Seaweed in the Soup (5 page)

A street dealer was already doing business in the square. Wearing a T-shirt, gold chains, a turned-around basketball cap, Timberland boots and low-rider jeans that displayed the crack of his ass, he was seated on a park bench about twenty feet distant from a public phone. When the phone rang, the dealer got off his bench and answered it. The phone rang every few minutes.

Pigeons strutted. A pensioner was feeding bread crumbs to a murder of crows. Fuchsias, geraniums, petunias and bacopa dripped from the baskets dangling from Victoria's cast iron lampposts. The sun was hot.

I went into a robbery-friendly convenience store across from the square and monitored the scene from a convenient window. The street dealer was the apex of a drug-distribution triangle that also involved the bag lady and a trash bin. Every few minutes, loitering zombies hungering for a morning fix stopped by Asscrack's bench and talked business, following which they gave alms to the bag lady. Shortly afterwards, a bicycle drug mule dropped a baggie into the trash bin for the zombies to retrieve. Trade was brisk.

My car was parked on Pandora Street; I walked over there. A fat blonde with a protuberant lower lip stopped me and asked if I had a cigarette she could borrow. I used to be a smoker and I know what the craving is like. Maybe I shouldn't have, but I gave her my loose pocket change and told her to buy herself a pack.

My car is a 40-year-old MGB Coupe with wire wheels, steel bumpers and a 1798 cc engine. Ted, my personal cockney mechanic, had been trying to inveigle me into putting a 6-cylinder Buick Rover engine into it. I'd been balking at the price, and besides, the MG cornered like a Formula One Honda and it was already tuned to do a ton, easy. I got in and cranked it up, then let its 4-cylinder engine purr for a while before I engaged the clutch and drove myself across town to the Native Friendship Centre.

The two young women that I wanted to talk to weren't there. I then wandered over to the United Church soup kitchen on Quadra Street, where I asked more questions and had a free lunch. I chased down a couple of promising leads. One lead took me back across town to Joe McNaught's Good Samaritan Mission, in Chinatown.

If you have the right antennae and enough persistence, the street will tell you everything you need to know. But those girls were hard to find. By nine o'clock that night, I had visited most of Victoria's shady venues and I was still coming up dry. I went to places where criminals and dopers prowl like wolves. Places where whores and tramps gather; where mobile canteens driven by unheralded volunteers serve hot baked potatoes and cups of coffee to people with lives in terminal decline. Hoping to glean a scrap of reliable information, I listened to gossipy old tarts and shiftless informers who would say anything to earn a dollar. I was no further ahead at the end of the day than when I'd started.

≈  ≈  ≈

The Warrior Indian Reserve is a few minutes' drive and a world apart from Victoria. Pedestrian traffic diminished after I crossed the Johnson Street Bridge and motored west along Esquimalt Road. A few minutes later, I was on home ground. With twilight gathering, I went slowly downhill past the longhouse and parked the MG beneath my carport.

A silver moon was huge above the Olympic Mountains. Blue shadows gathered like fog in the distance. A couple of fishermen were on the boat jetty, mending nets. A lone night bird screeched as I walked through my fenced private garden. After pausing to inhale the mingled fragrances of dahlias and roses, I entered my cabin. My cabin is located on the beach and it's fairly primitive by modern standards. Compared with most Native housing, however, it is palatial.

Chief Alphonse had dictated the cabin's exact location, and I built it with my own hands, largely out of rough lumber. I switched the light on and stood for a moment in the middle of the room, grounding myself by looking at the wooden tribal masks hanging on a side wall; my shelved books and LP records; an iron wood stove; an apartment-sized fridge; a kitchen sink with a single cold-water faucet. If I want hot water, I generally light my wood stove.

It was too warm now to light the wood stove, so I put the electric kettle on and opened the window curtains. The evening tide had turned and now it was falling. Colby Island was a mere shadow out there in Warrior Bay, where a dozen anchored fishboats rocked in the darkness. Clarence Immet's 26-foot wooden gillnetter had been dragged ashore, and it sat propped upright on beams of squared timber. The gillnetter had just been power-washed. Water still dripped from its hull. Tomorrow it would be dry. Then Clarence would face the dirty job of covering its bottom with antifouling paint.

Bobby Bland is one of the few blues singers ever to rise to superstardom without being able to play a harmonica, a guitar or any other musical instrument. I put Bland's
Memphis Monday Morning
record on and let his Jim Beam vocals wash over me as I looked out the window again.

Immediately below me on the beach was Chief Alphonse. Naked except for a leather necklace and leggings that jangled with small bells and deer hooves when he moved, he was dancing around a pit-fire in a counter-clockwise direction.

The chief had wrapped rice root and other bulbs in pouches made of thimbleberry leaves. Then he had dug edible roots to go along with the rice root. When the fire became hot enough, the chief had piled swordfern fronds and salal bushes on top. Potatoes, onions and carrots were laid on next, then the roots of springbank clover, Nootka lupine and Pacific silverweed. I was standing at the window, drinking Red Rose tea, when the chief caught my eye, waved me over and invited me to join his traditional feast. It had been cooking for about three hours by then. There was more than enough food for both of us, but I would have much preferred macaroni and cheese. After we'd eaten our fill, we had a sweat.

The chief was still very fit—tall upright old man with a large raptor's nose and, as usual, an eagle feather poking through his long grey braids. He went down on his knees and crawled into the sweat lodge. I turned my face away because I didn't want to look at the chief's skinny butt—not that he'd care. Once he was inside, I picked hot stones off the fire with a pair of deer antlers and dropped them into a hole dug inside the sweat lodge. The chief sprinkled the rocks with water ladled from a bucket. It was hot enough to scorch lungs inside there—heat surrounded us as if we'd entered a stove. To save my life, I opened a flap in the tarpaulin and let in some breathable air.

I broke a long companionable silence. “I saw two old petroglyphs this morning. They were carved onto a boulder hidden in the woods above Echo Bay. One of our constables stumbled across it by accident while he was chasing a couple of runaways.”

“Was these runaways Coast Salish?”

“Possibly. They were young Native women. Persons of interest in a murder investigation. The constable said that he lost the women in the bush, but he kept on looking. After a while, a sudden apparition startled him. He didn't see the apparition clearly, he said. He said it wasn't human, but it could have been a bird, or an animal.”

“Did you find a cave near the petroglyph?”

“No. A wind blew up and I was too busy getting out of the way of falling trees.”

“Look for a cave the next time you're up there. I would.”

Before I could respond, the chief said, “Them old shamans would sometimes carve a bird on a big rock, then lie on top of the carving and become that bird. Fly away. Maybe your constable saw a flying shaman.”

“It's been a good day for weird sightings,” I said, adding, “and there are four ravens roosting on Pandora Street right now. Two adults and two chicks.”

“Te spokalwets,” Chief Alphonse said portentously.

Te spokalwets
: In Coast Salish, those words mean corpse, or ghost. Our old people go all weird when it comes to ravens. Every time they see a raven, or hear one calling, they expect somebody to die.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: it's a good thing there aren't more ravens around Victoria.

“And maybe you saw four ghosts,” the chief said.

“No, the ravens were real,” I said.

“Coast Salish dead people are all ghosts, although you generally don't see 'em because they spend most of their time in the land of the dead, Silas,” the chief remarked, speaking in the calm unhurried voice of a man who knows that his words will be heeded attentively. “Mind you, though, I've seen plenty of ghosts. I saw a White woman's ghost once. Years ago.

“There were just three of us. We were fishing up Desolation Sound way. I was just a kid at the time.
Georgina Bell
was the boat's name. It was owned by BC Packers. BC Packers owned nearly every fishboat on the coast back then. It was foggy. There was no radar in them days and we grazed a rock that sprang a plank below the waterline. Lucky for us, the
Georgina
stayed afloat until we beached her on Flea Island. It took us three days to fix things.”

“And that's where you saw your ghost?”

“Yes, only the ghost wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was Flea Island's pesky fleas. Fleas got into our clothes, our mattresses, everything. We was scratched raw when the fishing season ended.”

“What about that ghost?”

“I was the only one who saw it. The other two was right there with me, but I was the only one who saw it. It was a White woman wearing a black rubber raincoat with a hood that covered her head. She came out of some trees and walked straight towards me. It was pouring down with rain. I thought she was coming over to tell me something. What I was wondering was,
Where did you come from
?

“Flea Island is tiny, the size of a hockey rink if that. Anyway, at the last possible moment she veered off, and vanished. It was pouring down, but it was broad daylight. I had a good look round for her, but she wasn't there. It was a ghost that time, not a walking corpse. It wasn't scary, except she had no face. No visible face, just a black shadow beneath her hood.”

“If you couldn't see its face, how did you know it was a White woman?”

“I don't know. I just knew,” the chief said, adding, “As for petroglyphs, Old Mary Cooke is in Comox right now, visiting her grandkids. You'd better have a word with her about this stuff when she gets back.”

CHAPTER FOUR

I used to be a sergeant on Victoria's detective squad. Now I'm a neighbourhood cop. My storefront office is located in a three-storey brick building that dates from an age when the Hudson's Bay Company still controlled much of North America. Originally, this room was a harness-shop. Sometimes when it rains, I smell old leather and saddle soap. I moved in here about seven years ago. In those optimistic days, neighbourhood law-enforcement units manned by aboriginal policemen were being hailed as bold experiments in social engineering. Once upon a time we had six neighbourhood units in this city. Mine is the only one left. A lot of police brass want to shut this unit down as well. I'm the police department's token Indian, hanging on by the skin of my teeth. Why do I bother? Because I like this job. Because I'd rather work here for nothing than earn big money at a boring job that does nothing to make the world a safer place.

People complain that I'm running a hangout for the dregs of society. Perhaps that ought to worry me too, but it doesn't. I feel quite comfortable among such people. After all, crooks, conmen, prostitutes and police officers derive from the same socio-economic group. Cops and killers have similar levels of intelligence and ability. When he isn't swinging an axe or waving a pistol the average murderer can be as charming as all get-out.

The modest office that I share with a feral cat corresponds with my lowly status. The walls are bare except for a few badly patched bullet holes, missing-kid bulletins, and two framed prints. The first print shows a young Queen Elizabeth. The second print shows the dowdy Queen after whom this city was named. Chief Alphonse sometimes jokes that but for Queen Victoria we wouldn't be Coast Salish Indians—we'd be chunks of carved wood standing outside tobacco shops. But for Queen Victoria, Vancouver Island would now be governed from Washington, DC.

My battered furnishings include a fireplace with a brass surround, a brass coalscuttle, an oak desk and a vinyl swivel chair. There's also a wooden hat tree, two metal filing cabinets, a floor safe, and a couple of chairs for visitors. I have a private washroom located down the hall. Somehow, I don't know why, a lot of people end up with washroom keys. I get the lock changed occasionally. When PC the cat is in residence, her private washroom is a kitty-litter tray hidden behind my filing cabinets. Get right down to it, there are a lot of things I don't know, including what PC does all day. I used to know what she did all night, but I took care of that by having her spayed.

At work I am supposed to be visible and accessible, so when I got to my office the next morning I opened my curtains and smiled at passersby. Next, a blue and white Crown Royal came to a stop across the street. The female police constable inside the car tapped the horn to get my attention, and then she waved me over. Running outside and dodging rush-hour traffic, I trotted dutifully across to her.

The constable was Cynthia Leach, Victoria's most glamorous cop. She has the face of an angel, beautiful lips red enough to stop traffic, blonde tresses, a flawless alabaster complexion and the kind of figure that sailors dream about during long lonely watches at sea. The last time I had seen her, Cynthia had been comforting Mrs. Milton. Sometimes I imagine Cynthia comforting me.

When I joined her, she said, “Hey, Silas. I'm in a jam. Look at this.”

Cynthia pointed to the Crown Royal's left front bumper. It was slightly bent, the apparent result of a minor collision. After a deep, angry inhalation, she said, “How much do you think the repair will cost?”

I shrugged. “Five, maybe six hundred?”

“Think again. I guy I know manages a body shop, and he had a look at it. The frame's twisted. This heap is a writeoff, the body shop guy says it's not worth fixing.”