by Dave Butler
After waving at the waitress to get their bill, Brown summed up what they were all thinking. “Well, it looks like you have a decision to make, Jenny,” she said. “If you’re okay with only getting Eastman, then you’ve got enough to charge him now. That means you’ll probably never see the American again. And then there’s nothing we can do on our side of the border.”
The waitress dropped the bill in front of Brown. “My treat,” she said and handed the waitress a government credit card. She also left a healthy tip to express their collective appreciation of the waitress’s leaving them alone during lunch.
Then she continued her summary. “If you want the American, you appear to have two choices. If you nab him up there in the act, you may or may not get a conviction under your laws. One thing we know for sure is that, if you do arrest him in Canada, you’ll be dealing with an army of lawyers and the U.S. consulate. Most rich guys have top-notch lawyers on speed-dial. Who knows how that’ll turn out? But if we catch him after crossing the border into the U.S. with an animal taken illegally in Canada, we can throw the book at him down here. Regardless of which of those two options you choose, it means the guy you’re chasing needs to go back up to Canada for one more illegal hunt.”
Willson and Forsyth both nodded their agreement, and after a few minutes all three made their way out of the café. “Thanks for this,” said Willson as they walked to their vehicles. “I enjoyed talking to you, Tracy. You’ve given me lots of great information and I really appreciate your willingness to assist. I’ve got decisions to make and I need to make them soon.”
After shaking hands with the U.S. agent and promising to let her know what they decided, Willson and Forsyth began the drive back to Canada. Willson was behind the wheel, and as they passed the northern edge of Sandpoint, she glanced over at the young warden.
“Bill, what are you thinking?” she asked.
“Oh,” said Forsyth, after a petulant pause, “am I allowed to speak now?”
“Don’t be an ass,” she said.
“As much as I hate to think about losing another animal in one of our parks,” he said, “I’d love to see both these assholes behind bars. Not just Eastman, the American, too.”
“I’m with you one hundred percent,” said Willson. “I’m confident I’ve got enough to charge Eastman now and that’s not going to change if I delay a while. But if I can get both of them, that’s my preference. I would hate to charge one, only to lose the other. Time to roll the dice.”
She turned on the windshield wipers as a light rain began to fall. “When we get back to Banff,” she said, “I’m going to call Clark, see if I can meet with him, ideally without his lawyer. I’ve got to find a way to persuade him to name Eastman’s client, because there’s no way in hell Eastman will roll on him. Everything rests on getting the name. Failing that, maybe the guy is coming up for another hunt and I can squeeze Clark into telling me when and where. That’s not a great Plan B and there’s a hell of a lot that could go wrong with it. But at this point, it’s my only Plan B.”
“And what am I supposed to do while you’re talking to Clark?”
Willson smiled. “You can hang out at Tim Hortons and finish your reports. Sound good?”
Forsyth scowled. “Not bloody likely.”
Chapter 22
July 12
Through a long one-way window in his second-floor office, Luis Castillo gazed down on the three rooms and five hundred gaming machines in his Bonners Ferry operation, a casino overlooking the Kootenay River where it looped south into northern Idaho. Castillo’s hands were clasped behind his back as he watched his staff use every tactic he’d taught them, all subtle yet effective, to pull as many dollars as possible out of his guests’ pockets. From slots to poker tables, cigarette machines to cocktails, meals to hotel rooms, the pieces were in place for money to flow. Outside, the mid-July sun was brilliant and scorching. But in the casino, airconditioning kept his guests alert and spending.
Castillo’s mind, however, wasn’t on the scene below him. With the economy of the Pacific Northwest worsening and the dropping Canadian dollar translating to fewer gamblers coming south, he was concerned about cash flow. Revenues were shrinking throughout his business empire, not only in his legitimate enterprises, but also those operating on the other side of the law. That made it difficult for him to shift money from one side of that line to the other. As a result, he was putting pressure on managers in all his businesses to find new sources of revenue and, at the same time, to cut their operating costs. His partners were pressuring him, as well.
Castillo pondered the mounting challenges that were making him lose sleep and snap at his wife more than he should. In this rapidly changing environment, it was tougher and tougher to stay on top of his suppliers and meet the demands of those to whom he supplied. And that was his biggest concern of all. Every one of his business colleagues had high expectations and a low tolerance for delays or excuses. They were neither patient nor forgiving.
There was a discreet knock on the office door behind him. He turned, vigorously rubbing his hands against his face in an attempt to refocus his thoughts.
“Entras,” he said.
The casino security director opened the door and stepped into the room. Billy Whitehead, a muscular, six-foot-five Native American from the local Kootenai tribe, had worked for Castillo for ten years. Dressed in a dark-blue suit and open-collared white shirt, his broad face unsmiling, his nose hawk-like, his hair hanging down his back in a thick, ebony braid, he was a guy you didn’t mess with. One glare from Whitehead calmed the unruliest of casino visitors, making it rare for the man to have to put his hands on anyone. When he did, the offender would be removed from the casino quickly and with little commotion.
“A Mr. Eastman says he has an appointment with you, Mr. Castillo,” Whitehead said.
“Send him in, Billy,” said Castillo, “and please hang around in case I need you.”
A man of few words, Whitehead nodded and then stood aside to let Bernie Eastman enter the office. The two men were the same height. Castillo watched Whitehead stare at the visitor, eye to eye and without expression, as the Canadian passed him in the doorway. He saw the brief look of surprise in Eastman’s eyes when he realized that Whitehead showed no fear of him. None at all.
“Welcome to my casino, Bernie,” said Castillo. “Thanks for coming down.”
“Sure,” said Eastman gruffly. “I decided that you and I needed to talk … so I brought my boys down with me.”
“I hope they’re comfortable.”
“They are. They’re at the pool. Nothin’ personal, but I won’t let my wife anywhere near this place. I can’t afford it.”
Castillo moved toward a sitting area that occupied a corner of his office. “I understand. May I get you a coffee or a beer?”
“Yeah, I’ll take a beer,” said Eastman.
Leaving the Stella Artois for important guests, Castillo pulled a long-neck Budweiser out of a small fridge hidden in the wall, opened it, and passed the sweating bottle to Eastman. With any other guest, he would’ve poured the beer into a glass. But he knew that the man would neither care nor notice the difference. He served himself a sparkling water on ice. They sat in matching armchairs, facing each other.
“I hope your family enjoy themselves while they’re here, so please let me know if you need anything,” said Castillo. “Now, what is it you wish to talk about?”
“Well, we got some problems … so I thought we should meet in person,” said Eastman. “I didn’t want to talk on the phone.”
“Does this concern Charlie Clark and your last phone call to me?” asked Castillo, holding the crystal water glass in his left hand.
“Yeah, that’s part of it.”
“What’s happening?”
“About two months ago, I think the little fucker talked to the cops about our huntin’ trips.”
Eastman began to tear at a corner of the label on the bottle. “Because I planned to handle it myself,” he said, “and nothin’s happened since then.”
“I see. What do you think he told them?” asked Castillo.
“I don’t know,” said Eastman. “He’s been doin’ his best to avoid me, so we haven’t talked face to face yet. But I talked to his wife and she thought he and his lawyer met with cops and some wildlife-and-parks guys about some kinda deal.”
“Have any of those officials come back to talk to you after they searched your house the first time?”
“Nope,” said Eastman, “so I’m pretty sure they don’t have much on us — no evidence or proof or anythin’ like that — beyond whatever it was that Charlie might’ve yapped his gums to ’em about.”
“You’re pretty sure?” asked Castillo. “That does not give me a high degree of comfort, Bernie.”
“I’m tellin’ ya what I know, and that’s all I know,” said Eastman, tearing more of the label off the bottle. “He works for me, so I decided to deal with it my way. I’m gonna keep chasin’ that piece of shit until I find him … and find out what he told ’em. And if I have to beat it out of him, I will. So you don’t need to worry.”
“I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t get concerned when people I rely on screw up,” said Castillo, emptying his glass and then placing it on a folded linen napkin on a table to his left. “This is definitely your problem, Bernie, and you’re going to have to make it go away, sooner than later.” Castillo held Eastman’s gaze, his face devoid of expression. “But let’s not be hasty. While those pretend cops up there aren’t smart enough to figure out what we’ve been doing, I don’t want you to do anything to get them more interested in us. In the interim, I think we’ve got something Clark can do for us.”
“What the hell could he do for us?” said Eastman with a scowl. “That skinny prick is so dumb I want nothin’ more to do with him.”
“You know I’ve got my eye on one more animal up there,” said Castillo, “and I believe your Charlie Clark can help me get it.”
“What in hell are you talkin’ about?” said Eastman. “The guy coulda talked to the cops about what we’ve done and you wanna keep workin’ with him? That makes no goddamn sense.”
“I know why you hired him, Bernie,” said Castillo, “and I know how little you pay him. We both know he’s a scared little man with no self-confidence. I have no doubt that, as soon as the cops put any pressure on him, he spilled his guts.”
The label was off the beer bottle now. Castillo watched Eastman crumple it in his meaty hand and drop it on the table beside him.
“I already told you that there’s one trophy still on my list from your part of the world,” Castillo said. “I can’t get it in Idaho because there are too few animals left and they’re very difficult to locate. We’ve talked about where I can get it in British Columbia and when I want to come up. It’s getting messy up there and I don’t like it.” He rested his hand on the table beside him, running a manicured fingernail up and down the outside of the empty glass. “I need you to tell Clark that I’m coming up in that first week of September to hunt in your territory, just like we talked about. What’s out of season then?”
“Uh … what’s out of …? Well, I don’t have any quota for griz’ this year,” said Eastman, looking puzzled.
“That’s perfect,” said Castillo. “I want you to tell Clark that I’m coming up to get a big grizzly bear. And that I’m going to take it from that park in your territory. What’s it called?”
“You mean the Purcell Wilderness Conservancy?”
“That’s the one.”
“You want me to tell him you’re coming up to shoot somethin’ that I don’t have quota for, in another park?” said Eastman, still not understanding Castillo’s intentions. His arms were crossed across his big chest. “What if he tells the conservation officers?”
“That’s exactly what I want him to do,” said Castillo, his gaze moving to the large window overlooking the casino. One more hunt up there, he thought. It’s the one I’ve dreamed about for years. He could already see the head on his wall, could hear the admiration in the voices of his friends and family. He smiled a quick smile. And when that was done, it would be the last time he’d do business with these idiots from north of the border. Eastman would miss his money … and those stupid cops up there were going to be left empty-handed, again. Another quick smile, gone by the time he turned back to Eastman. “Please set up the hunt just as we talked about it.”
“Okay, I’ll do that,” said Eastman, “but … because this next one is riskier and more complicated to pull off … with bigger expenses, I’ll need … an extra ten grand on top of our normal fee.”
Castillo took his time responding. This guy has balls, he thought, to be asking for more money at a time when he really has no leverage at all. But then again, he deeply desired this trophy. It was so unique and so rare that he’d be a member of a small and very exclusive club. And he liked that.
“I’ll tell you what, Bernie,” said Castillo, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll pay you the fee we previously agreed on, plus five thousand more — when, and only when, the animal is in my possession in Spokane. But that’s it.”
Eastman was silent, apparently considering a counter-offer. But Castillo knew that the man was in no position to negotiate. “Fuck,” said Eastman in resignation, “let’s get it done.”
“Good. I look forward to it,” said Castillo. “And then, once you’re sure that Clark told the game cops up there about what we’re planning, I want you to make that problem go away. For good. Do you understand me?”
He saw Eastman’s throat bob as he swallowed hard. “I understand,” he said.
“Good. Now, what else did you want to talk to me about?”
Eastman wrung his hands and squirmed in the leather seat. “Have you got another beer?” he asked.
“No, I do not,” replied Castillo, purposefully keeping the man on edge.
“It’s about the production facility at my place,” said Eastman, when he finally gained the courage to speak.
“What about it?”
“Well, I hate to say this, but Clark’s bitch wife led some guys to it,” said Eastman, looking down at the thick rug on the floor, “and they fuckin’ ripped off all the plants and busted up all the equipment.”
“I will assume that you are a smart enough man not to joke with me about something like this.” Castillo now sat forward in his chair, his hands on his knees.
“This is no fuckin’ joke,” said Eastman. “I talked to some guys I know … and it looks like there’s a bike gang workin’ out of Calgary that’s tryin’ to take over all the business in the Kootenays. I’m sure it was them. I heard they did the same thing to a local meth lab two days after they hit my place.”
“So you’re telling me you let these guys walk in and take your product and destroy the equipment?”
“Jesus,” said Eastman, “do you really think I’d let someone do that? It looks like the bitch tried to sell them some dope … and they musta forced her to take them to my place. I found her all beat up when I got back from camp.”
“Where is she now?” asked Castillo.
“I made sure she won’t be a problem for us again,” said Eastman.
“Are you certain of that?” asked Castillo.
“I’m certain,” replied Eastman. “She was near dead when I found her and she deserved what she got. She’s been a pain in my ass since I first met her in Calgary. I guarantee the problem is buried.” His look told Castillo that this was no metaphor.
Castillo was quiet, brooding, dangerous. He stared at Eastman with a look of white-hot anger.
“How are you going to fix this mess?” asked Castillo t
hree uncomfortable minutes later.
“I need cash so I can get back into production as soon as possible,” said Eastman. “I’ve been able to keep going since then by selling the stuff I had stored in another place on my property.”
“Wait,” said Castillo. “When did this happen?”
“Uh … back in early June,” said Eastman.
Castillo slammed his fist down on the table beside him, knocking the crystal glass onto the rug. It did not break. Instead, it rolled in a lazy circle, bumping against a cabinet on the far wall.
“You idiot!” he shouted, rising to his feet. “You waited this long to tell me? Don’t you realize that the guys who ripped you off will do that over and over again now they know what you’re doing there? You can’t start up again as if nothing happened. Not if they’re still around. You’re not thinking, Bernie. Don’t you understand that by linking our business with that useless bitch, you’ve put my entire investment there at risk? And I’ve got buyers waiting for that product. It was supposed to be ready to move now!”
As Castillo stood glaring at Eastman, his hands opening and closing in rage, the door to the office opened. Billy Whitehead stepped into the room. “Is everything okay, Mr. Castillo?” he asked.
“Mr. Eastman just gave me some troubling news, Billy, so everything is not okay,” said Castillo, still focused on Eastman. “Thank you for checking in. Please leave us for the moment.”
After staring at Eastman for a few seconds, Whitehead left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
“Hey,” said Eastman, his hands open and wide, “none of this is my fault.”
“Bernie, I hold you personally responsible for the two messes you brought me today,” said Castillo. “There is no one else to blame. It is all your fault. The fact you don’t understand makes me even angrier.” He pondered his next move. He was not going to give Eastman any indication as to the state of his cash flow, how the loss of revenue from the grow op would affect that, or how angry his buyers would be when they heard he had nothing to sell them. He’d have to find other product somewhere else, fast, likely at a much higher cost. And he wasn’t going to let Eastman off the hook for the imbeciles he’d hired around him. The fucker’s incompetence had created this situation and he would make him pay, one way or another. But first, he needed a way out.
