Garson’s eyes flare and the veins in his neck spring out like cords as he clenches his jaw. He wants to do something about this, to not let the comment stand, but he glances between the two men and thinks better of it.
“Some other day,” he says, “I’ll teach you some goddamned manners.”
“I look forward to the instruction,” Nolan says.
“Only don’t bring your dad here,” Garson says. “Just you and little old me.”
Nolan nods and turns, pushes open the door. McKelvey backs out of the porch, never taking his eyes off Wade Garson, who stares with cold hatred. It is starting to snow now, thick flakes languidly falling, and the formerly ominous woods now appear new and peaceful. It reminds McKelvey of the cover on a Christmas card. There is no sign of the dog, so McKelvey believes the animal has figured out how to dislodge the rock from its yap and has found a place to lick its wounds. Nolan starts the vehicle and does a three-point turn, heads them back out the way they came.
The two men sit on the side of the highway in silence for a time. A single transport truck loaded with lengths of freshly cut timber roars past. And then Nolan sighs and says, “I appreciate your help back there. But listen, Charlie. I want to do this job on the up and up. I cut corners all my life until I came back here, back home. I know it probably sounds pathetic to you, being a big-city cop and everything, but I want to uphold the law here in Saint B. I want to be an example.”
“I understand, Ed. You invited me along to this shit show. You wanted to see how I’d turn this guy over, squeeze some information out of him. Well, there you go. You got to see it up close. You also have to understand that I don’t have a job to lose. So I might be the best or worst partner you’ll ever have. Either way, that’s how I would have played it back in the city or here in town. You’ve got to be in control from the moment that door opens. Let’s get going. We don’t want to keep the mayor and your boss waiting.”
McKelvey is disappointed only as far as he has let this young cop down. Otherwise, he could care less about Wade Garson or his dog, or the trampling of the man’s rights as guaranteed by the Constitution. On the streets, there is only one charter of rights, and that is the right to live or die, to shoot or be shot. It has been so long since he included the moral or ethical aspect to any weighting or valuation that he marvels at Nolan’s honesty and purity. The kid is not naive, far from it. He is simply the real deal. Ed Nolan is a lawman. Goddamn, McKelvey thinks. This is me twenty years ago …
Dear Journal,
I had a dream the other night. I was walking through a huge room crowded with people, this room that never seemed to end. All these people I’ve known in my life were there. Caroline, Hattie, schoolteachers, cops I worked with over the years, perps I put away were all there patting me on the back as I passed through, Jessie and Emily were there, neighbours from the old street, even the Italian who lives on the first floor of my building back in the city, Huff my bartender at Garrity’s. But Gavin wasn’t there. I kept waiting. I kept smiling at people and pushing past them. Finally I got to the end of the room, to this wall, and I turned around and started back through the crowd. I kept looking for his face, his dark hair and that cowlick. The more people crowded around me, the harder I had to push through them. And then I saw the back of his head. I knew it was him, and I called his name. But he wouldn’t turn around. I kept calling his name. And then I woke up. I felt sick and ripped off. I had this idea running through my head like the lines from a song. I wrote them down and then fell back asleep. When I woke up later, I tried to read the words I had written, but it was all just scribbling. I could have cried.
Twelve
They are assembled in the mayor’s office, drinking from Coffee Time cups, a box of doughnuts open on the desk. The office is small and modest, little more than a desk and three chairs, a bookcase filled with titles on municipal law and infrastructure development. There are framed pictures across one wall, shots of the mayor smiling and cutting ribbons or shaking hands with old people. The photos are all old, from a decade ago or more. The mayor, Danny Marko, stands up when Nolan and McKelvey walk in. Chief Gallagher nods, and Carl Levesque smiles his toothy smile. His lips are powdered from the jelly doughnut he is eating.
“Constable Nolan, Mr. McKelvey,” the mayor says, motioning them to sit down, although there is only one vacant chair. “Thanks for joining us this morning. You especially, Mr. McKelvey. Constable Nolan here says we’re fortunate you decided to return home when you did. I guess we’ll see about that.”
“Constable Pete Younger can’t join us. He’s down to the hospital in Timmins to get a statement from Mark Watson. Kid had a four-inch blade perforate his bowel,” Gallagher says, and shakes his head.
McKelvey is surprised to see Levesque here, but he supposes that Levesque could be considered a significant stakeholder in the community, in that he owns a good number of the old Carver Company houses and has plans for the future. Both McKelvey and Nolan stand, moving to the sides of the room so they can lean against the walls.
“Constable Nolan, you interviewed Scotty Cooper early this morning about his altercation with Mark Watson,” Gallagher continues. “He’s to be transferred to Monteith later this morning. Second local kid we’ve shipped down to the detention centre in a week. He say anything of value, Ed?”
Nolan pulls his black notepad from the side pocket on his winter jacket. He flips a few pages, scans his writing quickly.
“He’s despondent.” Nolan raises his head to look around the room. It is as though he has never had to use that word applied to any situation here in Saint B. “Suffering the effects of narcotics. Coming down, his eyes are red and dilated, and he’s not making much sense. He goes from ranting about Mark, to just crying and rocking. He’s scared. I asked him where he got the drugs and he said the arcade. I asked from who, and he said from nobody. I asked him again, who sold you the drugs, and he said, quote, ‘they were just there,’ end quote.”
“He won’t finger the seller,” says Gallagher. “This generation and their bullshit code. Don’t snitch. Well, anything else of note?”
Nolan scans his writing and closes his book. “Maybe in a day or two when Scott Cooper has detoxed we can talk to him again.”
“We’ve got a serious issue here, boys,” Danny Marko says, and shakes his head slowly to punctuate the gravity of the moment. He is a squat man with a small pot belly and a round face. He wears a moustache, which comes in too thin, giving him the appearance of a teenager trying to look older than his years. “Mark Watson is in critical condition. They’ve got him stabilized but he’s not out of the woods yet. And Scotty Cooper, I know his family. I hunt with his father, for God’s sake. What the hell is happening here?”
Chief Gallagher sets his coffee cup on the edge of the desk. He leans back in the chair and folds his arms across his chest. He is dressed in khaki pants and a cable-knit sweater with a thickly coiled roll-up neck. The moustache he wears is thin and trim and silver. McKelvey thinks the man looks more like a mutual fund adviser than a cop.
“Best we can tell, it was a drug deal gone wrong,” Gallagher says, as though this sort of thing happens all the time in a small town. He looks down at his own hands and shakes his head. “Methamphetamine,” he says quietly, as though in speaking the word he might better understand its power.
“Drug deal? Methamphetamine? This is Saint B, not goddamned Toronto.” Marko’s eyes flash to the visitor, the politician careful not to offend. “No offence, Mr. McKelvey.”
“None taken. I was born here.”
“True enough,” Marko says. “We’re glad you could spend some time with us this morning. Constable Nolan here suggested your experience in the city could be of benefit under these, uh, less than ideal circumstances.”
“I don’t think we need to be pulling any alarms here, Danny,” Gallagher says. “This is something we can and will deal with from the inside. What we need right now is strong, steady leadership. Not kneejerk reactions.”
Marko rests back in his chair and smiles. “Well, Gallagher, when you’re sitting in this seat one day, you’ll get to provide all the strong, steady leadership that you want.” He then pulls upright and the smile falls from his face. “Until that day, I’m the mayor and you’re an employee of this township. I won’t be undermined, not in here and not out on the street.”
Gallagher nods once. He uses a thumb and forefinger to smooth his moustache.
“The Crown is coming in this week,” Gallagher says. “There’s some buzz down in the city about the Lacey attack and now this stabbing. Two attempt murder charges in a week. We’ll need to have a briefing ready for this woman. Nolan, you up to the paperwork?”
“Consider it done.”
“The truth is, this isn’t just a drugs or a teenage problem for us,” Marko says. “Saint B is hanging on by a thread. The provincial police have been taking over the policing in small towns all over the province. It’s cheaper than running your own small force. Our days may be numbered. We need to be able to show the people of Saint B that we can protect them better than outsiders with no roots in this town. We’ve got some economic development opportunities that could change the fortunes of this place and turn things around one-eighty. Kids stabbing each other isn’t good for business.”
Levesque wipes a dab of lemon jelly from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, and says, “I couldn’t agree more. We need to nip this in the bud before potential investors get scared and run down the road to Kirkland Lake or some fucking place like Cobalt. What about a search of the lockers up at the high school?”
“You leave the policing to us, Carl,” Gallagher says.
“What policing is that again?”
“You just remember who’s got your back around here.”
“Enough with the pissing match,” Marko pipes up. “I’ll expect an update on this in twenty-four hours. Let me know what you’ve found out, where this shit is coming from, and what your plan is.”
The men all begin to move, standing from their chairs, uncrossing arms. McKelvey follows Nolan to the door, and Marko says, “Hey, Eddie, you make sure our guest here has whatever he needs. We can use all the help we can get.”
Gallagher shoots Marko a look, but the mayor just smiles, pleased with himself.
“Nolan,” Gallagher says, “wait up there a minute.”
Outside the air is cold and clean. Flakes melt on contact with warm flesh, bead like drops of rain. Gallagher looks agitated.
“Listen, Nolan,” he says, and then looks over at McKelvey. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Marko and Levesque, but I got a call right before this meeting from Harry Griffith. You know Harry Griffith, right?”
Nolan nods. “Scumbag defence lawyer for all the reprobates of the North. Garson family has him on speed-dial, I bet.”
“My point exactly. Harry goddamned Griffith called me not fifteen minutes ago.” Gallagher leans in closer, and his volume drops by half. “Seems he got a call from Wade Garson about you and your new partner here abusing him in his home without so much as a warrant.”
“Abusing him,” Nolan repeats. He can’t stop the small smile from turning his lip.
“Wipe that grin off your face, Constable.” Gallagher’s eyes flash with anger, the veins on his temple rise like turgid worms beneath the flesh. “I’m in enough of a jam these days without having that scumbag Harry Griffith climbing up my ass. Now smarten up.”
Gallagher looks over to McKelvey, who has taken a few steps to the side to offer some space.
“That knock on the head must have driven out some common sense,” Gallagher says, and then shakes his head. He has nothing else to say. He looks up at Nolan and his face folds on itself, a father who is not angry, but disappointed. “You best head on over and talk with Miss Laney at the arcade. Go easy, Eddie. And keep an eye on your friend here.”
The snowfall is gaining strength, the flakes coming down thick and heavy. An inch has covered the cruiser during the twenty minutes the men gathered in the mayor’s office. Nolan brushes the vehicle clean while McKelvey sits inside, the engine running, his mind running. He has little interest in this turn of events. Rather, he wants to get back to the Station Hotel and talk to the old-timers about the strike and the violence that came with it, that dark year in Saint B’s history. He wants to understand once and for all his father’s place within a past unspoken.
He watches as the world around him becomes clear, as Nolan brushes away the snow from the windshield. The day is bright but grey as gun metal and he finds himself squinting. This thing right now, sure, what he would do is talk to the most connected teacher up at the high school, get a lay of the land. Talk to the local pharmacist. Talk to whoever runs the arcade, talk to the kid who was stabbed …
Nolan jumps in, removes and sets his gloves between the seats. He claps his hands together and blows into them. McKelvey can feel the younger man’s eyes on him.
“So,” Nolan says. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking your boss and the mayor have opposing views on my involvement here. I’m also thinking Chief Gallagher sees himself running for mayor in next fall’s election. Neither thought makes me overly eager. I don’t have a good track record for — how would you say it — playing politics.”
Nolan nods and puts the cruiser in reverse. Main Street is empty. The snow is coming in on an angle, the plump flakes hypnotic framed through the windshield. Space and time cease to exist as they shuttle through the swirling white labyrinth. McKelvey remembers now how quickly the snow can obliterate the world up here, how it can become both the alpha and the omega, north and south. He recalls storms that seemed to be alive with energy, almost a human character, tricking mortals by slowing for a time and then surging back. It is for this reason the people of Ste. Bernadette became accustomed to holding an emergency stock of non-perishables in a cellar — cans of soup, crackers, tuna and sardines, candles, matches, batteries.
“I don’t trust Carl Levesque,” Nolan says. He is sitting straight, hands at two and ten o’clock. “This deal he keeps talking about, land for a casino and resort. I heard he’s been meeting with the chief and economic officer over at the reserve. He wants to run shuttle buses from all the smaller communities and reserves into Saint B so folks can feed their pension and welfare cheques into slot machines.”
“Where is he getting the seed money?” McKelvey asks. “He’d need into the seven figures to get a venture like that off the ground.”
“I guess that’s why I don’t trust him. Guy like Levesque, I mean, come on. He’s a comb salesman. Where would he get that kind of backing unless it was dirty money?”
“There are ways to look into his business. Discreetly. See if he’s up to date on his income tax, how many bank accounts he’s got in his name, that sort of thing. What they used to call skip tracing. The collection agencies have these guys who are bad or worse than cops. The good ones can sniff shit on a shoe from a hundred miles away.”
“Skip tracing,” Nolan repeats, and nods. He stares into the swirling white void ahead. “You be able to help me with that sort of thing?”
“I know a guy down in Toronto. Real dirtbag, but probably the best skip tracer in the world. I’ll give him a call and introduce you. It’ll cost you, though. He works by the hour, regardless of what he finds.”
“Let’s start there,” Nolan says. “If there’s dirty money coming around Saint B, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we’ve got this meth coming in, too. For all I know, Carl Levesque could be backed by the mob out of Thunder Bay.”
McKelvey smiles. He likes what he hears from the young cop. He turns to the side window and rubs the fog with his gloved hand. His work reveals a world of pure whiteness. He squints against the brightness. There’s Main Street, the main artery of his hometown. And it looks for an instant like the idyllic scene in a snow globe. He’s a kid again, standing in his pyjamas at the kitchen window, mesmerized by the innocence an
d simple joy of falling snow. For a fleeting moment he is filled with what he believes must be a sense of gratitude. For this life, this moment. He is alive.
“Just to be clear,” McKelvey says, looking out the window, “I’m not working with you. My police days are done.”
“I can respect that,” Nolan says, and nods. “I’ll get you home now.”
They drive in silence for a long moment, cruising down Main Street.
“You don’t mind if I just make a few stops on the way,” Nolan says, and he can’t hide the smile.
Thirteen
The machines ping and whir in the dimly lit arcade while lights flash and snap like technicolour paparazzi. It’s mid-morning, and despite it being a school day a dozen kids stand or sit or slouch in front of the video games. These places have always depressed McKelvey for some reason he can’t quite put a finger on. It’s the same with carnivals, and he wonders now if this notion has stuck with him ever since he was a boy and the fall fair would come through town. Strangers arriving in their old trucks hauling dented chrome rides, these filthy and bedraggled men falling out of vans and old school buses to set about constructing a temporary fun-land in some empty field. There seemed to be no genuine delight on the faces of those hung-over and dark-eyed workers as they barked out the rules and chances for their games — three balls for a dollar! — and McKelvey’s father would always say just under his breath how it was all rigged. The workers were mostly ex-cons down on their luck, Grey McKelvey would say, and the rides were probably all missing important parts.
“These games all a dollar?” McKelvey asks, checking out a machine by the door that features some sort of alien robots under attack from other alien robots.
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