I parked in front of Barlow Enterprises and tried to collect my wits. As a close friend of Jerome Charlie’s, even if they had become business rivals of sorts, Roy was probably spending the day at home, mourning the loss of his pal. He might even be with the Charlie family on the reserve, although I couldn’t really picture that. Maybe they were all at church together. Or maybe, since money was reportedly his god, Roy was a hundred feet away inside his swank office in the Barlow Block. It would be easy enough to find out.
I got out of the car and had taken a few steps in that direction when I heard a voice from the past sing out: “Patty! Patty!”
It was Salim Marwari, the Vancouver Star’s ace blood and gore guy, standing outside the mall entrance in a belted knee-length beige leather coat, a big, wicked smile playing on his lips.
Salim had a soft cherub face, but it was misleading. He was a powerful man, at least six-three, and could handle himself if a crime scene he worked turned hot. An Ismaili Muslim from Tanzania, Salim had been shipped to England for his education back in the seventies, when Idi Amin was chasing ethnic Indians like Salim out of Africa. He gloried in recollections of swinging London and the Fleet Street tabs and spoke in a rich, relaxed baritone that freed interview subjects from their natural inhibitions against talking to strange reporters, especially foreign ones.
“So this is where Patty lives,” he intoned, arms outstretched to the horizons. We shook hands and went into the mall for coffee.
In the food court, he sized me up. “You look like a tree fell over on you. I thought you were the great white wood chopper.”
“I got waylaid by some goons in the bush. What are you doing here?”
“They sent me up to link the two suicides. Can’t ignore the suicide angle when you’ve got two somebodies like this back to back. ‘Death comes to paradise’. Isn’t that beautiful, Patty? These weren’t kids on sniff. What’s going on up here?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Are you working on it?”
“I’m asking around.”
“Not for this bloody little hick town rag? Come on, Patty. That’s kid’s stuff. You were doing that before you even got laid.”
“Maybe I’ve come full circle. But it’s probably not for publication, Salim.”
His eyes grew shrewd. “You’re saving it for a book? Hey, you knew Sloan-you must know a lot about what’s going on.”
I stirred my coffee.
Hunching towards me, he put on his patented glare of wonderment. “You know.”
I shook my head. “Not enough to put anything together.”
He finally gave up on the evil eye routine and sat back, casually surveying the food court for noteworthy customers, hot babes in particular, though he was a devoted family man and supremely loyal to his lovely wife. “These suicides, you know, often trigger copycats. Individuals who are prone to it seem to draw resolve from other people who take the plunge first. There’s a window of inopportunity, so to speak. Did the old chief know Sloan very well?”
“They weren’t friendly, but they knew each other.”
“Were they at odds?”
“Yes. Hit the Chronicle back files to last spring’s band elections, when Jerome Charlie was defeated. Read the runup. Sloan was after his scalp.”
Salim scratched his jaw. “That’s interesting. So they were old enemies. Joined together in death.”
I had to laugh. “Yeah, something like that.”
“And they both lost the last elections.”
“Less than two months apart.”
“This place is hard on losers.”
“Who have you talked to so far?”
“I just got here. But I did some phoners from the newsroom before I left. The cops, the new chief, some pols.”
“Get anything?”
“Just crap. They’re all saying crap. Family tragedy, community needs time to heal, self-government will be Chief Charlie’s lasting legacy to his people. Crap. No one wants to put up any explanation as to how paradise went rotten for these guys. They’re just worried about the bloody tourists and not offending the Indians.”
“Well, dig up some of that Chronicle stuff. Play up that bitter-rivals-meet-their-end angle. You can tell them I sent you. That is, if you can bring yourself to walk into a hick-town rag. Remember, though, the lady running it now lost her husband just a few days ago. She might give you a few words, but go easy.”
Salim nodded at my suggestion. “You’re right, Patty. That’s the best angle. And I’ll go easy on your girlfriend.” He winked at me.
Outside, he made one last pitch. “Come on, Patty. Tell me one right question to ask.”
“Figure out your own right questions, you lazy sot.”
He gave me a friendly shove. “You’re just saving it for the book.”
I wrote down his cell number in case I thought of the right question and pointed him toward the Chronicle building.
I walked back to the car, rolled down my window to let in a little rain, and smoked a cigarette.
I could sense that Salim wasn’t thrilled about the assignment. He was trying, but he knew this wouldn’t be a hot talker that would get him into the front five with a nice key on the cover. Too close to feature or column material; not enough juice for a hard news hound like Salim. No bad guys, just dead guys. And what was I really holding back from him? Precious little. What we had were two failed politicians, aging men whose egos had finally caught up with them. Even Jan saw it. She’d brought me in, yes, but now she was ready to move on. And I didn’t want to let go. I was clinging to some lame hope of finding meaning where none was to be found. Pat Ross, another failed player; a failure at life, trying to prove that he was still part of it, when in fact he’d left it behind with his sad and sorry marriage and his own collapsed ego. Maybe Brennan was right. My visit might have helped drive Jerome Charlie over the edge. Ripped open an old family wound that was no one else’s business, certainly not mine. What was I thinking?
I was ready to pack it in when Harry Shimizu pulled up in a white pick-up with Sayonara Gardens emblazoned on the side in leafy green script. He got out of the truck and walked determinedly toward the Barlow Block, but checked himself within a few feet of the doors. Nervously, he looked to his left and right. Then he walked in.
I forgot my ennui and waited. A few minutes passed. I had to be sure, so I went into the lobby and asked the woman at reception—not the same one I’d seen Monday—if Mr. Barlow was free at the moment.
“I’m afraid he’s got someone with him right now, sir.”
“Ah,” I said. “Right, I just saw Mr. Shimizu come in.”
“Yes, he just got here, so I have no idea how long he’ll be in with Mr. B.”
“No problem. It can easily wait. I just happened to swing by. Thanks.”
I walked out before the receptionist could ask me my name or the nature of my business with Mr. B.
I went back to the car and sat. Almost an hour had passed before a scowling Shimizu exited the building and drove off. The white pick-up led me back to the garden centre on Taylor Road.