CAL ROGAN MYSTERIES
Books 1, 2 & 3
Robert P. French
Foreword
Thank you so much for choosing the Cal Rogan Mysteries. For more on Cal Rogan, there is more information at the end of the third book. Enjoy!
Copyright © 2018 by Robert P. French
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, names and places either are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Acknowledgments
Junkie would not have been possible but for the help and encouragement of many wonderful people and if I have forgotten anyone, I sincerely apologize: Gillian Maxwell who introduced me to people who understand the world of drugs; Mark Hayden of Addiction Services, Vancouver Coastal Health; Richard Utendale who told me about the life of a heroin addict and walked me through the streets; Bob Woodroff who showed me the inside of an SRO; Hank Reiner of the Crown Prosecutor’s office; an anonymous former Vancouver Police Department detective; and Roy Kuchma, the best read man I have ever met. I would also like to thank the Vancouver Public Library for providing the perfect working location for any writer.
My very special thanks go to Lisa Rector-Maass of Third Draft Editing in New York, who supported and mentored me from day one through all the drafts.
For Oboe, my very special thanks again go to Lisa Rector-Maass of Third Draft Editing in New York, who supported and mentored me from day one through all the drafts.
Also many thanks to a marvellous employee of RSA who explained some of the intricacies of encryption. He asked to remain anonymous. I apologize for anything I may have got wrong.
For Lockstep, many thanks to the people who helped me, especially the wonderful professionals at Reedsy: Nick Castle who designed the covers of all three books and Katherine Sands for her developmental edit.
Most of all, a thousand thanks to my Launch Team for your support. You guy’s rock!! I would like especially to thank the following members of the team whose eagle eyes found lots of errors missed by the proofreader and corrected some of the errors I made. They are, alphabetically: Andrew Stewart, April W. Vivas, Beverley Canuel, Cindy Warrick, Debbie Francis, Diane Griffin, Gayle Siebert, Gina Hines, Holly Stolarski, Janet Cline, Kathy Bockus, Linda Harbour, Lisa Mauk, Lorraine Garant, Mary Roberts, Melissa Ann Sanchez, Paula Cope, Pauline Burke, Rick Connolly, Sherry Jenkinson, Shirley Blane, Sue Ann Kelly and Tony Montague. I am sorry if I missed anyone.
As always, I would also like to thank the Vancouver Public Library for providing the perfect working location for any writer. Every word of Lockstep was written here.
Dedicated to my wonderful wife Penny who believed in me when I had stopped believing in myself.
Contents
Junkie
1. Cal
2. Cal
3. Cal
4. Sam
5. Cal
6. Cal
7. Cal
8. Cal
9. Cal
10. Roy
11. Cal
12. Cal
13. Cal
14. Sam
15. Cal
16. Cal
17. Brad
18. Cal
19. Cal
20. Cal
21. Cal
22. Cal
23. Roy
24. Arnold
25. Cal
26. Cal
27. Cal
28. Cal
29. Cal
30. Cal
31. Cal
32. Sam
33. Cal
34. Cal
35. Cal
36. Cal
37. Cal
38. Cal
39. Cal
40. Cal
41. Arnold
42. Cal
43. Cal
44. Cal
45. Cal
46. Brad
47. Cal
48. Cal
49. Cal
50. Cal
51. Cal
52. Cal
53. Cal
54. Cal
55. Cal
56. Cal
57. Cal
58. Cal
59. Arnold
60. Cal
61. Cal
62. Cal
Oboe
1. Cal
2. Cal
3. Cal
4. Cal
5. Cal
6. Stammo
7. Cal
8. Cal
9. Cal
10. Cal
11. Sam
12. Cal
13. Cal
14. Debbie
15. Cal
16. Cal
17. Cal
18. Ellie
19. Cal
20. Cal
21. Cal
22. Cal
23. Cal
24. Cal
25. Ellie
26. Cal
27. Cal
28. Cal
29. Biker
30. Cal
31. Cal
32. Cal
33. Cal
34. Cal
35. Cal
36. Cal
37. Cal
38. Cal
39. Cal
40. Stammo
41. Cal
42. Cal
43. Mike
44. Cal
45. Cal
46. Cal
47. Cal
48. Cal
49. Cal
50. Cal
51. Stammo
52. Cal
53. Cal
54. Cal
55. Sam
56. Cal
57. Cal
58. Cal
59. Cal
60. Cal
61. Steve
62. Cal
63. Cal
64. Cal
65. Cal
66. Cal
67. Cal
68. Cal
Lockstep
1. Cal
2. Cal
3. Cal
4. Cal
5. Cal
6. Cal
7. Cal
8. Stammo
9. Cal
10. Cal
11. Ariel
12. Cal
13. Cal
14. Stammo
15. Cal
16. Stammo
17. Cal
18. Cal
19. Sam
20. Cal
21. Cal
22. Cal
23. Cal
24. Ariel
25. Cal
26. Stammo
27. Cal
28. Cal
29. Stammo
30. Cal
31. Sam
32. Stammo
33. Cal
34. Sam
35. Cal
36. Ariel
37. Sam
38. Cal
39. Cal
40. Stammo
41. Cal
42. Cal
43. Stammo
44. Cal
45. Cal
46. Cal
47. Stammo
48. Cal
49. Cal
50. Stammo
51. Cal
52. Stammo
53. Cal
54. Sam
55. Cal
Afterword
1
Cal
I didn’t die last night. The sandpaper sound of Roy’s voice tells me I wasn’t that lucky. Another day to fight my way through.
The pain is deep in my bones. My toenails hurt. My hair hurts.
A claw bites into my shoulder, sending a new tsunami of agony crashing through me.
“Hey, Rocky. It’s Saturday. We gotta getcha well.”
Saturday! And Roy’s here to get me through.
His Sally Ann boots, one brown and one black, are stamping the cold out of his feet. “Come on, man,” he croaks. “It’s nearly seven. I gotcha stuff here.”
I kick off the rancid quilt—left here by some crack-head—and the feeling of disgust at its touch fights with my burning need. I push myself up and feel my bones shatter.
Visible between Roy’s stamping legs, the green dumpster tagged with a swastika confirms it. We’re in the alley, the one that terrifies me. I can feel my heart racing in my throat.
My eyes take in the morning detritus strewn across the pavement: garbage bags; crusts of bread; broken glass; rotted fruit; and, of course, the usual assortment of used needles. The human feces, not six feet from where I slept, assail my senses. It’s been a thirty-eight year struggle and I have finally arrived at the bottom.
But the stench, the filth and my irrational fear of this alley are an inconsequential backdrop to what Roy has in his hands. “D’you want me to help you with it?” He always offers and I always refuse. I let him hold on to it for me on Friday nights, to make sure I’ve got it for Saturday morning, but I don’t trust anyone. Not even Roy. Roy’s my only friend in this life. And I hate the bastard.
I reach up with both hands and snatch the eight items from him.
In my lap, they are all that exist in the world.
The urgency in Roy’s voice cuts through the haze. “Rocky, man. It’s gone quarter past seven. Come on. Time to get ready, eh.” Deep breath. It feels good… I feel good. That twenty minutes on the nod went by way too quickly. But it’s twenty past. I spent too much time. Roy must have woken me late. That’s not like him. Damn, I have got to get moving right now.
His filthy hands grab me and pull me to my feet. God, why does he do that? I know he’s trying to help but I hate being grabbed by him.
As I stand up, my old denim jacket drops to the ground. I scoop it up fast. It’s stained. Looks like blood. It is blood, a lot of blood. Blood is a part of the scenery around here—encrusted on faces, arms and legs, smeared on clothes and sidewalks—but I have some residual memory of a knife, a memory filtered through last night’s haze. The blood is fresh, but no longer wet. In the last six hours, a tendril of my old self thinks. But my old self is gone, too painful to contemplate. I have to let it go…
Who am I kidding? I can never let it go.
Roy hands me a plastic Safeway bag, wrapped up tightly, and I push it as deep as I can into the pocket of my jacket, knowing I need the contents and hating that I want them. “Thanks, man,” I say and really mean it.
I need to rush now. Right now. But there is a sadness on his face that holds me. Why does he do that? He knows it’s Saturday and I have to get going. It’s probably just Roy being dramatic. Again.
I start to head out of the alley but, damn it, the image of his face pulls me back. I can’t just leave the poor old devil looking like that.
He is standing, leaning against the dumpster, forlorn in his long brown coat, several sizes too large for his tall, stringy frame. His face shows no trace of the streak of malice which sometimes lurks just below the surface. The bald patch, about which he is so sensitive, is covered by the ever-present, battered, leather cowboy hat perched on the top of his head, the chinstrap tied at his throat. With his straggly grey hair falling to his shoulders, he looks like an ancient Jessie James. He would like the simile just fine… except for the ancient bit. He’s sensitive about his age too.
“You OK?” I check my nine dollar watch. Seven twenty-five. I’m cutting it fine.
The watery blue eyes peer down over his beak of a nose. He cleans his hornlike fingernails with the wicked-looking switchblade he always carries. Come on, Roy, come on.
“Sure.” No eye contact. Now I know something is wrong, something serious. Unlike me, he’s chipper in the mornings—a rare condition for an alcoholic as far gone as Roy—but today he looks deflated. Diminished.
“What’s up man?” I ask. I recheck the time; maybe I can spare just one more minute.
He shakes his head. “Nothing, you go.” There are streaks down his dirty old face.
I rein in my need and wait the aeon, stretching some twenty seconds, until he speaks.
“Tommy died last night.”
“What?” The blood drains from my face. I look down at the blood on my jacket and strain to remember… but can’t.
I look up. I don’t think Roy has noticed it.
He nods, his head hanging. “Yeah. Bad drugs.”
The loss bites hard. People die all the time in these alleys but Tommy’s death is a blow. Tommy Connor was a life-long alcoholic but he was both a gentleman and a gentle man. A man with an unwavering sense of humour and an optimism wildly at odds with the reality of his life.
My old self is trying to burst through with questions. I crush it down and push the questions out of my mind; it’s better that way. I just say, “I’m sorry to hear that, man. I know you and Tommy were real close.” I note the poor grammar which I often use with Roy and the guys on the street. A survival mechanism, I guess.
I reach out to touch him, comfort him, but don’t know how. I grip his shoulder, shake it once, pat it and shake it again. Hoping that somehow just the contact will console. He shrugs off my hand and turns his back on me. “Anyways, you gotta go. Tell her Roy sends his love.” There is a catch in his voice.
I reply with the unvarying formula. “I will Roy. She always loves to hear from you.”
As I hurry away, he says, “Maybe I’ll get to meet her sometime soon.” There is no mistaking the bitterness.
“Sure,” over my shoulder, “that would be great. I’ll arrange something.”
I feel the flood of guilt. We both know it will never happen but what can I say? It’s the ritual we observe every Saturday morning.
“Later!” he shouts after me, his voice angry now. “You know where to find me when you get back.”
I turn up the collar of my jacket and pull the peak of my baseball cap down over my eyes. A futile camouflage but I need a low profile on the streets because of how I used to make my living and, more to the point, how I make my living now. There are people who will kill me if they recognize me. Kill me very slowly and painfully. With a shiver, I hurry off toward the buses.
Then one of the quashed questions bubbles to the surface. Tommy was an alcoholic like Roy. Why would he die from an overdose? No, not an overdose. What did Roy say? Bad drugs?
2
Cal
The first bus driver must have seen the blood on my jacket. He wouldn’t stop to pick me up—one or two of them are like that driving through the downtown east side—then the second bus took forever to arrive. Only two more months. I can’t blow it by being late now. I just can’t.
Kevin’s doorbell chimes the first four notes of the 1812 overture. It’s the only doorbell I’ve ever heard that plays Tchaikovsky. And in my past life I rang a lot of doorbells.
There’s no reply.
Kevin is the only one of my old friends who will have anything to do with me. His loyalty to me has not wavered, despite the thousand ways I have betrayed it.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 1
