding coffee beans, Luca’s cop instinct telling him the something wasn’t good.
“Loot called, told me the Drug Squad’s working it, too.”
“Our case?”
“Yeah, looks like everybody wants Artie Poppa—say they got somebody on the inside, but that’s all they’re giving up. Loot says we run everything by them, not wanting to put their guy in danger.”
“Give and take, as in we give and they take.”
“Beyond our pay-grade bullshit,” Dom said.
“So what’ve we got on the dead guy in the john besides a name?”
Dom flipped open his notes and read, “Wolf Klinger. Guy was a welder going on two years with Millennium, ran with the Throttle Rockets in a younger day, same puppet gang Jeffery Potts ran with on the Island. Also an alumnus from Matsqui, served there the same time as Potts.”
“Coincidence, huh? Ballistics turn anything up on Potts?”
“They dug out the slug that went through Potts. Shooter picked up his shell. No way to match the extractor marks on the brass base without it.”
“Yeah, and Potts?”
“Residue on his fingers, but no sign of a piece. Crime scene dug a .357 slug from a neighbor’s tree, but no gun, bumper off a pickup or van, but no license plate, and one crumpled mailbox.”
“What else we got?”
“Potts had trafficking priors linking him to Poppa,” Dom said. “That, and Artie’s boy Stax Arlis, guy at the coffee shop, got spotted coming out of Chickie’s diner with another known scumbag, Miro Knotts.”
“What’s the connection?”
“This guy Knotts got picked up in a raid in Abbotsford couple years back. Again, ties to Artie. Lately, he’s been working south of the border.”
“And?”
“Just fled back, ducking the feds looking for extradition.”
“Dope charges?”
“Get this, the idiot shot a farm animal thinking it was big game—jumped bail, ducked restitution, got a two-year suspended DOC.”
“Just what we need.”
“Top it off, the family of some fifteen-year-old’s looking to drag his ass into civil court.”
“A real peach.”
“Yeah.”
bum’s rush
If the scene was on a postcard, the caption would have read, “NASCAR’s the sport, bingo’s the pastime, and squirrel’s the dish—welcome to Shitstain.” That’s what Mitch was thinking about the place, sitting in his lawn chair next to his car, the Camry dying of cancer.
Not much of an exchange between Miro and Mitch, the two of them sitting and waiting for Wally to show up. Miro chain-smoking his Newports—the reason why they were sitting out in the drizzle in the first place. No way Mitch was having his double-wide smelling like an ashtray, not with what was going on in his gut these days.
All Stax told him on the phone was he had something else for them, wanted him and Wally to have a sit-down with this guy Miro, said he was sending him over, Mitch hoping whatever it was, it worked out better than the last time. So far the
only thing that passed for conversation between them was when Mitch asked about the clock without any hands. Miro lifted his sleeve, giving Mitch a better look at the prison tat on his forearm, Miro telling him it meant doing time. Mitch asked where he did it, Miro saying he didn’t like talking about it, tugging the sleeve back down, sliding his duffel bag under the chair, trying to keep it dry. And that was that.
Puffing away, Miro sat scraping at his thumbnail, thinking it would be noon before the hangover faded. The chick named Bruna James worked at the topless shoeshine joint downstairs and two doors over. Miro had let her buff his Tony Lamas, the snakeskin ones that matched his shoulder holster, the boots reserved for clubbing, the heels giving him the right lift. Asking her up for a drink, they had drained the Southern Comfort, Miro having to take a rain check on getting to know her in the biblical sense. Maybe, when he got back, he’d give it another shot. Funny, he never had trouble getting it up back when he was with Pinkie Fox, drunk or sober, the only other older chick he’d ever been with, back before Pinkie dumped him for Loop, another loser who worked for Artie. Another score he needed to settle.
The drizzle picked up, angling between the low-rent rooftops, the houses little more than trailers with the wheels knocked off. Miro guessed what he smelled over the Newport was coming from the wastewater treatment plant, a half block away, a smell as foul as farts. A crippled Ford hung a foot over Mitch’s parking pad, cinder blocks wedged behind the wheels, an old Lund tipped against it, a patch of grass as tall as prairie wheat.
The neighbor came out of his place, giving a wave and walking by soaked bedsheets on a line sagging to the ground, wicking up dirt. Angling his satellite dish that hung off his eavestrough, the guy hurried back inside, yelling for his wife to get her goddamned laundry in the house.
“So where the fuck’s your guy?” Miro asked, looking at the girders of the Lions Gate Bridge looming above them, cars zipping to and from downtown.
Pulling out his cell, Mitch punched in a number, calling over to a bunch of boys while it rang, telling them to get their butts inside before they caught their deaths, the boys doing their own yelling, getting a tennis ball past their black Lab and raising hockey sticks in victory. Mitch telling Miro their old man was down in the Capilano fishing with his drinking buddies.
The crunching gravel got Mitch looking. A two-tone Blazer that was around back when Joe Clark took office, its left headlight out, rolled up, its rocker panel chewed by rust.
Mitch stopped dialing, sighing as he said, “Here he is.”
Wally stepped out with that shit-eating grin and his do-rag, jeans stuffed into high-tops. He held up the license plate he’d taken from the grow house, then threw a thumb back at the truck as it death-rattled, like he was saying, “Get a load of this heap.”
“This is him, huh?” Miro asked, sizing up Mitch’s partner. “He the one that got Jeffery’s piece?”
“Yeah,” Mitch said, fanning at the smoke, his bowels churning. “The plate, too.” Pointing at it in Wally’s hand.
Miro lit a fresh Newport off the last one, grinding his heel on the butt, watching Wally, the guy smacking gum, eyes peering over sunglass rims with that stupid thing on his head and a three-day growth looking like dirt.
“Think you and Stax owe us a little thank-you,” Wally said, holding the plate out to Miro, adding, “That and a few bucks would be nice.”
Miro ignored the plate, saying, “You want, I can tell you what to do with it.”
“Guys that hit the grow house, came off their van.”
“Fucking thing was stolen.”
Wally looked at the plate, thought a moment, then tossed it down. Turning, he said, “Hey, Mitch buddy, you know it’s raining, right?” Wally wiped at his lenses, looking at the stainless sky, then at Miro like he just beamed in. “Weather chick’s calling this ‘June-uary.’”
Mitch got up, saying they could go in, then gave another yell to the Tesche boys, guessing their mother was face down on her couch again.
“So, you’re Merle, huh?” Wally cocked his hand for a handshake, gangsta style.
Miro corrected him on the name, then on the handshake, taking his hand old-school.
“Miro, okay,” Wally said. “That French or something?”
“Not even close,” Miro said. “But I’m guessing your Swatch needs a battery.” Miro ground his cigarette on the stoop and angled by Mitch.
Wally followed, lifting his sleeve, holding the Rolex Datejust for Miro to see. “Swatch is for losers, Merle.”
“That a street model or you going to tell me it’s the real deal?” Miro put the bag down in the thrown-together living room and sat on the arm of the sofa, looking around Mitch’s dump, the place big enough for Lilliputians.
“Guess I could tell you anything,” Wally said, sinking into the cushion, grinning, nothing friendly about it. “Got a spare one of those?” He pointed at the pack of smokes in Miro’s shirt pocket, guessing the guy styled his own hair.
Miro reached for his Newports, pegging Wally for thirty, a guy who video-gamed himself into mental lethargy, known to police for small-time shit.
“I got instant if you boys want,” Mitch said.
“Long as it’s hot,” Miro said, tapping the bottom of his pack, the cigarettes popping up, Wally saying who the fuck smoked menthols and reached for one anyway, guessing Miro was from the States, guessing maybe gay, too.
“Heard me say no smoking, right?” Mitch said.
Wally tucked it behind an ear, then he said to Miro, “Okay, how about we get down to it, see what you got?”
“What I got is what we’re here for,” Miro said, wanting to get this over and get in a cab back to his place, slip under the covers with Bruna with the fever hot skin, the paw print tat on her thigh and those perfect tits. He hooked the duffel’s strap with his shoe and dragged it close. “Got here on time, too, without any fake watch.”
“Makes you feel any better,” Wally said, watching Mitch fill the kettle, “froze my nuts blue jumping that piece of shit.” Throwing a glance at the Blazer parked out front, he showed Miro the grease on his fingers.
“You jacked that?” Miro said.
“Need her for a job. Got her wired and running about two miles before she starts knocking, alternator light going like it’s fucking Christmas. I pull into this Esso, and my foot goes through the floor—fucking hole this big.”
“You swiped Fred Flintstone’s ride,” Miro said, drawing back the bag’s zipper.
“Think it’s too much to ask people to keep up with simple maintenance?” Wally said, “I mean, what does a tub of fucking Bondo set you back?”
“Guy wears a Rolex and his ride’s got a hole in the floor, go figure,” Miro said to Mitch, lifting the bag to his lap.
“You didn’t get picked for the team much when you were a kid, did you, Merle?”
Miro reached in and hooked a Glock G21 by the trigger guard. “I’m the guy did the picking, still do. One thing I’ll tell you, friend, I didn’t come all this way to wait while you played at jacking shitboxes.”
Wally took the piece, checking it out. “You think a guy that can get any vintage you want and get it going with a screwdriver is playing?” Wally pulled a joint from his pocket, straightened it and stuck it in his mouth, talking around it, waving the pistol all over the place. “Give this old boy an antenna, and I’ll give you the Ford it belongs to. Don’t believe me, ask Mitch.”
“Yeah, makes his momma proud,” Mitch said, getting out the mugs, all three of them chipped.
“You say import.” Wally took out his Bic. “And I’ll crank over a rice burner with just a pair of scissors. That sound like I’m playing, Merle?”
“I ever need a shitbox, you’re my man,” Miro said, moving the barrel pointing at him.
“Yeah, and you’ll have it in about two seconds flat. I never touch the late models
. Know why that is?” He flicked the lighter and lit the joint.
“Guess I’m about to,” Miro said.
“Late models are for the guys that want to become somebody’s hump in the joint.” Wally toked, looking at the tat showing below Miro’s sleeve. “These days it’s all laser-cut keys, high-tech alarms and tracking shit. Freezing an alarm system with liquid nitrogen takes that extra minute, you know what I mean?”
“Me, I just look for one left unlocked, with the keys in it,” Miro said, reaching in the bag again.
“Yeah, that could work,” Wally said, putting the Glock down.
“Okay, everybody’s got a big dick,” Mitch said, coming around the counter and snatching the joint from Wally’s mouth, going back and spooning Sanka into the mugs, clanging the spoon down. “How about we cut the shit and get on with it?” Mitch felt like giving Wally the bum’s rush, Wally telling him to take it easy.
Miro leaned into the duffel and laid a Smith & Wesson .357 on the table, saying they were both clean.
Wally went for the Smith, leaving the Glock for Mitch.
“Like ’em small, huh?” Miro asked Wally.
“Like them fast, but I’m pretty happy with what I got.”
“That being Jeffery’s hand cannon?” Miro asked, watching Wally slap the blued steel from one palm to the other like some street punk, then aiming it sideways.
“All the gun I need.”
“You work with me and Stax, you hand it over.”
“Fuck that.”
“Ballistics, you know that word, Wally? You hand it to me, along with that plate, then we’ll talk about doing business.”
“Suppose I say no?”
“Then Stax comes to see you.”
Wally thought about it, looked out at his ride and said the Python was under the seat. “Sure hope I don’t see you with it next time we meet.”
“Me, I pack a Ruger, a Vaquero,” Miro said, getting used to the new one after the wildlife guys confiscated the one he used on the ram.
“Like ’em old, huh?” Wally said. “A cowboy gun, six-shooter, ain’t it?”
Ride the Lightning Page 4
