Serpents Rising (5 page)

Cobb took a last drink of tea. Nodded. Not looking convinced. “Anyway,” he started to rise. “We've got other things we have to take care of. Let's go talk movies with Jackie Chow.”

The video store was as unpleasant as I'd remembered it. A big window that faced the street didn't let much light in, mostly because it was covered in posters that announced “XXX Rated,” and had the word
ADULT
plastered all over it in foot-high capital letters and repeated at every angle possible, sometimes the letters overlapping. Artistic.

When we went into the store, a bell jangled to announce our arrival. We were the only people there. No one at the counter. I figured the jangling would bring Jackie Chow or someone at a dead run to head off shoplifters on a street where shoplifting was like breathing. I was wrong.

The store was decorated in a minimalist motif. A couple of posters on the chipped plaster walls, all of which needed painting. The most recent coat had been a light blue once, now it was the colour of washed-out denim. The floor, however, looked relatively clean, maybe because it's easier, and cheaper, to sweep than it is to paint. There were a couple of aisles of empty DVD cases. Not a lot of stock. I was reminded that renting movies wasn't the primary business conducted in the store.

Cobb checked out some of the merchandise while I read the titles on a flyer that was stuck on the wall with a single piece of aging Scotch tape. “Top 10 Adult Films of the Month.” No indication what month. Probably didn't matter.
The Virgin Surgeon
,
Depth Chart
, and
Insatiable Nurses
were the top three. The latter had a promo line that read, “In this hospital anything goes and everybody comes.”

I quit reading. “This place always makes me want to have a long bath in disinfectant.”

“Roger that,” Cobb looked around, impatient. “Much as I'm enjoying all this exposure to culture, we need to keep moving. Is our boy here or not?”

On cue Jackie Chow came out of the back part of the store carrying a newspaper and a half-filled Styrofoam coffee cup. He stepped behind the counter and looked at us. “Gentlemen.”

He hadn't changed much. Average height, still thin, too thin to be healthy. He was wearing a
Les Miserables
T-shirt. I guessed Value Village. Jackie Chow didn't strike me as a guy who got to a lot of Broadway musicals. The makings of a moustache sat above his mouth, dark eyes set close together, grey ball cap with the letter L sitting fashionably off-centre on his head.

I wasn't sure he recognized me at first. I stepped closer to the counter.

“Hey, Jackie. Adam Cullen. Writer … freelance. I interviewed you a couple of times. Drug stuff. Crack and a few things.”

Chow raised a pair of glasses to his face, studied me, took the glasses off again and set them on the counter. “Sure, I remember. Newspaper dude. Didn't use my name. Kept your word. That was good.”

“Yeah. Jackie, this is Mike Cobb. I'm helping him find a kid who's missing. Might be in some trouble.”

Chow smirked. “Most of the kids around here are missing. A lot of them are in trouble.” He kept looking at me. Hadn't glanced at Cobb. “Cop.” Cobb pulled his wallet and showed Chow his PI card. Chow didn't bother to put his glasses on and barely glanced at the card. “I'm pretty busy here so if you don't mind —”

“I can see how busy you are and Mr. Cullen and I don't want to keep you from all that industry any longer than necessary.” Cobb set an elbow on the counter, just grazing the eye glasses. “Just like you to take the time to look at a picture.” He held out the photo of Jay Blevins.

Chow glanced at it. “Don't know 'im.”

“Yeah, maybe try again. With your glasses on. Just in case.”

Chow looked at Cobb. Not scared but wary. Cobb straightened, lifted the glasses, held them out.

Chow took the glasses, set them on his face, looked at the photo, then handed it back to Cobb. “Like I said, I don't know the kid.”

Cobb said, “So he's never come in here to buy any ‘movies'?”

Chow looked down at the counter then up at me. “I ain't seen this kid. Here or anywhere else. And I got work to do.”

I moved closer. “Jackie, you hear about what went down last night?”

A flicker of interest. “As in?”

“As in a couple of dealers getting wasted.”

Slow nod. “Yeah, I might have heard about that. This kid have something to do with it?”

“He's what the police call a person of interest. We'd like to find him before they do.”

“If the kid had anything to do with those two guys getting blown away, the cops are the least of his problems.”

“Any idea who might be a bigger problem for him?”

“Nope,” Chow shook his head. Too quickly. “But the word is that the people who are behind the residence where the two gentlemen were shot are not happy. And when they aren't happy, it's not a good thing.” Chow looked at Cobb for the first time. “For anybody.”

Cobb pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket, dropped it on the counter. “If he happens to drop in, or if you see him somewhere or hear about him, I'd appreciate a call.”

Chow picked up the card, crumpled it in his fist. “Nice chatting with you gentlemen.” Still avoiding eye contact with Cobb.

“Thanks, Jackie,” I said.

I looked at Cobb to see if he had anything else he wanted to say or ask. He turned away, not doing a real good job of hiding his disgust. Back out on the street, both of us took deep breaths. Like we were trying to get the place out of our lungs. Bad air out, good air in.

Cobb grunted, “I didn't like that guy.”

“No one would have guessed. At least now I know who's who when we do good cop, bad cop.”

“I could use some of that disinfectant you mentioned.”

“The next guy makes Jackie Chow look like Robin Hood.”

“W
e can walk. It's not far.” I pointed south on Centre Street, toward downtown.

We stopped at a kiosk where all the publications were in Chinese. I bought two coffees, handed one to Cobb, and we continued walking south, turning left after another block. I thought about how bad the odds were that we'd find a drugged-out kid who didn't want to be found. On the other hand, Jay Blevins wouldn't know that some real bad guys might be looking to use him as a lesson in street cred, and he also wasn't aware of Cobb and me.

So maybe.

“How'd you come to know about this Yik?” Cobb's eyes were busy, taking in windows on second and third floors, alleys, people passing us, cars on the street. I was reminded that he'd been a cop.

“When I was researching the drug stuff, his name came up a lot. Mid-range importance. Tough guy. Has a lot of people who work for him, more or less.”

“More or less?”

“It's not like a corporation. Not at this level. No job descriptions, no benefits. You sell for the man, you get paid, you buy to feed your own habit, get wired, wake up, and start over. Yik keeps a set of books, very businesslike; he knows who owes him what and when it's due on a minute-to-minute basis.”

“Plus he's got hookers and guns.”

I nodded. “Different sets of books. Same business principles apply.”

“And you have no idea who's above him?”

“No. I heard lots of names, most of the time from people who knew less than I did. Rumours. Wishful thinking. Pulling names out of thin air, a lot of that.”

“Wishful thinking?” Cobb looked at me.

“Somebody hates somebody, they hope they're involved in something crooked so that someday they'll go down. So they suggest that person actually
is
involved. Sort of start the ball rolling.”

Cobb didn't get to respond. Yik and two guys, both Caucasian, who looked big enough to play on a defensive line and mean enough to eat people's pets, came out of a doorway with a sign above it that read, Lam Fong Soon Tong Society. They started toward us and Yik saw me, didn't recognize me at first; then a glint of recognition came to his face. His mouth moved maybe a millimetre; it wasn't a smile. Yik wasn't a smiler.

I tapped Cobb's arm to let him know that the guy approaching us flanked by two gorillas in expensive suits and overcoats was Yik. He wasn't wearing a suit but his clothes were designer all the way, topped with a leather coat that went to his knees. It was open to show starched jeans and a western plaid shirt, all a perfect fit, all expensive.

Yik stopped in front of Cobb and me, held out a hand. I shook it.

“Cullen, long time. Last time I saw you, there you were helping me with a bit of cop unpleasantness and now the next time I see you you're packing a cop with you. Why is that, man?”

“
Ex
-cop. Private investigator now.” I figured BS'ing Yik would be a bad way to start the conversation. “Mike Cobb, this is Yik.”

“And friends,” Yik indicated the two guys with him. He didn't offer a hand to Cobb. “I hope you're not investigating me, Mr. Cobb.”

“No reason to do that that I know of,” Cobb said.

“We're looking for somebody,” I told Yik. “A kid. Kind of a favour to his dad. He's worried about the kid.”

Cobb pulled out the picture of Jay Blevins, held it out. Yik took it, made a show of holding it in front of each of the goons, neither of whom took his eyes off Cobb. Yik looked at the photo, shook his head, handed it back to Cobb.

“Sorry,” he said, though his face didn't look real regretful. “Kid a user?”

“Yeah.”

“Can't help you. See you again Cullen.” He started forward.

“It's kind of important. If you have any idea where we might look for him.…”

Yik stopped, looked at me, then shook his head and started forward again.

“Uh, one question, I'm also doing a little research. You know me, always working a story, trying to make a buck.”

“Aren't we all?”

“So about that question….”

He gave me a look I couldn't read. “One question. All right, I owe you. I'll give you one question, then we're even and after that I don't want to see you again, you hearing me Cullen?”

I nodded. “Fair enough. I was wondering, for the purposes of the story I'm writing, if you could direct me to someone who might know something about the shooting last night. Over in Ramsay. Crack house, a couple of dealers.”

Yik's face didn't move but he didn't answer right away. Thinking. “I know about the incident, Cullen. My advice is you'd better leave it out of any story you're writing.” He started moving again.

“Come on, Yik. You told me you'd answer one question. That's my question. Let's say I
was
going to mention it in my story, I'd sort of like to have my facts straight, you know.”

Yik's mouth moved again, about the same amount as last time. “All right, that's your question. Here's my answer and I'm giving you this only because of before, you understand what I'm saying here?”

I nodded. “I understand.”

“That house ain't Asian. Different group. And here's the bonus, Cullen. Badass guys. It would be a big mistake to walk up to them like you did with me just now.”

“If it's not Asian, what should we —”

Yik took a half-step forward, stopped. “You've had your one question, Cullen. I won't say I'll see you around because that isn't going to happen. So let's just leave it at goodbye.”

“What about M and F Holdings? Ever hear of a company by that name?”

“Same answer, Cullen. Don't try my patience.”

As Yik moved ahead, the gorilla opposite Cobb stepped forward too, expecting Cobb to move. Cobb didn't move. A game of sidewalk chicken.

“Now, gentlemen,” Yik said, the tone of a dad to his kids. “Remember the golden rule.”

He very deliberately stepped between Cobb and me and headed off down the street. The gorilla stepped around Cobb and followed, his shoulder just brushing Cobb on the way by. I realized that Cobb had not said a word in that entire exchange. Probably a good thing.

I'd never actually seen Cobb in action before today. When he'd investigated the fire and the note, he'd worked on his own, reported in a few times. I guess I hadn't expected somebody out of a Bruce Willis movie.

We turned and watched the trio walk toward Centre Street. I looked at Cobb. “Why is it I get the feeling that if I'm going to hang out with you I better make sure my health care premiums are up to date?”

He didn't answer.

When we were back in the car, I said, “You believe him?”

Cobb shrugged. “He was playing it up. Telling you he knows more than you do, that he's a big deal in this world.” He waved a hand to show what part of the world he meant. “And he's not afraid of us so there was no reason to lie. But I did get a sense that he was maybe a little nervous when it comes to whoever his rivals are over there in Ramsay. In fact, he might be more than a little scared, even with his goons beside him.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon on Calgary's darkest, meanest streets. More homeless shelters, a couple of church-run basement flophouses manned by tired looking, well-meaning people. We stopped everyone who looked younger than thirty — there were lots of them — to show the photo and ask about Jay Blevins. A few times glimmers of recognition tried to work their way through fog-shrouded minds. But never did. All we got from a couple of guys was that they knew Jay, had seen him around, maybe even talked to him, but had no idea where he'd be or even who we might ask for a little more in-depth information.

Some neighbourhoods take on a vibrant, pulsing new persona as the darkness of night falls. This one did not. The film noir feel to the place was palpable.

Cobb and I had split up again, agreed to meet at seven on the corner of 9th Avenue and 8th Street. There was a used bookstore there, a good one. The temperature was dropping fast and a north wind was starting to whip around me as I walked. Though we'd had a couple of snowfalls, this was the first real blast of winter cold and reminded me that this season was fourth on my list of favourites.

I tried to bury my face in the scarf I'd had the foresight to stuff in a pocket of the down-filled jacket I was wearing. Gloves too. Good.

I approached a Goodwill store that doubled as a shelter. Small place, wouldn't house many residents. The sign outside said
LET THE SUNSHINE INN
. A woman stood just outside, leaning against a red-faded-to-dirty-auburn brick wall.

She was holding a chipped, orange coffee cup, full of what looked like coffee, or maybe tea, steaming a little. Both hands around the cup. She had short blond-brown hair, gentle contours to her face, early thirties, not tall, not short, tired looking, like the building she was leaning against and like most of the people around here. Except she was better dressed than most. I stopped in front of her.

“Let the Sunshine Inn. That the name of the place or does somebody really like the song?”

She straightened only slightly. “Maybe both.”

“Do you work in the Goodwill store?”

She regarded me with what I took to be mistrust. “Volunteer.”

I nodded. “Been doing that long?”

“If that's a pickup line, it's one of the worst ever.” A smile softened the words.

I returned the smile. “You should hear my others, they're even worse.” I held out my hand. “I'm Adam Cullen. I'm looking for someone, a kid I was hoping you might know or at least may have seen around here. His name is Jay Blevins.”

She sipped the drink, her eyes on me over the top of the cup. “Police?”

I shook my head. “Actually I'm a writer. A journalist.” Again the mistrust in eyes that looked like they'd seen some of the downside of life. “But this doesn't have anything to do with a story. A friend of mine and I are doing a favour for the young man's father. He's worried about Jay.”

“Aren't they all?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

She didn't answer.

“This one's different,” I said. “This is a dad who's not just worried about the kid doing drugs. Jay could be in some danger, real danger, and it's important that we find him as soon as possible.”

“Good Samaritans, you and your friend.” Her voice was slightly husky, like she'd just woken up. I always liked that kind of voice.

“Actually, no, we're not. I guess it's not really a favour in the strictest sense. My friend is a private detective. Jay's father hired him to try to protect the kid from a potentially serious threat.” I sketched in general terms what had happened on Raleigh and the possible link to Jay.

“And you're helping because…?”

“Yeah, I don't really qualify as a good Samaritan either. I lied when I said it wasn't about a story. I mean, I'd like to find the kid and help him, we both would. But I'm a journalist. I'm always on the lookout for a story.”

She sipped her drink, thought about it. I stared at the cup, tried not to shiver. When she spoke again, her voice had changed; it was still husky but softer now.

“Jay's a good kid. Messed up on crack, but a good kid. You wish … I mean you wish all of them could get off the shit but there's some, like Jay, you
really
—” She stopped, took a last sip of the coffee, tossed the last few drops in the direction of a street garbage container that looked like it was largely ignored by most people. The sidewalk around it made it evident that this wasn't a noted recycling area. “Come on inside. I have to get back. I'm working the food bank tonight.” She turned and headed inside.

I followed her and immediately understood why someone would want to take their coffee break outside, even on a cold night. The air in the place was a cross between exhaust fumes and stale milk. There was another smell mixed in there too that I couldn't quite place — wet dog maybe. The total effect was a smell that I'd have thought would put food bank shoppers off their game.

As I closed the door behind us she turned to me. “Jill. Jill Sawley. You can hang your coat up over there if you want.”

She pointed to a wall off to the right and a coat rack that was a rough cut two-by-four and several nails. None of the nails were at the same height or protruded from the two-by-four at the same distance. A couple of coats hung next to a pair of blue smocks, the same shade as hospital gowns. Jill hung her own coat on a vacant nail, took down one of the smocks, pulled it over her jeans and Gap hoodie. An interesting mix of fashion.

I wasn't sure why she'd suggested I remove my coat. She cleared that up for me right away. “I can tell you about Jay, but it'll cost you. We had a couple of big donations come in tonight. I could use help sorting.”

I looked at my watch. Twenty to nine. It was maybe five minutes to the bookstore so that left me fifteen minutes to spend talking to Jill. And sorting. Since she was the most promising source of information to date — virtually the
only
source of information — I figured the fifteen minutes might be well spent. And I'd get a chance to do a little volunteering. Good for the soul.

I hung my coat on the nail that had formerly held the smock. “Okay, where do I start and what do I do?”

She pointed to a table stacked high with cardboard boxes. I actually rolled up my sleeves, ready for work, but with no idea what my role was to be.

“Boxed goods and paper-wrapped stuff over there, canned items on those shelves. Anything perishable has to go out of here right away so set it out on that table next to the back door.”

“Right.” I sorted and Jill talked while she filled cardboard boxes with a mix of items.

“First time I met Jay was at a pancake breakfast one of the service clubs puts on every year. It was December a year ago, so eleven months I guess. About a week before Christmas. I was a volunteer server. Some corporate bigwigs and a couple of politicians were there supposedly to help, but mostly for the photo ops.