Almost Criminal: A Crime In Cascadia Mystery Part 4

So Randle was a draft dodger.

"Gotta respect the old dude," he said, meaning the old coot behind the steel gate. "He's resourceful. Don't know how many of them are in there, but they're totally off the grid. Solar power, plumbing, grow their own food. Total survivalists."

"And they grow weed."

"They need a source of cash," he laughed. "Doesn't everybody, from time to time? Excellent weed too. Greenhouse-grown, organic. And he knows about security."

I gave a half-hearted hum of agreement and stared out the window, waiting for my heart rate to come down. What would Beth think if she saw me now?

I'd called my mom by her name since I was a little kid. Since the day my father left, actually. Who I hadn't seen since. He might be living behind a gate in the woods for all I knew. One day I had a dad and the next I didn't.

His name was Al MacLane, for Alistair, I think. They never married, but Bree and I got his surname. He and Beth met at art school, and she became famous but he didn't. He had a job in an office somewhere. He gave me my first skateboard. I remember him trying to teach me how to ollie.

I know I'm not the only reason he left, but what I told Beth was probably the last straw. There had probably been other things I didn't know about at the time. But, for sure, it happened when it did because I told Beth about his girlfriend. I saw her when my dad came to visit my school, I think the school needed a parent's signature before I could go on a field trip and they'd both forgotten to send back the permission form. It was mid-morning when he arrived, a time when he ought to have been at work, but he wasn't dressed like he was working and there was another woman in the car. Just looking at them sitting together in the front seat, I knew there was something between them. And the next time Beth had one of her manic episodes where everyone had to drop everything for bedroom inspection and show her their homework right now no matter what else you had in mind for the day, I decided to stir things up, and I let her have it: "Dad has a girlfriend," I said.

For the longest time after my dad left, I blamed her. I started calling her Beth instead of Mom, because I saw how her face changed when I did it. For a long time I was certain that if I'd kept his secret to myself, they'd still be my Mom and Dad.

"Oh my G.o.d, what happened?" Beth cried. "Did the crawls.p.a.ce flood?"

Lying on my back under the kitchen counter, a screwdriver clenched between my teeth, I didn't respond. She was home early, and I hadn't heard the metal-on-metal squeal of her brakes. Considering how it must have looked to her, with Anatole's Subaru blocking the driveway, and shattered chunks of ancient plumbing scattered across the lawn, I could understand the meltdown.

She roared into the kitchen, almost hauling the old door off its hinges. I released the underside of the new sink and slid out. Her cheeks were mottled red and her eyes frantic, looking from Anatole's welcoming tip of the cap, to me, and back to the new sink in the counter.

"Check it out. You like it?" I said. "Whoa, what's Georgia got you doing now, landscaping?" I was trying to lighten her up. Her sleeves were covered with plant clippings, and one hand held dirty, green-stained sneakers.

She looked fl.u.s.tered and ready to explode, and muttered something that sounded like f.u.c.k and squeezed past us on the way to her room.

Anatole smiled benignly, as if nothing had happened, and said, "a.s.sume the position, son. Here goes nothing," and turned on the tap.

I slid back under the counter and checked the seals for leaks.

"All dry down here," I called over the sound of running water. I waited another minute to be sure of my new plumbing, and squirmed my way out.

She returned, wearing clean clothes and a look of strained calm.

"Pretty skook.u.m." Anatole turned to face her. "He went first-cla.s.s on the hardware, your boy. Now, Tate, next you'll stopper both basins and fill 'er with water, and let the sink sit with the weight in it until the glue sets. While we're waiting for that, we have a mess to clean up. I'll eighty-six the old sink, you take care of the rest."

The old porcelain sink lay in pieces on the floor, in a pile of sawdust and shredded plastic-and-cardboard packing.

"That old sink was diseased," I said to Beth. I was proud of my handiwork, I'll admit it. "I was hoping we'd be finished before you got back."

She hugged me from behind, her cheek pressed against my hair, her bony arms surrounding me. I pulled away, then felt bad for being so obvious about it. We're not much for touching in my family. Her prosthetic felt spongy and she smelled of fertilizer and sap.

Anatole said, "I showed him a thing or two, but he did the job himself. The kid's a crackerjack. But you know that."

She shook her head. "Thank you, Anatole. And Tate. My lord, it certainly makes everything else in here look so much worse, doesn't it?"

Chapter 6.

When the Porsche showed up at the shop, I wondered if Randle was doing another attendance check, verifying my presence before giving Skip my next a.s.signment.

I was waiting for the Elektra's pressure to build while the yellow convertible pulled off the highway. I diverted my attention to a little curly-haired five- or six-year-old who was busy at something on the other side of the big bra.s.s machine. I'd seen movement down there and leaned forward, catching the kid tipping the plastic honey-bear and pouring a line of honey onto a wet palm.

"Hey there." I used my best friendly-uncle voice.

It was a girl - she jumped and looked behind her, then up to me, eyes instantly filling with tears. Her mom was waiting on her caffe latte and swiping a fingertip across a white smartphone.

"So what do you like better," I asked, "caramel or chocolate?"

The kid gave her mom a confused look. Was she allowed to talk to strangers?

"Can't make up your mind?" The pressure was finally right on the machine, and I pulled out a kiddie cup. "How about both? Caramel chocolate is mighty tasty."

I slipped in a dollop of chocolate syrup and one of caramel, added some milk and frothed them up.

"She doesn't -" Mom's eyes were still on the little handheld screen.

"Here you go." I handed it to her. "On the house."

Mom frowned, and I realized I hadn't asked about sugar or allergies, but it was time to pull her latte shot before the heat rose and turned it bitter.

The kid's face poked over the counter, foamy moustache and all, and watched with cross-eyed intensity as I steamed the milk. I gave her a grin as I poured the smooth white foam into the dark espresso and finished with a flourish, a daisy chain of six little hearts in a swoop.

"Isn't that boy clever," Mom said, lifting the cup and scooting the girl toward the exit. "Maybe you can do that when you're in high school. Doesn't it look like fun?"

In high school. I glanced out the window to avoid telling her to f.u.c.k right off. Randle's car was empty.

Anatole b.u.mped me from behind, unbalanced by his tool belt. Was he ever going to stop fixing things? The guy was nice, although everyone knew that Jeannie was the brains of the outfit. He was unnerving - without warning anyone, he'd come in last night and added a shelf beside the cash register. The idea was to promote the cans of loose tea. I'm sure it was attractive and maybe it would help sales, but it was placed just at your elbow when you worked the cash, and Lucas and I were constantly bashing ourselves and sending cans of tea flying.

"What's next in your reno list, Tate? I was you, I'd start with the roof, see what's under that moss."

Maybe this was the chance to talk salary. "It's all about the money, Tole."

They paid me a dollar over minimum. I liked them and all, but I made more in one evening with Randle than in a week of double shifts.

"Randle Kennedy, just the man I've been looking for," Anatole called out.

And there he was, holding the door for the mom and waltzing backward to keep his linen jacket away from sticky little hands. I busied myself with wiping down the machine, trying not to catch Randle's eye by accident or slip up and show that he was anyone special. I tapped a double-shot macchiato's worth of beans into the grinder.

"This war resister," Anatole said. "Heard about him?"

Randle tossed his sungla.s.ses on the counter. "Toley, you got to get outside. It's a Chamber of Commerce day out there." He took a seat and spun on the stool, scanning the room. The shirt that shimmered under his jacket was all palm trees and hula babes. He had the money for pure silk, it looked like, but the eighties were a long time ago.

"Kid in Toronto?" Anatole continued.

"Deserter, not resister. Know all about it, got no sympathy."

It was in the news, an American soldier who'd served in Iraq and didn't want to return, so he'd crossed over to Canada, just like the draft dodgers did in the Vietnam days. War resister was Anatole's preferred term.

"I was, and still am, a pacifist. A resister," Randle stated. "I was drafted but I would not serve. This kid's not the same at all. He volunteered for the military and now he wants out. No sympathy."

"Different times." Anatole persisted. "These kids aren't like you and me were, they're not college material, they sign up cause they're looking for a job. They've got no idea -"

"Right, he didn't know somebody might shoot at him?"

"Maybe he thought it was patriotic. Maybe he's a slow learner, I don't care, he wants out of a war." Anatole's face was turning spotty. "When you and I came here, this country was a refuge. This kid, they threw him in jail."

I spoke up. "That's 'cause we're in the war too, right?" It seemed clear to me - it felt like soldiers were coming home in coffins every day - but I might as well not have been there. Anatole gripped the counter like he was about to have a heart attack while Randle gazed off into s.p.a.ce and took a delicate sip of his drink, one pinkie finger raised.

"What do you think ought to be done," he said. "A protest march? I'm a businessman, I've got properties to manage. Times have changed."

Anatole clamped his mouth and retreated, tool belt clanking, to the kitchen.

"Speaking of business," Randle said in an undertone, blowing on the coffee, "You're off at five? Meet me down beside the mill."

Be cool about the car, I said to myself as I slipped my skate deck in the front trunk. I kept my face neutral. I must have done something right to get a ride in the Porsche, instead of the anonymous beaters I did deliveries in. But as I folded myself into the pa.s.senger seat, Randle's face was expectant, almost eager, so I said, "Awesome car, this thing's a cla.s.sic."

"Fifty-seven." Randle gunned out of the parking lot. "Younger than me."

With the top down, the car was loud and muscular. The interior was simple but elegant: cream-coloured metal with big dials and a couple of fat plastic b.u.t.tons. The steering wheel was made of some exotic wood. There wasn't even a radio. I liked it a lot. "Beautiful restoration."

"Not restored. Original all the way."

That was amazing. It must have been locked in a garage for forty years. The suspension was tight: when the car hit a seam in the road I felt it right up my b.u.t.t.

Finally, Randle said, "I'm pulling your leg. It's six months old. A replica."

He flicked a b.u.t.ton and the pa.s.senger window descended with a powered whir. "Custom shop in Vancouver builds them, Intermeccanica. Old is nice, but I need things that work."

We cruised east of town. The lakesh.o.r.e road smelled of rubber and oil and the asphalt shimmered in the heat. Now that I was alone with him at last, I had no idea what to say.

He broke the silence. "It's been a few weeks now. You've done some work, made some money. I've been watching you on the job, and checking with Skip and Ivan, and I'll tell you, I'm impressed."

I knew that, I thought, and I felt my face begin to flush, the way it always did when someone paid attention to me. I watched the light play on the water.

"But I'm not surprised," he said. "I had my eye on you for a long time. Watched you at the coffee shop, how you handled the equipment, the people, the stress. And I asked Jeannie and Anatole, indirectly."

I couldn't help wondering what Jeannie said. Anatole was on my side, but Jeannie - she'd only hired me because she liked Beth. When she wasn't ignoring me she complained. The road left the river, cooling under the overhanging firs.

"And you pull a fine macchiato. A difficult drink, they tell me, which is why I order them, to see how sharp you are. And you're pretty d.a.m.n sharp." Randle's eyes never left the road. "So you've done well, Tate, and it's time, if you're willing, to move things up a notch. What do you think? Would you like to join the company, go on salary? I need someone I can trust, to take care of deliveries on a regular basis. The money will be significant."

I shrugged as the trees blurred past. "That's what I do now. Knock on the door and see who's on the other side. If it turns out to be a Mountie, I get nailed, not you."

Not a situation I liked to think about, but that's what it was. While they remained in the security of their vans and grow-ops, I did the solitary walk, without even a phone in my pocket.

"I wouldn't worry about the Mounties. Some of them are customers, and the rest of them don't give a d.a.m.n about a little boutique operation in the countryside." He arched his back and slipped an index finger into the hip pocket of his pants, extracting a chrome Zippo lighter. "I've been in the trade for a very long time. Never had a lick of trouble."

"Do you have a phone?" I'd left mine at Beans, because it was easier than pulling the battery out all the time. "I should call if I'm going to be late for supper."

Rachel expected me for a six o'clock c.o.c.ktail hour. It was past five and we were getting farther away by the minute.

Randle tutted. "They'll give you brain cancer, cellphones. Texting's better." His fingers drummed on the wheel. "But even then you'll be traced. That phone you've got, sc.r.a.p it. Its number is registered in your name. If you can't live without one, ask Skip. He'll get you a burner, prepaid and anonymous. Even then, only use it in public s.p.a.ces where there's so many phones in use it confuses the trackers. Don't bring any phone on a job, or at least put it in the black box. Here, hold the wheel."

I angled an awkward left hand over his lap and gripped the steering wheel - it was huge - and shakily struggled to keep the car on course while Randle reached inside his jacket and pulled out a cigarette package. He shook out a fat, hand-rolled blunt, made with custom-printed Zig-Zag rolling paper with the House of Dreams crest. Randle tilted his head and cupped a hand around the joint. We were out in the open, pa.s.sing the gates to the provincial park, and the dude was lighting up. The road took a curve and the car weaved as I held us in the lane, my attention jumping from the yellow line to the flame of his lighter and the smoke that caught in the wind. As the road straightened I tried to tug the wheel back to centre, but it resisted. I glanced down to see Randle's leg pressed up against the wheel, holding the car on track as he sucked on the joint. He noticed my gaze and released the wheel with a smile and a wink. It felt like a test of some kind, and I'd failed without having a chance to succeed.

"There we go." Breath held tight, he offered me the joint. "Sweet like you've never tasted."

The smoke was fragrant and light, floral, much better than what I remembered from the smoke pit at high school.

"No, but thanks."

"What's the matter?"

"I don't like it."

"You've never tried this."

"It's all right."

"Kid -"

"No, really, it's not the flavour or whatever, I just don't smoke weed."

As I mentioned earlier, it makes me sleepy and stupid. And I'd lived with Beth's cancer long enough that I didn't want to suck any kind of smoke into my lungs.

Randle burst out laughing and coughed, causing the car to twitch, reminding me that, whether I toked or not, the driver was getting ripped. The front right wheel caught the shoulder, and gravel crunched, and my hand made an involuntary move to the steering wheel, but Randle recovered easily. I hoped we'd get wherever we were going pretty soon "All right. G.o.d knows I won't force you to do anything."

"Is it a problem?"

Now that the car was back in control, my legs felt soft and rubbery.

"No, no, it's fine." He shook his head, still chuckling. "You're too good to lose, Tate. It means you'll keep your wits about you, which is what I'd expect, and I won't need to worry about you smoking the profits. However - I won't let this one go to waste."

He sucked an inch of the joint to ash and drove for a long minute before expelling a pale grey stream.

"Still, you can't be coy about what we're doing here. Cannabis is what I do. And what you do too. We breed it, grow it, process it. The best bud in B.C. Maybe the world."

I shrugged. "That's what Skip tells me."

"He was in Amsterdam with me when we won the Cannabis Cup in '08 and '10. Your timing is perfect for getting into the business. We're closer to legalization than ever."