The Vanishing Track (15 page)

Cole looked up at Mary. “I'll be here.”

“Okay, goodnight.”

“'Night,” he said, turning back to the window. Night. It was almost time to hit the streets.

“
SO WHAT EXACTLY
are we looking for?” asked Cole, his baseball cap pulled tightly down over his forehead, his dark curls tucked up under the cap. Cole and Denman walked side by side through the rain. It fell with a steady pulse, one moment light and little more than mist, the next moment driving against the asphalt in violent bursts.

“No idea,” said Denman, walking beside him, stepping around the larger puddles that spanned the sidewalks.

“You're kidding. We're just two guys out for a walk in the most dangerous part of the city on a stormy night, looking for trouble?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay,” said Cole, splashing through a puddle.

A few minutes later Denman drew a deep breath and said, “So
you
think there might be some connection between Hoi Fu and Don West. Between organized crime in the Downtown Eastside and City Hall. Only one way to find out.”

“What's that?”

“Ask.”

“Now you
are
kidding me.”

In the darkness Cole could see Denman smile, and he knew that he wasn't kidding.

“So where are we going?”

“The Golden Dragon.”

“The Asian restaurant?”

“Yup.”

Cole was silent as they ran across Gore Street, the rain pounding down on their heads.

“Look, I'm happy to just go along for the ride, Denny, but if you want me to be of any help, you might want to tell me what you've got in mind.”

“I don't really know, Cole. That's the honest truth. I really can't figure this whole mess out any better than you can. Do I think that the mayor and a crime boss are colluding to bump off homeless people? No. Do I think that Hoi Fu might somehow be involved on his own? Maybe. Does the mayor's office want to cover something up related to the disappearances? Maybe. Is there some kind of connection between all these people? Who knows? I really don't know anything right now, and it's frustrating as hell, so we just need to start poking around and see what turns up.”

“I can go along with that,” said Cole.

Denman smiled at his friend. “Good.”

“I'm good at poking people,” said Cole, raising his voice as the din around them increased.

“Don't I know it,” Denman teased.

They turned toward the row of shops and restaurants next to the vacant lots on Prior Avenue. Instead of walking to the front door of the ancient building that now housed the Golden Dragon, Denman slipped through the slats in a wooden fence and made his way down the darkened alley between two buildings. Cole followed him, his heart rate increasing as they made their way through the shadows, sloshing through standing puddles that smelled like burnt sesame oil and garbage. Denman disappeared around the back of the building. Cole quickly followed. When Cole caught up with Denman, his friend was standing in front of a door. The rear of the old brick structure was flanked by a tall wooden fence rimmed with rusty barbed wire, separating it from the busy street beyond. A heavy dumpster reeked of fish and rotting vegetables.

Denman knocked on the door.

“Seems kinda dramatic,” said Cole, fighting the tightness in his throat.

The door opened a crack. A line of light spilled across the water in the alley.

“What is it?” Cole heard a voice from inside the doorway ask.

“Denman Scott to see Mr. Fu, if it pleases him.”

The door closed.

“Friendly sorts.”

“Cautious.”

They waited in the darkness, the rain falling in sheets in the alley. After a minute Cole was about to speak again, when the door opened.

“Just you,” the voice said.

Denman turned to Cole. “I'm a big boy.”

“Ten minutes and I come in through the front door,” said Cole.

Denman stepped through the portal of light and the door closed behind him.

DENMAN WAS NOT
unaccustomed to the less than savory underworld of Vancouver's Asian crime scene. For the last ten years he had lived among the elements that made up the dark underbelly of the city, so when the door closed behind him, he wasn't surprised to be not too gently shoved against the wall and roughly frisked by a Korean man who must have outweighed him by a hundred pounds. A few feet away, a second man stood eyeing him coolly. The rough business of the search complete, Denman was allowed to turn around. He was in the kitchen of the Golden Dragon, where half a dozen Japanese, Chinese, and Korean cooks were filling orders. The room was a cacophony of kitchen sounds—pots and pans clanging, food sizzling in woks, waitresses yelling at cooks to hurry with their food. Flames leapt from the grills and the cooks wiped their faces with rags as they bantered among each another. The smell of Korean barbecue and Japanese noodles was thick in the air. Everything seemed to be coated in a thin sheen of sesame oil.

“Mr. Fu will see you upstairs,” said the large man who had patted him down. “Follow me, please.” The second man stayed by the back door.

They walked through the bustling kitchen and then mounted a set of stairs near the entrance to the dining room. “Right this way,” the big man said, and they walked down a long hall. At the far end a man stood watch by a doorway, and when Denman approached with his escort, the man poked his head into the room and then nodded for Denman to enter.

The room he stepped into from the dark hall was well lit by ornate Asian lamps and smelled of jasmine incense. Hoi Fu was seated at a low table along the far wall. Three other men sat with him. They were eating a dinner of Korean barbecue, the pork and chicken roasting on a small cylindrical grill at the center of the table.

“Come in,” Hoi Fu motioned to Denman. Denman slipped off his shoes, bowed, then came forward. A thick carpet covered the floor, and red and orange tapestries adorned the walls.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Fu,” Denman said, coming up to the table.

“Please, sit. Would you care to join us?” Fu was a short, compact man with a head of short black hair and a cleanly shaven face. Though in his sixties, he looked no older than forty. His skin was clear and free of wrinkles, save for the crow's feet around his eyes, which deepened when he spoke with his broad, friendly smile.

Denman sat and accepted a plate.

“These are men who run some of my businesses around town,” said Fu. Denman nodded as Fu made introductions. “And Denman Scott runs Priority Legal on Hastings. He is one of our city's great citizens. He provides free legal assistance to those in need. The homeless, those in poverty, those abused by the system or by our over-zealous police force.”

Denman smiled and turned his meat on the grill.

“Now, what is it that I can do for you? Have you come seeking a donation to your excellent cause?”

Denman's smile widened. “No, but thank you for thinking of it. Perhaps in the future. My business today is of a more troubling nature, Mr. Fu. I've come to ask for your assistance. It seems something is terribly wrong in our community. Four people have gone missing in the Downtown Eastside in the last month. All long-term street people. All well known by those providing social services.”

“By that you are talking about Juliet Rose, the excellent street nurse.”

“Her, and others,” said Denman, holding Fu's eyes.

“You and she are developing a strong friendship,” said Fu.

“We share a common cause.”

“Indeed.”

“I was hoping you might have some knowledge as to their whereabouts.”

Fu took a mouthful of pork and chewed thoughtfully. “I know nothing of their whereabouts. I try to stay abreast of the rumors and gossip on the streets, if only just for the sport of it. But where these . . . men or women?”

“Two men and two women.”

“Where these men and women have disappeared to, I do not know.”

Denman dipped some pork into hot sauce. He nodded as he ate. “Mr. Fu, I have heard concerns that the City itself is cracking down on homeless people, making their lives uncomfortable. I've received an increasing number of complaints of excessive force. Prostitutes are being beaten. Homeless people roughed up. The rally that was to show support for the Downtown Eastside community last week turned violent. The police beat people and tear-gassed the crowd.”

“Yes, I understand His Worship the Mayor had to be rushed from the scene,” Fu smiled.

“Have you heard anything that would suggest that the City is cracking down in the Downtown Eastside to try to bully people out of the area to make way for condo development?”

Fu sat back against his cushions. “Surely you must know that if the City wants to build condominiums in the Eastside, all they have to do is support the developers' efforts to buy up the low-rent hotels and to fast-track development permits. It's really that simple. They don't need to beat up hookers to do that. Now, that being said, the
VPD
never needed an excuse to pick on the least privileged among us. As you might know, I have associates who make their living any way they are able, which sometimes skirts the strict legal parameters in our society, and I have come to understand that to do so one risks far more than arrest in our fair city. If you take my meaning.”

Denman allowed a smile and a nod. “But you feel certain that this excessive force isn't in any way connected to the closure of places like the Astoria Grand or the Lucky Strike Hotel.”

Denman felt it, though he couldn't see it. At the mention of the Lucky Strike, the energy changed in the room. It was for just a split second, but it caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise.

“I assure you, if there was any connection between the abuse our city's finest heap on the citizenry of our community and the redevelopment of low rent hotels, I would know. And I would gladly share that with you.”

Denman took a last bite and then a sip of tea. “Mr. Fu, you have been a gracious host. I appreciate your time. With your permission, I will take my leave,” he said, rising.

“Come back and see me about a donation to your excellent work, Denman. You are welcome here anytime.”

Denman bowed gently to his host, retrieved his shoes, and made his way back down the dimly lit hall.

COLE STOOD IN
the darkness, leaning against the wall beside the back door, the rain drumming down on his ball cap. A steady drip had formed along the brim of his hat and slid down his coat. He dug out his cell phone and checked the time. Denman had been gone for just two minutes and already he was growing antsy. He had been serious about the ten minutes. In eight more ticks he would be marching through the front door, and God help anybody who got between him and his best friend.

“Of course, I do that and I won't be able to piss in this city without looking over my shoulder,” said Cole aloud, grinning.

In the near total darkness of the alley he took a few steps and bent his knees to loosen his legs. He scanned the space around him, trying to discern objects—the large metal trash bin, a few wooden crates, the leaning piles of empty cardboard boxes being soaked into a pulp. He stood up again and was about to take a few steps into the passage connecting the alley to the street when he heard distant voices.

Cole held his breath and listened. A foot splashed in the puddle of water spanning the main alley and a man cursed.

The voices grew louder. Cole felt an instinctive need to hide. He squeezed between the garbage bin and the tall wooden fence, crouching in a tiny space thick with the smell of fish and rotting vegetables and discarded cooking oil. Two men passed within ten feet of him and knocked on the same door Denman had just passed through. They talked in loud voices.

“Fucking rain.”

“Never going to let up, it seems.”

“Now until April.”

“You're kidding me.”

“You haven't been in Vancouver very long, have you?”

“I just got here in June. It's been sunny since. I thought I was living in Shangri-La.”

“You're in for a rough fucking ride, buddy.”

“Knock again. They must not have heard the first time.”

Suddenly the door opened and the shaft of light spilled into the alley again. Cole could see the two men clearly. They were burly, dressed in long raincoats, the downpour driving against their crew cuts. White men, somewhere in their early thirties, Cole guessed, with square jaws and mustaches.

Cole could not see who answered the door, but the man closest to Cole said, “Pickup for the Lucky Strike Supper Club.” The other man laughed.

The door closed and the alley turned dark again. A few moments later, it opened wide, and someone handed out large packages of food wrapped in plastic bags.

Cole was only ten feet away, trying to shrink farther into the small area behind the garbage bin. The light illuminated the alley well enough that if the men turned to look in his direction, he would be discovered. His heart raced as he crouched uncomfortably.

“Better not have forgotten the fried wontons,” the man farthest from Cole said. “Andrews loves his fried wontons.” Both men laughed and the door closed. They disappeared from the rain-soaked alley.

Cole stood up. The rain continued to drum down on his head but he didn't feel it.

Lucky Strike Supper Club. What were they talking about? Cole wondered.

He fished his cell phone from his pocket and checked the time. It had been twelve minutes since Denman disappeared. The pickup had distracted him, but now he was able to squeeze out from behind the dumpster. Time to go in with a blaze of glory. He pressed past the door and was about to round the corner when the door behind him opened again and he heard Denman say something in Mandarin. Cole stopped and turned. Denman emerged with a box of food in his hand.

“Like a fried wonton?” he asked Cole.