Seaweed on the Street (11 page)

The second man at the booth was also about 25, very overweight, with a bushy moustache. He seemed intimidated by his companions and grinned shyly when anyone spoke. When he opened his mouth, I saw that all the teeth were missing from one side of his upper jaw. Eavesdropping on their conversation, I learned that the woman's name was Patty Nolan; the fat man was called Sidney Banks.

The waitress arrived with my pie and slid it in front of me. I watched as she crossed her arms and leaned behind the counter, gazing into space with a rapt expression. I tasted the pie and said, “This is good.”

The waitress stared at me dully. “What?”

“Great pie.”

She raised her shoulders an inch. In a second I was forgotten as she listened to the Wurlitzer. She was 1,000 miles away, on a California beach with golden-haired boys.

The biker's two companions went out. I finished the pie and carried my coffee cup across to the old biker's booth. “Hi, Fred,” I said, and slid into the seat opposite.

Fred's lips tightened and his eyes were suspicious. “Do I know you?”

“Silas Seaweed.”

“Man sits at my table, I don't know him, he'd better have a good reason.”

“Somebody left a message for me. That's a reason.”

“That's a reason, mister, but I said you'd better have a
good
reason.”

I made myself comfortable, moving slightly on the seat, taking my time about it. “I've known people,” I said, “sweet young boys, never missed choir practice. I've seen these boys led astray, their heads turned by shiny motorcycles. Threw a leg over a hog and thought they were shitkickers and tough guys. I heard about one who walked into a bank, packing a loaded revolver. Ten years later he was still packing a broom in William Head penitentiary, along with a bunch of other losers.”

“Yeah,” said Fred, smiling without parting his lips. “That's me. Fred Eade, bank robber.”

He dragged out some tobacco and rolled a cigarette. Instead of lighting it, he stuck it behind his ear. “Hey, Pearl, bring that coffee pot over here, will ya?”

He waited until Pearl came over and filled our cups. He was working something out in his mind. At last he said, “So, you done some checking on me already. That's quite an act. How'd you do it?”

“I recognized you as soon as I walked in.”

“You a cop?”

“I'm here to
ask
questions.”

Fred bared his teeth. “You look like an ex-cop. What happened? They kick you off the force for stealing apples?”

“No, Fred, they didn't kick me off the force. Not yet, although that day may come. See, I get special consideration. I'm the token Indian. Long as I don't show up for work in war paint and feathers, I'm safe. But I'm tired of punks. I'm tired of wasting my time with guys who don't know their ass from their elbows.”

Fred nodded, sipping his coffee. “So, you want to lay some cash on me?”

“I might, if you give me something I want.”

“How do I know you won't cheat me?”

“I won't cheat you, but I won't take any crap either. If you've got something, talk.”

Cunning made his face furtive and ratty. “Buddy, I got what you need. You're looking for a woman, went missing a long time ago. I know where she is.”

“Where is she?”

Fred Eade shook his head. “First, I got to know how much money we're looking at.”

“Information like that, it could be worth something if nobody else knows about it. But I figure an asshole like you knows something, other people must know it as well.”

“That's right. Lots of people know this lady, but there's a snag. The woman we're talking about, she's a basket case. She's what you call confused. She doesn't even know her own name half the time.”

Things were beginning to add up. I said, “Tell me something. Prove you're not conning me. If it sounds good, I'll talk to the Man, get money for you.”

“Maybe I can talk to the Man myself, make my own deal.”

“That's what I'd expect, from a two-bit grifter. Go ahead and try.”

Fred scowled, dragged a commando dagger from its sheath and began to rake dirt from beneath his fingernails. “This woman we're talking about. In the newspaper you said you was looking for Marcia Harkness, right?”

“That's right.”

Fred had a copy of the
Times Colonist
with him. He passed it across the table. One of the personal ads had been circled with black ink.

reward offered for information

present whereabouts marcia harkness

married wellington 1980s.

Fred took the page back and said, “Here's something for you. The ad says the woman's name was Harkness, but the guy she married, his name was Turko.”

“Wait a minute. What are you saying? That her name was Harkness before her marriage?”

“Don't go jumping too fast, give me a chance to explain.” Fred had a confident smile now.

“It's like this,” he said. “In the late '70s, sometime around there, this American guy, name of Frank Harkness, comes up to B.C. from California. He was running away from something, I never found out what. Trouble. Anyway, he come up and got tied in with us bikers, in Wellington. We was disorganized then, stealing bike parts, hubcaps, dealing a little grass. Pretty soon Frank took over, changed a few things. He was tougher than hell, man, and a good organizer. Been with the Angels in Oakland, suppose to be a friend of Sonny Barger's. Suppose to be. Leastways, he was a tough monkey. He kicked ass around the club and soon made president. He was king a' the fuckin' hill, nobody messed with him.”

Fred scratched his whiskers with the dagger handle and took another drink of coffee. He was enjoying my attention. “But this tough guy, he had, what you call it? A blind spot, or maybe a better word, weakness, for classy broads. There was good-looking chicks around the club all the time. Mamas with big tits and tattooed asses. Frank wasn't interested. He liked class. Used to vanish for a week at a time, hang out in a suite at the Empress Hotel, get his rocks off with college girls and all like that. Then he meets this one, Marcia. He met her in a fuckin' tea room!” Fred shook his head as if he still couldn't believe it.

I said, “You were a member of the same club?”

“Sure. I was a punk. I got my patches under Frank, he was my fuckin' hero, man. I seen that guy duff it out with two soldiers from the Burnaby club who come over to show us how things ought to be done. They was using iron bars. Frank took 'em on with his bare hands. When they carted those two bastards out of the clubhouse, the place looked like a slaughterhouse.” Fred shook his head, remembering. “Frank was something, all right. Like a maniac when he got mad. Maybe it was his Russian blood. But that Marcia, she had Frank wrapped around her little finger.”

I said, “What was
she
like?”

“I don't know what she was like
then
. He kept Marcia under wraps.”

“You never met her?”

Fred shook his head reluctantly. “Not then. He didn't introduce her. She never come into the clubhouse.”

“So you didn't know who she was, anything about her?”

“I knew she was called Marcia, that she come out of Victoria, and she married Frank Harkness in Wellington.” He cocked his head. “You think that more than one broad called Marcia married guys called Frank Harkness in Wellington?”

“No. It sounds like you've identified her.”

“So how's about it? You satisfied I know what I'm saying?”

One thing still puzzled me. I said, “Tell me about this Harkness-Turko connection. How does that tie in?”

“Frank Harkness's name was really Frank Turko. I told you, he was on the lam from stateside, changed his name when he crossed the border, lots of guys done that.”

“Let's get this straight. You know where Marcia is now, and you can take me to her?”

“Correct. She's living in a place, you can be there in about four hours.” His sly look returned. “How much is this reward, anyway?”

“A few hundred bucks,” I said, snatching a figure out of the blue.

Fred rolled his eyes. “You shitting me?” he mocked. “This is some kind of inheritance deal, got to be. Either Frank's money is looking for her, or her family's.”

“How do you know her family has money?”

“I don't. But it's a fair guess. I told you. Frank was interested in class acts. Girls who wore fancy clothes, dressed nice, went to college and all like that.”

“Frank had money too?”

Fred laughed. “He had a licence to
print
money. Bought it off a guy that lived in Ladysmith. It was a recipe for brewing speed.”

“Speed?”

“That's right. Speed.
And
mda. Frank learned how to make it. That's how the club earned its money. We was dealing acid, grass, heroin, meth. You name it. We had it all.”

“What happened to Frank Harkness?”

Fred slid the commando dagger back into its sheath and said impatiently, “I said enough already. I ain't saying no more until I get cash laid on me. You check with the guy who's pulling your wires, then report back with some serious coin.”

“Fair enough.”

“I want 5,000 bucks,” Fred said, standing up and leaning his weight on the table as he shuffled sideways out of the booth.

I said, “Don't aim too high. Five thousand is a lot of money.”

“Let me talk to the Man myself, maybe I'll cut you in out of my piece.”

“That's not the way I work.”

“Yeah? Well, I'm flexible, maybe you should be. Think about it.” He nodded toward the marina. “I live on a boat with my old lady. You want me, come find me.”

I said, “Wait a minute, I need to ask you one more thing. The woman I'm interested in had an identifying mark on one arm.”

“I know she did,” Fred said. “A rose tattoo, up on her right shoulder. Frank told us about it. The rose was put on by a guy in Nanaimo.”

I watched Fred walk away. The old biker had a limp and was much shorter than he'd appeared when sitting down. He was probably about 50 — perhaps younger. But with his seamed face, greying hair and limping stride he looked a lot older. He'd lived fast but hadn't died young. The hard life had caught up with Fred Eade.

≈ ≈ ≈

The Wharfinger's office was a small wooden building at the end of a pier. Inside, ship models stood on window sills, pictures of sailing vessels covered the walls. A telescope in a corner was aimed at Spinnakers pub. The wharfinger sat in a captain's chair, watching the scene outside his window. When I entered, he spun around and grinned at me. A plastic sign on his desk told me that this was Captain Thomas Bloggs.

“Nice day, ain't it?” Captain Bloggs said cheerfully. “What can I do for you?”

He was an elderly, bearded man with skin like old leather. He wore a uniform cap and, in spite of the warm weather, a thick pea jacket with brass buttons. He would have looked right at home on the deck of a three-master.

I produced a photograph of Harry Cuncliffe Jr. and showed it to him. “Ever see this man around the marina, Captain?”

The wharfinger studied the photograph and nodded. “Who are you, mister, and what's your business?”

“Silas Seaweed. I'm a city cop,” I said, giving him my card.

Captain Bloggs settled back on his chair. “Sure. I knew Harry, he was a favourite of mine. Dr. Cuncliffe's house is on Dallas Road, only a few blocks away from here. The boy was crazy about boats, used to hang around my wharf all the time. Goddam shame, him being murdered.” The captain raised his bushy eyebrows. “What's your interest, Sergeant?”

“It's a confidential matter, Captain. I can't say much. Be obliged if you'd keep this under your hat.”

Irritation reddened the old man's face, but before he could speak I added, “No offence, but we don't want this stirred up, out of respect for the boy's father.”

Mollified, the wharfinger said, “I saw Fred Eade just now. You were talking with him in the café. You ask him about Harry?”

Evidently, not much went on around the marina that escaped the old man's eye. I said, “Did Harry know Fred Eade?”

A nerve twitched in the captain's face and his eyes flicked toward the south end of the marina. “Everybody knows Fred Eade.” He spoke with disgust. “Fred's been living on my marina for years. Always behind paying his mooring fees. Complains he's broke, but he can find money for booze easy enough. I ought to run him off, but if I did, where would he go?” He sighed and added, “But you were asking about Harry.”

I said, “A boy of Cuncliffe's background, I'd expect him to spend his time around the Royal Victoria Yacht Club.”

“Harry was interested in sailboats, sure, and he did a bit of racing out of the yacht club, but he loved commercial boats. Worked summers on fish packers and suchlike, sailing up the coast to Alaska. Lots of workboat skippers gave Harry work.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a loud crash outside. A winch cable had broken and a pallet-load of stores had dropped onto the wharf alongside the rusty-looking ship that I had noticed earlier. Three men were surveying the damage.

The old seaman narrowed his eyes. “Greenhorns playing at sailors!” he snapped. “That ship's falling apart. They think they're gonna take that wreck to Guatemala. Some hopes! It'll either founder in the first gale or they'll pile her up on a lee shore.”

“What's going on?”

He pointed at the ship. “That's an Atlantic trawler, an old rustbucket. Been laid up in St. John's for years. Engine's worn out and you've just seen how good the rigging is. Some guy bought it, thought he'd use it as a crab boat here. Anyway, he went broke. Now she's been bought by a bunch of dreamers. They're aiming to ship out on some get-rich-quick scheme.” The wharfinger turned away from the window. “You got any new leads on this Cuncliffe case?”