The first thing I notice about Joe Nolan is that he has a lopsided, little-boy smile that he directs only at the attractive women entering the Van Club. The smile disappears for the men and the average-looking ladies, even though they have money to spend, too. Nolan’s blunt features are softened by the smile, but nobody looks at him long enough to notice.
The club is a members-only affair and I’ve never received an invitation, but I’ve seen pictures. There’s no view like it in all of Vancouver.
With a membership, you can go in and see clear views of the harbor, see the seaplanes take off. On a cold night like this, you could be in short sleeves, sipping hot toddies by one of the fireplaces inside, looking out over your kingdom.
Without a membership you’re out on the pavement with me, watching a man smile at women who are so far out of his league they might as well be in a different stratosphere.
Soon, whatever event has been held here empties out and there is no longer any need to watch the door. A man in a tuxedo says a few words to Nolan and hands him an envelope. He pockets it without checking what’s inside and heads for the seawall behind the strip of buildings. It’s cold and late, and I’m not sure what he’s doing or why, until I see him stand at the railing overlooking a line of docked boats. I understand the fascination, even though I don’t share it.
This is where the wealthy go to park their toys.
Nolan puts on a hat, pulls a cigar out of his pocket, lights it, and leisurely smokes it. He’s looking at something intently, something I can’t see.
My hands go numb in the time it takes for him to finish. I’m standing in the shadows, off the bike path. I think I’m being quiet and am relying on the fact that most people usually look right past me without registering anything about my presence.
But not Nolan.
Without turning he says, “You gonna tell me what this is about?”
I know he’s talking to me. And I realize my mistake. Just because Nolan has an eye for the gorgeous socialites of Vancouver doesn’t mean that he hasn’t also noticed me. I go to the railing and follow his gaze to one of the boats in the marina. The dock lights are giving off enough illumination to see shapes moving on one of the boats. Two shapes, moving rhythmically. If I listen carefully, I can hear moaning. Or that could just be the sounds of the night, amplified by my hyperawareness of the man standing next to me, still smoking.
“You ever seen rabbits fuck?” Joe Nolan asks.
I wonder what kind of pornography he’s into, but I don’t say that. Don’t even respond.
“Yeah, me neither, but I have a feeling it would look something like what those two are up to in that boat over there. The guy who owns the boat comes to the club for some of the events I work. After, he brings back one of the waitresses. Spends an hour tops in there and then sends her on her way walking like she’s holding a beach ball between her legs. Works those girls over real good.”
There’s no emotion in his voice. No thrill of sexual interest, even. Which is unexpected, given what he’s just said. If he thinks he’ll shock me, he’s talking to the wrong woman. Casual misogyny isn’t shocking. I don’t like it, but it doesn’t surprise me.
The cigar is down to the end. He flicks it, still lit, onto the closest boat. “You wanna be one of those girls on the boat? Want me to hook you up with a job?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so. You’re too old for him, anyway. So how about you get to the point.” He looks at me now.
My first instinct is to lie, even though it sits uncomfortably with me. But I sense, somehow, that it wouldn’t be the right move. And I’ve already underestimated this man once. “Back in the day you ran with Jimmy Fang. Fang got busted, disappeared, trial fell apart, you resumed your life like nothing happened.”
“Second time today someone’s brought that old shit up. I’ll tell you what I told your friend, the one with the gimpy leg. That all happened years ago. I don’t remember a goddamn thing about it.”
He’s lying, of course, but that’s not the point. The point is my friend with the gimpy leg has already spooked him.
I keep my expression neutral. “You were talking to the cops about your friend Jimmy, weren’t you?”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
“Look, I don’t care about your involvement. I need to know about Fang. Who he might have here in Vancouver still.”
He looks around suddenly. Takes in the marina. “Where’s the other guy, Sir Limps A Lot?”
“I don’t know. I came alone.”
“Why do you want to know about this shit, anyway?”
Again, I have a choice. It’s hard, but I go with my first instinct. The truth. “Someone’s after me. You don’t know him, but you used to know the people he’s connected to. I want to find him, and to do that—”
“You gotta find them.”
“Yeah.”
“I ain’t a snitch.” But he is. I can hear it in his voice, in the way he says it with real anger, real passion. It’s not directed at me. His emotion is internal. He’s ashamed of himself.
“I ain’t a cop.” It’s partially why I’m here without Brazuca. I looked at the photos of this man, and some part of me knew that Brazuca would turn him cold. That his cop face can’t be scrubbed away so easily.
But maybe I have a chance.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Someone stupid enough to be on their radar.”
“Hell.” He pulls down his hat. Fiddles with the edge of it. His fingers are red from the cold, and stiff with it, too. He’s coming to a decision, and I can sense the struggle taking place inside him. He’s wondering if he can trust me.
Maybe I have to trust him a little, too. “My daughter’s scared. She’s the only family I have, and they know who she is. I have to protect her.”
“I don’t know anything about them anymore, okay?”
“Yes,” I say softly. “Yes, you do.” I heard it in his voice, that little hitch, and I know I’m on to something.
He’s about to say something, then stops.
A woman wearing a long coat unbuttoned over a short dress approaches from the docks. She looks to be in her twenties. Her hair is a tangle about her shoulders, and she appears to be weeping. We watch her disappear. About a minute later a man at least three decades older than her follows. He’s in a tuxedo, strolling off like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
I sense the hatred rolling off Nolan because I feel it now, too. Whoever he is, I feel a certain level of disgust for this man who lets a weeping woman he has taken to bed walk alone in this state of distress. That he is somehow the cause of her distress and that the power he emanates, one that seems somehow inherent, is part of why she went to this boat with him in the first place.
“After your friend came to see me, I called my guy at the club and asked if there was a shift for me tonight. They’d wanted me to work, but I didn’t really want to come here no more. But your friend got me thinking, so I asked for the shift. I need the money, anyway.”
I wonder where this is all going, but I don’t have it in me to interrupt. I don’t have to wait long. “There’s a man who’s always at these parties,” he continues. “I recognized him the first day I started working events at the club,” Nolan says. “He didn’t recognize me.”
“How do you know him?”
“Drove Jimmy to some restaurant in Richmond once, one of those ritzy spots by the casino, then went inside to use the men’s. Saw him with that guy. Got a good look at him, too. But when I went over to talk to Jimmy, he pretended I didn’t exist. After Jimmy left, I went into a different line of work altogether. Worked construction for years; then I get some gigs working the doors.” He shrugs. “It’s okay money. Easier than breaking my back all day every day. A friend recommends me for the Van Club, and first night on the door, I see him. The guy from the restaurant.”
“Who is he?”
He doesn’t answer. I feel him wavering, regretting perhaps that he’s said this much. Or maybe he’s remembering what it’s like to be a snitch. It’s already familiar territory, so I give him a little push. “I have a kid sister, too. Along with my daughter. I know what it’s like to have to protect the family.”
He considers this, looks in the direction we saw both the woman and the man disappear. He could be feeling melancholy at the memory of the weeping woman, or perhaps his years doing backbreaking labor have sloughed off some of his hard shell.
“His name is Peter Vidal,” says Nolan. “He’s a lawyer. Married into some money a while back. Then, lucky for him, the broad died. That’s his boat we’ve been watching.” He pauses. “You wanna know something, lady? I don’t give a damn who you are. You could roll up on Vidal tonight, for all I care. Question him all you want about Fang. I bet he knows something. Guys like Fang were always protected by their lawyers who knew enough about their operations to make sure they never got any time for what they did.”
He jerks his head in the direction of the club. Then grips the railing tight.
“You know what bugs me the most about Vidal? His shoes. I can always see my face in that shine. Yeah, I’d bet he’s never worked rough a day in his life. Every time he comes to those events, he’s got different shoes on, and they all scream money. Guys like that, they don’t know what it’s like to freeze your balls off watching doors, killing yourself doing hard labor. They’re criminals, too, just a different class of them. Those assholes deserve the swift hand of justice, and I hope to God you’re it.”
For a second, he looks at me like I’m some kind of warrior saint. But he’s got the wrong sister.
I hand him one of Leo’s cards I lifted from the office to keep from having to speak. In case he remembers anything else. He barely looks at me when he takes it. It’s too cold to be standing here by the ocean, but he doesn’t seem likely to move anytime soon. This is why I’m the one to leave first. Wondering if I’m the instrument of his vengeance or if he’s the instrument of mine.
When I reach the gangway leading to the marina, I look around.
Peter Vidal is long gone.