letter of the alphabet. Letter M. Stands for methamphetamine. Bikers sometimes tattoo the number on —”
“So you know a little bit about drugs and bikers.”
“A little. Spent four years on Winnipeg Drugs. Also saw you at the office going through pictures of bikers.”
“Satans Wrath. Ever work on them back east?”
“Not really.”
“They have at least eighty-five members out here on the West Coast. In our area they’ve got four chapters with between eighteen to twenty-five guys in each chapter. Every chapter in the country has a local president and they all report to the national president. He’s a guy by the name of Damien who also lives here. They’ve also got about a dozen strikers.”
“Strikers?”
“Probationary members who do a lot of the dirty work for the club and take the risks.”
“Sounds like a big group to be taking on.”
“It’s worse than that. The rule of thumb is that for every regular member of the club, there are about ten hard-core criminals who work for them. Overall, in our area alone, we’re dealing with an army of about nine hundred professional criminals.”
Danny let out a low whistle, then said, “So what are we up to?”
“I think someone in Satans Wrath is either directly or indirectly supplying speed to the area we’re going to. I’m going to find out who. Are you a trained operator?”
“UC? No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“Why not?” Danny tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
“You look too straight for undercover.” Jack paused for a moment, then looked at Danny and said, “Actually, that’s not altogether true. There is a certain aura about you. You remind me a little of a used car salesman who’s trying to sell me a lemon.”
Danny chose not to respond. He stared out at the part of the city they had entered. On the steps of a men’s hostel, a small knot of men huddled in the doorway. Farther down the block was a small park. A syringe stuck out of the trunk of a dogwood tree.
He drove past several pawnshops. Heavy steel reinforcement bars guarded the windows and doors. One building had been bulldozed, leaving a cesspool of rubble and garbage.
“Turn left and drive slow down the next alley.”
Danny did as directed. Partway down the alley, he noticed that Jack paid particular attention to a grey steel door behind one building. A light above the door had been smashed out, but the words Black Water Hotel could still be seen in black on the door.
Moments later, Danny parked on the second level of a parking garage that overlooked the front of the hotel. The hotel was in dire need of paint. A sign in red neon lights hung from the front of the building. The letter T was burned out so it appeared from a distance as “HO EL.”
“Pop the trunk.”
Danny watched as Jack took off an ankle holster holding his Smith & Wesson semi-automatic 9-mm calibre pistol and, along with his badge, stashed them both in the trunk. He handed Danny a pair of binoculars.
“Why are you stashing your piece?”
“I find it uncomfortable to wear.”
“Really?”
Jack stared at Danny briefly, then said, “Your job, O’Really, is to stay here and watch.”
Danny wasn’t amused. “You’re not going down there alone. Policy says that —”
“Policy can get you killed. You’re not ready for the Black Water yet. Wait here.”
Danny waited until Jack walked away from the car before making an entry in his notebook. No doubt Superintendent Wigmore would be interested. He checked his watch. Less than an hour before he was to call him and report in.
Danny used the binoculars and saw Jack approach the front of the hotel. The red neon lights flared off the hookers’ faces as he spoke with them at the entrance. Then he ducked inside.
It occurred to Danny why Jack had left his gun in the car. That son of a bitch!
chapter six
Jack discreetly studied the patrons in the bar. A short, squat-looking man sat at a table with a hooker. A steady stream of people came and went. The money exchanging hands under the table made it pretty clear that he was a low-level dealer. Jack heard one of the customers refer to him as “Spider.”
Jack knew that trying to order an ounce of speed right away would generate some interest — and suspicion. But the higher he could start up the ladder, the sooner he could reach the bigger dealers. The type who preferred remote locations. He approached Spider’s table.
“I’m lookin’ to score,” he whispered in Spider’s ear.
“Who sent you to me?”
“Nobody, man. I’m in the business too. Not hard to spot,” said Jack, taking a seat.
“How do I know you’re not a narc?”
“If I was a fuckin’ narc, I’d have already busted ya for the flaps you got on ya.”
Spider stared at him for a moment, then said, “What do ya want? I got everything.”
“Speed.”
Spider held his hand under the table to show Jack a small piece of paper folded in a flap.
Danny threw his tie in the trunk and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, then slid his holster off his belt and strapped on Jack’s ankle holster. Minutes later, the door banged shut behind him as he entered the Black Water.
The smell of smoke and stale beer turned his stomach. It was noisy and crowded. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness. There were no windows in the long room, and the cardboard-tiled ceiling, like the walls, had been painted a flat black. A stage in the centre was brightly lit.
In the dim glow at the back of the bar, he saw some pool tables and the silhouettes of several men with cues stalking the tables before executing their shots. At a right angle to the entrance another door opened and he caught a glimpse of the lobby. The rest of the illumination consisted of a few lights recessed in the ceiling, which filtered a yellowish glow through grime.
He saw Jack slouched at a table, talking with a hooker and a short man who was built like a fire hydrant. Beer bottles and cigarette burns decorated the green elastic tablecloth in front of them. Danny strode over to an empty table where he could watch. What scum.
A waitress came by and Danny ordered a bottle of beer.
She stepped back and looked at his shoes, and then slowly worked her eyes up the rest of his body until she stared into his eyes. “You a cop?”
