Cut You Down

by Sam Wiebe

  “I figured, snort some, sell some,” Miles said. “When Chambers heard I’d copped, he came around, broke my hand. Now I can’t work on account of this busted mitt, so how’m I s’posed to dig myself out?”

  He’d gone to ground in New Westminster, sleeping on the floor of a friend. Chambers eventually found him. Cuffed him, dragged him out to his car, and forced him into the trunk.

  “They let me out, I’m looking around and all I see is dirt. Piles of it. There’s me, Chambers, Wong, and this other, sick-looking guy. They start whaling on me. Mr. Sick takes a chain, loops it under one arm and around my neck. Takes the other end and loops it round the back fender. He’s grinning. They take turns doing donuts. I remember trying to keep my back to the ground as they dragged me, but I got tangled and ended up face down. I remember this pain in my eye and then I’m gone. Woke up in Royal Columbia. Said I was unconscious two days. Tell me that ain’t sixty dollars’ worth of story.”

  As I handed him the money I asked, “Any chance you’d go to the police with this? New West is Mountie jurisdiction. Chambers has no pull.”

  “All a them’re the same. Now good-bye.”

  It took him a moment to stand.

  “Any chance for that eye?” I asked.

  “They say something’ll come back some time. Fucking doctors.”

  I helped him up and held the door for him. He was a prick about that, too. As he left I asked him if he knew of anyone else who owed Qiu. Specifically people who Chambers collected from.

  “We’re a dying breed,” he said. “Ha fucking ha. I heard he laid a real beating on a Vietnamese over some poker game. Wouldn’t know the name, but I heard it happened downtown. Just rolled up, got out, and started pounding on the gook before anyone knew what the why was. Chambers half-enjoys that shit, you ask me.”

  “Power,” I said.

  Miles nodded. “Yeah. Some time I’d like to know what that’s like.”

  Five

  There was no word from Blatchford that week. I’d given him a cell phone and set up a private e-mail account. It felt strange to occupy the position of a client, waiting for results.

  I thought of my own client Ritesh Ghosh, whose nine-year-old daughter had disappeared, who had exhausted every possible means, spared no expense. And for nothing. Jasmine Ghosh’s whereabouts after leaving the grocery store near their house had yet to be discovered. I’d watched the store’s blurred surveillance footage a thousand times, sometimes on a loop. See the girl walk through the aisles. See her pay for her sour keys and fuzzy peaches. See her go tiptoe to slide the change from the counter into her cupped hand. Then see her walk out the door, unhesitating and happy, into the bright white nothing of the next eight years.

  I’d waited six days on Blatchford. I could hold out longer.

  The next Monday I met Jeff Chen at the Congee Noodle House, Broadway and Main. He was already seated by the glass windowfront, tucking into a bowl of watery jook. His honeymoon tan was long faded. Bags decorated the undersides of his eyes from long hours spent mollifying corporate clients. Jeff shook hands and smiled pleasantly, which was not a good sign.

  “Things happen,” he said.

  “How’s Kay?”

  “We’re keeping her in-office, like you asked. Glad your lack of computer skills don’t run in the family.”

  I sat down. Jeff had a glass of Coke with a lemon wedge floating in it. I ordered the same.

  “No food?” Jeff asked.

  “I don’t think we’re going to want to sit eating with each other, time the conversation ends.”

  He tilted his head slightly to acknowledge the point. “Good news is we only lost Solis,” he said, “and they’d been talking about making a move anyway.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  He grinned, still spooning up broth. “No, it isn’t,” he said. “You don’t give a shit about that side of the business. The profitable side.”

  “You’re right.”

  “This isn’t even about the Sorenson case. I don’t blame you. Ultimately we have very different philosophies on business.”

  “This does sound like a breakup, doesn’t it?”

  “And I respect your philosophy,” Jeff said. “Really. I just—I didn’t sign up for a crusade. Y’know? I’ve got a kid coming. After the miscarriage, Marie was worried she’d never have another. Now everything’s finally on track. And I feel like, work-wise, I’ve compromised all I can.”

  “You’ve been more than fair,” I said. “I seem to be hardwired to push things.”

  “And people.”

  “And people,” I agreed. “It’s not you, Jeff, it’s me. So name your terms.”

  “You’re not leaving broke. I’d buy you out. I could borrow a lump sum, or you’d have a non-participatory interest in the company, a percentage for a certain number of years.”

  “Either or. Could Kay stay on?”

  “Long as she likes.”

  I held out my hand. Jeff said, “What about price?”

  “Work it out later.”

  We shook hands.

  “I don’t want to feel like I’m abandoning you when you’re down,” he said. “I’m sure this shit’ll blow over. What’ll you do now?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “Start over, maybe.”

  “You’d have to sign a non-compete, at least for two years,” Jeff said. We stared at each other. “Or maybe we could limit that to corporate security and home protection.”

  “Gigs I wouldn’t get, anyway.”

  I finished my drink, dropped some coins on the table. I felt empty in the best possible sense. I didn’t want to burden Jeff any further. We’d been close, maybe friends. We knew each other’s secrets and sins. He’d accepted me unquestioningly, and I knew he’d told the truth; it had been the business that had ended our partnership. A small distinction, but it meant something to me.

  I walked.

  Six

  East Vancouver depends on bridges to traverse the ravine that cuts diagonally through that part of the city. Train tracks run along the valley floor, while above, gray ribbons of Skytrain track sweep up and out from the city center. From the Commercial Drive Bridge, you look down on a rusty orange cage that shields the crisscrossing lines from falling debris. Or from bodies. Three days after my retirement, I stood on the bridge and watched a crew of forensic technicians clear a corpse from off the tracks.

  “Most likely the fall snapped his neck,” Detective Triplett said. Away from her partner she was more direct, as if she’d absorbed some of his gruffness, or felt free to let her own seep through. We headed away from the rubberneckers on the bridge.

  Below, McCurdy was talking to a pair of techs in white Tyvek suits as they collected samples from the soot-stained gravel beside the rail ties. I leaned over the railing, looking down past the cage to the body on the tracks.

  “The geometry is suspect,” Triplett said. “It’s clear he fell. From where, though, is another matter. Do you have any ideas, Mr. Wakeland?”

  “Why would I?”

  “It’s your neighborhood,” she said.

  From thirty feet up it was hard to make out the features, but the cream-colored garments the corpse was dressed in looked familiar.

  “No other marks on him?”

  “You mean injuries.” Triplett took the hint. “None I’d connect with his death, but older ones, yes, including one to the eye. Does that fit someone you know?”

  “It does.”

  She paused for me to elaborate. I kept my elaborations to myself.

  “Does the name Miles Irigary—”

  “You know it does,” I interrupted. “If you want me to be on the level, tell me how you knew to ask me.”

  From her pocket Triplett produced an evidence baggie, pressed flat, holding a note. Scrawled in pen, what looked like my name, followed by both office addresses. “This was in his wallet.” Triplett’s look demanded an explanation.

  “He came to visit me,” I said. “He wanted to te
ll me about the beating he took. It factored into a case of mine.”

  “And did he tell you who beat him?”

  “Two thugs employed by a gangster named Anthony Qiu.” I added, “They were working with—for—a police officer.”

  “Be serious,” Triplett said.

  “Would you like his name?”

  She didn’t hurry to respond. I nodded, I understood. Below, the corpse was laid into a blue body bag, zipped up dispassionately, like old hockey equipment.

  “If what you’re telling me were true,” Triplett said, “there are channels you could follow to lodge a complaint.”

  “Sure.”

  “But you won’t do that.” Disappointment and relief muddled in her voice.

  “I’ve seen people make those complaints before,” I said.

  “And had one lodged against yourself, as I recall.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t think justice was served in that instance?”

  “I chose to resign,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “If you can convince Chris Chambers to do the same—”

  The name provoked a reaction. If I read her face right, she knew Chambers, maybe liked him, but didn’t find the accusation absurd. Surprise but not incredulity. Triplett recovered by watching the swaddled corpse being carted toward the waiting van just to the side of the tracks.

  “I’m not sure I believe you,” she said after a moment. “You don’t seem to think this is connected to Ms. Sorenson—other than through yourself.”

  “No guarantees, but I don’t think so.”

  She nodded, then surprised me by taking a pack of cigarillos from her pocket and lighting one. The sweet smell offended the more health-conscious of the gawkers on the bridge.

  “Getting anywhere on Tabitha’s murder?” I asked her.

  “We’re doing what we can.”

  “Gill didn’t see anything, did he?” When she shook her head I asked, “How’s he doing?”

  “Devastated,” Triplett said. “As you can imagine. Keep away from him.”

  I told her I would. Triplett gestured down toward the tracks.

  “Meanwhile, you may want to consider, whoever did this might know you spoke with Miles Irigary. Might even have picked this spot for its proximity to your home, as a message.”

  “I’m retired,” I said.

  A glimmer of a grin caught on her face.

  “The kind of world we live in, these days, even retirees are urged to take caution.”

  Seven

  The liquor store clerk in her drab beige outfit recommended several excellent and reasonably priced reds, stressing their local origin. I settled on a Similkameen reserve and asked her if she thought it would make a swell apology note.

  “Depends on the crime,” she said.

  “I said some things, which may have provoked some minor fisticuffs on her part.”

  She nodded seriously. “Two bottles, maybe, just to make sure?”

  With my purchases under one arm, I walked over the bridge toward Sonia’s apartment. A thin mist rose up from False Creek to halo the globes of light around the street lamps. Below the bridge I could see onto the roofs of the waterfront condominiums, and across to the silver-domed Science World. I remembered viewing the Bodyworlds exhibit there with Sonia years ago, human bodies skinned and posed and lacquered. We’d gone in agreeing that it was a noble use for a person’s discarded earthly husk. Two hours later, one of us felt it was obscene. I couldn’t remember which of us thought that, only that it had become the source of a playful argument and teasing. All our best jokes had revolved around death and its utter lack of dignity.

  I rang Sonia’s buzzer and she let me in. She didn’t apologize for clocking me, but said she was happy she’d missed my eye. I gave her the wine. She had a tea service ready and we had that instead. Sitting next to each other on the couch, waiting for the other to speak.

  “I know what you saw,” I said eventually.

  “I should’ve said.”

  “You can say now if you want.”

  “All right.” She started to fidget and then stopped herself, laying her hands on her knees. Her words came out as a recital, as testimony.

  “We were heading East on Kingsway, Chris and I. I was driving. We passed Pho Sho, the Vietnamese place. Chris leaned over and grabbed my arm. He told me to hit the brakes. I did. He got out of the car and told me to wait. I asked if I should notify dispatch and he waved it off like it wasn’t important. So I didn’t. Chris went inside. He was maybe three minutes. When he came out he was leading an Asian male, Vietnamese, late twenties early thirties. He put him in the back of the car and told me to drive. I asked where and he told me the coffee shop on Victoria and Powell, near all the storage places. I drove there. I didn’t ask questions because I was waiting for him to explain. The man didn’t speak. He looked afraid.

  “At the coffee shop all three of us exited the vehicle. We were in front of that storage place. Chris told me to order him black coffee and a chicken wrap. I asked about the man he’d handcuffed. He said it was nothing. That he’d arrested him before and he wanted to scare him a little to make sure he was ‘on the up and up.’ That was the phrase he used and he smiled when he said it.

  “As I went in Chris led him around the side of the building, into the lot of that old transmission shop on nineteen hundred block. I walked to the door and doubled back and looked around the corner. I saw Chris grab the man’s hair and shove him face-first into the brick wall until blood came out of the man’s nose and mouth. I remember it left a splash on the white brick. Chris removed the cuffs and kicked the man several times in the ribs. Eventually he let the man stand up. The man took off southbound, running very fast. I noticed then that Chris had the man’s wallet. I watched him remove some bills and toss the wallet after the man, who didn’t stop to retrieve it. Chris didn’t explain himself and I was too confused and afraid to ask.”

  “Ever see the man again?” I said.

  “I looked him up but couldn’t find him. I did hear Chris subsequently refer to him as Larry, no surname.”

  “What context made Chambers bring him up?”

  “At the end of shift he noticed I was nonresponsive to some of his comments. He asked what was wrong. I didn’t reply. He told me if it was about that business with Larry, not to worry. That Larry was a multiple rapist who had skated on a technicality. I asked him about the money—the only question I asked. Chris said he slipped it into the mailbox of one of Larry’s victims, a young widow and mother who’d been paralyzed by Larry’s attack.”

  “What else did Saint Christopher say?”

  “Nothing. But he insisted on buying coffee for me all the next week.” She watched her toes grip the carpet. “I’ve sworn to these details, Dave. My lawyer’s holding a copy and I’ve got one here for you.”

  She handed me the affidavit. I flipped the pages, each of which had been signed by Sonia and her lawyer.

  “Are you afraid for your life?”

  “No,” Sonia said evenly. “I’m going to let it go.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I thought I couldn’t live with it, knowing what Chris uses our job to do. I didn’t understand.”

  “His crew killed that guy you sent to me. Miles.”

  “I know,” she said. “And I can’t stand it. But there is nothing I can do that Chris Chambers can’t escape, and he will ruin me so amazingly easily. Even if he lost his job off my testimony—even if he was convicted—he’d turn the department against me. I’d never be able to trust a partner again, and none of them would ever trust me. And that probably sounds terrifically selfish, but this is all I have.”

  I said, “Resigning wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen to me. Though it felt like it at the time. People always say you’ll have a bunch of careers in your lifetime.”

  Sonia was clutching her cup right below her chin so the steam traveled over the planes of her face.

  “Whe
n I was a kid, Dave, all I wanted was to be white. I didn’t want to be the only brown girl in school, the one who didn’t have parents. When I got to high school I became Miss Indian Pride. I found others who looked like me, but they all ended up back east, in university or business, and married. Now I don’t know who I am. When I come home with my dirty uniform in my gym bag, and I pass that mirror in the hall, I see myself and think: no family, no husband, no kids, no country. I have a city and I have a job and that’s all.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I wanted to lighten the mood, or share something equally as raw. To put my arm around her and comfort her with something pat and life-affirming. There were true things I could say. But a truth mentioned in the wrong spirit is no better than a falsehood.

  So I said nothing. I brushed her arm with my hand and waited. I waited until I could say the words “There’s a way out of this” and have them not be a lie.

  Eight

  Pho Sho was a small restaurant with white bars over the window, an off-white awning, the name bilingual in gray script. I waited for the lull between late lunch and early dinner, ordered a bánh mì and Vietnamese coffee, and handed my card to the server.

  “Larry around?” I touched my nose when I said his name, and told her he was wearing a bandage when last I saw him.

  The server glanced at the clipboard hanging from the wall. Instead of answering me, she brought an older woman out from the back, who said Larry wasn’t around and she didn’t know where he was. A hint of maternal suspicion in her voice.

  I stepped out of the restaurant and looked up and down the street. I didn’t know if Larry was an employee or customer, casual or regular, undocumented immigrant or Vancouver homegrown. But I remembered what Miles had said about being a breed apart.

  Towers were making inroads onto Kingsway, displacing the narrow restaurants and the shopfronts with their barred windows. But it was still Kingsway. There were two corner stores within sight, a Korean grocer and a cigarette shop with stacks of Asian newspapers out front. I tried the latter.