Almost Criminal: A Crime In Cascadia Mystery Part 10

He's getting busted, someone said, it's the narcs.

I heard Rachel whispering urgently to me, "The Menzys."

I knew the name from one of Skip's lectures about the business. The Menzy brothers ran the local street trade - of course, with the protection of the Devil's Own. I took Bree's hand.

"You've got to get out of here." I said, pulling her away from the scene.

"She stays, pal," one of the guys barked. "But you, take a walk."

I kept my voice calm. "She's got nothing to do with this." I wanted to avoid confrontation. I wasn't particularly n.o.ble or heroic - they could flatten Nolan's nose if they wanted, it might do the guy good - but I wanted Bree out of it.

Bree was having none of my big-brother protection. She slipped out of my grip and walked straight toward Nolan, saying something rea.s.suring. The kids in the crowd were no help at all. They'd pulled away to a safe distance but were sticking around to watch. I scanned for helpful faces and saw only Rachel, far in the back.

I had to do something. I chose the dominant Menzy, the one who'd just ordered me to walk. "What's the problem? She's a kid, you don't care about her."

I slid between him and Bree, a buffer, I hoped, ready to hold his attention long enough for Bree to back off and blend into the crowd. Behind me, Bree disagreed. I caught Rachel's eye and tried to convey the idea that she could help get Bree out of here. The other Menzy held Nolan with one arm behind his back and used his leverage to swing him around. The two brothers now faced me.

"I really don't want any grief." I tried to sound low-key and non-threatening. I didn't want to get hit. "I'm not trying to ha.s.sle you. But you and I, we know some of the same people. I don't want to talk about it right now, but if you want that guy away from here, I'll take care of it. You take his bag and all the product in it. I'll make sure he's gone."

I took Nolan's free forearm in mine and began to back away slowly, hoping they didn't see the quiver in my legs.

Somebody across the field yelled. "There's going to be a fight!"

"f.u.c.k this," said the Menzy holding Nolan, twisting Nolan's trapped arm up and into his back, while his brother spun on one foot and leaned into a punch, hitting Nolan deep in the gut. Nolan folded at the waist, pulling his forearm from my grip and vomiting explosively. He dropped to the ground in a puddle of foamy, half-digested food. One Menzy cursed at the goo on his sleeve, and they circled closer, angrier now. Their backs dismissed me.

Someone said eww-gross. Most of the entertainment-seekers were shocked into silence. I got the feeling that they were disappointed that the spectacle was over so soon. I scanned for Bree and saw her, whispering a protest to Rachel.

It was time for me to walk away. Bree was as safe as I could make her and Nolan had been humiliated in front of half the school. I couldn't help feeling he deserved it. What kind of s.h.i.t-for-brains deals in the bikers' territory?

Then one of the Menzys swung back a leather-booted foot and buried it in Nolan's side. And again. Nolan's body quivered and he curled into a ball. With each kick, he let out a soft, urgent hunh.

I couldn't watch, but I couldn't leave. They were only getting warmed up. I'm not a hero - I still thought I could quietly whisper something about the Devils and stop this before they sent the guy to hospital - but I reached out and pulled at an arm.

I tried to say, "Hey, man, listen to me." But almost nothing left my lips. Louder this time, "Hey! Stop - will you listen to me? You've got him. Hold off for a second."

Wake up, Nolan, I thought. I've got them distracted, this is your cue to scramble the h.e.l.l out of here. But he didn't move. He lay there, watching me with big cow eyes. He was stupid.

"You want something?" The nearest Menzy shook his head, disgusted. "For f.u.c.k, you want a piece?" With no sense of hurry, he lowered one shoulder and a.s.sumed a boxer's stance.

"Bullard -" I'm not sure I got the whole name out.

A fist flashed at me. I saw the punch coming and dodged, thinking, for a moment, that I was pretty quick. Then all I could see was night sky and my legs above me. I landed, painfully, on my neck and shoulders. The other twin had pulled some kind of martial arts trip-kick, and I rolled up onto my knees, with the realization that they'd done this before.

Their attention was on me now. A kick landed on my ribcage, which shot with pain, and I rolled out of its reach. Nolan was still there, coughing and whimpering on one knee. f.u.c.k him, I thought, and lifted myself up on one arm.

A pair of rough hands tugged at me and lifted, and one of them said, "Who is this little t.w.a.t? You tryin' to p.i.s.s me off? It worked, I'm p.i.s.sed."

I was dropped, landing on both feet.

"Do it. Do some damage," the other said.

"No, hold on, stop." I said. "Seriously."

"Oh, I should stop?" The Menzy nearest me smacked me in the face with two open palms. "Seriously?"

It was just a light, mocking blow, but it knocked me back against a tree. There was one of them on each side.

In desperation, I hissed, "You know the Bull?"

"Say what?"

He struck again, with a fist this time, but he was still playing, holding back any real force. I thought I might p.i.s.s my pants.

"Bullard. You work for him."

The closer guy smirked. Maybe I'd heard wrong, and they didn't know Bullard. Or maybe they knew Bullard better than I did, and thought I was lying.

"I work for him too. Don't hit me."

The face thrust in close, spitting a whispered, "Bulls.h.i.t. You're not a Devil, a little t.w.a.t like you."

I shook my head, coughing from the pain in my ribs and struggling to hold my balance.

"No, I work for him. I'm protected." I put my hands to my waist and straightened, speaking more clearly. "Talk to Ivan."

"This is bulls.h.i.t."

Menzy number one looked in both directions, as if Bullard or the Russian might be on his way, and hit me hard and deep in the soft belly under the ribs. I doubled over, shocked by the deep gut pain.

"Oops, slipped." He said with a chuckle. "t.w.a.t."

My ears rang and my vision was blurred. I couldn't choke or gag. I couldn't make any sound that required breath. Someone took me by the shoulder.

Rachel's voice said, "Tate, you're crazy. Don't move, you're hurt."

My guts churned with the effort of drawing air and I leaned into her, scanning the surroundings for danger. The Menzys had left.

It felt like minutes before I had the breath to say anything. "Just winded. I'm all right. Bree's gone?"

"Yes."

"Nolan?"

"Yes."

As my head cleared, some of Rachel's friends said comforting things, while others returned to their drinks and campfires. The entertainment was over.

I forced myself to straighten up and look confident, not like a victim or a loser. Or a chickens.h.i.t who invokes Bullard's name because he's afraid of a couple of street punks. I wondered whether Bullard was going to hear about it, and what he'd say.

"You know those guys?" I asked Rachel.

"They're d.i.c.kwads, this is their turf. You don't buy s.h.i.t in this town unless it's from the Menzys."

I tried not to grimace. I hoped there was no damage in my guts, no cracked ribs.

"I hope Nolan's grateful."

"Nolan's an idiot. That was for my sister."

"You don't know them, the business you're in?"

"I'm not in their business. We grow the s.h.i.t - we're farmers, for Christ's sake." She didn't need to know any more than that. "Let's do that walk now, I've got to work this out a bit. Rebecca's here?"

Gone home, Rachel explained, and Tanya and Brad had headed into the woods for some private time. I limped alongside her from the park toward the marina. We watched the boats bob in the water, cables clinking rhythmically. Somewhere along the way, our hands found each other. From the park came a squeal of drunken laughter.

"That's Kelly," she said. "I had such a crush on her once." After a long pause, "She was so mean."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want." It didn't seem a good time to bring up the gay thing again. It's a hard one for a guy to have an answer to.

"There's nothing to tell. I liked her, she knew it, and she gave me hints, you know, little looks and flirty smiles, texted me these sweet little messages that could have meant anything, but meant a lot to me. But it was all a joke to make me feel stupid. All her friends knew."

I wrapped my arm around her and stroked her back.

"I wouldn't do that." It seemed a pretty lame comment, even then.

"How about here?" She said.

It was a comfortable spot, a gentle mossy slope with a view of the lightening sky, and I was thinking how nice this could be with someone who wasn't a lesbian.

"Watch your dress on the gra.s.s. Here, lie on my jacket."

She laughed, "Don't worry about the dress, I don't plan to wear it again. The shawl, maybe." She rolled the shawl carefully and tucked it aside.

While I lay on my back, she slid in close, tilting her face to mine with half-closed eyes. The kiss was sudden and unexpected, as was the force she put into it. When our lips touched she pushed hard, pinching my bottom lip against her teeth. I hoped she didn't feel me twinge or taste the blood - I didn't want her to stop, even though it hurt. I was surprised and slow to react as her tongue probed, thrusting, seeking mine. At last I reacted. I wrapped my free arm behind her and rolled us both to our sides, gently stroking her back and moving around to the flat of her belly. She reached down and took me by the wrist, halting my progress, and then drew my hand up and placed it on her breast. Not shy, and definitely not the move of a lesbian, I thought. I was sure I could feel a nipple-b.u.mp under the bra wire and ruched polyester. I adjusted my weight and heard a noisy rip from somewhere in the tulle.

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"It's all right."

"Can I -"

From somewhere in the trees behind us, we both heard a cry and the high-pitched rhythm of climax.

"Tanya," she said.

She pulled her belly away from mine and held my eyes while she slipped exploring fingers inside my shirt, tracing circles in the curly hair they found. She should stop now, I thought, but I couldn't say no when her fingers slid in and down, probing inside my pants. My breathing stopped. Clumsy, sharp fingernails found me and I let out a cry of frustration as I exploded in a helpless o.r.g.a.s.m. It was over in seconds.

She pulled away and sat up. I heard her wipe her fingers on the gra.s.s.

"Sorry." What a failure, like she wasn't already unimpressed enough with guys. I felt the cold sticky wetness and wanted to explain, make excuses, but there wasn't anything I could say that she didn't understand.

"The sun's coming up," she said.

"Uh-huh."

"I should go home."

"Yeah."

"We made it to sunrise."

Chapter 13.

Even in the Craigslist ads, Randle couldn't help himself.

97 Harley Fatboy black & gre3n, lots of chrome. $12000 or trade for minivan, built-in baby seats preferred. Call 604-555-6728.

14 foot trampoline, gre3n, used once, minor bloodstains, $350 OBO. Pick it up today, noon or after, 3685 Terrace Court.

I admit it, it was fun. I enjoyed sitting in a camp chair up in my tree house, searching on my laptop for Randle's code name and deciphering his instructions. I got a buzz out of carrying truckloads of weed, or thousands of dollars in cash, or both. Driving past a police cruiser, I'd break into a sweat over the bogus licence in my wallet, and the vehicle I was in, with its fake insurance papers. When I was carrying a full load, you could smell the ganja blowing in my wake, I was certain of it. The thrill was addictive.

The jobs were coming nearly every day. I'd check Craigslist and then call Christine, who was always glad to pick up my shift.

As for Rachel, I kept trying to get together with her, but my deliveries were so unpredictable it was hard to make plans. She wasn't getting enough work from the video store, where business seemed to get worse every month. Whenever she got a shift, it seemed to be an evening or a weekend when I was finally free.

There'd only been one, awkward, c.o.c.ktail hour in the ten days since grad. Our status was kind of unclear-we'd worked out the lesbian thing, I guessed, but I waited for her to bring it up and she didn't. We just walked from the marina to the hotel and back while she sipped at her bottle. We talked about driving mostly, not the Menzys or how Bree was doing (Bree was giving me the silent treatment these days). I mentioned that I had to get home soon because I didn't want Bree to be alone, Beth being in Vancouver again dealing with the gallery. I was keeping a bit more of an eye on her now.

We kissed goodbye at least, just a little smack. As soon as we stopped moving, the mosquitoes found us and drove us away.

I had fantasies about a real date, but hadn't worked up the courage to ask her. Maybe we'd end up in my tree house. I was making it my own. I'd strung a long extension cord uphill from Pop's and my computer picked up the Wi-Fi from the house below. I had bought a Sally Ann love seat for the living room. As long as the hot, dry summer weather held out, I was fine.

Up in the tree house I counted my money, and thought about Rachel and me at university, far away from Wallace. I had a year's tuition tucked away in the wall, in neat five-hundred-dollar rolls. The university was taking its sweet time letting me know whether they'd let me in, but if I was going to be at school in the fall, that meant I had six weeks left in Wallace. Six more weeks with Randle and I'd have enough to cover dorm fees and some spending money too.

I'd driven past Anzac Engine Works twice before I realized it was the address I was after. It was a small garage that fixed anything with a motor, from lawnmowers to boats, but they specialized in motorbikes. A row of bikes always lined the front, some for sale, and some belonging to customers. Most were big American highway bikes, customized Harleys, choppers and bobbers and whatever other names bikers have for those things. I pulled a U-turn and spotted tall, skinny Ivan bent over a long, low cruiser that was all brushed aluminum and flat black, no chrome at all. He saw me and gestured that I should stay in the truck as he put down a socket wrench and stood, wiping his hands on a rag.

He pulled an envelope from the bike's saddlebag. "Which one you like?" he said nodding at his bike and long-forked chopper with flowing purple flames over the gas tank. He clearly felt that his bike was far more tasteful, but I shrugged. I didn't like the guy - I was certain he was reporting back to Bullard - and I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. Loud, macho bikes didn't interest me any more than loud macho bikers.

"Not your style?" He spat on the sidewalk. "You're not big enough to ride one anyway." He reached a grease-streaked arm into the truck and tossed in a backpack. "End of the month. Time to take the money to the cleaners."

He explained the job. Randle and Bullard did their transactions in cash or by trading one kind of goods for another. But they still had a need for legitimate money, money from a bank. For rent and taxes, he said with a curl of the lip, and people who need cheques. For that, the cash had to be put into a bank, which was not as simple as you'd think. You couldn't just walk into a bank with a roll of money, they'd report you. No, you had to clean the money first - pa.s.s it through an intermediary, legitimate business.