“Then our night may end unpleasantly.”
“Or a setup by a guy who’s scared to death of the MFs and wants to get on their good side.”
“Even more unpleasantly.”
“And you’re risking both our necks on the trustworthiness of Ike Groves.”
He didn’t get to answer. The door of the restaurant opened and the largest man I’d ever seen who wasn’t wearing shoulder pads or a sumo diaper entered the restaurant.
What he was wearing was a white overcoat that contrasted sharply with the blackness of his skin. He moved a couple of steps farther inside, stepped to one side and two more men, both Caucasian, followed him through the door. They made it unanimous on the overcoats; the three of them likely cost more than my apartment furniture. The second man through the door wore a fedora, the large man and the third guy were bareheaded.
Cobb was sitting with his back to the door, which, when I thought about it later, seemed to fly in the face of the private detective way of doing things. He didn’t turn to look or even seem particularly interested. He dabbed at the chili with his toast, took a bite, chased it with beer.
The biggest surprise was yet to come. There was one more person in the group at the door. A woman who, if she had been smiling, would have been striking. She didn’t look like someone who was accustomed to smiling. Nevertheless, she was attractive in a pissed-off-at-the-world kind of way. Her clothes — expensive — and demeanor were a long way from biker bitch.
All four came in our direction, then seeing us, stopped, all of them at the same time, like a choreographed dance step. I busied myself with studying the tabletop, whispered, “They’re here,” at Cobb. “And I think we’re going to meet the lovely Mrs. Smith as well.”
Cobb stayed focused on the chili. I saw the man with the hat speaking to the big guy. Both were looking at us. The big man nodded and continued on toward us. I whispered “shit.”
Cobb looked at me and smiled.
“Good chili,” he said.
The big man was now standing beside our table and looking down at us. I was somehow reminded of my favourite TV show from when I was a kid, The Friendly Giant. At the beginning of every show “Friendly” looked down on his tiny toy living room and said, “Look up, look way up.”
Which is what I was doing now. The key difference, of course, being that the Friendly Giant was … friendly.
“The restaurant’s closed.” The man’s voice was Darth Vader-esque but with less charm.
Cobb spoke without looking at the man. “Actually it’s not. It closes at nine and here it is,” he looked at his watch, “just 8:23. By the way, the chili’s very nice.”
“The restaurant’s closed and you’re leaving.”
Cobb sat up straight and leaned back against the back of his chair. Managed to look up at the man without it appearing to be a big deal.
“Two things,” Cobb’s voice had no trace of a tremor. Mine, had I pressed it into service at that moment, would have registered at least 7.5 on the Richter Scale. I looked at Cobb and was aware again that he was not afraid of the guy.
“First,” he said, “we’re not leaving, and second I’m happy to have Mr. Scubberd join us. I’d extend the invitation to you too but I can see that might be a little problematic, you being the size of a round bale and all.”
I’d read several accounts (even written one) about gangland-style slayings in restaurants. We were in a restaurant in which there were no other customers and the only potential witness — Davy — was, as they say, conspicuous by his absence.
And Cobb had just offended someone who looked like gangland-style slayings were his bread and butter.
“Martin.” The man in the fedora spoke. I took him to be Scubberd.
The big man must have been Martin because after a few more seconds of looking hard at Cobb, he turned and walked back to the man I presumed to be his boss.
There was a flurry of whispered conversation with the man in the fedora doing most of the talking. The big man said a few things and pointed a couple of times. Mrs. Smith-Scubberd didn’t speak but seemed impatient for the conversation to be over. And it was. All four were heading in our direction.
This time the big man passed our table and stopped just beyond it, a little behind me, then turned so that he was facing Cobb. The man in the fedora pulled out the chair to my left and the lady I took to be Mrs. Scubberd sat down. She was even better looking up close but I thought it best not to spend a lot of time looking at her.
Scubberd, if that’s who he was, walked to the other side of the table, shucked his overcoat, and sat, putting him on my right, Cobb’s left. He had shoulder length, dyed blond hair and a goatee that ran a shade darker than the hair. Starched, pressed, dark brown shirt, open at the neck. Sleeves rolled up one turn.
Muscular. I remembered Cobb saying Scubberd was a gym rat. Whatever workout regime he followed seemed to be working for him.
The third man, maybe five seven and slim even in the overcoat, which he had unfastened except for one button, hovered a few feet behind the woman, close to Martin. He never stopped moving — nervous or high, or maybe both.
“What do you want?” Scubberd demanded.
Cobb pushed the plates to the far side of the table and leaned slightly forward. “My name’s Cobb.”
“Cop?”
“Private,” Cobb said.
Scubberd glanced at me.
Cobb spoke. “He’s Cullen. A journalist.”
“A private eye and a scribe. You’re shittin’ me.”
Cobb didn’t answer, kept his eyes on Scubberd’s face.
Scubberd didn’t flinch. “I’ll say it again. What do you want?”
“I know who you are,” Cobb said. “I haven’t met these gentlemen or this lovely lady.”
I tried to glance at Scubberd without appearing to be looking at him. He looked unhappy.
“I’ll humour you that much.” He nodded toward the big man. “That’s Minnis.” Another nod, this time at the smaller man. “The Italian’s Moretti. And this is my wife. Now I’m asking for the last time, what do you want?”
“I’m looking to make a trade.”
“You think you’ve got something I want.”
“Actually I want to trade a favour for a favour.”
“And what could you do that would be a favour to me?”
“It’s what I wouldn’t be doing that I think you’d appreciate.”
“I’m losing interest fast and I’m also hungry so if you’ve got something to say you better get it said in the next ten seconds or my associates will see you to the door.”
There are people who say tough things just for effect. My guess was that Rock Scubberd wasn’t one of those people. I had no doubt at all that he meant exactly what he said.
“I know about the incoming shipment.” Cobb said it in the same tone of voice one would use to say I think I’ll have the Thousand Islands. “I’m guessing that it would be both inconvenient and unprofitable for that information to fall into the wrong hands.”
“You gambled and lost, Cowboy. I don’t know anything about a shipment because there isn’t one. Now fuck off.”
“Certainly. I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Nice meeting you. I recommend the chili.” Cobb slid his chair back and stood up. I wasn’t sure what I should do so I did nothing.
Cobb didn’t seem to notice my predicament. He was looking at the big guy, Martin Minnis, who had taken one step forward. Neither spoke. Neither moved. Neither flinched.
Scubberd chuckled. “Even if you’re as tough as you’d like us to believe, he’s not the one you have to worry about. My smaller but equally effective associate favours armaments.”
On cue, Moretti undid the last button to let the front of his overcoat fall open, revealing a shoulder holster that housed a serious-looking revolver.
“Impressive,” Cobb said.
I wasn’t sure how it happened but Moretti was suddenly holding a large, menacing-looking
switchblade. He flicked it open as casually as if he’d been opening a glasses case.
“Also impressive,” said Cobb. He looked at the knife for a few seconds then turned away from Moretti and back toward Scubberd.
“In fact, that’s almost as impressive as my associates.”
Cobb pointed a thumb in the direction of the door to the kitchen. Two people I’d never seen before came through the door, one carrying what looked to my untrained eye like a lot of shotgun, the other holding a machine gun–looking piece of equipment that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Sylvester Stallone movie. Neither of the two men spoke but took up positions on either side of the kitchen door facing our table, maybe ten meters away from us, their weapons trained on Minnis and Moretti.
The whole scene was surreal. This wasn’t New York or Los Angeles or even Montreal — this was Calgary. I’d covered crime in this city long enough to know there was some bad shit that went on. But this was like something from a kids’ video game. My gun’s bigger than your gun.
Neither Cobb nor Scubberd seemed particularly unnerved by the lineup of well-armed adversaries, who were glaring at each other like North and South Korean soldiers on either side of the demilitarized zone. I, on the other hand, was unnerved enough for everybody.
All of the action was taking place behind Scubberd’s wife, who now spoke for the first time. “Rock, I’m sure we can spare these gentlemen a few minutes.”
She seemed almost to be enjoying the action around her. I watched her. Her makeup was understated and the open-at-the-throat soft green blouse was classy. Interesting woman. Wouldn’t have looked out of place at a fundraiser for the philharmonic orchestra.
Scubberd looked at her, then at Cobb. “Well, now that we all understand one another, maybe you should sit back down and we can finish our conversation.”
“I was hoping you might see it that way.” Cobb returned to his seat. He turned and nodded to Mrs. Scubberd whose chin tilted down a fraction of a centimetre in response.
Scubberd turned to Minnis. “Tell Davy to get out here with some beer.” When Minnis hesitated, Scubberd turned to Cobb, smiling. “I assume your people won’t shoot my people for summoning the waiter.”
Cobb looked up at Minnis. “You’re fine, Slim.”
Slim, Cowboy … Louis L’Amour would have loved this.
Minnis headed for the kitchen, walked between the two guys, who made room for him to pass. The one with the shotgun took two steps farther into the restaurant, turned, and aimed the shotgun at the kitchen door. If Minnis decided to come through there, gun blazing, he wouldn’t get far. I was thinking to myself, these guys are good. I looked at Cobb. No way to tell what he was thinking.
“Okay, Cowboy, let’s get to it,” Scubberd said. “You want to talk trade. Now even though there is no shipment, I appreciate that you came to me with what you thought was good information instead of going to the cops, so let me hear what it is you need and maybe we can work something out.”
“Jay Blevins.”
Scubberd waited, then said, “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“His old man is the guy who took out your boys in the house on Raleigh Avenue. Then you offed his old man. But I have a feeling you and your … associates might feel it’s necessary to get the kid as well. Maybe send a message.”
“What makes you think I give a fuck about this kid?”
I was surprised that Scubberd didn’t deny either the house on Raleigh or the killing of Blevins. Didn’t admit anything but didn’t deny either.
“Somebody very handy with a knife …” Cobb hesitated but didn’t look at Moretti, “carved up one of the kid’s friends. And there’s been some patrolling at the girlfriend’s former residence. Patrolling in an Audi.”
Scubberd’s eyes flicked a half centimetre in Moretti’s direction, then back. I saw it and I guessed Cobb saw it too.
“And you’re thinking this person who is all handy with a knife might be one of my people. Along with whoever is doing the patrolling.”
“Seems possible,” Cobb said. “Bottom line, I don’t see that you have any reason to bother with the kid. He was a customer, that’s all. He wasn’t in on the old man’s deal, didn’t know anything about it. And you already sent the message when you got the kid’s dad. So I’m … requesting … that if your people happen to be on the hunt for this kid, you call them off.”
Minnis came through the kitchen door, looked at the shotgun, then walked the rest of the way to the table. Davy was right behind him carrying a tray that held six cans of Coors Light and six glasses. He set the tray on the table between Cobb and Scubberd. Neither made a move toward the beer. Davy picked up the plates from earlier, turned, and hustled back in the direction of the kitchen. Scubberd waited until he was gone.
“What’s this Blevins kid to you?”
“Nothing. I’ve never even met him. Blevins came to me after he wasted the dealers, hired me to keep the kid alive. I’m trying to do that.”
“Even though your client is dead.”
“Even though.”
“An honourable man. Isn’t that nice.”
Cobb shrugged, said nothing.
“And if I forget about this crack head kid, you’ll forget about this rumour of some shipment that has no basis in fact anyway.”
“That’s the deal. I don’t hassle you, you don’t hassle the kid.”
Scubberd leaned back in his chair and rocked a little, looking from side to side as he rocked. His eyes rested longer on his wife than on anyone else. I couldn’t see any communication between them. He looked at her. She looked at him.
Scubberd thudded the chair back down to the floor and turned his attention again to Cobb.
“Okay, Cowboy. We can make that work. Now why don’t you and the scribe beat it so I can get on with dinner.”
I think my breathing became a little more normal. I was waiting for Cobb to move so we could get the hell out of there.
“Not yet,” he said.
Oh, shit.
Cobb smiled. Scubberd glared at him. I swallowed.
When Cobb spoke again his voice was flat and cold, devoid of expression, a conveyor of information, nothing more.
“There’s one last thing. Recently someone tried to get up close and personal with Mr. Cullen here. Drive-by, a little too close. Maybe a warning, maybe a near miss. Either way — unacceptable.”
Scubberd turned and looked at me a long minute, “You see this vehicle?”
I was hoping my voice would work normally. “Older. Eighties maybe, big sedan. It was dark, that’s all I could make out.”
“None of my people have a ride anything like that. We ride Harleys.”
“Except for the Audi,” Cobb said.
“That don’t sound like no Audi. And since it wasn’t a fuckin’ motorcycle that almost ran over your ass, it’s got shit to do with us.” He turned to Cobb. “On top of which I’ve never seen or even heard of this fuck before tonight.”
A loud silence ensued. No one spoke.
Mrs. Smith spoke for the second time. To me this time.
“You’re a writer. Is that right, Mr. Cullen?”
“I am, yes.”
Scubberd snorted. “What kind of shit you write? Letters? Kids porn? Poetry?”
Moretti snickered at his boss’s humour. Probably part of the job description.
“Freelance. I write for newspapers when I come across a story that needs telling.”
Scubberd poured one of the beers into a glass, reached across the table, and set it in front of his wife. He poured a second into a glass, took a long drink, and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his coat.
Scubberd looked at me, not unpleasantly. “I hope you’re not dumb enough to think that anything you’ve seen or heard tonight needs telling.” He drew out the last two words.
When I didn’t answer right away, Scubberd emptied his glass, set it down and said, “Because when my guys drive by they don’t miss.”
&nbs
p; “No, I’m not dumb enough to think that.”
Scubberd nodded and took another beer but didn’t open it.
“Let me summarize. Nobody talks about drug shipments, fictitious or otherwise, nobody kills the kid, and nobody writes anything that ends up in the newspaper That’s our arrangement, Cowboy. I only use the word deal when there’s money involved.”
Cobb nodded. They didn’t shake hands.
Cobb said, “If it’s all the same for you, we’ll pass on the beer.”
“That’s good because I wasn’t fucking plannin’ to offer you any.”
Moretti snickered again. Cobb stood up so suddenly that in surprise Moretti took a quick step backward, almost losing his balance. The snicker ended in a growl.
Cobb said, “For a badass killer, you’re a clumsy little snake.”
Mrs. Scubberd made a noise that sounded like a laugh she was trying to hold in but I couldn’t be sure. Moretti’s face took on the colour of hail clouds and I knew if it were up to him the deal would be off right now.
Cobb turned to face Scubberd. “Here’s how this is going to go. Your associates will sit down at the table. Mr. Cullen and I will walk out the front door. When we’re out the door, my associates will leave through the kitchen. And we can all enjoy the rest of the evening.”
Scubberd nodded once but his lips were pressed together. He was not a man who was used to being told how things were going to play out.
I stood up trying not to look like I was overeager. I’m not sure I pulled it off.
Cobb and I started for the door.
A voice behind us stopped us. “That seems a little harsh, Mr. Cobb,” Mrs Scubberd said. I’d have put her voice somewhere between Elizabeth Taylor and Taylor Swift.
We turned back to face them. Mrs. Scubberd was smiling but only a little. “My husband is an honourable man. He’s shown good faith. The courteous thing would be for you gentlemen to do the same thing.”
Cobb looked at her for what seemed like a minute but was probably five or six seconds. Then he turned slightly and motioned with his head for the two guys with the heavy artillery who were still flanking the door to the kitchen to leave. They did. Cobb turned back to the MFs, nodded once, and we resumed our move toward the door.
Serpents Rising Page 22
