CHAPTER FIVE

Imet Chief Alphonse in the Warrior band office. Smoke wisped from the briar pipe hanging between his front teeth. He looked at the raindrops running down his windowpanes and said cryptically, “First Woman is crying and bringing rain to our lands. Pretty soon, First Son will bring the west wind, dry the tears of his mother if she weeps too long.”

That was fine with me.

The chief burned more tobacco and continued solemnly, “George Putty is getting the heebie-jeebies from too much drinking. We’ve got to do something before he runs away.”

“Gregarious George?” I said. “What’s George been up to this time?”

“Passing out in the street, panhandling. Making a nuisance of himself at Gottlieb’s Trading Post. It’s pathetic. George Putty is a Black Tamahnous. That man was respected from Seabeck to Fairbanks at one time. Now he’s a disgrace. Never goes home, doesn’t talk to his family.” The chief sighed and added, “Little Sam thinks that Little Earths have taken George’s soul.”

“I suppose Little Sam wants to do some medicine.”

“Yes. Little Sam said he’d throw bones in the air and do Earth Dwarf Song. The very mention of bone throwing and Little Earth conjuring scared George out of his wits.”

“Well, drinking, Chief. I drink myself.”

“Not like George Putty. Getting drunk is all he does now.”

“I could lock him up long enough to dry him out, but that won’t correct George’s underlying problem.”

“Little Sam and me, we know what George’s underlying problem is,” the chief said dryly. “I want you to think about it, Silas. George Putty has a lot of respect for you.”

“I wish Jimmy Scow had respect for me as well,” I said. “He seems to think I’m a halfwit.”

“Little Jimmy Scow,” Chief Alphonse repeated thoughtfully. “Now there’s a name.”

I waited. The chief added, “He’s spending a lot of time Canoe Cove way, diving into the sea.”

“Wolf ritual?”

“Wolf ritual is right.” Chief Alphonse took the pipe out of his mouth and looked at it. He put it back in his mouth again, took a few puffs and said, “I’ll tell you this, though. I knew Jimmy Scow’s dad. He had real power.”

“Jimmy told me his dad never used it.”

The chief frowned and said, “I heard Jimmy’s dad sing Wolf Song in Haida Gwaii 15 years ago.”

That gave me something else to wonder about. I told the chief I’d think about George Putty.

The chief’s prediction was being fulfilled. The wind had swung to the west and a rainbow was bridging James Bay.

≈ ≈ ≈

I was in Bartholomews, drinking Foster’s draft at the bar and fretting about Barb. A philosopher on the adjacent stool was bemoaning the collapse of western civilization. Its ultimate achievement had been the 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air. Since then it had been downhill all the way.

“They don’t make cars now,” the philosopher said with alcoholic belligerence. “They make shit. Give me a ’50s Bel Air, give me any kind of iron built in the ’40s, ’50s. That’s my idea of wheels. You telling me any Jap heap’s the match of a full-size Chev?”

“I’m driving a 1982 Chev,” I answered, referring to my rustbucket parked across the street.

“Put it there, pal.” He extended his hand. “I wanna shake hands with a guy knows cars.”

He signalled the barman and ordered pints for each of us. “An ’82 ain’t no ’55, but it’s better’n a Mazda. You seen them Hyundais? Made outta recycled plastic and sardine cans. Shit. Ain’t even got a carburetor, they got a fuel injector.” After a disgusted snort he lapsed into stuporous silence.

I stared at the liquor bottles arranged on glass shelves behind the bar and thought about my day.

After talking to Chief Alphonse, I’d driven north up the Malahat highway. Traffic was thin and I made good time. By six o’clock I was approaching Nanaimo, driving past a pulp mill. The mill’s belching smokestacks and sulphurous stink were like a foretaste of hell, plunked down on the forested shores of B.C. by a satanic jokester.

Half an hour later I entered a room full of large men wearing wide-brimmed hats and showed my ID to the RCMP sergeant in charge. Within five minutes I was seated across a desk from Inspector Fred Wells. The Mountie was a man in his late 50s with a clipped moustache and the rigid bearing of a regimental sergeant major.

I said, “I’m looking for a woman called Marcia Hunt. She disappeared years ago after marrying a member of the old Wellington motorcycle gang.” I explained what was going on.

Wells’ air of polite attention sharpened noticeably when I mentioned Frank Harkness’s name. He looked at me through half-closed eyes and said, “Frank Harkness was a hard case. I remember him well. He was clever, good-looking and tough. Local kids destined to pump gas and sweep floors for a living joined his gang, and Harkness made motorcycle goons out of them. His bunch raised hell around here for a few years and kept this detachment pretty busy. When we put him out of business the gang disintegrated.”

I said, “Does the name Fred Eade mean anything to you?”

Hearing these half-forgotten names made Wells thoughtful, and his relaxing facial muscles drooped in the pull of gravity, making him seem older and less cynical. “Fred was a gofer. After Harkness bailed out, small-timers like Fred turned to other crimes. Without leaders they weren’t very successful. Fred Eade pulled a clumsy bank holdup and we put him away. Hell’s Angels rule the roost here now. Harkness’s old-time biker buddies are either dead, in jail, pumping gas or on social assistance.”

“What happened to Frank Harkness?”

The inspector made the slightest movement in his chair and the tendons in his neck twitched, pulling down the edges of his mouth. “The file is still open. I’ll tell you a story, and you can decide.”

Wells collected his thoughts and said, “Harkness was an American. From Oakland, California. One of those who came to Canada after the Vietnam War. Before the war, Harkness studied chemistry at UCLA until he was conscripted into the U.S. Marine Corps. At war’s end, Harkness didn’t return to civilian life with his comrades — he was serving time in a military prison because of some black-market scam.”

Wells fell into a glum silence for a moment, absently tapping the edge of his table with his fingers, then continued. “But in 1977 Harkness was living on a rented farm a few miles north of Nanaimo. Ostensibly, he was supporting himself as a construction worker. Harkness soon had enough money to buy the farm. He grew vegetables and raised a few sheep. To all appearances, Harkness was just another hobby farmer living on a half-cleared woodlot out in the boondocks.”

Wells stopped speaking and stared out of the window, looking at the night sky where a distant yellow glow marked the pulp mill. He said, “Harkness’s farm was surrounded by an electrified fence, which seemed a bit elaborate for a few sheep. He discouraged visitors. People who got into his place found an inner fence, 10 feet high, topped with barbed wire. Harkness let it be known that he was breeding Doberman guard dogs inside the second fence. We found out that members of the Wellington motorcycle club often called on Harkness, so we started to keep an eye on him. Harkness had a hobby — flying. He took flying lessons. After getting his pilot’s licence he bought a new Cessna, which he kept in a hangar at the Cassidy airport. We wondered how a struggling immigrant, paying off a mortgage from his earnings as a casual construction worker, could afford all these expensive toys. So we got a search warrant and raided his place. But our timing was off, nobody was home. We penetrated the second fence, shot the Dobermans and investigated Harkness’s outbuildings. Concealed in the bush, we discovered growing sheds full of marijuana plants, as well as a well-equipped chemical laboratory. Our technical experts proved that Harkness had been making speed and mda in large quantities. We mounted a stakeout, but Harkness never showed up.

“Months went by. Gradually we pulled officers off the case. One day, long after our raid, somebody replaced the distributor caps on Harkness’s impounded Cessna and the plane took off. When it was airborne, heading toward the mainland, the pilot radioed that he was having engine trouble, losing altitude, and was preparing to ditch in the ocean. Then the radio went dead. Within minutes a tugboat captain reported seeing a plane nosedive into the sea near Sandheads. The tugboat crew salvaged bits of floating debris. Nobody could have survived such a crash. We listened to tapes of the pilot’s conversation with Vancouver’s air-traffic controllers and we recognized Harkness’s voice. It was assumed by one and all that Harkness had drowned. Case closed.”

Wells smiled, savouring these memories. “But some of us weren’t completely satisfied so we spent a ton of money and salvaged that wrecked Cessna. There was no body strapped into the pilot seat. One of the aircraft’s doors had been removed prior to takeoff.”

Wells stood abruptly and faced the window, clasping his hands behind his back. He said, “We think that Harkness took the Cessna from Cassidy airport and flew to another landing strip, where he unscrewed the door from its hinges. He then took off again, wearing a parachute. After establishing course and contacting Vancouver’s air-traffic control, he put the Cessna on autopilot and bailed out. If our guess is right, Harkness was faking his own death so that we’d quit looking for him. He’s has never been seen since.”

Wells walked outside to the parking lot with me. We stood in silence by my car and looked at the glowing sky. Wells’ voice dropped several decibels and he added, “Harkness has been on the run for over 20 years. Keep this under your hat, Seaweed, but at this point I’m not sure I really want him. It would be a bit unsporting to jail him now.”

≈ ≈ ≈

The bartender at Bartholomews said, “You want another beer?”

I shook my head and got down from the stool, stiff from sitting too long. The philosopher was long gone. Half a dozen new drinkers separated me from the door now. Outside the door, a passageway led to a dining room and to Bartholomews’ oyster bar. I felt hungry and was wondering whether to have dinner when a tall, gorgeous blonde appeared in the doorway. I froze. It was the woman I’d seen in the Bengal Room with Alex Cal and Jiggs Murphy. The blonde hesitated on the threshold, then turned away and walked on toward the oyster bar. The two pimps were right behind her. Somebody tapped me on the shoulder and I turned. It was Sarah Williams. Dark glossy hair brushed prettily across her shoulders in a slight forward curve. She wore a short, layered silk dress and matching patent-leather pumps. Her voice was beautiful, too, with deep, mysterious undertones.

She said, “Well, well. Silas Seaweed.”

I grinned at her.

“I’ve been looking at you for half an hour. You were gazing at those bottles behind the bar. I thought you were drunk at first.”

“I’m a deep thinker.”

“I know you are. I’ve been making inquiries about you.”

“It’s supposed to be the other way round. Need I be alarmed?”

“I don’t think so. But there’s more to you than meets the eye. You’re not exactly the pemmican-chewing savage you sometimes pretend to be. In fact, you’re quite a scholar.”

“You’ve obviously been misled.”

“Don’t be modest. Face it, Silas. Your dad was a Salish chieftain and you were a scholarship boy at St. Michael’s. That’s Charles Service’s alma mater. As B.C.’s boarding schools go, it doesn’t get much better than that. After St. Michael’s you studied law at UVic.”

“Anthropology.”

“Really? Well, you played rugby, I know that for sure. They called you Sacker Seaweed.” She laughed and shook her head. “Weren’t you on the team that played the All Blacks?”

“Listen,” I said, “have you had dinner?”

“Not yet.”

“Let’s drop by Thrifty’s. Pick up some groceries, a bottle of Gala Keg. We’ll fry something up.”

“Fry!” Sarah frowned at the dirty verb. “Tell you what. Why don’t you buy me a drink and we’ll review your entire history? Afterward we can go to my condo. I’ve got smoked salmon, other things.”

“You’ve got a condo? I thought you lived at Ribblesdale.”

“At the moment I do. But I like my privacy sometimes.”

“Don’t we all,” I said and signalled the bartender.

Sarah asked for a champagne cocktail. I ordered another Foster’s.

Sarah said, “Somebody told me you have a wife somewhere. A podiatrist.”

“Had a wife. Nancy was a dentist. But that’s enough about me. I’m trying to imagine you as a schoolgirl. I’ll bet you were a skinny kid with big horn-rimmed glasses who played clarinet in the school band.”

“No way. I was an ugly fat broad with pimples. Teeth braces and no tits, an absolute horror,” she said, smiling. “My idea of a good night out was coffee and cakes with sorority sisters, discussing the history of existentialism or something equally light-hearted.”

Sarah put her hand on my thigh and gave it a playful squeeze. “Then I discovered boys. I stopped reading Kierkegaard and whadda you know? My pimples cleared up. What I find attractive about you, Silas, is that you’re impetuous. I’ve always liked that in a man.”

We finished our drinks and went out. We planned to stroll along the causeway. Instead of a condo smorgasbord we were going to have dinner at the Ocean Pointe Resort. After that, who knew? Sarah took my hand. Another Harlequin Romance was beginning its maiden voyage.

Suddenly a gang of Sarah’s friends spilled out from the Union Club and swept us up in their merriment. They were all going to a house party in the Uplands and insisted we join them, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Giggling and flirting, they all piled into a stretch limousine waiting for them at the curb. I didn’t know any of them.

I had been slightly drunk, but now I was sober.

What the hell was I doing with Sarah Williams? Didn’t I have enough dramatic fantasies complicating my life already?

I sidled away and hid like a thief in the Union Club’s grandiose shadows until the limo drove away with its cargo of fun-seekers. I walked to the McDonald’s on Douglas Street and ordered a Quarter Pounder with fries and enough Pepsi to dissolve my tooth enamel. It tasted great.