None So Deadly

by David A. Poulsen

  We watched the whole thing twice and Cobb nodded approvingly and fist-bumped Chip.

  “You’re right. We’ve got exactly what we need. As long as Grover doesn’t spill to Rock Scubberd that Pink was his girl and she’s not a minor. And I don’t think he’ll do that. Scubberd might not approve of Grover’s offering to be part of this even if he claims he only did it so he could out us. I don’t think Grover will want to have to deal with Scubberd’s temper. And when Scubberd learns there was nobody in that van, Grover’s credibility will be in the tank.”

  “Along with his body?”

  “It’s possible. Apparently, that was a risk The Grover was willing to take.”

  “When do we make the contact with the MFs?”

  “Now seems like a good time. Why don’t you help Chip pack up while I make the call?”

  Chip was already packing up his equipment, and I crossed the smallish room to give him a hand. “You did a damn good job,” I told him. “Seeing as this thing’s a wrap, at least this phase, how about you tell me your real name.”

  He looked at me and grinned. “Albert Playfair.” We shook hands. “But the funny part? I’ve been called Chip since junior high school … about the time I started fixing friends’ computers. My buddy’s dad called me that after I put a hard drive into his machine, and the name stuck.”

  We weren’t long getting his stuff packed away in two good-sized cardboard boxes and ready to go. Frenchie drained the last of his coffee and stood up. “I’m giving you a ride back to your car,” he told Chip. “Here, let me carry one of those.”

  They started for the door, with McNasty close behind. He threw a perfunctory wave in Cobb’s direction and turned to me. “Luck,” he said, and followed Frenchie and Chip out the door.

  Cobb was standing at the window, looking out at the parking lot. His cellphone was at his ear. I wondered how he knew Scubberd’s cellphone number.

  “Scubberd. It’s Mike Cobb. You sound surprised to hear from me. Yeah, I’m tickled to be chatting with you, too. I’ve got some bad news. First of all your little IED missed its target. Sorry to have to ruin your evening. Yeah, cut the bullshit and listen up because I’ve got some more bad news. I seem to have acquired some rather damning material that will reflect badly on your son. The young lady he was with tonight was a little too young to be totally legal.

  “There’s all this video and audio that’s just crying for an audience. Oh, and there’s his enthusiasm for kiddie porn. You might want to call him and ask him if he’s seen his computer lately. It might be missing. But see, Rock, that’s where the good news kicks in. I happened to have found the young man’s computer and I’d really like to return it. The cops look unfavourably on that whole kiddie porn thing — about the same way they seem to regard guys like Brock taking advantage of underage girls. And slapping them around. The cops are real funny about that kind of stuff. So it seems like it might be a good idea for us to meet.… Well, I was thinking tonight would be a good time. I think you’ll want to get on this sooner rather than later … otherwise one of the various copies I’ve made might just find its way to the cops or the media or maybe both.”

  There was a pause as he listened to Rock Scubberd. I assumed Scubberd was less than cordial.

  “No problem, Rock. I’m happy to fuck off. And right after I do that I’ll make a couple of calls and maybe we can all get together tomorrow and watch Brock on the news. That would be fun.”

  He ended the call and turned to me, smiling. “Well, I learned a few new words. I’m guessing he’s talking to the kid right now and will call me back.” He crossed the room to the well-worn sofa and sat down.

  “What if ‘fuck off’ is his final answer?”

  “For that to happen, he’d have to be willing to throw his son to the dogs. And don’t forget the son’s last name. All of this would reflect rather badly on a guy who portrays himself as a respectable businessman biker. I think he’ll call. He may want to talk to his wife about it, too. But he’ll call. Or she will.”

  We sat and waited. For the first time in a very long while, I wished I was still a smoker. I was worried that the evening’s charade might have made things even worse, although I wasn’t sure what could be much worse than having to smuggle drugs across the Canada-U.S. border and having people trying to blow us up. Cobb was much calmer about things. The cards had been played and he seemed pretty happy with his hand. I just wanted all of it to go away. It was twenty minutes before the call came.

  Cobb took his time answering. “Scubberd,” he said by way of greeting. Then he listened. “We’ll be there. Forty-five minutes.”

  He ended the call and stood up. “Time to go. We have a stop to make on the way.”

  “Where’s the meeting?”

  “Hose and Hound. He’s booked the whole upstairs. Probably a pretty good choice from our perspective. Lots of people downstairs. I doubt if he’ll want to shoot the place up.”

  “You doubt?”

  Cobb smiled. “I told you before — no guarantees, my friend. But I think we’ll be okay.”

  Cobb gathered up his laptop and we left just as the hands on the clock radio indicated eleven. The stop we had to make was at the office. He pulled into the parking lot behind the building and parked next to his Cherokee. “Time to switch vehicles.” He beeped the doors open on the Jeep, stepped out of the van, and loped toward the back door of the building. I swung out of the van and climbed into the Jeep, glad to be out of the command centre.

  Cobb reappeared a couple of minutes later with the package I’d been scheduled to deliver the next day.

  “That going to factor in?” I asked as he settled in behind the steering wheel.

  “It might.”

  We didn’t talk any more after that. It was a short drive to Inglewood and the Hose and Hound Pub. I’d been there a few times and had always liked the place. I hoped I would still like it an hour or so from now.

  We parked across the street, and Cobb placed the drugs in a small carrying case and handed it to me. He carried the laptop as we made our way to the pub.

  The downstairs area was fairly full for a Monday night and as loud as one might expect from the post–11:00 p.m. revellers.

  Cobb led the way to the staircase and I followed him up. Scubberd, Minnis, and a couple more MFs thugs were seated at a large table in the middle of the room. There was another guy who looked like an accountant who sat at a table by himself. I wasn’t surprised that the lovely Mrs. Scubberd was also there. She was at an adjoining table by herself, sipping a glass of white wine.

  No one spoke. No greetings, not even nods were exchanged. Cobb set the laptop on Mrs. Scubberd’s table, turned it on, and tapped keys for a few seconds. Then he turned the computer so that she could see the screen. Scubberd stood up and moved to a spot behind his wife. When the show was over, Mrs. Scubberd closed the cover on the computer and sat back. Scubberd went back to his seat. Both of their faces were inscrutable.

  Scubberd broke the silence. “I’m guessing I know what you want. Scribe, you have anything to say?”

  I shook my head. This was Cobb’s deal and I didn’t want to mess it up.

  Mrs. Scubberd looked at me. “We had a deal. You’re reneging.”

  “I don’t see it that way,” I said.

  “I want the product,” Scubberd said.

  Cobb pointed at the bag I was holding and said, “It’s for sale.”

  “Bullshit,” Scubberd roared. “You push me too far and I don’t give a shit what’s on that computer — I’ll blow your asses straight to hell.”

  Cobb reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper, which he handed to Scubberd’s wife. I wondered if Cobb deliberately demonstrating that he was dealing with her and not Scubberd was a good idea. “That’s a list of expenses — what it cost me to put together tonight’s event. It comes to eight thousand six hundred and fifty-three dollars and forty-seven cents. I’m prepared to waive the forty-seven cents.”

 
He turned to Scubberd. “You get the product, and we both know how much it’s worth, so you’re getting a bargain. Eight thousand six hundred and fifty-three dollars. Cash. Then we walk away from each other and we’re done.”

  “And if I decide to take that package and turn my fellas loose for a few minutes, there’s exactly zero you can do about it.”

  Cobb turned his body and his eyes to Mrs. Scubberd. “I think that would be a mistake. The simple truth is we don’t like each other. And your husband is right — you can cause my friend and me a lot of grief. And clearly we’re able to be a bit of a pain in your asses, as well. So I’m proposing that we declare a moratorium. We agree that each of us leaves the other alone. You get the product and we get the money. Nobody gets killed, nobody gets beat up, and no one outside this room ever sees that” — he pointed at the computer — “ever again. Everybody lives happily ever after.”

  Scubberd was on his feet. Droplets of spittle flew from his mouth as he leaned on the table and held up one fist. “You chickenshit fucks. You put that bag on the table and get the fuck out of here and you’ve got ten seconds to do it.”

  Cobb didn’t move. I had a bit of a job convincing my legs not to do what they desperately wanted to do, which involved turning and bolting back down the stairs.

  The seconds ticked off. No one moved. Finally, Scubberd straightened up and nodded to Minnis, who reached for the shoulder holster that had been very much in evidence since we’d walked into the room.

  “Deal,” Mrs. Scubberd said, and suddenly the room was a tableau. Minnis froze and looked at his boss, who was looking in turn at his wife. She ignored them both and stared hard at Cobb. “You’re proposing a truce.”

  “No.” Cobb shook his head. “I said moratorium. Truce sounds to me more like peace. And I don’t think there will ever be peace between us. Moratorium means we agree to stop fighting each other. It can be permanent or it can be temporary. If one side screws up, the moratorium ends. If, for example, anyone associated with the MFs does anything to either of us or any member of our families, the deal’s off and the copies are distributed to the media and will appear on social media. And if either of us does anything that harms any of you or your … business interests, same thing, the deal’s off.”

  “We’re out twenty-five large,” Scubberd said.

  “No, you’re not,” Cobb argued. “Mr. Cullen here made a trip to Montana that helped make you a lot of money. I’m guessing the profit was a hell of a lot more than twenty-five thousand dollars. The only thing you lose is a delivery person. And I’m sure you can find a few more of those.”

  “A delivery person and eighty-six hundred and fifty dollars,” Mrs. Scubberd said with the small smile I’d seen a couple of times before. That smile made her one of the most beautiful women in the world, and I was pretty sure she knew it.

  “Eighty-six hundred and fifty-three,” Cobb said, returning the smile.

  “Of course.” Her smile was accompanied by a little laugh. She turned and passed Cobb’s list of expenses to the little guy sitting by himself. He had a pencil-thin moustache that didn’t look good on him and I put him at around fifty. He was carrying a briefcase and I was fairly sure he packed that briefcase pretty well everywhere.

  “Pay the man,” Mrs. Scubberd said.

  He nodded, turned away from us and dug around in the briefcase. I thought it interesting that he didn’t look to Scubberd for confirmation. A moment later he passed a pile of bills to Mrs. Scubberd, who, without looking at the money, passed it along to Cobb.

  Cobb set the package on the table in front of her. Then he stepped back and touched his hat as if he was ready to leave.

  Finally.

  Mrs. Scubberd spoke in a soft, firm voice. “There’s something I want to say to you before you go, Mr. Cobb. And to you, too, Mr. Cullen.”

  Cobb nodded and waited, his face impassive. I tried for the same look. The tricky part was figuring out where to look. I didn’t want to make eye contact with either Scubberd or Minnis. And I wasn’t sure if looking at Mrs. Scubberd was a good idea. I finally settled on a spot on the wall just over the head of the guy with the briefcase.

  “You may see this as some kind of victory, and because of that you might also see us as weak. That would be a mistake. We’re agreeing to this because I believe, and I think my husband will agree over time, that it is counterproductive for us to be at war. People will get hurt, some may die — and it will cost all of us time and money that could be used much more effectively in other avenues of our businesses and our lives.

  “And please don’t think that because it appears that I make some of the decisions for our organization, that my husband and his colleagues are somehow lesser men. Again, that would be a serious error in judgment on your part.

  “This moratorium” — she drew out the word — “that you have proposed works for us at this time. It makes sense to put what has happened in the past and what happened today behind us. We are prepared to do that. But I warn you both. Don’t ever be so foolish as to underestimate us.”

  It was weird, but the whole thing felt to me like being called to the principal’s office and hearing a lecture about acting out in class. Except that this lecture was about living and dying, and everyone in the room understood that. I wondered how Cobb would respond.

  He waited a moment before answering. “Message received. And you can believe me when I say that I have never in the past underestimated you, nor will I ever in the future.” Cobb looked at them in turn. “Any of you.”

  He looked at me. “We’re done here. Let’s go.”

  I glanced around the room before following Cobb back down the stairs. He didn’t slow down; he didn’t speed up. I moved up alongside him at the bottom of the stairs as we made our way toward the door.

  “I’m assuming you’d prefer to go somewhere else for a drink,” Cobb said.

  “Yeah, that would be good.”

  Outside on the street we stopped and took a few deep breaths before climbing into Cobb’s Cherokee. I couldn’t resist a quick look over my shoulder and was happy to see that no one was running toward us, guns drawn and bullets flying. Nevertheless, I was relieved once we’d pulled out onto 9th Avenue and put a few blocks between us and the Hose and Hound.

  “I have to say this. Holding out for the money was insane.”

  Cobb shook his head. “What I said to them was true. They still came out thousands, tens of thousands ahead. It wasn’t worth killing us for less than ten thousand dollars.”

  “Would you have tried that if it was Scubberd you were talking to instead of his wife?”

  “Scubberd would kill someone for ten dollars. He’s also not rational. So the answer to your question is no. And I was only fifty-fifty on going after the money even with her until I saw the guy with the briefcase. I thought he might be their accountant type. Meaning that at least some thought had been given to the possibility they’d have to spend some money. And we weren’t holding them up for ransom on the stuff we had on the kid. They might have thought what we were asking for was a bargain. Maybe we should go back and ask for more.”

  “How about I buy you a drink instead?”

  He grinned. “I’m okay with that. You have a preference?”

  “How about the Whiskey Down at the MGM Grand?”

  “Good spot all right, and Vegas is nice this time of year, but do you have a second choice?”

  “Okay, how about the Nash? It’s close and it’s pretty cool.”

  Cobb nodded. “Good choice.”

  “Yeah, and we can celebrate the fact that we’re still alive … stuff like that.”

  The Nash was once the National Hotel. The place opened in the early 1900s as a hotel and bar, mainly serving a working-class clientele; decades later it was one of Calgary’s seedier spots. It then stood empty for over a decade before reopening as a hip new restaurant and bar. Jill and I had met up at the restaurant a couple of times after her shift at Let the Sunshine Inn ended, as it was jus
t a few blocks away. Tonight, it was the Off Cut Bar that beckoned.

  Cobb parked in front of the equally historic livery stable that stood next to the Nash. As we walked to the entrance, I glanced over at Cobb, who looked like he might have just left his kids’ Christmas concert. “How do you live the life you do and not spend all your time looking in your rear-view mirror?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Adam, I try to weigh all my options and come up with the one that will be most effective. I don’t want to get killed any more than you do. But once I’ve made a decision, like I did tonight, I have to trust my instincts and my judgment. If I’m wrong, then that’s going to be bad, but when I’m sure I’m right — and I was pretty sure tonight — then I do what I have to do and trust that I don’t have to look in my rear-view. When I can no longer do that, it’s time to get into another line of work.”

  “Pretty sure, eh?” I said. “As opposed to totally sure?”

  “I’m seldom totally sure.”

  Inside, Cobb ordered a red wine. I went with tried and true — a rye and Diet Coke — which I drank way too fast. I ordered another.

  “So, what would it be?” I asked.

  “What would what be?”

  “The other line of work. If you weren’t a private investigator.”

  Cobb sipped some wine, set his glass down, and grinned at me. “My old man was a baker. When I was a kid I spent a lot of time in that place. I loved the smell, never got tired of that, and I thought it was neat that my dad knew just about everybody who came into the place by name. And a lot of times he knew what they wanted before they said a word. I always thought that was pretty cool, too.”

  “That was pretty cool.”

  “Good thing I decided to do something else though. The small neighbourhood bakery is a thing of the past. The chain doughnut shops have pretty well killed them off.”

  “Too bad.”

  “How about you? You ever think of being something other than a journalist?”