be a big mistake to walk up to them like you did with me just now.”
“If it’s not Asian, what should we —”
Yik took a half-step forward, stopped. “You’ve had your one question, Cullen. I won’t say I’ll see you around because that isn’t going to happen. So let’s just leave it at goodbye.”
“What about M and F Holdings? Ever hear of a company by that name?”
“Same answer, Cullen. Don’t try my patience.”
As Yik moved ahead, the gorilla opposite Cobb stepped forward too, expecting Cobb to move. Cobb didn’t move. A game of sidewalk chicken.
“Now, gentlemen,” Yik said, the tone of a dad to his kids. “Remember the golden rule.”
He very deliberately stepped between Cobb and me and headed off down the street. The gorilla stepped around Cobb and followed, his shoulder just brushing Cobb on the way by. I realized that Cobb had not said a word in that entire exchange. Probably a good thing.
I’d never actually seen Cobb in action before today. When he’d investigated the fire and the note, he’d worked on his own, reported in a few times. I guess I hadn’t expected somebody out of a Bruce Willis movie.
We turned and watched the trio walk toward Centre Street. I looked at Cobb. “Why is it I get the feeling that if I’m going to hang out with you I better make sure my health care premiums are up to date?”
He didn’t answer.
When we were back in the car, I said, “You believe him?”
Cobb shrugged. “He was playing it up. Telling you he knows more than you do, that he’s a big deal in this world.” He waved a hand to show what part of the world he meant. “And he’s not afraid of us so there was no reason to lie. But I did get a sense that he was maybe a little nervous when it comes to whoever his rivals are over there in Ramsay. In fact, he might be more than a little scared, even with his goons beside him.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon on Calgary’s darkest, meanest streets. More homeless shelters, a couple of church-run basement flophouses manned by tired looking, well-meaning people. We stopped everyone who looked younger than thirty — there were lots of them — to show the photo and ask about Jay Blevins. A few times glimmers of recognition tried to work their way through fog-shrouded minds. But never did. All we got from a couple of guys was that they knew Jay, had seen him around, maybe even talked to him, but had no idea where he’d be or even who we might ask for a little more in-depth information.
Some neighbourhoods take on a vibrant, pulsing new persona as the darkness of night falls. This one did not. The film noir feel to the place was palpable.
Cobb and I had split up again, agreed to meet at seven on the corner of 9th Avenue and 8th Street. There was a used bookstore there, a good one. The temperature was dropping fast and a north wind was starting to whip around me as I walked. Though we’d had a couple of snowfalls, this was the first real blast of winter cold and reminded me that this season was fourth on my list of favourites.
I tried to bury my face in the scarf I’d had the foresight to stuff in a pocket of the down-filled jacket I was wearing. Gloves too. Good.
I approached a Goodwill store that doubled as a shelter. Small place, wouldn’t house many residents. The sign outside said LET THE SUNSHINE INN. A woman stood just outside, leaning against a red-faded-to-dirty-auburn brick wall.
She was holding a chipped, orange coffee cup, full of what looked like coffee, or maybe tea, steaming a little. Both hands around the cup. She had short blond-brown hair, gentle contours to her face, early thirties, not tall, not short, tired looking, like the building she was leaning against and like most of the people around here. Except she was better dressed than most. I stopped in front of her.
“Let the Sunshine Inn. That the name of the place or does somebody really like the song?”
She straightened only slightly. “Maybe both.”
“Do you work in the Goodwill store?”
She regarded me with what I took to be mistrust. “Volunteer.”
I nodded. “Been doing that long?”
“If that’s a pickup line, it’s one of the worst ever.” A smile softened the words.
I returned the smile. “You should hear my others, they’re even worse.” I held out my hand. “I’m Adam Cullen. I’m looking for someone, a kid I was hoping you might know or at least may have seen around here. His name is Jay Blevins.”
She sipped the drink, her eyes on me over the top of the cup. “Police?”
I shook my head. “Actually I’m a writer. A journalist.” Again the mistrust in eyes that looked like they’d seen some of the downside of life. “But this doesn’t have anything to do with a story. A friend of mine and I are doing a favour for the young man’s father. He’s worried about Jay.”
“Aren’t they all?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
She didn’t answer.
“This one’s different,” I said. “This is a dad who’s not just worried about the kid doing drugs. Jay could be in some danger, real danger, and it’s important that we find him as soon as possible.”
“Good Samaritans, you and your friend.” Her voice was slightly husky, like she’d just woken up. I always liked that kind of voice.
“Actually, no, we’re not. I guess it’s not really a favour in the strictest sense. My friend is a private detective. Jay’s father hired him to try to protect the kid from a potentially serious threat.” I sketched in general terms what had happened on Raleigh and the possible link to Jay.
“And you’re helping because…?”
“Yeah, I don’t really qualify as a good Samaritan either. I lied when I said it wasn’t about a story. I mean, I’d like to find the kid and help him, we both would. But I’m a journalist. I’m always on the lookout for a story.”
She sipped her drink, thought about it. I stared at the cup, tried not to shiver. When she spoke again, her voice had changed; it was still husky but softer now.
“Jay’s a good kid. Messed up on crack, but a good kid. You wish … I mean you wish all of them could get off the shit but there’s some, like Jay, you really —” She stopped, took a last sip of the coffee, tossed the last few drops in the direction of a street garbage container that looked like it was largely ignored by most people. The sidewalk around it made it evident that this wasn’t a noted recycling area. “Come on inside. I have to get back. I’m working the food bank tonight.” She turned and headed inside.
I followed her and immediately understood why someone would want to take their coffee break outside, even on a cold night. The air in the place was a cross between exhaust fumes and stale milk. There was another smell mixed in there too that I couldn’t quite place — wet dog maybe. The total effect was a smell that I’d have thought would put food bank shoppers off their game.
As I closed the door behind us she turned to me. “Jill.
