by Sam Wiebe
“You think his alcoholism resulted from whatever happened with the police?” Katz said.
“I do, yes. He fought it, and beat it, but it was always waiting to pounce.”
* * *
We finished our coffee and left, making one last circuit of the Drive. Rush hour slowed our progress. We peered at every building, down every side street, at every face no matter how unlike Joe Itami’s. Katz smoked. The stereo hummed. Chris Cornell, “Preaching the End of the World.”
Finally, Katz said, “It was their job.”
“What was? Beating up teenagers? Or kidnapping—that part of the job?”
“Those gangs weren’t just troubled kids,” Katz said. “They caused riots. Hurt people. Scared an entire neighborhood. The word came down to clean up the parks, whatever it took. Joe and Matt were a part of that. The H-Squad, the Heavy Squad, they called it.”
“Meaning they targeted the kids in Clark Park, Rosato and Holditch specifically.”
“Not like my dad ever talked about it,” Katz said. “I had to ask the old-timers on the job. No one speaks too much about what went on back then, who signed off. Black eye for the top brass and all that. But they went after those gangs hard.”
“Son of a bitch,” I said. I wasn’t especially shocked by the revelation. I’d never doubted my father’s capacity for violence. But the lack of specifics was frustrating. “Hard meaning what, exactly?”
“What I heard, they’d pick up a gang member at home, take him for a ride somewhere, and throw a scare into him.”
“Take him fucking where, Katz? Scare him how?”
“I dunno, Dave, just that my dad must be reliving whatever it is they did. It’s burned on his brain. Whatever it was drove one kid to drugs, another to the bottle.”
“The drink,” I said.
“Whatever. My point, we need to figure out—”
“Not whatever,” I said. “Holditch told his wife, Didn’t put you in the drink. Not the bottle, not drinking. You want to scare a kid in East Van, the kind that’s not afraid of anything on the streets, where would you take them?”
Katz coughed, dropping his vaporizer as the answer came to him.
* * *
Joe had driven the Nissan across the uneven grass above the New Brighton Park beach, leaving the headlights on as he walked his captive out onto the narrow pier. It was almost dark, and he must have been waiting for nightfall to make his move.
The Cadillac bounced as it followed the tracks Joe had left in the grass. We parked alongside and raced across the sand toward the pier. The planks creaked and shuddered under our feet.
We heard the splash.
I was carrying my father’s MagLite, and I aimed it at the water. A head bobbed above the black waves. We heard gasps and sputters, then the thundercrack of gunfire accompanied by a spout of flame from the pier’s end.
Joe was aiming his son’s pistol at the water. He turned and pointed the gun at me and smiled.
“’Bout time you got here, Matt.”
Up close I could see the shirt of his uniform was unbuttoned, stained with something. A hole in the knee of one pant leg. He nodded his head toward the water.
“Smart-ass thought I wouldn’t remember,” he said. “We warned him, didn’t we, about him and his pals hanging out in the park, bothering the nice people.”
In the water, Michael Rosato thrashed. His hands broke the water, still manacled together in a pose of supplication. Katz knocked off his shoes.
“Think this one’s just about got the message,” Joe said. “Either shape up or start swimming for Japan. You hear me, kid?” He fired again at the water, missing Rosato by several feet. Intentionally, I hoped. Rosato’s scream was choked back by waves.
“What do you think, Matt, another couple shots?”
“Where’s it stop?” I said.
“With the city safe for decent folks, and this hump in his place. Was your idea, Matt. You want a shot? You’re up after me.”
He turned and held the gun with both hands, sighted on Rosato. As I moved I thought of what he’d said to me the night before. He’d been right. Not even a fucking shred. I swung the flashlight as hard as I could and struck him across the temple.
The gun fell. Joe fell. Katz dived into the water.
And me, I collected the pistol, and stared down at a sick and bleeding man, and wondered for a second why I felt like I’d betrayed him.
Katz emerged from the water to the left of the dock, dragging Rosato onto the rock-studded beach. Rosato looked frail and ancient, his thin hair matted into dark gray tendrils. He crawled up to the sandbank and lay on his back, sobbing. Katz unlocked his cuffs and tended to him.
Joe Itami turned over and moaned softly. “Christ, my head.”
I unloaded the gun, pocketed the clip. I helped Joe to his feet and led him toward his son’s car. Joe glanced at the quivering figure of Michael Rosato with mild curiosity and zero recognition. He seated himself in the passenger’s side of the Nissan. His eyes closed. Soon he was snoring.
“All forgotten,” I said to Katz.
“Yeah. Lucky him.”
I said I’d wait with Rosato for the ambulance. Katz thanked me and drove his father home. As the taillights of his Nissan bounced onto the pavement, I saw he’d left his cigarettes on my dashboard.
I hauled a Hudson’s Bay blanket out of the trunk of my car and handed it to Rosato. He seemed shaken up but physically fine. He massaged his wrists, shivered, and refused the cigarette I offered him.
“Worst night of my life was when those cops threw me and Gord into the water,” he said. “That man is sick, isn’t he? His poor son. Lord have mercy on them both.”
The ambulance approached, all lights and sirens. Rosato stood and walked across the grass to meet the EMTs.
Lighting a Rooftop, I leaned against the hood of the car and stared at the water for a while, thinking that there was a lost name for every place in the city. At one point I might have believed that if I could just learn enough of them, an entire secret history would reveal itself to me. The world as it was, or should have been. But it didn’t work like that, and even if it did, there simply wasn’t time. Not even enough to forget.
________________________
Author’s note: Credit is due to Charles Demers for the quote at the beginning, taken from Vancouver Special, and to Aaron Chapman for his article “Gangs of Vancouver,” published on February 4, 2011, in the Vancouver Courier, later expanded into the book The Last Gang in Town.
Bottom Dollar
by Dietrich Kalteis
Strathcona
The way he did it, Lonzo D’Cruz pulled up out front, flicked on his four-ways, left the Benz running, and walked up to this French bistro. Some guy with a sandwich board walking back and forth out front got in his way.
Lonzo stepped right, the guy stepped the same way. Lonzo tried left, the guy doing it too, misstepping, smiling like it was funny. Taking it wrong, Lonzo gave him a shove. Awkward with the sign hanging on him, the guy went down and turned turtle. Not giving him another look, Lonzo moved past him and into the place. The maître d’ looking horrified, asking if he had a reservation.
“I look like I’d eat here?” Lonzo weaved around the tables, up to the couple at the corner booth, nice romantic spot with white linens, candles, and a bottle of bubbly on ice. Cracking his knuckles to get their attention, he smiled and waved a finger at Carmen Roth, the guy who did the laundry, made dirty money clean. Lonzo smiled at the woman and asked if she’d like to dance.
“You hearin’ music, Lonz? ’Cause if you do . . .” Carmen Roth looped a finger at his temple, grinning at the woman named Bobbi Lee. He picked up a cocktail shrimp, dipping it in sauce and sticking it in his mouth, now grinning up at Lonzo.
Clutching shirtfront, Lonzo sent a jab, accented by the big ring he always wore. Carmen reeled, spitting bits of shellfish. The rocket that followed would have sent Carmen to the floor if Lonzo hadn’t been holding onto his collar. Lon
zo asking if Carmen heard the music now.
Coughing shrimp and blinking, Carmen put up a pudgy hand in surrender. Straightening his own jacket, Lonzo smiled again at Bobbi, held out the hand with the ring, asked, “How about that dance?”
“Jesus, gonna hit me if I say no?” Bobbi finished her drink.
“I’m a lover, not a fighter, you know that.”
Sliding from the booth, she shrugged at Carmen, said thanks for dinner, slipped her hand on Lonzo’s arm, and let him lead her past the tables, all eyes on them. The maître d’ keeping his distance, snapping his fingers for a waiter to go clean up Carmen.
Stepping close, Lonzo pressed a hundred in the maître d’s hand, saying his friend just had a bad shrimp. “Ought to be more careful what you serve in this joint.” Leading Bobbi to the door, holding it for her.
“Mind me asking where we’re going?” Bobbi said.
“Little place I know.” Lonzo steered her around the guy with the sandwich board, the guy still trying to get up. Going to the passenger side, Lonzo opened the door, saying to her, “Feel like Italian?”
“You mean Umbertos?”
“Mean like my place.”
“Thought we were going dancing.”
“Yeah, after.”
The guy with the sandwich board got his feet under him, the board cracked, bent, and ruined. Lonzo stepped over, tucking a twenty in the guy’s shirt, telling him, “Get a real job, man. This is embarrassing.”
* * *
It was raining when Ronnie Trane arrived at the Strathcona address. Some old factory near Venables and Clark, used to make sensible shoes. He’d heard some realtor on a talk show call this part of town gentrified. Lofts going in, an exotic car dealer with a Ferrari in the window, promises of Starbucks and yoga studios, ladies walking dogs that fit in a purse. Sure didn’t look like that to Ronnie.
Counting a dozen heads in the outdoor line ahead of him, Ronnie guessed they were all applying for the same job. Some A-list entertainer needed a personal assistant. The Craigslist ad didn’t say who it was, only that the successful applicant needed no experience, just a valid driver’s license. Ronnie had to lie about that, not due to get his back for a few months.
The rain was light when the door opened, letting the next applicant in and closing again, the line inching forward. A couple of twentyish women under a black umbrella in front of Ronnie speculated who the star was. Too busy bandying celebrity names, they didn’t notice him without an umbrella. Every man for himself. One hoping for Beyoncé, the other going for Bieber.
Flipping up his collar to the rain, Ronnie saw the guy across the street marching back and forth with the sandwich board, out front of some swank French bistro that just opened. Ronnie thinking, what kind of job was that, walking back and forth in the rain? Letting the world know soup, salad, and entrée was under twenty bucks.
The Mercedes pulling up out front of the place put on its four-ways. Recognizing the black S-Class, the same one Ronnie used to drive when he chauffeured Lonzo around, his name on the vanity plate. The psycho gangster got out and looked his way, but didn’t recognize him. Lonzo fired Ronnie for losing his license to a DUI, told him he drove like an old bat anyway. Did it in front of Bobbi Lee and a few of his guys. All of them laughing except Bobbi.
With no job, Ronnie went back to his former livelihood, breaking into places, scraping up enough to pay the DUI fine. Tripping a silent alarm at this mansion in Altamont, he met two security guards as he came out, holding a pair of vases he thought were Ming. Noting the DUI on his sheet, the judge told Ronnie his grandkids played hockey in the street, then handed down twelve months, Ronnie getting out of Mission after serving six. Having to report to BC Corrections and show some guy named Maxwell a list of places where he’d applied for legit work every Friday. The system keeping him on a leash.
Standing in the rain, he watched Lonzo doing the two-step with the guy with the sandwich board, knocking him out of the way. Typical Lonzo. The women in front of him missed it, still tossing about celebrity names, one saying Ryan Gosling was dreamy.
“Asshole,” Ronnie said, watching Lonzo walk past the guy on the sidewalk with the busted sandwich board. Both women turning on Ronnie, giving him a sour look, thinking he just dissed Gosling.
“You see that?” Ronnie pointed across the street, but Lonzo was already in the restaurant, the sandwich-board guy lost from view behind the S-Class. The women clicking their teeth and turning their backs, using the umbrella to block him out, talking in hushed tones. Ronnie shrugged into his jacket, feeling the rain coming through the denim. Watching Lonzo step from the restaurant a couple of minutes later with Bobbi Lee. Tall, blond, and fine. Lonzo escorted her around the sandwich-board guy. Opening her door, Lonzo got her inside, then played the big man and slipped the sandwich-board guy a tip and gave him some words of advice, like next time get out of the fuckin’ way. Getting behind the wheel, Lonzo pulled away from the curb, the wipers swishing.
The job line moved some more, the rain picking up, water in Ronnie’s shoes making a squishing sound. Thinking screw this, but he needed to show Maxwell his list on Friday—probably have pneumonia by then. Another ten minutes before the door opened again, the recruiter sticking her head out, looking surprised it was raining and saying sorry, that was it for today. Telling the rest of the applicants they’d have to come back early tomorrow, she wished them luck and closed the door. The star remained a mystery.
“Bitch,” Ronnie said under his breath. The women ahead of him gave him another look and left.
When he got back to his flat, he stood under the shower’s spray till the hot water tank ran cold, then he revived himself with a couple cans of Cutthroat, popped a thin-crust Delissio in the oven while he eyed the classifieds, still enough time to get to the library before it closed to check for any new online job postings. Looking out the window, seeing it was still raining, he decided to stay home.
* * *
Catching an early bus back to Strathcona the next morning, he was third in line, no rain and no sign of the two women, his hands wrapped around a Starbucks, still warm by the time it was his turn.
“Have a seat,” the recruiter told him. Green-tinted hair, the ring skewering her lip looking inflamed and causing her to lisp. Reminded him of a pike he gaffed on a fishing trip back when he was a kid.
She eyed his CV. “You did time, huh?” Saying it like it was cool.
The recruiter asked the usual questions, explained the job was on-call, seven days a week. Asked if he was on any kind of medication. Told him it might involve travel. Finished up by saying, “The candidate we’re seeking must be discrete, no loose lips.”
“I’m not a snitch,” Ronnie told her, smiling.
Turning the paper over like she was looking for something, asking about college or university. Ronnie said no, guessing you needed that to fetch stuff for entertainers. She mentioned he’d have to join the Association of Celebrity Personal Assistants, asked about his temperament and how he handled somebody else’s. “Anyone ever throw anything at you, and if so, how did you resolve it?”
It sounded like these A-listers could get cranky. Ronnie thinking about it, getting a glimpse of Justin Bieber tossing something at him, a guy he could bench press.
“Mostly you just make pickups,” she said, not waiting for an answer.
“You mean the stuff they throw at me?” Smiling at her.
“Like dry cleaning, takeout, stuff like that.” Putting her clipboard down, she thanked him for coming, offered a handshake, her hand damp like she just licked her palm, saying they’d be in touch.
Going out the door, one of the two women from yesterday’s lineup brushed roughly by him as she was heading in. The same guy with a new sandwich board that said they served breakfast was pacing across the street. Ronnie guessed there was a lineup for that job too.
* * *
It was six months in, and Bobbi couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t lie there listening to the hibernating brut
e that lived down Lonzo’s throat, snoring like a chainsaw. The gasping and grunting thing with its wet sucking breath. Telling herself she was still in her prime, but starting to feel like she was creeping close to her best-before date.
Enough light shone through the window to show the man lying there with his head twisted to the side. Looking like somebody dropped him off a building. Bobbi thinking, God, close your mouth.
Lonzo had promised to get cleaned up the night he found her with Carmen Roth at the bistro, going pit bull on her date, then practically begging her for a second chance. To tell the truth, she kind of liked the way he just walked in and took what he wanted. Bobbi believed most men had short-man syndrome, no matter what their height. Lonzo just had it in spades, especially when he was wasted. But, true to his word, he stopped doing blow like Tony Montana. No more tapping a razor blade like it was Morse code. But the problem was, now that he was clean, Lonzo was dull and predictable. And while Little Lonzo didn’t need the blue pills to rise to the occasion so much, sex had become routine. And the snoring was getting worse.
Making up her mind a couple days ago, she came up with the plan. She wasn’t going to stick around and wait for Lonzo to fall victim to the usual hazards of his line of work. Like getting shot. Or pulling open his car door someday and bam. Chunks of Lonzo across the lawn and in the pool filter. And it could be her getting in the car, or catching one in a crossfire. Lonzo had plenty of enemies.
What really moved it along—Bobbi caught him crouching by his walk-in closet, taking out all his shoes, pulling out the bottom shelf, and lifting one of two Louis Vuitton cases hidden there. Working the combination lock, popping the latches, and grabbing a bundle of hundreds, slipping it inside his jacket. Didn’t see her watching when he put the shelf and shoes back.
The next time Lonzo went off on business, she moved the shoes and the shelf, lifting the matching Louis Vuittons one at a time, shaking them, wondering how much cash was in them. Trying different lock combinations on the cases—his birthday, phone number, address—coming up with nothing. Driving herself crazy. Betting one was packed with American, the other with euros, Lonzo covering his ass either way, depending which way he had to run when the time came.
