Serpents Rising

by David A. Poulsen

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “So about that question….”

  He gave me a look I couldn’t read. “One question. All right, I owe you. I’ll give you one question, then we’re even and after that I don’t want to see you again, you hearing me Cullen?”

  I nodded. “Fair enough. I was wondering, for the purposes of the story I’m writing, if you could direct me to someone who might know something about the shooting last night. Over in Ramsay. Crack house, a couple of dealers.”

  Yik’s face didn’t move but he didn’t answer right away. Thinking. “I know about the incident, Cullen. My advice is you’d better leave it out of any story you’re writing.” He started moving again.

  “Come on, Yik. You told me you’d answer one question. That’s my question. Let’s say I was going to mention it in my story, I’d sort of like to have my facts straight, you know.”

  Yik’s mouth moved again, about the same amount as last time. “All right, that’s your question. Here’s my answer and I’m giving you this only because of before, you understand what I’m saying here?”

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  “That house ain’t Asian. Different group. And here’s the bonus, Cullen. Badass guys. It would be a big mistake to walk up to them like you did with me just now.”

  “If it’s not Asian, what should we —”

  Yik took a half-step forward, stopped. “You’ve had your one question, Cullen. I won’t say I’ll see you around because that isn’t going to happen. So let’s just leave it at goodbye.”

  “What about M and F Holdings? Ever hear of a company by that name?”

  “Same answer, Cullen. Don’t try my patience.”

  As Yik moved ahead, the gorilla opposite Cobb stepped forward too, expecting Cobb to move. Cobb didn’t move. A game of sidewalk chicken.

  “Now, gentlemen,” Yik said, the tone of a dad to his kids. “Remember the golden rule.”

  He very deliberately stepped between Cobb and me and headed off down the street. The gorilla stepped around Cobb and followed, his shoulder just brushing Cobb on the way by. I realized that Cobb had not said a word in that entire exchange. Probably a good thing.

  I’d never actually seen Cobb in action before today. When he’d investigated the fire and the note, he’d worked on his own, reported in a few times. I guess I hadn’t expected somebody out of a Bruce Willis movie.

  We turned and watched the trio walk toward Centre Street. I looked at Cobb. “Why is it I get the feeling that if I’m going to hang out with you I better make sure my health care premiums are up to date?”

  He didn’t answer.

  When we were back in the car, I said, “You believe him?”

  Cobb shrugged. “He was playing it up. Telling you he knows more than you do, that he’s a big deal in this world.” He waved a hand to show what part of the world he meant. “And he’s not afraid of us so there was no reason to lie. But I did get a sense that he was maybe a little nervous when it comes to whoever his rivals are over there in Ramsay. In fact, he might be more than a little scared, even with his goons beside him.”

  We spent the rest of the afternoon on Calgary’s darkest, meanest streets. More homeless shelters, a couple of church-run basement flophouses manned by tired looking, well-meaning people. We stopped everyone who looked younger than thirty — there were lots of them — to show the photo and ask about Jay Blevins. A few times glimmers of recognition tried to work their way through fog-shrouded minds. But never did. All we got from a couple of guys was that they knew Jay, had seen him around, maybe even talked to him, but had no idea where he’d be or even who we might ask for a little more in-depth information.

  Some neighbourhoods take on a vibrant, pulsing new persona as the darkness of night falls. This one did not. The film noir feel to the place was palpable.

  Cobb and I had split up again, agreed to meet at seven on the corner of 9th Avenue and 8th Street. There was a used bookstore there, a good one. The temperature was dropping fast and a north wind was starting to whip around me as I walked. Though we’d had a couple of snowfalls, this was the first real blast of winter cold and reminded me that this season was fourth on my list of favourites.

  I tried to bury my face in the scarf I’d had the foresight to stuff in a pocket of the down-filled jacket I was wearing. Gloves too. Good.

  I approached a Goodwill store that doubled as a shelter. Small place, wouldn’t house many residents. The sign outside said LET THE SUNSHINE INN. A woman stood just outside, leaning against a red-faded-to-dirty-auburn brick wall.

  She was holding a chipped, orange coffee cup, full of what looked like coffee, or maybe tea, steaming a little. Both hands around the cup. She had short blond-brown hair, gentle contours to her face, early thirties, not tall, not short, tired looking, like the building she was leaning against and like most of the people around here. Except she was better dressed than most. I stopped in front of her.

  “Let the Sunshine Inn. That the name of the place or does somebody really like the song?”

  She straightened only slightly. “Maybe both.”

  “Do you work in the Goodwill store?”

  She regarded me with what I took to be mistrust. “Volunteer.”

  I nodded. “Been doing that long?”

  “If that’s a pickup line, it’s one of the worst ever.” A smile softened the words.

  I returned the smile. “You should hear my others, they’re even worse.” I held out my hand. “I’m Adam Cullen. I’m looking for someone, a kid I was hoping you might know or at least may have seen around here. His name is Jay Blevins.”

  She sipped the drink, her eyes on me over the top of the cup. “Police?”

  I shook my head. “Actually I’m a writer. A journalist.” Again the mistrust in eyes that looked like they’d seen some of the downside of life. “But this doesn’t have anything to do with a story. A friend of mine and I are doing a favour for the young man’s father. He’s worried about Jay.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “This one’s different,” I said. “This is a dad who’s not just worried about the kid doing drugs. Jay could be in some danger, real danger, and it’s important that we find him as soon as possible.”

  “Good Samaritans, you and your friend.” Her voice was slightly husky, like she’d just woken up. I always liked that kind of voice.

  “Actually, no, we’re not. I guess it’s not really a favour in the strictest sense. My friend is a private detective. Jay’s father hired him to try to protect the kid from a potentially serious threat.” I sketched in general terms what had happened on Raleigh and the possible link to Jay.

  “And you’re helping because…?”

  “Yeah, I don’t really qualify as a good Samaritan either. I lied when I said it wasn’t about a story. I mean, I’d like to find the kid and help him, we both would. But I’m a journalist. I’m always on the lookout for a story.”

  She sipped her drink, thought about it. I stared at the cup, tried not to shiver. When she spoke again, her voice had changed; it was still husky but softer now.

  “Jay’s a good kid. Messed up on crack, but a good kid. You wish … I mean you wish all of them could get off the shit but there’s some, like Jay, you really —” She stopped, took a last sip of the coffee, tossed the last few drops in the direction of a street garbage container that looked like it was largely ignored by most people. The sidewalk around it made it evident that this wasn’t a noted recycling area. “Come on inside. I have to get back. I’m working the food bank tonight.” She turned and headed inside.

  I followed her and immediately understood why someone would want to take their coffee break outside, even on a cold night. The air in the place was a cross between exhaust fumes and stale milk. There was another smell mixed in there too that I couldn’t quite place — wet dog maybe. The total effect was a smell that I’d have thought woul
d put food bank shoppers off their game.

  As I closed the door behind us she turned to me. “Jill. Jill Sawley. You can hang your coat up over there if you want.”

  She pointed to a wall off to the right and a coat rack that was a rough cut two-by-four and several nails. None of the nails were at the same height or protruded from the two-by-four at the same distance. A couple of coats hung next to a pair of blue smocks, the same shade as hospital gowns. Jill hung her own coat on a vacant nail, took down one of the smocks, pulled it over her jeans and Gap hoodie. An interesting mix of fashion.

  I wasn’t sure why she’d suggested I remove my coat. She cleared that up for me right away. “I can tell you about Jay, but it’ll cost you. We had a couple of big donations come in tonight. I could use help sorting.”

  I looked at my watch. Twenty to nine. It was maybe five minutes to the bookstore so that left me fifteen minutes to spend talking to Jill. And sorting. Since she was the most promising source of information to date — virtually the only source of information — I figured the fifteen minutes might be well spent. And I’d get a chance to do a little volunteering. Good for the soul.

  I hung my coat on the nail that had formerly held the smock. “Okay, where do I start and what do I do?”

  She pointed to a table stacked high with cardboard boxes. I actually rolled up my sleeves, ready for work, but with no idea what my role was to be.

  “Boxed goods and paper-wrapped stuff over there, canned items on those shelves. Anything perishable has to go out of here right away so set it out on that table next to the back door.”

  “Right.” I sorted and Jill talked while she filled cardboard boxes with a mix of items.

  “First time I met Jay was at a pancake breakfast one of the service clubs puts on every year. It was December a year ago, so eleven months I guess. About a week before Christmas. I was a volunteer server. Some corporate bigwigs and a couple of politicians were there supposedly to help, but mostly for the photo ops.

  “Jay … he looked lost, didn’t even know if he was allowed to have the breakfast. I happened to see him, and told him he was welcome to join in. I noticed he didn’t seem to know many people so I got some pancakes and juice and sat down across from him. Good-looking kid; he looked like he should have been the quarterback on the football team or learning his lines for the school play.

  “Anyway, it was obvious he hadn’t had a lot of good meals in a while so I just let him eat. I could tell he was really enjoying the breakfast, every few bites he’d nod as if to say ‘now that’s a great chunk of pancake right there.’ When he was finished we both got another cup of coffee and sat back down. Small talk for a while, then he told me about himself. Or at least he told me some of it. Soup and canned spaghetti on that middle shelf.”

  She pointed and I nodded.

  “Turns out he was pretty much as advertised. Even though he looked like he’d been on the street a while, he had something about him that told you he had come from something a lot different. Sure enough, he had played on the football team, he told me that, although I’m not sure he was the quarterback. Clean cut, went with one of the prettiest girls, got decent grades, drove a cool teenager car — one of those guys who didn’t give anybody much trouble. Like I said, a good kid.”

  “I have a feeling the story is about to turn.”

  Jill nodded. “Depression. All that great stuff going on, looked like he had it all but inside he hated himself, hated his life, even talked suicide. Doesn’t remember when it started, just remembers feeling like that as far back as junior high. His parents got him into counselling, some drug therapy. It was hit and miss. He’d go along for a while feeling okay, then it was like the world, all of it, was a real bad place to be. Then when he was in eleventh grade, his parents split and the universe seemed to crash down around him. They got back together after a couple of months, but it didn’t get Jay back to what he’d been. He started skipping, hanging out with different kids at school, badass kids, he broke up with the pretty girl, started staying out later and later. At first it was alcohol, then pot, and the downhill slide was on. A few months later he was living on the streets, doing whatever it takes to get money for the next buy.”

  She’d stopped filling boxes while she talked about Jay but now she started again. With attitude, like she needed to be doing something. You wish all of them could get off the shit but there’s some, like Jay, you really …

  “He told me he’d tried to kick it a few times but couldn’t. I believed him … about trying to get clean. I guess I wanted to believe him. And I know he went back home a couple of times. But it never lasted.”

  “Did you see him after that, after the Christmas breakfast?”

  “A couple of times, but never like that. He’d say hi but he seemed to want to keep moving. It was like he didn’t want to connect with anyone. Like he’d chosen that other life. Made the same choice so many of them make.”

  Her voice had grown quieter. This was someone who had seen the dark side of this world but was not a street tough woman. What was happening around her, all the misery of these streets, got to her. That’s when I remembered she wasn’t a professional — she’d said she was a volunteer.

  “And you don’t know where we might find him? Or who we could talk to who might know where he is?”

  She shook her head. “Last I heard he was camped out in a park area over near the Stampede grounds. But that was in the fall. Too cold for that now. So I hope … I’m guessing he’s in a building, a house or something somewhere.”

  I rolled my sleeves down, pulled on my coat. “If you should happen to run into him or hear anything, maybe you could let me know. It would really help and it is important.” I wrote my cell number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. She took it, glanced at it, stuffed it in the pocket of her jeans. “And thanks for the insights. It’s tough seeing what happens to these kids.” It was weak, but it was the best I could come up with.

  She nodded again, looked up at me. “I hope you find him. And I hope you can help him.”

  “So do I.” I turned and headed back out onto the street.

  The cold had deepened and the wind was stronger, the combination of the two making the night still more unpleasant. I looked at my watch. I’d be a couple of minutes late getting back to the bookstore.

  When I got there, Cobb was inside talking to the proprietor, showing him the picture. The guy was older, with a long grey ponytail and both arms a roadmap of tattoos. He was wearing a T-shirt that read “I’m Kissable.” I wondered if this guy and Jackie Chow shopped at the same Value Village. He was shaking his head. Judging from the look on Cobb’s face, this was the latest in a line of similar responses.

  When we were outside the store, Cobb said, “I hope you had better luck than I did.”

  “Nothing?”

  “With a capital N.”

  I gave him the Coles Notes version of my conversation with Jill Sawley. He nodded a couple of times, then pointed a thumb back in the direction of the bookstore.

  “This guy mentioned an old warehouse not far from here. Some company was supposed to turn it into lofts. When the economy softened, the company folded and the place has been sitting vacant. Mostly squatters there now.”

  “Worth a try,” I said.

  “My thinking exactly.”

  We headed for the car, walking fast. The cold was intensifying. I was hoping Jeep made good heaters.

  I didn’t have time to find out. The drive to the warehouse didn’t take long enough for the heater to generate more than cold, then merely cool, air. We were on a street that whoever built it had forgotten to finish. South of 9th Avenue a couple of blocks, then left. A sign told us it was Garry Street. Looking east, we could see that it just kind of stopped. Dead-ended up against a hill that probably shouldn’t have been there. I pictured a gaggle of 1930s engineers working on their drawings and noticing the hill after the street was started. Saying screw it and moving on to another project.

&
nbsp; We parked under a sign that said, VEHICLES TOWED TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. I wondered why the sign was there. It wasn’t like the curb in front of the warehouse was a prime parking spot. Cobb must have thought the same thing.

  We walked to the front door of the building. A faded sign above the doorway told us that this had once been the home of Mainwaring Tool and Dye. Beneath it a smaller sign, even more faded, announced “De iver es At Re r.”

  We tried both sides of a set of double doors — they were either locked or had simply sealed themselves shut with years of disuse. Cobb stepped back, looked up at the front of the building. Some of the windows were gone completely, others were broken, a few were intact. I followed Cobb’s eyes to one particularly dirty but intact window. Third floor.

  A man in an undershirt sat smoking and staring down at us. Cobb motioned to him that the door was locked and tried to indicate to the man that we could use his help getting in. The man behind the filthy pane of glass took a drag on the cigarette and continued looking at us. Didn’t move.

  “Let’s try the back. Unless that’s a robot up there, there has to be a way into this place.”

  I found myself hoping that maybe the smoker was a robot and we wouldn’t get in. To no avail. The back door was not only open, it was gone.

  We stepped over broken chunks of cinder block, two-by-fours and bricks, remnants of the unfinished construction, into the building. Cobb pulled out the kind of flashlight you see in cop shows and aimed it at the hole that had once been a door.

  Straight ahead was a large open area where I guessed that back in the day people did whatever you do in a tool and dye plant. To the left was a set of stairs leading up to where the lofts would have been located, had they been completed. Beyond the stairs was an elevator, the door carved, scratched, and painted with graffiti. There was a hole in the wall where the buttons for the elevator should have been.

  “Think I’ll take the stairs,” Cobb said.

  I followed him. We moved slowly, not because we were trying to sneak around but because the stairs appeared to have been there from the building’s first life and hadn’t received much if any attention during the short-lived renovation.