by Don Easton
“Yes, nice and dry. Better off than you, I bet.”
“It’s not bad. I’m warm and dry. I also brought a thermos of coffee and some snack bars. It’s more than most of the homeless have, but this still gives me an appreciation of how some people live.”
“Except at the end of the day you’ve got a warm bed to go home to,” Laura noted.
“You’re right about that. Mind you, I was told this morning that I’d be sleeping in the basement.”
Laura snickered. “It’s Halloween tonight. Mike and Steve going out?”
“Yes. Mike’s going as a mad scientist and Steve is going as a banana.”
“Cute.”
“Hope nobody comes to our house dressed as a biker. Natasha will shoot ’em.”
“She still skittish over the phone they left in your mailbox?”
“She’s not the only one,” Jack replied.
“You’re not skittish. You’re angry.”
Jack decided to change the subject. “How’re you fixed for cover vehicles?”
“Not bad. Some dedicated morning joggers are also parked in the lot. I don’t think the van’ll stand out.”
“Good. I parked in the lot that’s to the south of you. Chat with you later.”
The morning dragged on. Finally, at 10:30 a.m. a man approached the concession stand. Jack, using a monocular, guessed he was in his mid-fifties. He appeared to be South Asian and dragged one foot as he walked. The man took keys out of his pocket and entered the stand through a side door. Twenty minutes later a young woman entered and at 11:00 a.m. the stand opened for business.
There were few people in the park and after the lunch hour, the South Asian emerged from the small building with a small paper bag in his hand and began making his way toward Jack, his one foot dragging with every step. When he reached him, he pulled a takeout cup of coffee from the bag and handed it to Jack. “This is on the house,” he said, slurring the words slightly. “Cold and damp this time of year.”
Jack played the role he’d set for himself and quietly accepted.
“My name’s Tom,” the man said. “I’m the cook,” he added, with a nod toward the concession.
“I’m Jay,” Jack replied, then took a sip. “Thanks.” He saw Tom eyeing him curiously. Does he suspect something? “Have you worked here long?”
“About six months,” Tom said. “When I moved my family from India sixteen years ago, I drove a taxi, but last spring I had a stroke.”
Driving a taxi for that long means he can probably read people. Jack cleared his throat. “Happier to be here rather than India?”
Tom seemed to contemplate the question. “Yes and no. My wife and I have a son and a daughter. In India I think they were actually happier.”
“Missing their friends,” Jack suggested.
“No, not that. In our little village in India my children were content with having less. Since coming here they’ve seen what the world has to offer and always want more. They’ve become greedy and are not as happy as they were back in India. My daughter became an accountant, but my son … well, he’s not done well.”
The woman from inside the concession stand leaned out and yelled to attract Tom’s attention, then gestured to a young couple outside the stand.
“Gotta get back to work,” Tom said.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
At 3:30 p.m. Laura called Jack. “Got two guys who pulled up in a wreck of a car and got out. I don’t recognize them, but they both look like FPSers.”
“FPSers” was a term commonly used by the police to denote criminals. It came from having their prints on file with the Fingerprint Section in Ottawa. “Description,” Jack said.
“Both look to be in their late thirties. One’s wearing a red-and-black-checkered woollen lumber jacket … brown hair short enough to see his scalp … tat of something on the back of his right hand, and a cross earring in his right ear. His buddy’s wearing a grimy green nylon jacket, black hair in a ponytail, and a goatee. Both are husky. They look like they spend a lot of time pumping iron.”
“Steroid monkeys?”
“Could be. I’ve taken some good pics. Their car is an old Chevy Impala. It’s red, rusted, lots of dents. The rear passenger window is all cockeyed and half-open. Okay … they’re both heading your way.”
“Are you able to run the plate?”
“Running it now.”
Minutes later, Jack saw the two men. Ponytail was talking on a phone, then nudged his buddy and gestured at Tom, who’d appeared from the side entrance of the concession stand.
Tom, what the hell are you doing with two guys like that? He zoomed in with his phone and took a few pictures, before using his monocular for a better look. He realized that Tom had an envelope in his hand while talking to Ponytail. Then Ponytail stepped in the way and Jack was unable to see what was taking place.
Laura called him. “The car is registered to a Lorraine Dole. Minor convictions for theft and several drug-possession convictions. No outstanding warrants.”
Jack saw the two thugs head back in the direction they’d come. Tom cast a worried look Jack’s way, then went back into the building.
“Did you see them?” Laura asked.
“Yes, they were here. I’ve never seen them before. They met a guy by the name of Tom who works as a cook at the concession stand. I saw an envelope in his hand, but don’t know if they gave it to him or if it was the other way around. The two goons are heading back your way. I’m feeling nervous. Tom brought me a coffee this morning and I think he was suspicious.”
“Think you’ve been burned?”
“I don’t know. Hope not. Do a loose tail on the two when they leave. I’m gonna call our friend.”
Seconds later Jack had Lance on the phone and asked, “You guys have any contacts or someone to act as a lookout for you in Stanley Park?”
“I’m busy,” Lance replied. Before Jack could respond he added, “The keys are in my office in a tin box in my desk drawer … right side.”
“You can’t talk,” Jack said.
“Give me a sec.” Then to someone Lance said, “I won’t be long.”
Jack heard a murmur of voices over the phone, which soon become distant. “Okay,” Lance said, “you want to know if we’ve any contacts at the park?”
“Yes. Specifically at the concession stand.”
“I don’t think so. We don’t want anyone to know we go there.”
“You don’t think so?”
“That place is supposed to be ultra secret, but like I said, the three-three are thorough. I guess it’s possible they pay someone to keep an eye open for them, but my gut says otherwise.”
“Good.”
“I’m talking to Whiskey Jake about some legit club business, but he did say he’ll be meeting the three-three tomorrow in the park.”
“Thanks for the info. Gotta go.” Jack called Laura.
“The two FPSers are getting into their car,” she reported.
“I spoke with our friend,” Jack said. “He doesn’t think they have a contact at the park but isn’t sure. He also told me WJ is meeting the three-three here tomorrow.”
“So we’ve wasted our day,” Laura replied.
“Maybe, but I’d still like to make sure the two FPSers aren’t connected. I’ll grab my wheels and catch up to you shortly.”
“Better hustle — we’ll be in rush hour. The passenger, who’s the guy with the ponytail, has just taken a piece of paper from the sun visor, written something, and put it back. Okay, they’re backing up.”
Jack tucked his stuff deeper into the woods, then hurried to his SUV. He caught up to Laura as she exited the park with the Impala in front of her. The direction they were taking led into the heart of Vancouver.
Ten minutes later their quarry drove into a car parkade on East
Hastings, and Jack parked nearby on the street. He then saw the two FPSers walk out of the parkade and cross the street to the Black Water Hotel.
For Jack the Black Water brought back chilling memories. His thoughts were distracted when Laura double-parked beside him. He lowered his window.
“The Black Water,” Laura said musingly. “Sounds familiar. Didn’t you have something to do with that place?”
“I spent several months undercover in there before you came on the section. Do you remember the bad guy you did the UC on who went by the nickname Spider?”
“How could I forget? We spent two weeks in court on him. He’s the guy who murdered the pensioner after seeing him withdraw money at an ATM.”
“I introduced you to him in a coffee shop, but his usual hangout was the Black Water. A lot of real badasses used to hang out in there.”
“How about bikers?”
Jack frowned. “At one time dealers for Satans Wrath used to supply speed to the lower-level dealers in there, but from what I’ve heard, the clientele has degenerated so much that I’m not sure they could come up with the money to make it worthwhile for the bikers to bother with the place.”
“So you’re not sure. Maybe Tom was being paid for ratting you out.”
“Maybe. Tom glanced nervously in my direction after meeting with the two FPSers, but they never looked my way. You’d think they would if he was talking about me.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“I’m dressed like a homeless person, so I should fit in. I’ll go in and take a look, but while I’m doing that, check out the car in the parkade. You mentioned a piece of paper the guy stuck in the sun visor. I’d like to see what he wrote on it, if it’s still there.”
Moments later Jack walked into the bar. It had changed in the years since he’d last been there. The stage where strippers had once slithered around a pole was gone, replaced by more tables and chairs. The pool tables once located at the rear were also gone.
Much of the clientele looked more desperate than before. Clusters of gaunt-faced addicts, some of them women, peered out with sallow eyes.
He saw Ponytail and Checkered Jacket sitting with a woman with long greasy black hair and dressed in a red miniskirt and yellow tank top. Blackened tracks on her arms said she’d been using drugs for years. Doubtless a prostitute. He guessed she was in her early twenties.
He felt his phone vibrate. It wouldn’t suit his image to be seen talking on a cellphone, so he ambled into the men’s room and checked that he was alone. He’d missed a call from Laura, but she’d sent him a photo of a list of twelve names.
Most of the names were identified only by initials or a first name and a brief description of a business, such as a corner store, travel agent, insurance-company receptionist, and so on. Other names and initials had various street corners and times beside them. The first six names had check marks beside them, and the last of these was SP — Tom. Jack guessed that SP stood for Stanley Park, and Tom was the man from the concession stand. None of the names that followed had been ticked off.
“So what do you think?” Laura asked as soon as Jack called her.
“I don’t know what it’s about, but it’s got nothing to do with us. Our two FPSers are sitting with a hooker and drinking beer.”
“Maybe Lorraine Dole, the car owner.”
“Could be. Either way, I feel my cover at the park is safe. Let’s call it a day.”
“Sounds good. I’ll wait till you’re out of there.”
Jack hung up and glanced at the wall beside the urin-als. A memory surfaced of the time some junkies had shoved him against it when they’d become suspicious and decided to search him. They’d threatened to jam a needle into his arm and overdose him if they found anything. At the time he hadn’t been wearing a wire or carrying any identification, and came out of it unscathed.
Back then he’d soon forgotten the incident. Now that he was older and had a family, such memories affected him more. He felt a chill and zipped up his jacket. Who am I kidding? It’s not the cold that’s making me shiver.
Chapter Thirty
On Saturday morning the rain had quit, but the sky was grey and there was a cool ocean breeze. Jack parked in the lot south of the concession stand while Laura continued past in a surveillance van to the lot in the north.
Minutes later Jack set up his fake homeless camp and called Laura.
“You in position?” she asked.
“Yes. How’s it look where you are?”
“Nothing for cover at the moment,” she replied. “Want me to park in the lot in the south and go out on foot? There are lots of trees for cover.”
“Yeah, for now. Play it by ear. If it’s busier later you can use the van.”
The morning passed and was uneventful. At 11:00 a.m. the concession stand opened, and a short time later Tom brought Jack a free cup of coffee again. Their conversation was short, with no mention of the two thugs Jack had seen the day before.
At noon Jack ambled down to the concession stand. Three young men Jack guessed to be in their late teens or early twenties waited their turn behind him. Their language was vulgar and Jack sized them up. One, in a red ball cap, looked to be in physically good shape. His two friends weren’t. One was skinny and the other pudgy with bad acne.
“May I take your order?” the young woman behind the counter asked Jack.
“One jumbo hot dog please,” Jack replied, then stepped aside to make room for the next customer.
Ball Cap stepped forward and waggled his tongue suggestively at the woman, then said, “So, you got jumbo hot dogs — you like goin’ down on jumbo hot dogs, sweet lips?”
Pudgy and Slim both laughed, but abruptly stopped when Ball Cap reacted to Jack’s scowl.
“What the fuck you looking at?” he said.
Three assholes … but this isn’t the time. Jack maintained his scowl and his silence.
“Is there something you’d like to order?” the young woman interjected coldly.
Ball Cap directed his attention back to the woman. “Hey, what the fuck’s with the attitude? I’m just fuckin’ with you, babe. Where’s your sense of humour?”
“Are you placing an order?” she asked again.
“Yeah, I’ll have a cheeseburger.”
Jack waited silently as Pudgy and Slim placed their orders without incident.
Tom had spied Jack placing his order, and when the food was ready, he delivered it to the front counter. “This one’s on me.”
“Thanks … but no,” Jack replied, reaching for the crumpled five-dollar bill he’d kept in his pocket. “I’m no charity case,” he added. “I got my pride.”
“Hey, fuck!” Ball Cap exclaimed. “If you’re givin’ it away, I want mine for free, too!”
“Yeah, us, too,” Pudgy and Slim said.
“No, s-sorry,” Tom stuttered. He nodded at Jack. “This is a friend of mine,” he added in his slurred speech.
Ball Cap sneered. “You sound funny.”
“I … I had a stroke,” Tom replied.
“Yeah? Well, figures.” He turned to Pudgy and Slim. “The only friend the gimp can get is a bum.” He then elbowed Jack aside and handed the woman twenty dollars. “I’ll pay for my two buddies.”
Okay, assholes, take your food and get the hell out of here. Once Ball Cap received his change, Jack stepped forward to pay.
Ball Cap nudged Slim with his elbow, then grabbed a plastic ketchup bottle from the counter. “Hey, how does this thing work?” he asked, intentionally squirting ketchup in Tom’s face and down his shirt. “Oh, I see how it —”
Jack rammed the heel of his hand into Ball Cap’s shoulder, sending him reeling backward.
“What the fuck? You got a problem?” Ball Cap roared, tossing the ketchup bottle aside as he faced off with Jack.
Jack stared
him down in response, then caught the subtle nod Ball Cap made to Pudgy.
“Yeah, you got a problem?” Pudgy asked belligerently, stepping forward.
Jack shifted his gaze to Pudgy, but could see Ball Cap in his peripheral vision. He suspected the distraction Pudgy offered was to allow Ball Cap to deliver a sucker punch. His suspicion was confirmed. Ball Cap aimed his fist for Jack’s temple … but it never landed. Jack used his forearm to direct the blow harmlessly away while delivering a knuckle-twisting blow to the base of Ball Cap’s nose.
Blood sprayed across the young man’s face as he staggered backward and fell to the ground.
Jack looked at Pudgy and Slim, who stood with their mouths agape. “Naw, I don’t have a problem,” he said. “How about you two? Do you have a problem?”
The pair looked at Ball Cap on the ground holding his hands to his face and moaning.
“No, no problem,” Slim said.
“Me … me, neither,” Pudgy said.
“You will if you ever come back here again. I suggest you take your dumbass friend to a hospital.”
Pudgy and Slim exchanged a glance.
“Go before I lose my temper and become angry,” Jack said. Then, as if talking to himself, he mumbled, “The doctor said I shouldn’t get angry. Don’t get angry.” He patted his pockets. “Where’re my pills? I know I shouldn’t quit taking them …”
Pudgy and Slim helped Ball Cap to his feet and each held an arm to steady him as they left.
Jack saw the young woman staring at him. She was trembling. “It’s okay,” he said, “they won’t be back.” She nodded, but then he realized she was afraid of him. Tom was also staring at him, but more in curiosity.
Tom then reached for some paper napkins to clean himself. “You really on medication?” he asked.
Jack grinned. “That was for their benefit. I figured if his two friends thought I was crazy they’d be more inclined to leave.”
“Sort of what I thought,” Tom replied. “You deliver quite a punch. You’ve had training,” he said matter-of-factly.
