by Sam Wiebe
“That could’ve been embarrassing,” she said. “Thanks for the catch. Maybe the next time your fly’s open I’ll be around to repay the favour.”
“What high school did you go to?”
She said, “I’m not really allowed to socialize with the customers. But thanks, babe.”
And up on stage she went in a rhinestone bra and panties, disrobing to the throb of Nine Inch Nails. The Vietnamese girl wobbled as she knelt near someone’s face, accepted his dollars out of his hand with her mouth.
I felt a hard thwack on the back of my neck.
Martz stood behind me, holding two beers with his other hand. All his most genuine smiles seemed lupine at heart.
“This is my kind of investigation,” he said. “Who we interrogating first?”
“I’m thinking it was a mistake coming here.”
“It’s early yet. These places don’t even get going before ten.”
We took a table and watched the dances. After a while the brunette came back out. She dipped and swayed. Smiled at me. For a moment I didn’t do anything. At a nearby table three East Asians were whooping and clamouring, wads of dollars already out. She smiled and pursed her lips in a mocking pout, then moved away to shake for the other table.
“Fuck’s the matter with you?” Martz said. “Give her some money. Or did you run out? There’s an ATM at the back.”
“We’re here for work.”
“Fucking tits, dude. She should be shaking that shit for us.”
I walked over to the bartender. He looked at me the way a bartender in a strip club looks at a patron who’s been drinking for the past two hours. This’ll be fun.
“Do you know Ken Everett?”
“Sure,” he said.
“He ever come in here?”
“I don’t tell people ’bout other people’s comings and goings.”
“I used to spar with him.”
“Hey, whatever, man.”
I pointed at the stage, which now featured two redheads in Catholic schoolgirl outfits, the MC hyping them. “Give it up for Vancouver’s own weird and wild sisters, make some noise for…the Bobbsey Twins!”
“The girl who was just up there,” I said to the barkeep. “The brunette. What’s her name?”
“That’s Shay,” he said. “She’s not a regular. She’s only filling in this week ’cause Keisha caught a stomach flu.” He took a bucket of limes out of the mini-fridge and dumped the old bucket’s contents on top.
I put two twenties on the bar. “What’s her real name?”
“Save your money for the girls.” He turned back to his citrus work.
Martz had returned from the ATM with a stack of twenties. He’d lured over one of the Bobbsey Twins and was making her snatch the bills from his hand by clasping her thighs together. It was difficult labour and had the success rate of a coin-operated crane game.
Outside I had a cigarette and thought about what to do. It was still early enough I could make it out to Burnaby. I’d had more to drink than I’d planned. And anyway the plan itself was nothing special. I wanted to find Ken Everett or one of Terry Rhodes’s other stooges, ask him to ask Rhodes. I didn’t want to butt heads with a motorcycle gang, demanding answers and making accusations. I wanted to make it a request, go through the proper channels to get an audience. There’s a corporate hierarchy to most gangs. Like companies. Or police departments.
It had started raining, big hot drops of oily water.
I finished the smoke and turned and saw the brunette tucked under the awning, her own cigarette giving off the smell of burnt vanilla. She wore an old-school Hudson’s Bay flannel coat and she’d changed into rubber gumboots.
“Want one?” she said, offering me the pack. I took one and accepted her match. I noticed her nails, cracked and spottily covered with glitter polish. “I normally get menthols but I thought I’d try these for a change.”
“You’re a good dancer,” I said lamely.
“I try.”
“I don’t normally come to these places.”
“Why not? It’s fun.”
“Yeah. I don’t know.”
She finished her smoke but made no move to go. She said, “If you’re here to bust Amory, he sold it all and got out of the growing business like three weeks ago.”
“I’m not a cop. Who’s Amory?”
“Never mind,” she said, throwing up her hands. “I’m so sorry. You’re just regular citizens who look nothing like cops even though your buddy’s packing his pistol and you haven’t spent a dime, you cheap fuck.”
“I’m not a cop,” I said.
“Whatever.”
“He is.” I pointed at the club, indicating Martz. “I’m a private investigator. Are cops notoriously cheap?”
“In my experience they tip for shit and want all sorts of freebies. There’s one cop comes in here, makes every new girl suck his dick on the house.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.” A hint of a smile came to her face. “I told him I had hep C and an open sore in my mouth. That wilted his rod like old celery.”
We shared a laugh. “Smart thinking,” I said.
“Nah, it was the truth. I remember getting vaccinated back in grade school, but I guess it didn’t take.”
“That’s where I know you from,” I said. “You went to Emily Carr. We went to the same elementary school.”
“Oh my God.” She pressed her face to her hands. “I am so embarrassed right now.” Laughing as she said it. “I haven’t thought about that place in years.”
“Remember the big red fire truck they used to have instead of a jungle gym? You know they tried to take that away? Guess too many kids got hurt.”
“I remember you pushing me off that—David Wakeland.”
“I did?” That broke my reverie. I searched for the memory, the name. “Sharlene?”
“Remember, I was teasing you for not having a mommy or daddy and you shoved me clean off the hood. I hit the wheel well. There was blood everywhere.”
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s not a habit. I mean I haven’t hit anyone since then. Women.”
“I probably deserved it,” she said. “Anyway, private investigator, huh. You’re all Sam Spade and shit now. What are you doing here?”
I told her.
“Terry Rhodes doesn’t come in all that much. Ken and the others, usually once or twice a week. You might try their club in Burnaby.”
“Going there next.”
She nodded. It was a warm night but she was swaying on her feet, keeping her coat tight around her.
“There like a big reward for information?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “But if you hear anything, I’ll pay.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“A thousand?”
“That’s a bit steep,” I said. “If you find out where she is, or what happened to her, and it’s verifiable, I might go three hundred.”
“Wouldn’t that be doing your job for you?”
I wanted to talk more. There was more to say. But a limo pulled up, a stretch Hummer, and spewed its contents onto the pavement in front of the club. Three suits, all in various stages of shit-facery, tossed back the dregs of their beer cans and dropped them in the gutter. One of them groped for the door handle. He noticed us and walked up to the mouth of the alley.
“Shay, how’s the action tonight, babe? Action hot?”
“Totally super fucking hot,” she said.
“Right on.” He went back to his friends and they passed inside.
“They were here last night,” she said.
“Good tippers?”
“At the beginning, sure.”
As the door wheezed shut on its pneumatic hinges we heard Rob Zombie’s “Living Dead Girl” start up.
“I’m back on in two numbers,” she said. “Nice catching up.”
“Maybe we’ll see each other again.”
“Come by anytime.”
&nbs
p; “Right.” I gave her my card. “And if you happen to hear anything.”
“I will, David Wakeland.”
“David. Or Dave.”
“Dave.”
She banged on the side door. One of the red-headed Bobbsey Twins opened it, glowering at me as Shay passed under her arm. Sharlene Nelson who’d moved to Aldergrove in fifth grade, who’d once brought a cassette tape of the Commitments soundtrack for show and tell and had tortured us all with a rendition of “Mustang Sally” in fake Irish brogue.
I texted Martz: YOU GOING TO DEGRADE WOMEN ALL NIGHT OR ARE YOU COMING TO THE INN?
Then without waiting for his reply, I drove out to Burnaby.
9
IT WAS A FIGHT NIGHT, and the Northwestern Inn’s parking lot was packed for the pay-per-view. I circled, looking for a space, making sure first that the bikes were there. A row of them, Softails and Ultraglides, along the side of the building diagonally. This was the Burnaby chapter’s favourite dive. I slotted the Cadillac in beside the dumpster and walked inside.
A roar from the patrons greeted me. On the flat screens around the establishment I saw a fighter ground his mohawked opponent, mount him and pummel the challenger’s face until the ref called the fight. A drunken clamour filled the place, cheers and I-told-you-sos.
I looked for Ken Everett in the roped-off section on the mezzanine. He was standing on the fringe of a party of bikers. Narrow-shouldered and slightly gangly, dressed in denim and leather to match the others. I wanted to talk to him alone. That wasn’t likely to happen.
I walked up to the bartender, a gin mill veteran in a sweat-stained tank top. “See that man with the shaved head?” I pointed at Everett.
“Couple with shaved heads.”
“But the one standing up. He’s an old friend. What’s he drinking?”
“They’re all drinking the same. Black Tooth Grins, doubles.”
I slid her the same two twenties I’d tried to give the other bartender. “I want to play a joke on him,” I said.
“Son, those aren’t joke playing type people.”
“He’ll understand. On the next round I want you to substitute his drink. One shot of the cheapest Scotch you have, one of the cheapest tequila. One part lemon vodka and one part dark rum. Top it up with Orange Crush.”
“Nobody serves Orange Crush anymore.”
“Root beer, then, or diet cola. And a squirt of peppermint schnapps. When he asks, direct him to where I’m sitting.”
The bartender sighed and took the money. I had a seat. Eventually the next round went over. On the TV was a light-heavyweight bout that no one seemed to care about. It went to the third round before a Superman punch brought down the younger-looking fighter. It caught the crowd off-guard and the eruption was a slow build that culminated with the instant replay.
Everett stepped over the velour rope and dropped down onto the main level. He was carrying his drink and the front of his shirt was stained with liquid. I watched the dumb show play out.
The bartender stretched out her hand in my direction. Everett looked my way, walked over curious and angry. I grinned at him and he noticed who I was and grinned back.
“Dave Wakeland.”
“The Thundering Left Hand of Ken Everett.”
“And what’s left of the rest of him.” He sat down, extending out his right knee. “That was a fight,” he said. “You gave me hell.”
“If we’d been eighteen they would’ve let us go eight.”
“And you’d’ve won.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t need it the way you did.”
“You catch that fight a few minutes ago? Now there’s a guy needs it.”
“He’s pretty sound.”
“Sound. He’s a fucking beast. Like Castillo. Remember Castillo? Wiped the floor with the both of us. Didn’t set the world on fire when he went pro, but going up against him, and him a year younger than us, and fighting that good? Fuck.” He pawed at the shirt stain with a napkin. “Why is it, Dave, you only think about the times you lost?”
“ ’Cause you don’t learn anything from victory,” I said.
“Maybe. Terry’s bodyguard’s ex-MMA. I appreciate it—how can you not appreciate a ground and pound like that last fight?—but I don’t feel the love for it. Boxing was—you had a good day in the ring, in the gym, everything felt right.”
“Maybe they feel that way about mixed martial arts,” I offered.
“But I don’t. All these years, you know, I think I was happiest working the speed bag in the Astoria. Your old man buying us beer afterwards.”
“He passed a couple years ago,” I said. “Drunk driver.”
“Right. I remember hearing something about that. Meant to call.” A nostalgic smile crossed his face. “Your dad—stepdad, whatever—toughest man I ever met, not counting Terry’s bodyguard.”
“He liked you. Always said you had a great left.”
“I did,” Everett said. “It’s just the rest of me.” He shook his head vigorously, warding off regret. “So. What’d you come here for?”
“I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for a woman named Chelsea Loam. She went missing eleven years ago. Her mother wants me to find out what happened to her.”
“And what happened to her?”
“Someone dropped the mother an anonymous tip saying she was seen with Ed Leary Nichulls.”
Everett grimaced. “That fucking guy. Never understood what the older guys saw in him.”
“Turned out to be a bum steer,” I said. “But I have to look into every tip.”
“Right.” He shifted slightly back from the table.
“I got another tip, also anonymous, that says she was at a party with Terry Rhodes before she vanished. That makes Rhodes one of the last people to see her.”
Everett’s reaction was slow but intense. His posture shifted another inch, and suddenly we were acquaintances, not old friends. Unthinking, he took a sip from the concoction in his hand, tasted it and scowled.
“Yeah. Can’t help you there,” he said.
“I need to talk to him, Ken. Ten minutes. Off the record. He chooses the time and place.”
“Goes without saying.”
“I’ll ask him myself if I have to.”
“You don’t want to do that.” Everett looked over at the VIP lounge, then back at me, a pained expression on his face. “How soon’s this got to be?”
“Soon.”
He sighed. “All I can do is ask.”
“All I’d want you to do.”
“It’d be a favour to me, him talking to you.”
“And I’d owe you one for doing it.”
He nodded. “I’m seeing him tomorrow. I’ll ask, ’less he’s in one of his moods.”
“Appreciate it, Ken.”
“Yeah. Maybe someday we’ll get in the ring again.”
“Maybe.”
I bought him a real drink and together we watched the post-fight analysis. I thought of the time he’d broken my jaw. It was the first real injury either of us had caught. The look on Ken’s face, surprise and shock, like he’d been the one hurt. He’d apologized all the way to Emergency.
“My kid wants to get into this,” Everett said, pointing to the female fighters touching gloves for the main event. “She’s twelve. The one I had with Joanna. Ever meet Joanna? Doesn’t matter. My kid loves the fights.”
He ran a hand over his scalp. When he swallowed the faded ink from his neck tattoo bobbed amidst the stubble. I realized he was holding back tears.
“That kid,” he said. “Wants to be just like me. Do what I do. I don’t know where the fuck I went wrong with her.”
10
TEA AND WARM BREAD at CRAB Park before dawn. A cigarette in the light rain as I walked up Alexander Street toward the office. Even these didn’t break the funk I’d worked myself into.
Shuzhen was out for the morning. Jeff leaned on the radiator by the outer office window, looking smug as only the well-sexed can.
“Managed to stay awake through the play,” he said. “Had some nice Pinot Noir, and I got a blowjob on the drive home. Now that’s the life, huh Dave?”
I lifted the pot off the percolator and poured myself a paper cup full of Jeff’s decaf. “You don’t drink coffee,” he said. “Something up?”
I took out my phone and showed him the last text I’d received.
It said MY HOME 3 TODAY DONT SHOW LATE.
“You know the number?”
“I know who it’s from,” I said.
“Terry Rhodes?” Jeff poured a coffee for himself, added a shake of Coffee-mate and two generic sweeteners. “You said you’d talk to me before moving ahead on this.”
“Well, I didn’t. And don’t pretend you expected me to.”
“So how are you going to handle it?”
As if I hadn’t been thinking about that all night. The text had come in at four, the noise jolting me awake. I hadn’t gone back to sleep but had paced my cramped first-floor apartment until dawn.
I’d thought I’d have time to prepare. I’d thought I’d have some measure of control. I saw now how stupid those thoughts had been. Proof positive I’d exceeded my depth.
I answered Jeff’s question by saying, “I’m going to ask him questions.”
“But what’s your tone going to be?” He topped up my coffee cup unbidden.
“My tone.”
“Your general attitude,” Jeff said. “Are you gonna go in demanding answers, all pissed off, or be professional?”
“Play it by ear,” I said.
“With Terry Rhodes you’re gonna play it by ear?”
“When your enemy attacks as a mountain, you attack as the sea,” I said.
“Don’t quote martial arts manuals to me, gwai lo. Take me through how you think the interview will play out.”
Marie and I knew about the manuscript in Jeff’s bottom drawer. For the past two years he’d been trying to author a textbook on interrogation strategy. Alternatively titling it Advanced Techniques for the Contemporary Interviewer and How to Get People to Tell You What They Don’t Want To, Jeff had been trying to codify what he knew into a ten- or twelve-step system. Every so often he fixated on using me as a guinea pig.
