Ray Tate and Djuna Brown Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Lee Lamothe

  Ray Tate double-clicked the handset and headed for the highway downtown. He called Djuna Brown on the mobile. She sounded excited. “Bernie spotted him. You fucking believe that? Bernie.”

  “Where at?”

  She began laughing. “Well, old Bernie’s at that discount sporting goods place on Huron Street and he’s lined up to buy some hooks or something and two aisles over at the cash is Phil Harvey, checking some stuff out. Bernie gets outside first and out comes Harvey. Gets into a rental, grey G6, and he’s away, southbound. Haven’t heard from Bernie since.”

  “Nobody on the air?”

  “Nope. Me and ye, Bobby McGee.”

  “Fuck that.” Ray Tate scooped up the handset. “Chem Squad, anybody? C’mon.”

  A reluctant voice dragged up. “Yeah?”

  “Wally? Ray. Where you at?”

  “I’m off. Left the rover on by accident.”

  “But what’s your twenty, Wally?”

  “Ah. Ah, east Chinatown.”

  “We got Phil Harvey heading down Huron Street in your direction. Can you scope him?”

  “Who the fuck’s Phil Harvey?”

  “Fire face. Guy on the wall in the office. Long, black hair, he’s got a grey G6 under him.”

  “Ah, Ray, c’mon man. I’m off. I got issues.”

  “Just get over to Huron and see if he rolls by, okay?”

  “Who’s authorizing the overtime? I’m off, Ray, I can’t work for nothing. The union.”

  Djuna Brown came on. “I’ll authorize it.”

  Silence.

  Ray Tate put the rover down, activated his dash flasher, and found some shoulder. He voiced out: “I’ll authorize it, Wally. You’re golden, man.”

  “Yeah, Ray. But are you authorized to authorize?” But he was moving. The gambling club Wally favoured was a long block from Huron Street. Wally was puffing. “You gotta … you gotta sign my notebook … Ray … Before shift ends …” But he didn’t make it. “Nah, nah … No fucking way, Ray … I gotta stop … Fuck, my legs …” He sounded like he was in tears. “Oh, fucking Christ. My lungs. Man.”

  Djuna Brown came over. Her voice had a different timbre and Ray Tate knew she’d abandoned the office and was in play with a rover. “Chem Six B rolling. Ray, where you at?”

  “Ramping off at River. You head to the fishing shop, find the clerk, see what he bought. I’ll come in to Huron.”

  “Hey, Ray.” Bernie came on. “He got fishing rods, some line, some hooks and lures, weights. Duct tape. Rubber gloves. He’s one of those guys thinks you need a six-pound test to catch a six-pound fish. He also bought a sleeping bag.” He laughed. “He’s a cooker, maybe, but this mutt’s no fisherman.”

  Wally came on, his breathing under control. “Bern, you get the lures? The ones on sale? Mepps, right? It said Mepps in the ad. Any left?”

  “Yep. Cleaned ’em out. Spinners, spooners, everything. We’re in business, Wall. Dumb fucks.”

  “Beautiful.”

  Djuna Brown came over. “I’m heading downtown, Ray. I’m in a blue 500.”

  Ray Tate dialed the skipper’s mobile. “Skip, we got Phil Harvey on the move downtown. We need more bodies.”

  “What’s he doing? Where is he?”

  “Someplace in the core, I think. We need some bodies.”

  “Where are the slobs? The fisherfuckingmen?”

  Ray Tate told him Bernie eyeballed Harvey. He lied. “I got Bernie and Wally on perimeters. We need some cars to go into the core, flush it out.” There was silence. A television set spoke in the background over a laugh track. “You want to roll the Federales?”

  “No, no. Fuck, no. This could be our breakout. Let me see if I can scare up someone from the downtown sector.”

  Ray Tate gave the coordinates for the box. “He might’ve turned out of here anyplace, skip. But if he’s in, we got him. Grey rental G6. No plate known.”

  “Think he’s running with a trunkful of my pills, Ray? Tell me that and I’ll tie up the wife and come out myself.”

  Ray Tate turned onto Huron Street, guessing north. Southbound a grey rental G6 slowed and Phil Harvey stared out into the Taurus with a faint grin on his face.

  By the time Ray Tate cut a jerky U-turn the G6 was lost in the galaxy of red tail lights.

  Chapter 16

  Phil Harvey found a parking lot to dump the rental in and walked away juggling his bags of fishing gear, the sleeping bag in its sack hanging from his shoulder. From the shadows on the edge of the lot he watched cars pass. A white head in a square Ford cruised by and he recognized the black hooker who was a cop peering at parked cars. A few minutes later some ghost cars began crawling into the side streets, shooting spots into the rows of cars. He spent a few minutes scrubbing his back by walking like a crazy person in circles, with spins and dodges and weaves. He was on the Metro Transit bus. He was off and onto another. He was through a hotel lobby, through one set of revolving doors and out another. He took a taxi four blocks in one direction then told the driver another location the opposite way.

  Connie Cook was sitting in a banquette in Gratelli’s in Stonetown, impatiently looking at his watch when Harv hustled his bags through the entrance. The hostess took a look at his marred, sweaty face, the billowing black leather coat, and the clutch of bags and started to shake her head. He said he was meeting someone and not to fuck with him, he’d had a day she wouldn’t believe. Don’t ask.

  “Fuck, Harv, now I gotta get you a watch?” The Captain looked pointedly at his own wrist. “I said eight.”

  “Had to wipe my ass. Heat all over. I think those cops are up on us again.” He kicked the bags under the table and slung the sleeping bag sack into the corner of the banquette. He sat back in shadow. When the waiter came by, Harv said he’d make it simple: “Take all the rum you got in the place and pour it into the biggest fucking ice bucket you got. Throw in some ice, then strap it to the front of my fucking head like a horse’s pail.”

  Connie Cook laughed. The waiter asked if Harv wanted cola on the side and before Harv could rip into the guy’s throat Connie Cook told him, “It’s okay, Michael. Bring him a good triple dark rum and have one for yourself.” When the waiter retreated, Connie Cook smiled. “Tell me. But first, did you get the stuff? For my sweetie-to-be, whoever the lucky girl is?”

  Harv nodded, looking around. “Got it all. Got myself some fishing stuff, too. It was on sale. But I think, Connie, we might want to lay back on everything until we figure what the fuck’s going on.” He stopped talking when the waiter put a water glass of ice and another of rum in front of him. He poured rum onto the ice. “I was at the sporting goods place getting the stuff and there’s a cop in there. Like he was shopping. He went out and when I went out, he’s out there, standing around. He scoped out my rental. I see him grab up a radio or something and he’s watching me fuck off. Then a little while later that guy I saw in the red Intrepid, remember, up at Ag’s old place last month? The hairy guy with the black chick? Well, I’m going south and he’s going north in I think a Taurus or some such piece of shit. When I pass, he does a U-boat in my mirror but I’m so fucking gone. I dumped the car and then I see that black chick that was with the hairy guy. She’s in a Ford something. Then a bunch of ghosters with spotlights come through. That’s what I saw. What I didn’t see, I don’t know. I washed myself, I’m pretty sure, but who knows what the fuck else?”

  “Take a deep breath, Harv.” Connie Cook waved at the waiter across the room. “Drink some of that stuff. You want something to eat? I had a dinner when you didn’t show up, but I think I’m ready for a snack. Go for some oysters? Say, two dozen, half shell?”

  “Ah, pass on that.” Oysters made Harv think of lugers. Gratelli’s was an upscale seafood place. He noticed some diners glancing toward their banquette at the rough sound of his voice. He struggled out of his coat and smoothed his hair back behind his ears. The waiter appeared with his little palm pad. “Steak. Well done.” Harv had seen some shit and didn’t find
bleeding meat on a white plate appetizing. It reminded him of blood pooling on a tiled shower floor. “Baked potato. Whatever veggies are fresh.”

  Connie Cook went for the two dozen oysters anyway and at the last minute added a bowl of mussels and a deck of bread.

  They sat watching the late evening crowd. Several people waved at the Captain but none came to their banquette. The waiter delivered plates of food and Connie Cook stuffed his linen napkin into his shirt collar and, with a bottle of hot sauce in one hand, lifted and slurped off the oysters with the other. With the oysters gone, he seamlessly began dispatching the mussels, sopping with bread.

  Phil Harvey ate like a convict. His head was down over his plate and he kept it close to his edge of the table, looking up and around periodically as though someone might want to steal his steak. His wood handled serrated knife stayed in his fist, pointing straight up while he chewed.

  Connie Cook studied Harvey’s defensive dining posture. Fondly, he decided that no matter what, Harv wouldn’t ever go back into the joint. If he had to, he nodded to himself, he’d spend every dime he had on lawyers and bribes. Harv had brought him into a new life and had become a genuine friend. “So, Harv. Willy Wong. What’s up with him?”

  “He’s got a bunch of chems out at the import place in Gastown, big fucking drums full of the stuff. It sits there for a while until he’s sure there’s no heat on it, then he has some guys pick it up, split it up among his cookers. If the cops come around, Willy’s got a stooge working who’ll take the fall. Willy’s a prominent businessman. Community leader kind of guy. Pals with the mayor. Rogue employee. Who knew?”

  “So. How much has he got in there?”

  “Not sure. A lot, though. I got a guy who told me there’s a loading dock in the back with a camera over it. There’s a bunch of tough guys hanging around. I figure we go in at night, take all the shit we can lift. We can get six forty-five gallon drums into a pickup truck and be out of there in minutes.”

  “Nice. Tonight?”

  “Yep. Later on. I got my three guys that you met and I got another guy coming down from up north, he’s got a big bastard F-250. We’ll load ’er up and head up to Indian country, take it to the lab.”

  “Not the guy whose truck it is, though, right? Only two guys know where the lab is. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Sure. We’ll do the rip on Willy Wong and I’ll drop my guy at his place, about halfway up. I’ll take the drums up and stow them then head back down to his place. He’ll drive me down here someplace, drop me, and you can pick me up.”

  “A master of logistics, you are, Harv. A fucking master.” Connie Cook beamed upon Harvey. One appetite sated, he made a subtle burp and announced proudly: “Phil? Phil? I think I got us one.”

  Harvey looked up. The Captain’s face was wreathed with smiles like a sick boy in some kind of love.

  * * *

  Ray Tate had the skipper leave the alert out in the downtown core but gave up on catching up with Phil Harvey. The G6 was located by a ghoster running the lots. The skipper said he’d contact the rental company in the morning, but for now there was nothing. Djuna Brown returned to the satellite, voiced out that she was nested, but no one replied. The slobs evaporated into the dreamland of fishing camps and trolling motors. Ray Tate took the Taurus home and painted until he was startled that the early indirect morning light filled the windows.

  Chapter 17

  The skipper arrived early so he could leave a 7:00 a.m. voicemail for the dep, bringing him up-to-date on the forward motion of the task force. He’d set his alarm for 2:00 a.m., got up from bed, staggered into the kitchen, and left a message on the dep’s voicemail. He chugged a few and passed out again and before leaving home at 6:00 a.m., left another message. He hoped it would look like he’d been up all night directing his troops, going without sleep while they did a dragnet through the city’s underworld. They noticed that kind of thing at headquarters, he believed. He wore the same clothing he’d worn in to work the day before and didn’t shave.

  The dyke was asleep on the leather couch in his office. Her ghastly pantsuit was wrinkled and stained with coffee. Much of her black bra was exposed. She slept with her mouth open and he saw she had perfect, little white rodent’s teeth. The explosion of white frizz on her head was matted and some of it had stuck to her cheek where she’d drooled in her sleep.

  He thought of kicking her to death but something stopped him. He had a moment that rocked him. Back in the days when he’d been a young policeman, a real policeman, he’d been part of a search team looking for a missing eleven-year-old. He’d been the one to find her, folded into a frozen curve under a tarpaulin, in a garage two blocks from a halfway house for degenerate losers. That girl had been blond and she too had stuff dribbling out of her dead mouth. Her clothing had also been in disarray. The effect on him had been profound: he spoke to the corpse and apologized to her for not finding her in time. He decided only sick bastards would want to look at that kind of stuff endlessly, and that very day he set himself on a career arc that would lift him from the streets, fast and far, no matter what it took.

  Djuna Brown looked the same size as the eleven-year-old. A glimmer of realization sparked in the skipper’s mind but he smothered it. He kicked the edge of the couch. She stirred and opened her eyes slowly, in a way he momentarily found sleepy and seductive, as though she’d awakened under the eyes of a lover. When she focused on him, first he saw fear, that widening of shock. Then she grabbed at her open blouse and when she looked up again he experienced her pure hatred. Wordless, he stepped back and away. She got up and hurried out the door in her slippers, wiping slick from the corner of her mouth, muttering.

  As she crossed the office in the direction of the ladies’ room, Ray Tate came through the door juggling paper cups of coffee with newspapers crammed under his arm. He looked bedraggled, as though his clothes had gone through a wash cycle while he was still wearing them. There were heavy streaks of black, dark blue, and blood red paint on his shirtsleeves and on the tail of the denim shirt hanging under his jacket.

  “Ray, when your buddy there gets back from her tampon break, c’mon in. Conference time.”

  * * *

  Inside the skipper’s office Ray Tate, Djuna Brown, and the reclining skipper were kicking the shit. Djuna Brown had taken water to the coffee stains on her clothes and there were patches of wet on her pants. She’d clearly made efforts to smooth out the wrinkles. Her face was grey and dark circles were pressed under her cat’s eyes. The skipper had the feeling he’d somehow insulted her by finding her crashed on his couch, having seen her defenceless in sleep.

  “Okay,” he said to Ray Tate, “run down for me this stuff from last night.”

  Ray Tate shrugged. “Djuna ran it. I was just a road rat.”

  She surprised him by lying for the team. “Bernie and Wally were set up downtown and Bernie spotted Phil Harvey. He voiced it out. We put together a moving box and went down there. He got away, left the rental jammed in a lot, and phhhhht, gonzo, Alonzo. The sector guys, a ghost car, found the G6 dumped. That’s it.”

  “So, Ray, what’ve we got that we didn’t have yesterday? How are we closer to getting my pills?”

  “Well, skip, we know the boys are back in town. We know Phil Harvey’s got something going someplace, probably in the woods, in Indian country, or in the badlands. That’s maybe where the lab’s set up. Isolated. No worry about neighbours complaining about the smell. He bought fishing gear and a sleeping bag so we can assume he’s bunking in for a while, cooking something for Captain Cook. We know he’s got to be heated up, the way he dumped out the rental and evaded our box.”

  Djuna Brown studied him. The office smelled of artist’s chemicals and paints. She wondered about his night. It couldn’t have been worse, she thought, than waking up with your boobs hanging out and seeing the fat, red Irish mug leering at them.

  The skipper sat and gazed out the window. He wasn’t looking for avian life. He was exhib
iting the deep posture of a master investigator, determining where next to deploy his troops. Djuna Brown googled her eyes at Ray Tate. She held her nose and looked him over. He shrugged and mimed painting. She gave him a wide, sad smile and shook her head. She said, “Beatnik.” Her anger and fear were gone. Her partner was here and she began to comprehend partners.

  The skipper missed all this. The telephone rang and in relief he scooped it up and made notes as he listened. “Okay, our guys are on it. Who’s running things over there? Tell them my guys are on the way.” He hung up and forgot Djuna Brown was a dyke and Ray Tate was a gunner. “Okay, kids. Showtime. We got some Chinamen down over in Gastown. Two are minor gun whips but it looks like the third one’s been shot up pretty good and he’s going for the egg roll special. The hammers are standing by. We’re working.”

  “What’s up with it? Why do we care?” Ray Tate looked at the skipper’s grinning face and waited.

  “Well, Ray, my boy, the shootout was at a chemical importing company. Owned by Willy Wong.”

  “I heard of that guy. The mayor’s pal.” Ray Tate stood up. “The Wrong Wong. The mayor of Chinatown. Mr. Presto!”

  “Yep. And preliminaries from the scene say four or five white guys were rolling drums onto a big black pickup truck. They bailed out there. One of them looked like a big ugly woman.”

  “Phil Harvey.”

  “Sounds like.”

  “Any fat cowpokes dashing about, branding the citizens?”

  “Nope. Just fast white guys.” The skipper made a genuine rare smile. “Go get ’em, kids. Get me my super lab.”

  * * *

  Willy Wong’s warehouse was on the outer northern edge of Gastown, where the muddy sky was held up by tilting chimneys and squat fuel tanks. Willy Wong operated from a row of units with roll-up metal doors at the rear of an industrial strip. A pair of chargers were at the front of the place drinking coffee. One saw the red ball on the dash of the Intrepid as it rolled into the parking area and he waved and hooked his thumb around the back. Djuna Brown piloted the car carefully through a half dozen police cars and parked where she wouldn’t get blocked in.