friend Grover lives in the neighbourhood and knows everything, but sometimes he’s reluctant to share information with his friends. I was just reminding him about his involvement in an ill-advised scheme involving a number of automobiles that didn’t belong to him but somehow turned up in a storage garage he was renting.”
Groves squirmed but the hand remained firmly attached to his shoulder, and even with the coat as padding I guessed that the shoulder was in some discomfort.
“Happily for Grover the police never learned about the vehicles in question,” Cobb turned to Groves in mid-sentence, “but who did know all about the operation and chose not to inform the authorities about what was going on in that garage, Grover, who was that again? Speak up, I’m having trouble hearing you.”
“You, Cobb, and I appreciate it but I can’t say —”
“Oh, now see Grover, there’s a word I hate — that word but. Now what would have happened on that stolen auto thing if I’d been thinking, ‘I don’t really want to turn my friend Grover in for doing something very illegal, but …’ Thing is, Grover, there was no but then and there really shouldn’t be a but now. You can see my point here, can’t you?”
Groves winced and I was fairly sure the grip on the shoulder had just got tighter.
“Alls I know is that there’s a guy owns a few houses around here. Maybe three or four. That’s one of them. He buys places cheap, fixes ’em up a little bit, rents ’em to people who have … business interests.”
“Crack houses,” Cobb said.
“You didn’t hear that from me.”
“This particular house — you know the tenants?”
Vigorous head shake. “Uh-uh, and that’s the truth, man. From what I hear I don’t wanna know.”
“Bad guys?”
“There’s bad guys and there’s bad guys. These are guys people like me stay away from.”
Cobb said, “Jay Blevins.”
“Who’s that?”
“That’s my line, Grover. You know him?” Cobb held out the picture.
Groves studied the picture, thought for a few seconds. “I’ve seen the kid. Didn’t know his name. Pothead, crackhead, maybe other shit too.”
“He ever buy from you?”
“Aw, come on, Cobb, you know I don’t —”
Louder. “He ever buy from you?”
“Naw, I’ve seen him on the street a few times. Goin’ in and out of shelters. I don’t pay attention to them kind.”
“Because he’s not one of your customers?”
“Punks like that attract the wrong kind of people. Parents, cops, guys like you. Like I said, I steer clear.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
Another shrug. “No idea. Month ago maybe … or maybe two.”
“Where?”
“Told you man, I don’t pay attention to punks like him. Bottom feeders. Low life, you know?”
“I can see how having to associate with riff-raff like that would be upsetting.”
“Yeah, so now you know what I know and you can let go of my shoulder.”
“I need a name, Grover.”
“What?”
“A name. I’ll buy your story that you don’t know the people in the house. But I need the name of the owner. The guy with several properties.”
Groves shrugged. “Shit, how would I know that?”
“Guy owns three or four places around here that house the kind of businesses you described. You know who owns them.”
“Jesus, man …”
“The name.”
Groves winced again, looked over at me, and leaned closer to Cobb, whispered something. Cobb let go of the shoulder, took a step back. “Now, Grover, I’m hoping you aren’t thinking that you can mess with me, because if that happens, it will come back to haunt you.”
Groves feigned indignity. “I wouldn’t do that. You know me better than that, Cobb.”
“One last thing, Grover — you hear anything, I mean anything about that house or the people in it, I’m your first phone call. You got that?”
Grover didn’t answer and started moving quickly away from us.
Cobb and I watched him walk away, flexing the shoulder, rubbing it with the other hand.
“Friend of yours?”
“Yeah,” Cobb managed a half smile. “We’re real tight. He was one of my informants back in the day. And I wasn’t kidding — there isn’t much that happens in this part of Calgary that Grover doesn’t know about. Kind of fortuitous running into him.”
“You think he knows about the shooting?”
“If he doesn’t he will soon. The question is, will he call like I told him to.”
I looked down the street. Groves had already disappeared. I looked back at Cobb. “How’d you make out?”
“Like the song says, ‘I got plenty of nothin’.’ You?”
“Zeros. I asked some guys that looked like regulars on the street person circuit. A couple of vague, ‘Yeah, I think sos’ as far as having heard the name, but that’s it. Scouted the area under the train bridge. Three or four people sleeping. A couple of guys just sitting, not talking, not sleeping — just sitting. They didn’t know Jay. At least that’s what they said. They didn’t change it up even after I told them the kid could be in danger, so maybe they really don’t know him. Hard to say.”
“I didn’t expect it to be easy. And if Jay’s old man has tried to find him before, the kid might be pretty practiced at leaving no trail.”
I nodded. “Could be.”
“Looks like I’ve got a stop to make before we carry on with looking for the kid. Follow up on what my friend Grover told me. Won’t take long. Care to come along?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Gifford Sharp was a realtor, his office located in a strip mall not far from the University of Calgary. We’d caught a break in traffic. In just under a half hour we were parked in front of Sharp’s office, the Jeep nose in to a tired two-storey, red brick building, flanked by a hair stylist and a computer repair place that didn’t look open.
Cobb sat, not moving, staring at the window that said “Gifford
