Serpents Rising (22 page)

“Maybe we'll just ask them when they get here.”

“What?”

“They should be here any time now.”

“And you know that because…?”

“I happened to learn that they often come in here on Sunday nights. Not every Sunday, but most of them.”

“Just happened to learn,” I repeated.

“My man Davy. Picked himself up a two hundred dollar bonus for making a phone call.”

“To you.”

“To me.”

“The phone call you got while we were driving? The texting?”

“The texting was something else. But the phone call, yeah, that was our boy.”

“That explains the less than enthusiastic reception we received. He's scared they'll find out and rearrange his body parts.”

Cobb nodded.

We ate for a minute. I looked over at him. “I think I liked it better when you were wanting to keep me out of the line of fire.”

“Came up a little sudden. I didn't think you'd want me to drop you on a street corner on a frostbite night.”

“Good call.”

“Besides, there shouldn't be a line of fire. Just a little chat.”

“Rock Scubberd going to be one of the diners?”

“That's what Davy tells me. He let it slip during one of my stops here that the MFs phone ahead when they're planning a visit. They like to make sure they're dining alone. I mentioned to Davy that I was aware of a couple of outstanding legal issues he had and that I'd be less inclined to pass that information along to former colleagues, and I'd add a two hundred dollar tip to my next bill if he let me know the next time Scubberd and his group were planning to stop in.”

I set my fork down. I'd lost interest in the chili.

“And how will Scubberd take it when he and the MFs aren't the only diners tonight?”

“I told Davy to tell them I got pushy, wouldn't take ‘we're closed' for an answer. Basically put it on me.”

I glanced around the restaurant, noted that we were the only ones still in the place. “So if Rock and company decide to vent their displeasure, it will be in our direction, not Davy's.”

“It was the least I could do for the young man.”

“Thoughtful. And why exactly would we want to spend time bonding with the likes of Rock Scubberd?”

“I received another phone call a couple of days ago. From my man Grover.”

“Ike Groves.”

“The same.”

“Informants are a cop's best friend. Or an ex-cop.”

Cobb smiled. “Roger that. Apparently my chats have borne fruit. Suddenly Grover can't wait to tell me things. Shared with me that there's a rumour on the street about a drug shipment — big time deal supposed to arrive sometime in the next couple of weeks. Which dovetails nicely with the information I received as to why Scubberd was spending time in Vancouver. Setting up a network for a continuous supply.”

“And I'm guessing the shipment is bound for a location owned and operated by the MFs.”

“That's the scuttlebutt. Then it gets turned around and is off to Fort McMurray. Popular destination for MF imports. If there's any truth to the rumour, Mr. Scubberd may see the wisdom of chatting with us further.”

“And this is the first shipment via the new network?”

Cobb shrugged. “Don't know. Obviously they've been getting stuff from somewhere prior to this. But the Grover tells me this is big.”

“And if the Grover's tip is some crack induced hallucination with no connection whatsoever to the reality …”

“Then our night may end unpleasantly.”

“Or a setup by a guy who's scared to death of the MFs and wants to get on their good side.”

“Even more unpleasantly.”

“And you're risking both our necks on the trustworthiness of Ike Groves.”

He didn't get to answer. The door of the restaurant opened and the largest man I'd ever seen who wasn't wearing shoulder pads or a sumo diaper entered the restaurant.

What he
was
wearing was a white overcoat that contrasted sharply with the blackness of his skin. He moved a couple of steps farther inside, stepped to one side and two more men, both Caucasian, followed him through the door. They made it unanimous on the overcoats; the three of them likely cost more than my apartment furniture. The second man through the door wore a fedora, the large man and the third guy were bareheaded.

Cobb was sitting with his back to the door, which, when I thought about it later, seemed to fly in the face of the private detective way of doing things. He didn't turn to look or even seem particularly interested. He dabbed at the chili with his toast, took a bite, chased it with beer.

The biggest surprise was yet to come. There was one more person in the group at the door. A woman who, if she had been smiling, would have been striking. She didn't look like someone who was accustomed to smiling. Nevertheless, she was attractive in a pissed-off-at-the-world kind of way. Her clothes — expensive — and demeanor were a long way from biker bitch.

All four came in our direction, then seeing us, stopped, all of them at the same time, like a choreographed dance step. I busied myself with studying the tabletop, whispered, “They're here,” at Cobb. “And I think we're going to meet the lovely Mrs. Smith as well.”

Cobb stayed focused on the chili. I saw the man with the hat speaking to the big guy. Both were looking at us. The big man nodded and continued on toward us. I whispered “shit.”

Cobb looked at me and smiled.

“Good chili,” he said.

The big man was now standing beside our table and looking down at us. I was somehow reminded of my favourite TV show from when I was a kid,
The Friendly Giant.
At the beginning of every show “Friendly” looked down on his tiny toy living room and said, “Look up, look way up.”

Which is what I was doing now. The key difference, of course, being that the Friendly Giant was …
friendly
.

“The restaurant's closed.” The man's voice was Darth Vader-esque but with less charm.

Cobb spoke without looking at the man. “Actually it's not. It closes at nine and here it is,” he looked at his watch, “just 8:23. By the way, the chili's very nice.”

“The restaurant's closed and you're leaving.”

Cobb sat up straight and leaned back against the back of his chair. Managed to look up at the man without it appearing to be a big deal.

“Two things,” Cobb's voice had no trace of a tremor. Mine, had I pressed it into service at that moment, would have registered at least 7.5 on the Richter Scale. I looked at Cobb and was aware again that he was not afraid of the guy.

“First,” he said, “we're not leaving, and second I'm happy to have Mr. Scubberd join us. I'd extend the invitation to you too but I can see that might be a little problematic, you being the size of a round bale and all.”

I'd read several accounts (even written one) about gangland-style slayings in restaurants. We were in a restaurant in which there were no other customers and the only potential witness — Davy — was, as they say, conspicuous by his absence.

And Cobb had just offended someone who looked like gangland-style slayings were his bread and butter.

“Martin.” The man in the fedora spoke. I took him to be Scubberd.

The big man must have been Martin because after a few more seconds of looking hard at Cobb, he turned and walked back to the man I presumed to be his boss.

There was a flurry of whispered conversation with the man in the fedora doing most of the talking. The big man said a few things and pointed a couple of times. Mrs. Smith-Scubberd didn't speak but seemed impatient for the conversation to be over. And it was. All four were heading in our direction.

This time the big man passed our table and stopped just beyond it, a little behind me, then turned so that he was facing Cobb. The man in the fedora pulled out the chair to my left and the lady I took to be Mrs. Scubberd sat down. She was even better looking up close but I thought it best not to spend a lot of time looking at her.

Scubberd, if that's who he was, walked to the other side of the table, shucked his overcoat, and sat, putting him on my right, Cobb's left. He had shoulder length, dyed blond hair and a goatee that ran a shade darker than the hair. Starched, pressed, dark brown shirt, open at the neck. Sleeves rolled up one turn.

Muscular. I remembered Cobb saying Scubberd was a gym rat. Whatever workout regime he followed seemed to be working for him.

The third man, maybe five seven and slim even in the overcoat, which he had unfastened except for one button, hovered a few feet behind the woman, close to Martin. He never stopped moving — nervous or high, or maybe both.

“What do you want?” Scubberd demanded.

Cobb pushed the plates to the far side of the table and leaned slightly forward. “My name's Cobb.”

“Cop?”

“Private,” Cobb said.

Scubberd glanced at me.

Cobb spoke. “He's Cullen. A journalist.”

“A private eye and a scribe. You're shittin' me.”

Cobb didn't answer, kept his eyes on Scubberd's face.

Scubberd didn't flinch. “I'll say it again. What do you want?”

“I know who
you
are,” Cobb said. “I haven't met these gentlemen or this lovely lady.”

I tried to glance at Scubberd without appearing to be looking at him. He looked unhappy.

“I'll humour you that much.” He nodded toward the big man. “That's Minnis.” Another nod, this time at the smaller man. “The Italian's Moretti. And this is my wife. Now I'm asking for the last time, what do you want?”

“I'm looking to make a trade.”

“You think you've got something I want.”

“Actually I want to trade a favour for a favour.”

“And what could you do that would be a favour to me?”

“It's what I
wouldn't
be doing that I think you'd appreciate.”

“I'm losing interest fast and I'm also hungry so if you've got something to say you better get it said in the next ten seconds or my associates will see you to the door.”

There are people who say tough things just for effect. My guess was that Rock Scubberd wasn't one of those people. I had no doubt at all that he meant exactly what he said.

“I know about the incoming shipment.” Cobb said it in the same tone of voice one would use to say
I think I'll have the Thousand Islands.
“I'm guessing that it would be both inconvenient and unprofitable for that information to fall into the wrong hands.”

“You gambled and lost, Cowboy. I don't know anything about a shipment because there isn't one. Now fuck off.”

“Certainly. I don't want to take up any more of your time. Nice meeting you. I recommend the chili.” Cobb slid his chair back and stood up. I wasn't sure what I should do so I did nothing.

Cobb didn't seem to notice my predicament. He was looking at the big guy, Martin Minnis, who had taken one step forward. Neither spoke. Neither moved. Neither flinched.

Scubberd chuckled. “Even if you're as tough as you'd like us to believe, he's not the one you have to worry about. My smaller but equally effective associate favours armaments.”

On cue, Moretti undid the last button to let the front of his overcoat fall open, revealing a shoulder holster that housed a serious-looking revolver.

“Impressive,” Cobb said.

I wasn't sure how it happened but Moretti was suddenly holding a large, menacing-looking switchblade. He flicked it open as casually as if he'd been opening a glasses case.

“Also impressive,” said Cobb. He looked at the knife for a few seconds then turned away from Moretti and back toward Scubberd.

“In fact, that's almost as impressive as
my
associates.”

Cobb pointed a thumb in the direction of the door to the kitchen. Two people I'd never seen before came through the door, one carrying what looked to my untrained eye like a lot of shotgun, the other holding a machine gun–looking piece of equipment that wouldn't have been out of place in a Sylvester Stallone movie. Neither of the two men spoke but took up positions on either side of the kitchen door facing our table, maybe ten meters away from us, their weapons trained on Minnis and Moretti.

The whole scene was surreal. This wasn't New York or Los Angeles or even Montreal — this was Calgary. I'd covered crime in this city long enough to know there was some bad shit that went on. But this was like something from a kids' video game.
My gun's bigger than your gun.

Neither Cobb nor Scubberd seemed particularly unnerved by the lineup of well-armed adversaries, who were glaring at each other like North and South Korean soldiers on either side of the demilitarized zone. I, on the other hand, was unnerved enough for everybody.

All of the action was taking place behind Scubberd's wife, who now spoke for the first time. “Rock, I'm sure we can spare these gentlemen a few minutes.”

She seemed almost to be enjoying the action around her. I watched her. Her makeup was understated and the open-at-the-throat soft green blouse was classy. Interesting woman. Wouldn't have looked out of place at a fundraiser for the philharmonic orchestra.

Scubberd looked at her, then at Cobb. “Well, now that we all understand one another, maybe you should sit back down and we can finish our conversation.”

“I was hoping you might see it that way.” Cobb returned to his seat. He turned and nodded to Mrs. Scubberd whose chin tilted down a fraction of a centimetre in response.

Scubberd turned to Minnis. “Tell Davy to get out here with some beer.” When Minnis hesitated, Scubberd turned to Cobb, smiling. “I assume your people won't shoot my people for summoning the waiter.”

Cobb looked up at Minnis. “You're fine, Slim.”

Slim, Cowboy … Louis L'Amour would have loved this.