by Garry Ryan
The girl stopped and looked down at the man.
“Tell them —” the drunk pointed at the women in the lounge chairs “— that beer tastes better than all other fermented drinks.”
“No,” the girl said.
“Why not?” the drunk’s voice boomed. “Don’t you like beer?”
“No. My grandma says it tastes like horse piss.” The girl ran along the edge of the pool and through a doorway.
Lane smiled at the momentary quiet. This guy must have been drinking all night.
The drunk stood up so the water was just under his navel. “That princess doesn’t know what she’s talking about!”
Thirty seconds later two men appeared. Lane noted the anger written up and down their spines. Both were nearly six feet tall. Each weighed over two hundred pounds. One appeared to be sixty; the other, half that. Both had beards, one white and one red. They stood at the edge of the pool facing the drunk.
Lane got up from his chair, stepped carefully around a bougainvillea and onto the sidewalk. This could turn nasty really quickly.
The older man said, “You scared my granddaughter.”
The drunk began to back up. “I was just asking her if she likes beer, man!”
“Then why is she crying?” Red Beard asked.
The drunk raised his arms. “I’m a Canadian! I’m peaceful. I come from Fort Mac!”
Grey Hair pointed at himself and red beard. “We’re Canadian. My granddaughter is Canadian.”
“Is there a problem, señor?” The security guard wore a white shirt, black pants and black ball cap. He was shorter than either of the bearded men, yet he inserted himself neatly between them and the man in the pool.
“I just asked the princess if she liked beer!” The drunk stood up and held out crucified-cerveza arms.
The security guard turned to White Beard. “How old is your granddaughter, amigo?”
White Beard kept his eyes on the drunk. “Five.”
“She was wearing a pink dress?” the security guard asked.
Red Beard nodded.
“My name is Felix.” The security guard put his hand to his chest. “Your granddaughter, her name is Ella?”
Lane stepped forward. “I saw what happened.” Lane pointed at the drunk. “That one frightened Ella.” White Beard’s eyes lasered into the drunk.
The security guard eyed Lane as another complication.
One of the women on the blue deck chair said, “He’s harmless. He just needs to sleep it off.”
If he’s so harmless, why is Ella crying? Lane looked at the woman who wore sunglasses. Beside her were five empty glasses: one upright, four on their sides.
Another security guard arrived, this one taller than anyone else.
The drunk began to lean to one side. His reflexes were off. He stumbled, then slipped underwater in slow motion. He momentarily managed to keep his beer above periscope depth; then the bottle went under.
The guards and the beards waited. The drunk came up once, vomited and went back down.
The guards jumped in and dragged him to the side of the pool. Lane grabbed the sleeves of the drunk’s T-shirt, then pulled his dead-seal weight onto the deck, dodging another rush of vomit.
By the time the cleaning crew arrived, the pool had been shut down, more sun worshippers and swimmers had arrived to reserve deck chairs and the drunk had been carted off to his room in a wheelchair. As Lane walked back to his room, he spotted a toupee atop the purple flowers of the bougainvillea hedge. By breakfast word had spread that the asshole drunk who puked in the pool and closed it down was named Dixon.
Frederick listened to Mrs. Baker saying, “Arthur Miller stripped away the layers of the American Dream to expose its reality.” He gently flexed his shoulder. The swelling was down this morning, and Tylenol was taking care of most the pain. Each pellet wound had a colourful bruise. He was careful to disguise the pain he felt so no one would suspect he was recovering from a gunshot wound. That’s why it was so important to be at school. The first few days were crucial so he could not be connected to the shooting. The papers were full of the story. The police were saying some evidence had been recovered from the car and they were searching for a suspect who drove a stolen red Mustang. He hoped the recovered evidence wasn’t blood. DNA would be difficult to explain away. Mrs. Baker continued: “Willie lives a delusion. A delusion that success is only attributable to personal attractiveness and money.”
Frederick looked at his fingernails and wondered whether it was time for a manicure.
Christine, Matt, Dan and Indiana,
Arthur and I have been thinking that perhaps we would like to have another holiday in the sun. This place is very nice.
We were hoping we could vacation together here. You know, everyone gets a room, has some sun in the wintertime, takes time to relax and decompress. There may be an opportunity for us to purchase some time down here.
What do you think?
Love,
Lane and Arthur
Arthur tapped Lane on the knee as they sat in the lobby. Lane pressed SEND, then logged off. He looked up.
Alejandro wore a loose white linen shirt and khaki shorts. His cheeks were shaved and his hair was slicked straight back. His green eyes were hidden behind Ray-Bans. He’s a chameleon, Lane thought. Even his walk is different. Today he adopted a cocky confidence exuding wealth. Single women sitting at nearby lobby tables turned to watch him as he strode by.
Alejandro pulled out a chair and sat down with Lane and Arthur. Lane saw the shoulders of one or two hopeful women sag. One blonde who’d been hydrating with rum said, “All the good-looking ones are gay.”
“You want a coffee?” Lane asked.
Alejandro nodded. “Love one.”
Arthur said, “Who are you today?”
Alejandro smiled and lifted his chin. “A fresa.”
“How can I be a fresa? My parents came from Lebanon.” Arthur sipped his drink.
Alejandro took off his sunglasses and set them on the table. He looked more closely at Arthur. “You’re close enough to pass.” He winked.
Janet, a waitress with an angelic face, walked over. “Anything else?”
Arthur held up three fingers. “Three cappuccinos, please.” Janet smiled and turned. Arthur tapped Alejandro’s arm. “What do I have to do to be a better fresa?”
Alejandro leaned forward. “Act like a wealthy, snobby, arrogant person who wears lots of bling and looks like this.” He turned his head to the left to lift his collar and reveal his profile. “I’m living the American Dream and I own a place on Palmilla next door to a billionaire.” He flashed a plastic smile. “In fact, I am a billionaire and I own a yacht.”
Arthur smiled.
“Where are we going?” Lane asked.
“Ah, I forgot, you like to get right to the point. We are going whale watching on a great big boat with a bunch of drunk, horny tourists so that we can blend in and take a close look at Bonner’s little boat.”
Bonner’s “little boat” was black, about forty metres long, and had a helicopter parked aft on a helipad and Fire crested in sparkling stainless-steel letters on its side. It was three times the size of any other vessel in the Cabo San Lucas harbour. Lane, Arthur and Alejandro got a close look at it as they leaned on the port-side railing of the lower deck of a white catamaran called Sundancer. Alejandro used a pair of binoculars to inspect Fire from stem to stern, then handed the binoculars to Lane. He looked out along the empty decks and the white-wrapped helicopter on the helipad. How many tonnes of cocaine were sold to buy this?
The deck of Sundancer began to vibrate as it eased away from the dock. Lane took a close look at the bridge of Fire, but there was no indication of movement behind the polarized safety glass.
Sundancer moved out into the harbour. They passed the fishing boats and a gunboat with its masked marines holding automatic weapons and a heavy machine gun mounted on a platform above their heads. On the starboard side, wrinkled, weathered
sand-coloured peaks poked their noses out of the ocean. Sundancer slowed to pass the famous arch where the green water became choppy from the crowd of boats. Tour boats of various shapes and sizes eased in and around for a closer look. Sundancer’s diesel engines growled as it cut through the gentle swells.
Fifteen minutes later they were on the open sea and spotted several smaller boats gathered near a particular patch of ocean. A cloud of vapour rose into the air. A cry went up from the people sitting in lawn chairs at the bow. Sundancer turned, keeping its distance from the whales. Arthur pulled his camera from his pocket and leaned against the railing. Moments later the whale spouted again as its grey–blue back surfaced. A smaller whale surfaced next to it. A third whale swam beside them before arching its back and revealing the white underside of its tail. It dove deep.
Alejandro tapped Lane on the shoulder and pointed at an approaching vessel. Lane recognized its lean elongated bow and white hull even before the sound of its engines reached their ears. The cigarette boat cut a swath between the smaller boats as it bore down on the whales. Mother and calf dove. The cigarette boat roared though the flat patch left on the water’s surface by the whales’ dive. The smaller boats bobbed in the wake of the faster boat. It came within twenty metres of Sundancer. Lane noted the name Wind written across the boat’s bow as he spotted two men standing in the cockpit. One was at the helm; the other was laughing. Lane recognized Bonner and Fuentes. Manny and another man sat behind them. The Hells Angel waved his hands as he emphasized a point. Manny was facing Lane; the other man had his back to Sundancer and did not look their way. The cigarette boat crested swells then splashed into troughs as it raced toward the harbour.
“Did you get a good look at the two in the back?” Lane turned to Alejandro, who followed the boat with his binoculars.
Alejandro waited a moment before he shook his head. “Just the one you call Manny.”
Laughter came from the forward deck. The three of them moved toward the bow. A man lay on his back. A woman straddled him. A blue balloon squeaked in between their crotches. They worked together, simulating passion. The balloon popped and the crowd roared approval. Another couple was chosen. This time the man came at the woman from behind. Arthur moved to the stern. The other two followed.
An hour later, the Sundancer was on its way back to the harbour. They passed El Arco de Cabo San Lucas at sunset. The sun and thin layer of cloud created a red-and-purple backdrop to the arch. In the foreground a woman on a catamaran lifted her sleeveless top to reveal her breasts. “So that’s what those look like,” Arthur said dryly.
Alejandro laughed and slapped Arthur on the back. They eased up to the berth ten minutes later. The cigarette boat Wind was tied up alongside Fire and the lights were on in the cabin beneath Fire’s helipad.
Lane followed Arthur and Alejandro as they stepped off the stern of Sundancer. He kept himself between the crowd and Fire so he could watch any goings-on.
When they arrived at a four-door Jeep, Alejandro asked, “What did you see?” Lane shook his head as he climbed in the passenger seat. Arthur got in the back.
“Mexico is all about the people you know, right?” Arthur asked.
“Of course.” Alejandro turned on the key and the windows whirred down.
“Canada is like that, and so is the US. It’s all about the people you know.” Arthur slid over and leaned forward so his head was between Lane and Alejandro. “Did you notice the yacht?”
“What are you getting at?” Lane asked.
“It rides low in the water. They must be setting up a transportation system. The cigarette boat carries the cargo to the yacht. The yacht carries the cargo north. They have contacts in the north who transfer the cargo at sea and then the cargo gets to the mainland and ultimately to its customers.” Arthur looked at each of them in turn. “It’s right in front of our faces. The marinas are either unaware or are being paid to look the other way.”
Alejandro nodded. “Bonner, Fuentes, Manny and Keystone all have their contacts along the way. So we’re looking at what you would call a hub?”
“Right under our noses.” Lane smiled at Arthur.
“It’s so obvious that it’s almost invisible!” Arthur sat back. “Now let’s go have dinner and a margarita!”
“I know a place.” Alejandro started the engine and drove them back along the highway, past the entrance to Palmilla, then to the restaurant of his friend, where today’s catch of lobster and shrimp was waiting.
Lane checked his email when they got back to the hotel.
Uncle Lane,
Don’t bullshit us. We know you’re on the job. Cam and Erinn Harper have phoned at least four times to ask how we’re doing. Marked and unmarked units drive by at least every ten minutes. We feel very, very safe.
Matt thinks your being in Cabo San Lucas has something to do with the gang war that’s erupting in Calgary. I saw on Facebook that gang suppression officers are hitting restaurants and bars. The media is speculating that we are about to become like Vancouver, Toronto or Montreal. They say the gang violence is getting out of hand.
I don’t know exactly why you are there, but you’d both better come home safe.
Love,
Christine and Indiana
He thought for a few minutes, sipped a soda water, then began to type a reply.
Christine, Indiana, Dan and Matt,
All right. Busted.
We went to Cabo San Lucas today, saw some whales, had a great meal and got some work done. That’s about all I can say right now.
Hope everyone is doing well there. We miss you and hope to see you soon. Could we go out for dinner when we get back?
Love,
Uncle Lane
He sent the message, then composed a second email.
Cam and Nigel,
Thank you for keeping an eye on my family while we are here. Arthur offered an interesting theory while we were in Cabo San Lucas today. A yacht named Fire is berthed in the harbour. A cigarette boat is tied up alongside. Arthur thinks that Luis Bonner, Manny Posadowski and Ignacio Fuentes are setting up a transportation system. The cigarette boat transports the cargo from the mainland to Cabo San Lucas and offloads it onto the yacht. The yacht sails north and offloads the drugs to be transported from there. The fourth member of their team (we’ve nicknamed him Keystone) is yet to be identified. We did spot a fourth suspect in the cigarette boat today but were unable to make a positive ID.
It’s likely that various key contacts here, in San Diego and perhaps in Vancouver or Nanaimo assist in transferring cargo from the yacht to the mainland.
Do you have eyes on members of Moreau’s former transportation network? There may be someone (Keystone?) from Moreau’s old gang at that end who is about to make use of them to transport cargo from Nanaimo/Vancouver, across the Rockies and into our neck of the woods.
Lane
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 13
chapter 11
CC. Nigel Li
Lane,
Nigel and I have put our heads together, connected with some of his contacts and mine to see what members of Moreau’s old network are up to. One of our gang suppression team members has noticed interactions between one of Moreau’s cousins and one of Manny’s lieutenants.
If possible, get a positive ID on Keystone.
We continue to track the driver of the second vehicle (the Mustang) involved in the shooting on Stoney Trail. A handgun was found tucked down beside the driver’s seat. It is a Beretta like the weapon left at the Sleeping Dragon restaurant shooting. The forensics unit found evidence confirming two tires were shot out in the truck by the second recovered Beretta. Dr. Weaver also found blood evidence in the Mustang. The two fatalities were in the truck. Both have been identified as FOB members. Nigel is tracking two persons of interest to see if he can identify the shooter.
Cam
Lane ate a breakfast of fresh pineapple, yogurt, crisp bacon and an omelette filled with tomatoes, peas and corn. He and Arthur
sat at a table on the patio as waves rushed in and crashed onto the beach. A wave curled and the wind blew white water back. For a moment it reminded Lane of horses charging the beach. He reached for his coffee. “How about we take a walk on the beach after breakfast?”
Arthur smiled. “You sure we can take a break from our jobs?”
Twenty minutes later, they walked out onto the sand where men and women in white tops, pants and hats waited with cigars, suitcases of silver jewellery, stacks of hats and collections of colourful scarves for sale. One asked, “Señor?”
Arthur said, “No gracias.”
A man in a wide-brimmed straw hat asked, “Cuban cigars, amigo?”
“No gracias,” Lane said.
With heads down, they slogged though the soft sand on the way to the edge of the ocean.
The man followed. “Want ganja?”
Arthur shook his head and continued to walk away.
“Cocaína?” the man continued. “Good stuff.”
“Did he say kokanee?” Arthur asked.
Lane shook his head as they reached the firmer sand close to the water.
A boy and a girl rode horseback toward them. A man in a wide-brimmed hat followed. The boy might have been ten, the girl a year or two older. Her shoulder-length hair was blown back. A wave ran up the beach and up the horse’s knees. The boy began to laugh. The girl joined in. There was something pure and wild in their voices. It stopped Lane. The wave rolled up over his shoes and too late he danced onto dry sand.
Arthur laughed and put his hand on Lane’s shoulder. “Those kids were having so much fun. When was the last time we laughed like that?”
Alejandro was waiting for them at the red-roofed beach bar when they got back from their walk. He sipped from a water bottle and pointed out at the sea. “Whales.”
Lane and Arthur turned to watch. About a minute later the grey–blue back of a whale surfaced. A moment later, a smaller one appeared.
“The baby,” Alejandro said as one of the adult whales launched itself out of the water. It reached for the sky then fell sideways into the ocean in a mountain of white.
