Seaweed in the Soup Read online

  Scudd’s bodyguard was a pierced and tattooed thug named Eddie Cliffs. Cliffs was another Native, and I’d brought him down for pandering, once. Eddie Cliffs scowled menacingly until Twinner Scudd pointed to the drinks on his desk, whereupon Cliffs came over and put the glass of milk in Twinner’s hand. After a slight hesitation, Cliffs handed me my drink and returned to his station by the door.

  Twinner Scudd was a fat Native Indian from up Desolation Sound way. His thick black hair was buzzed close to his scalp. His face was the colour of olive oil. He wore a dapper white suit, a white T-shirt, and white shoes. His eyes were invisible behind dark glasses.

  “So, Seaweed. How long’s it been?” Scudd asked as he sat behind his desk.

  I sat down, rolled a little Chivas around my tongue. “Five, six years?”

  “It’s been eight years,” he said in a voice of subdued menace. “Eight years since you guys busted my Saltspring grow-op.”

  “Baloney,” I said negligently. “I’m not interested in busting back-country grow-ops. Besides, Saltspring Island is Mountie country. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Somebody blew the whistle, and a lot of serious people think it was you.”

  “Serious? The same people probably think that the earth is flat and that the moon is made of green cheese. When I go after you, Twinner, it won’t be for growing bc bud, it’ll be for something serious. Murder, for example.”

  I couldn’t see Scudd’s eyes behind his glasses, but his fat shoulders straightened at the word “murder.”

  I went on, “After the formality of a trial, the outcome of which will never be in doubt, we’ll bolt you up and you’ll never see daylight again. There’s a cell in a Supermax with your name on it. You’ll sit inside a rubber cube for the rest of your days. You won’t hear another sound except the sound of your own screams. You’ll never set eyes on another human being. Your food will be shoved through a slot in a door. There’ll be no books for you to read, no TV to look at. You’ll be stark raving mad in a year, or less, because you’ll know we’ll never let you out.”

  Scudd said, “The jail that can hold me hasn’t been built.”

  I threw back my head and laughed. Eddie Cliffs lurched forward and grabbed my shoulder. Before I could do anything about it, Scudd waved a lazy hand and Cliffs backed off.

  To me, Scudd said, “Cliffy’s got a short fuse, best you don’t mess with him. You’re still the cocky bastard you’ve always been, but when you’re on my turf, you better watch your manners. Start throwing accusations of murder around, and Cliffy’s likely to lose his temper, drag your head off by the roots.”

  “And you can tell that moron Cliffy something. Tell him that if he touches me again, I’ll break his heart.”

  Cliffy started moving. By then I was ready. He ran towards me, his arms wide, yelling. Maybe he was expecting me to throw a punch, but I didn’t. I have too much respect for the fragile little bones in my hands. Instead of breaking them on Cliffy’s thick head, I aimed a kick at his balls. My kick missed its target and landed on his left knee instead. Howling with pain, Cliffy leaned forward. I grabbed him by the hair and brought up my knee simultaneously. Cliffy’s nose exploded into a brilliant ball of blood as he collapsed. I put my foot on his throat. I said, “Listen, Cliffy. If you move a muscle, I’ll crush your larynx. You’ll suffocate to death, right here on this floor. It’ll be the last move you ever make. Savvy?”

  Cliffy made a gurgling sound. I interpreted it as an assent. I went back to my chair and watched him. Twinner seemed amused. After a minute, Cliffy managed to get to his feet. He went out of the room, trailing blood.

  I said to Twinner, “Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?”

  Twinner smiled. “We were talking about murder, as I recall. Just remind me. Who am I supposed to have murdered this time?”

  “A Chinese guy from Vancouver.”

  “There are lots of Chinese guys in Vancouver. Nothing personal, but I hope them slant-eyed fuckers all stay over there.”

  “His name was Raymond Cho. He was a Big Circle Boy.”

  “Oh yeah? But I didn’t kill no Chinaman, because Chinamen ain’t no threat to me.”

  Standing up and waving a finger in my face, Twinner added more forcibly, “Around here, I’m the boss and don’t you forget it. There was a woman in my office just now. She was trying to shove me around too. The bossy little cow even had the nerve to threaten me, till I showed her who was running this show. Before you flap any more gum, keep this in mind: Cliffy’s gonna get better, and he’s gonna be mad. I could get Cliffy to blow you away. You’ll end up in a landfill somewhere. Nobody would know, nobody would shed a tear, you’d be forgotten in a week.”

  I moved slightly in my chair. Then I took my Glock out and laid it gently on the desk. Twinner Scudd’s eyes widened and his patronizing grin faded. Slowly, he sat down again.

  I said, “Think you’re a hard ass, Scudd? Tell you what, let’s play a little game. Let’s see who can pick that gun up first, aim it and shoot a hole in the other guy’s head.”

  At that moment, fortunately perhaps for me, Scudd wasn’t in the mood for games. He placed his hands flat on the desk, well away from the gun. I put the gun in my side pocket, where it made my jacket sag but was in easy reach if I needed it in a hurry. I said in a neutral voice, “It must be very annoying for you. You build up a nice little illegal monopoly, then complete strangers ride into town. Try to steal a piece of your action.”

  “What illegal monopoly is that?

  “I’m talking about your giant share of Vancouver Island’s cocaine trade. You or one of your associates killed the Chinaman because you thought he was going to horn in.”

  Scudd took his dark glasses off, dabbed his dark eyes with a white handkerchief and then put his glasses on again. He said, “This is interesting. Tell me more.”

  “Well, it’s a rough business, wholesaling illegal drugs. But you’ve been in the business for years and you’ve learned how to cope. We know that you came to an arrangement with the Hell’s Angels and that you have split the business fifty-fifty from Nanaimo northwards. Apart from a little penny-ante stuff, Victoria and the whole of the South Island has been your drug domain almost exclusively. Until now, that is. Today, there’s all kinds of people horning in.”

  Scudd slowly raised his hands from the desk, sipped a little milk, and said, “For instance?”

  I said, “The Big Circle Boys. The Red Scorpions. The United Nations Gang. Tubby Gonzales.”

  Scudd laughed. “What a crock. Red Scorpions? Are you kidding me, they’re a bunch of fucking nitwits. Headbangers who can’t find their asses in the dark. Tubby Gonzales is a personal friend of mine, for chrissake.”

  “Lucky you. I didn’t know Gonzales had any friends. And by the way, the dead Chinaman was a fancy dresser with a yen for naughty girls. You may have read about him in the newspapers.”

  “There’s a lot of fancy dressers with a taste for naughty girls, but I don’t read newspapers. I don’t even watch much TV. All I do is count the money this club is earning for me, every cent of it legal. You have the wrong idea about me, Seaweed, because in spite of what you think, I am a changed man now. I am a solid citizen. I’ve turned over a new leaf. Given up my life of crime, because it’s easy to make money legally. Income tax auditors check my books every year. A bunch of pen pushers with smelly armpits, dandruff and cheap suits. Sometimes they beef about my expenses, but when they come sniffing around, I tell Cliffy to feed ’em hamburgers and all the liquor they can drink. Free of charge, so we don’t get any serious hassles. Besides, if I do get hassles, Cliffy leans on people. Otherwise I claim racial discrimination and invoke the Residential School Defence. It works every time.”

  “You never went to a residential school. You were born on Quanterelle Island. You went to school at Surge Narrows.”

  Scudd grinned.

  I said, “I’m looking for a missing woman. She was friends with a woman called Maria Henry. Mar
ia was born on Quanterelle Island too.”

  “Yeah, Maria, my hot little kissing cousin. Somebody told me that Maria’s enjoying life at Wilkie Road jail right now. Have you accused her of murder as well?”

  “Right now, all I want is to talk to Maria’s friend.”

  “Well, Seaweed. I can’t help you there.”

  “I’d just like to talk to her, and I’m certain that you know the woman I’m talking about. The next time you see her, tell her that. Tell her that I just want to ask her a few questions. She can phone me at my office, anytime.” I stood up. “In the meantime, Twinner, try to behave yourself. I think we’ll meet again real soon.”

  “I can hardly wait. In the meantime, Seaweed, be careful you don’t shoot yourself playing with guns. That’s a job I want to do myself.” Scudd’s jaw tightened. “Do you want me to put that scotch you just drank on a tab, or will you pay for it downstairs?”

  I took money from my pocket. Dropped it on Twinner’s desk. Went out. Cliffy, outside on the balcony, holding a bloody rag to his nose, gave me a mean slit-eyed glance before he rejoined his boss. Five minutes later, I was downstairs, watching the action, when I saw Tubby Gonzales again. The Mexican was arm-in-arm with a girl girl half his age. She looked drunk. Gonzales appeared to be enjoying himself. I kept my eyes on them for a couple of minutes before he and the girl went out together. If I’d been smart, I’d have left the club then and there. Instead, I went into the Landlord’s Snug, where I had another Chivas. The smell of Havana cigar smoke hampered my appreciation of the scotch, so I paid the bill and visited the men’s room. It was unoccupied, except for a stooped old attendant who was mopping the marble floor tiles with intense concentration. I wondered if the old boy had been called to mop Twinner’s office yet.

  To my left were four toilet cubicles. To my right was a long black granite counter with six white porcelain washbowls. Gold-plated plumbing fixtures. Stacked cotton napkins instead of paper towels. The space dividing the toilet cubicles from the washbowls was about four feet wide. In an ell were four urinals. The old guy finished his work on the floor and went out. I was alone, lathering my hands with the club’s scented liquid soap at one of the washbowls when the door opened. Looking up to the mirror, I saw Eddie Cliffs and two of the club’s wide-shouldered bouncers come in.

  Cliffs had a large plaster across his nose. He leaned against the door to prevent anyone else from entering the washroom. “Hello, smart guy,” he said, in nasal tones that made him sound like a cartoon character. “It’s showtime.”

  There wasn’t enough room between the cubicles and the counters for the two goons to stand side by side. The bouncer who looked like a coal miner was putting on a pair of black leather gloves. All three men were facing me in single file, which skewed the odds in my favour. As long as the goons didn’t crowd me backwards into the ell, where the floor space was wider, I was in pretty good shape for a showdown.

  The coal miner’s fighting technique wasn’t highly developed. Like Cliff, he was another rusher. Rushing at your opponent is efficient if your opponent is a powder puff. I’m not. The coal miner wasn’t very observant. Otherwise he might have wondered what was weighting my jacket pocket down on one side. When he charged, I was ready. Instead of backing up, I took the Glock from my pocket and slashed the air with the gun in a 90-degree roundhouse swing. As the blow connected with the coal miner’s face, I stepped aside. The coal miner’s head stopped moving for a moment, but the rest of him kept going. Spewing teeth, he slid feet-first to the end of the room, where he crashed against a radiator and lay inert.

  One down. Two to go. I was starting to enjoy myself, and I didn’t hesitate. Holding the Glock by the barrel, I swung it at the second bouncer’s head. He put his arm up to block the Glock’s descending arc. There was a loud snap as his forearm broke. He screamed. My second blow missed his head, but it smashed his collarbone and sent him flying backwards against Cliffs. Cliffs had been trying to get out of the washroom, but when the second goon fell against him, his escape route was blocked. By then, solidarity had reached its limits in that former union hall. I stepped on the second goon’s chest, grabbed Cliffs’ shoulder, and turned him around to face me. He was trying to explain something about my huge misunderstanding of the situation when I head butted him.

  Three men down. Down and out.

  Butting Cliffy’s head left me feeling slightly dizzy. My ears were ringing. I felt better after splashing my face with water and cleaning spots of blood off my jacket at a washbowl. After dragging Cliffy and the goon out of the way, I went out of the washroom.

  By then, the club’s former ambience had undergone a subtle and almost imperceptible change. Nanaimo’s was still crowded, but instead of the former rave scene, there was an eerie calm. People had stopped dancing and had gathered in small groups of five or six people. I thought initially that a lingering adrenaline rush was leading me to misread the situation. But there was more to it than that. Something unusual and dangerous was going to happen. The collective unconscious had picked up on it.

  Then all hell broke loose. The patio erupted into a ball of fire. The club’s strobe lights, and every other light in the club, winked out. Flat-screen TVs and speakers went dead. Flames, rapidly expanding from the patio, blocked the club’s chief emergency exit. Mass hysteria set in; pandemonium ensued. Screaming helplessly, people were trampled underfoot as everyone rushed for the front door. I was carried along in the crush. After an interval, a few emergency lights clicked on to augment the red-yellow glare spreading throughout the building. In moments, the wall adjacent to the patio was completely ablaze. The hundred-year-old wooden structure burned fiercely. As it became heated, ancient varnish and paint first bubbled, and then sloughed down the walls to the floor in thick viscous waves, like volcanic lava. When the flames reached the ceiling, they spread outwards. By then, fierce crossdrafts were broadcasting airborne fragments. Burning drapery and plastics spread flames to the remaining walls. The noise was tremendous. People were shouting “Out! Get Out!”

  Hemmed in by the crowd, I was carried helplessly along towards the front door. An opening designed to accommodate two or three people at a time was being jammed by a panicked herd. I managed to fight my way out of the crowd and make my way back to the washroom. Flames followed me inside till I slammed the door shut. Light streamed into the washroom through a broken window. Cliffy had gone, as had the guy with the broken arm. The coal miner was still tits-up on the floor against the radiator. I dragged him upright and managed to shove him partway through the window before someone outside gave me a hand to drag him the rest of the way.

  Instead of climbing out the window, I went back into the club. By then, it was almost entirely engulfed in flames. Superheated air began to scald my exposed skin. The roar of conflagration rendered every other sound inaudible. Then, fifteen feet from where I was standing, I saw a black figure trying to drag itself across the club’s burning floorboards. Insanely, I took a step towards it. Something hot and heavy fell from the ceiling and bounced off my head and shoulder; my hair was burning. I backtracked to the washroom. A fireman had poked his fog-nozzle through the window. Bathed in a cool moist mist, I climbed outside. The fireman turned his fog-nozzle on me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Morning sunlight brought me awake at about eleven o’clock. I got out of bed. My head-butting forehead throbbed with pain. I switched the radio on. CFAX’s big news was the Nanaimo’s arson disaster. Three people were dead, 20 survivors were in hospital.

  Still half asleep and groggy, my eyeballs immersed in what felt like a greasy vaseline scum, I called Bernie Tapp and told him about last night.

  “You were inside the club when the fire started?”

  “Yes. Moments earlier I’d been talking with Twinner Scudd.”

  Bernie grunted.

  I said, “In addition, I found out where Maria Alfred lives.

  “You found out, hey?” Bernie said sarcastically. “I suppose you were walking along the s
treet, noticed a bit of paper lying in the gutter. Picked it up and guess what? It had Maria’s name, address and phone number written on it.”

  “That’s about right, actually. I am one lucky dude.”

  “The fire marshal says the Nanaimo’s fire was a definite arson. Who do you fancy for it?”

  “Ordinarily, I might suspect somebody like Tubby Gonzales, except Twinner Scudd told me that he and Tubby are buddy buddy right now.”

  Bernie had a sudden coughing fit. When it subsided, he said throatily, “Maybe we should bug Twinner’s house.”

  “Twinner doesn’t live in a house. He lives on a hundred-foot yacht. It’s called the Polar Girl and when he’s in Victoria he keeps it in that marina just south of the Johnson Street Bridge.”

  Bernie had another coughing attack. He grunted something unintelligible.

  I said, “What?”

  Bernie said, “Somebody dialled 911. Reported that a brazen long-haired First Nations thief robbed the Ballard Diner last night.”

  “No kidding? Do you want me to check Maria Alfred’s house, do it yourself, or send Serious Crimes?”

  “Go ahead, do it yourself but keep me posted. Serious Crimes is working overtime as it is, and I’m up to my armpits.” He added. “Did you get hurt last night?”

  “A few little bruises and burns. Nothing much.”

  “Well, you take care of yourself. Like I said, I’m up to my armpits, I can’t afford to lose any more men.”

  I hung up and called the same number by hitting the redial button. This time, I spoke to the drug squad, and asked Sergeant Bondat to tell me the latest drug-war rumours.

  Bondat took a deep angry breath and then went on to tell me something that I already knew. He said, “Tomas Gonzales and Twinner Scudd are battling for market share against dealers from Vancouver. Now we’re hearing that the Big Circle Boys are moving in. The Red Scorpions have been sending their people across too, setting up dial-a-dope operations and recruiting local small-time punks. We’ve been rounding up these idiots like cattle. Most have priors for drug and weapons possession. They’re wannabees with jailhouse attitudes and big showoff RS tattoos. The kind of cheap punks who’ll slash complete strangers just to show their friends how tough they are. They’re so dumb they don’t even know that they’re cannon fodder for the big players. They are expendables, dupes, fools. Mugs programmed to take all the risks and deflect heat away from the bosses. Their biggest moment comes after they’re dead, when they get the big funeral, the black granite tombstone, and Mommy telling the TV cameras how wonderful her loser son was to his family and other loved ones. Loved ones? Shit.”