Seaweed on the Street Read online

  I showered, then pulled on jeans, sneakers and a red-checkered logger’s shirt. For my intended overnighter in Seattle I packed a canvas shoulder bag with razor, toothbrush, a change of underwear and a Gore-Tex shell in case it rained. It’s always raining in Seattle.

  I thought about making an omelette. In my dinky refrigerator I found some mouldy cheddar, half an onion that had been in there long enough to delaminate, three eggs and an open can of sardines that smelled a bit funny. Come to think of it, the whole refrigerator smelled bad. I should put deodorant in there. What did people use, baking soda? On the bottom shelf, a full carton of milk had turned solid. I closed the fridge door. Then, with a sigh, I opened it again, grabbed the milk, dumped it into the sink and rinsed it down the drain. I was thinking about Sis, that’s what it was — sometimes her lectures scrambled my brains.

  The next ferry to Seattle left Victoria in 45 minutes. I could still catch it if I hustled.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Two hours later I was devouring a ferry hamburger. Whidbey Island drifted by. Mount Baker’s snow-covered peak gradually emerged from the heat haze blanketing Puget Sound. A fellow passenger pointed to a pod of killer whales. A dozen of the big mammals, led by an orca with a dorsal fin as big as a windsurfer sail, plowed alongside the ship for 10 minutes before veering off toward Port Townsend.

  Matters great and small nibbled at the edges of my mind. What kind of double-entry moral bookkeeping had led a B.C. Crown prosecutor to railroad Jimmy Scow into jail? The evidence tying Scow to Harry Cuncliffe’s murder consisted of 1) Charles Service testifying that he had seen an Aboriginal man driving a florist’s van away from Ribblesdale and 2) shaky testimony from a snitch who told a cock-and-bull yarn about Scow’s alleged jailhouse confession. The testimony of a career crook and known liar that Scow had vigorously denied. But the Crown prosecutor did a Johnnie Cochran number on a jury that bought the whole package, and Scow drew five bullets.

  I’d been ordered to find Marcia Hunt, but at that point in my investigation, I was more interested in settling the Cuncliffe murder. One of the many puzzling aspects about it was that the thieves had stolen half a dozen so-so paintings — landscapes, a still life and a nice watercolour of a fishing smack leaving an English harbour. But they had ignored a very valuable Emily Carr oil painting. Why? The likeliest explanation was that the crooks didn’t know good art when they saw it. None of the stolen items had been recovered. The murderers had either dumped them in a panic after the killing or had … What?

  Another small anomaly: Why had Effie the maid chosen to quit working at the Hunt mansion at this particular time? I dislike coincidences. Somehow, a grand equation was being worked out. With the right formula, Harry Cuncliffe’s murder, Marcia Hunt’s disappearance and Effie’s departure would integrate into a perfect whole.

  In Seattle I would try to get a lead on Marcia Hunt. I had one clue — the postcard mailed to Dr. Cuncliffe. The card showed a picture of a dance band, the RayBeams Orchestra. Marcia had been a pianist; maybe she was playing in a bar somewhere?

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  for 10,000 years my ancestors have been crossing and recrossing Juan de Fuca Strait without passports. A U.S. immigration inspector took one look at me and waved me through the barriers. In the old days we came to wage war against the Natives of Puget Sound — enslaving their women and killing their men. Now we come to watch the Mariners.

  I took a cab from the Seattle ferry terminal to a public library near Pioneer Square. The reference librarian was a thin woman close to retirement age named Miss Brighton. Miss (please don’t call me Ms!) Brighton had grey hair twisted into a coil and pinned on top of her head with tortoiseshell pins. She had grey eyes, grey skin and blue granny glasses perched on the tip of her nose. One stiff Seattle wind and she’d be swept away. She looked harried and despondent, but when I told her that I was looking for a missing girl, she cheered up and we searched the city directories together.

  I was looking for information on the GoodTimes Club — the place the RayBeams played in 1980. We found no listing for the club in any recent directory, but Miss Brighton went into the stacks and we checked out some old ones. The GoodTimes Club was listed in the 1982 and 1983 directories — it was a basement bar on Water Street. But we drew a blank on the RayBeams Orchestra. Nothing. There had never been a listing anywhere. I wasn’t surprised. The RayBeams had probably been a pickup band — a group of musicians who got together for a season, played a few gigs, then drifted apart.

  Seattle has several long-established booking agents and music promoters, and the Musicians’ League also had offices in town. I noted likely telephone numbers, thanked Miss Brighton for her help and taxied across town to Water Street to check out the GoodTimes Club. But it had vanished: in its place was a gleaming 50-storey office tower.

  The Elliott Bay Bookshop was only five minutes away. I hiked over there and went down to the basement coffee shop. The daily feature was Kona Gold. I bought a cup, settled at a table in a corner and used my cellphone to call the Musicians’ League. Zilch. The girl who answered knew nothing and was interested in nothing.

  I said, “May I speak with the business agent?”

  “Nah. The business agent is at a conference, can’t be reached.”

  “What are the business agent’s regular office hours?”

  She said indignantly, “Hey. What’s your name, mister? You a paid-up union member or some smartass looking to stir things up?”

  I thanked her and started working through my list of booking agents. They take calls politely, 24 hours a day, but nobody knew a thing about the RayBeams. I spent nearly an hour making calls and still nobody could help me. Nobody, that is, until a woman with a voice like Laura Bush’s said the band was something that Ray Smith might have dreamed up.

  “Ray Smith?”

  “Ray’s an old retired guy, plays tenor sax and clarinet. Sometimes he sits in with Dixieland jazz bands when he isn’t laid up with arthritis. You might check with the Banjo Club.”

  I phoned the Banjo Club and was told that they were open that night for dinner and dancing. I said, “Do you know whether Ray Smith is playing tonight?”

  “Yeah, probably, because today’s Friday. Ray Smith generally comes in on weekends. Who’s asking?”

  “I’ll come over and introduce myself,” I said.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  The Banjo Club was a low-ceilinged room with a horseshoe-shaped bar. There was a small space for dancing and a foot-high stage for the band. A sign on the piano announced that tonight’s band was the Seattle Stompers. Photographs of Louis Armstrong, Bix Beiderbecke and 50 other jazz greats decorated the walls. Lighted candles stood on tables draped with checkered cloths. The room’s air conditioner was an open door facing a back lane.

  A good-looking woman in a yellow shirt was polishing glasses behind the bar. I approved of everything I could see above the counter. She was brushing her blonde-streaked bangs with one hand now; the other rested on her hip as she said something to a drunk.

  The drunk was flipping a quarter with his thumb, catching it in his left hand and checking to see whether it came down heads or tails. Then he flipped it again.

  It was the happy hour, but nobody looked happy except the bartender. Two construction workers in hard hats stood at the end of the bar, eating salted peanuts and watching the Seattle Mariners taking a beating on the big screen. In the background, Louis Armstrong was singing “St. James Infirmary Blues.”

  I sat on a stool at the counter and ordered rum and coke with a twist of lime over ice.

  The bartender said, “You’re Canadian, right? I just spoke to you on the telephone.” A lapel pin said her name was Barb.

  “That’s right, Barb,” I said. “How did you know I was Canadian?”

  “Easy. Your accent is different, for one thing. For another, if you were an American you’d call that a Cuba Libre.” She placed the drink in front of me and leaned on her elbows.

  “But if I was a real Can
adian I’d have ordered rye and ginger. It’s the national drink.”

  “You’re real, mister,” she said, eyeing me up and down. “That’ll be four bucks. You want to run a tab?”

  “I may not be staying long,” I said, putting a five spot on the counter.

  “Coulda fooled me.” She took my money to the cash register and rang up the sale. “Guy comes in packing an overnight bag, I figure he’s here indefinitely.”

  “That’s what I like. A good-looking woman with brains. Uses five-syllable words. In-def-in-ite-ly. You working your way through college?”

  “Not me. I’m working my way through my second alimony settlement. Two losers I met in this very bar, sitting exactly where you’re sitting now.”

  Barb dropped my change on the counter and settled herself beneath a neon Stroh’s sign. I watched her fold her arms, and when our eyes met she smiled easily. “You want me to stash that bag where people won’t fall over it?”

  I passed my bag across the bar. “You’ve had two bad marriages. Want to try for third time lucky?”

  “Not until I know you better.”

  “Hey, Barbie!” a slurred voice said. “You working or not? Get your ass over here, we’re dyin’ a’ thirst.”

  It was one of the hard hats. Barb rolled her eyes, gave me a menu, switched on a smile and walked down the bar.

  Louis was coming to the end of “Infirmary Blues,” laying the dead gambler out with a 20-dollar gold piece on his watch chain so the boys would know he’d died standing pat.

  Checking the menu, I learned that the club specialty was a Bessie Smith steak, but they had a Billie-Burger, a Nat King Coleslaw, a New Orleans patty melt. They were also plugging a Benny Goodman Surprise for dessert, and I knew what it would be — two scoops of vanilla ice cream with a stick of black licorice.

  Two middle-aged couples came in and took a table next to the dance floor. The women wore elaborate silk flapper dresses, silk stockings with garters, and carried umbrellas decorated with bits of coloured ribbon. The men had on straw boaters and elbow garters. The drunk with the fedora was crawling around the floor now, looking for his quarter.

  When Barb came back I said, “Are you expecting rain?”

  Barb pursed her lips as she watched the women with umbrellas. “They got a deal here,” she explained. “When the band leader figures everybody’s drunk enough, he breaks into ‘When the Saints Come Marching In.’ The women in flapper outfits parade around the room, twirling umbrellas and kicking up their heels, showing off their garters and lacy knickers. Guys follow, mugging with their hats. It’s a Dixieland tradition, don’t ask me why.” She pointed beneath the bar. “I’ve got the company umbrella stashed there. When the procession starts rolling, I have to join in. It’s in my contract.”

  “Fun, eh?” I said.

  “You bet,” she said, with good-humoured resignation. She watched the drunk find his quarter and reseat himself. “You want another rum and coke?”

  I shook my head. “Gimme a Cuba Libre this time.”

  A waitress dressed like a flapper appeared and started taking orders at the tables.

  Barb leaned closer. “You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Vancouver?”

  “Victoria PD.”

  “You going to make life hard for Ray Smith?”

  “Just the opposite. If he can tell me what I need to know, there might be money in it.”

  “A reward?”

  “Could be.”

  “I hope you’re not trouble. Ray is coming to the end of the road and it’s been a bumpy ride. Time hasn’t treated him well. He’s got this arthritis that acts up so he can’t play much anymore. Even at his peak, Ray was never exactly a household name.”

  “Just a working musician.”

  “That’s right, a working stiff like the rest of us. What did you say your name was?”

  “Silas Seaweed.” I looked into her eyes. “If I’m gonna make a proposal later, I’ll need to know your name.”

  “Barbara Scarborough. Awful, right? Kids at school used to call me Barb Scarb, made me sound like an automobile part.”

  “Ever think of changing it?”

  “I did, twice. One of my husbands was called Yastremkowich.”

  “Lucky his name wasn’t Dwyer,” I said.

  She grinned. “Barb Dwyer? That’s nearly as cute as Silas Seaweed.”

  It was my turn to grin. I said, “There’s a hundred R. Smiths in the book. You know Ray’s number?”

  Barb shook her head and moved away to take another order.

  I liked her already. Liked her easy wit and the way she didn’t get mad when the hard hat told her to get her ass moving. And I loved the way she’d put her head to one side when she was being droll about the company umbrella. I liked her because she cared enough to worry about a tired old musician.

  Barb uncapped a Miller Lite. A man sat next to me and she placed the beer on the counter in front of him. Without a word the man picked up the bottle and held it admiringly for a moment. Barb and I watched him empty the bottle without taking it away from his lips for air. The drinker was a skinny dude of about 35, dressed in a red-and-white striped shirt and white pants, with a straw boater and white loafers. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed.

  “Man, I needed that,” drawled the newcomer, smacking his lips. He looked at the menu in front of me and said, “Stranger, my name’s Hugh Baines. I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t warn you about the food here.”

  “Shut up, Hugh,” Barb laughed. “The food’s great and you know it.”

  “They’ve got a Delta Blues sauce here that’s really something. I use it to remove paint from my boat,” said Baines. “But if you like it hot … ”

  Barb lifted her eyes in sardonic prayer and smiled. “Hugh’s a musician. Plays piano with the Seattle Stompers.”

  “I don’t play the piano here, no sir,” Baines said, picking up his second beer. “I beat the hell out of it. I murder it with my foot on the loud pedal all night long. People in this place like their tunes loud. They’re hoping that one night I’m gonna pound the 88s so hard the frame will collapse and ivory keys will fly across the room.” He grinned at me. “You a music lover, or do you like Dixieland?”

  “I think ‘Gimme a Pig’s Foot and a Bottle of Beer’ is the greatest song ever written.”

  “Me too. Let me buy you a drink?”

  “Rum and coke,” I said.

  “Give the gentleman his heart’s desire,” said Baines.

  Smiling, Barb reached for the rum bottle.

  “My name’s Silas Seaweed. Thanks for the drink. I’m looking forward to hearing you play.”

  We shook hands and Baines stood up, holding his beer. “Glad to meet you, Silas, but I’ve gotta circulate, keep everybody smiling. You sticking around for when the dancing starts?”

  “Sure. See if I can borrow an umbrella, join in the fun.”

  Baines ambled away and sat with a foursome. The place was filling up.

  “Nice guy,” I said.

  Barb nodded. “He’s part owner of this place. When he isn’t playing piano he’s an aerospace engineer with Boeing.”

  The hard hats had gone home. Now the tv was running a videotape of the Hollywood Greats playing “Calico.” A starlet with a cigarette in one hand and a microphone in the other was enthusiastically belting out the lyrics.

  Barb nodded toward the entrance and said, “Here comes Ray.”

  An elderly black man wearing a black derby hat, starched white shirt and black pants limped in slowly, favouring his right leg. He carried a clarinet case and lowered himself carefully into a seat at the back of the room. He mopped his face with a large red handkerchief. He looked tired, old.

  “What’s Ray’s drink?” I asked.

  “Diet Pepsi,” said Barb, pouring one. “Take this over to him and introduce yourself before the place is too full. You won’t be able to hear yourself speak in here soon.”


  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Ray Smith took his time before answering my question, lighting a cigarette and leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful expression. “Sure, I remember Marcia,” he said at last. “She was the sort of girl you don’t forget.” He smiled. “You ain’t the first guy been looking. There was another detective came after her, a long time ago.”

  “Patrick Coulton?”

  Smith’s gaze turned inward to the past. “Yeah, that’s it. Coulton said Marcia’s daddy wanted to see her.”

  “Marcia’s daddy still wants to see her. If he doesn’t get his wish soon, it’ll be too late.”

  “That right?” said Smith, giving me a hard but not unfriendly look.

  I said, “I’d be grateful if you could help me find her.”

  Absently, he stroked the swollen knuckle joints on his left hand. “What if she don’t want to be found? Marcia deliberately turned her back on her family, didn’t want no part of it. That’s what I told the Coulton guy.”

  “I can promise you this. It wouldn’t hurt Marcia to be found.”

  “Maybe, but like I said, I ain’t talking.”

  I handed over a photograph. It showed Marcia Hunt posed for the camera with Frank Harkness. When Smith saw it, he nodded. “That’s her. How a nice girl like Marcia ever got tied in with that biker is one of nature’s mysteries.”

  “Marcia’s family didn’t think much of Frank either.”

  “That figures. But for some reason, Marcia was in love with Frank, crazy about the bastard.” Ray shook his head. “That girl, she was something. She could play the piano, sing like Peggy Lee.”