Ray Tate turned onto Huron Street, guessing north. Southbound a grey rental G6 slowed and Phil Harvey stared out into the Taurus with a faint grin on his face.
By the time Ray Tate cut a jerky U-turn the G6 was lost in the galaxy of red tail lights.
Chapter 16
Phil Harvey found a parking lot to dump the rental in and walked away juggling his bags of fishing gear, the sleeping bag in its sack hanging from his shoulder. From the shadows on the edge of the lot he watched cars pass. A white head in a square Ford cruised by and he recognized the black hooker who was a cop peering at parked cars. A few minutes later some ghost cars began crawling into the side streets, shooting spots into the rows of cars. He spent a few minutes scrubbing his back by walking like a crazy person in circles, with spins and dodges and weaves. He was on the Metro Transit bus. He was off and onto another. He was through a hotel lobby, through one set of revolving doors and out another. He took a taxi four blocks in one direction then told the driver another location the opposite way.
Connie Cook was sitting in a banquette in Gratelli’s in Stonetown, impatiently looking at his watch when Harv hustled his bags through the entrance. The hostess took a look at his marred, sweaty face, the billowing black leather coat, and the clutch of bags and started to shake her head. He said he was meeting someone and not to fuck with him, he’d had a day she wouldn’t believe. Don’t ask.
“Fuck, Harv, now I gotta get you a watch?” The Captain looked pointedly at his own wrist. “I said eight.”
“Had to wipe my ass. Heat all over. I think those cops are up on us again.” He kicked the bags under the table and slung the sleeping bag sack into the corner of the banquette. He sat back in shadow. When the waiter came by, Harv said he’d make it simple: “Take all the rum you got in the place and pour it into the biggest fucking ice bucket you got. Throw in some ice, then strap it to the front of my fucking head like a horse’s pail.”
Connie Cook laughed. The waiter asked if Harv wanted cola on the side and before Harv could rip into the guy’s throat Connie Cook told him, “It’s okay, Michael. Bring him a good triple dark rum and have one for yourself.” When the waiter retreated, Connie Cook smiled. “Tell me. But first, did you get the stuff? For my sweetie-to-be, whoever the lucky girl is?”
Harv nodded, looking around. “Got it all. Got myself some fishing stuff, too. It was on sale. But I think, Connie, we might want to lay back on everything until we figure what the fuck’s going on.” He stopped talking when the waiter put a water glass of ice and another of rum in front of him. He poured rum onto the ice. “I was at the sporting goods place getting the stuff and there’s a cop in there. Like he was shopping. He went out and when I went out, he’s out there, standing around. He scoped out my rental. I see him grab up a radio or something and he’s watching me fuck off. Then a little while later that guy I saw in the red Intrepid, remember, up at Ag’s old place last month? The hairy guy with the black chick? Well, I’m going south and he’s going north in I think a Taurus or some such piece of shit. When I pass, he does a U-boat in my mirror but I’m so fucking gone. I dumped the car and then I see that black chick that was with the hairy guy. She’s in a Ford something. Then a bunch of ghosters with spotlights come through. That’s what I saw. What I didn’t see, I don’t know. I washed myself, I’m pretty sure, but who knows what the fuck else?”
“Take a deep breath, Harv.” Connie Cook waved at the waiter across the room. “Drink some of that stuff. You want something to eat? I had a dinner when you didn’t show up, but I think I’m ready for a snack. Go for some oysters? Say, two dozen, half shell?”
“Ah, pass on that.” Oysters made Harv think of lugers. Gratelli’s was an upscale seafood place. He noticed some diners glancing toward their banquette at the rough sound of his voice. He struggled out of his coat and smoothed his hair back behind his ears. The waiter appeared with his little palm pad. “Steak. Well done.” Harv had seen some shit and didn’t find bleeding meat on a white plate appetizing. It reminded him of blood pooling on a tiled shower floor. “Baked potato. Whatever veggies are fresh.”
Connie Cook went for the two dozen oysters anyway and at the last minute added a bowl of mussels and a deck of bread.
They sat watching the late evening crowd. Several people waved at the Captain but none came to their banquette. The waiter delivered plates of food and Connie Cook stuffed his linen napkin into his shirt collar and, with a bottle of hot sauce in one hand, lifted and slurped off the oysters with the other. With the oysters gone, he seamlessly began dispatching the mussels, sopping with bread.
Phil Harvey ate like a convict. His head was down over his plate and he kept it close to his edge of the table, looking up and around periodically as though someone might want to steal his steak. His wood handled serrated knife stayed in his fist, pointing straight up while he chewed.
Connie Cook studied Harvey’s defensive dining posture. Fondly, he decided that no matter what, Harv wouldn’t ever go back into the joint. If he had to, he nodded to himself, he’d spend every dime he had on lawyers and bribes. Harv had brought him into a new life and had become a genuine friend. “So, Harv. Willy Wong. What’s up with him?”
“He’s got a bunch of chems out at the import place in Gastown, big fucking drums full of the stuff. It sits there for a while until he’s sure there’s no heat on it, then he has some guys pick it up, split it up among his cookers. If the cops come around, Willy’s got a stooge working who’ll take the fall. Willy’s a prominent businessman. Community leader kind of guy. Pals with the mayor. Rogue employee. Who knew?”
“So. How much has he got in there?”
“Not sure. A lot, though. I got a guy who told me there’s a loading dock in the back with a camera over it. There’s a bunch of tough guys hanging around. I figure we go in at night, take all the shit we can lift. We can get six forty-five gallon drums into a pickup truck and be out of there in minutes.”
“Nice. Tonight?”
“Yep. Later on. I got my three guys that you met and I got another guy coming down from up north, he’s got a big bastard F-250. We’ll load ’er up and head up to Indian country, take it to the lab.”
“Not the guy whose truck it is, though, right? Only two guys know where the lab is. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Sure. We’ll do the rip on Willy Wong and I’ll drop my guy at his place, about halfway up. I’ll take the drums up and stow them then head back down to his place. He’ll drive me down here someplace, drop me, and you can pick me up.”
“A master of logistics, you are, Harv. A fucking master.” Connie Cook beamed upon Harvey. One appetite sated, he made a subtle burp and announced proudly: “Phil? Phil? I think I got us one.”
Harvey looked up. The Captain’s face was wreathed with smiles like a sick boy in some kind of love.
* * *
Ray Tate had the skipper leave the alert out in the downtown core but gave up on catching up with Phil Harvey. The G6 was located by a ghoster running the lots. The skipper said he’d contact the rental company in the morning, but for now there was nothing. Djuna Brown returned to the satellite, voiced out that she was nested, but no one replied. The slobs evaporated into the dreamland of fishing camps and trolling motors. Ray Tate took the Taurus home and painted until he was startled that the early indirect morning light filled the windows.
Chapter 17
The skipper arrived early so he could leave a 7:00 a.m. voicemail for the dep, bringing him up-to-date on the forward motion of the task force. He’d set his alarm for 2:00 a.m., got up from bed, staggered into the kitchen, and left a message on the dep’s voicemail. He chugged a few and passed out again and before leaving home at 6:00 a.m., left another message. He hoped it would look like he’d been up all night directing his troops, going without sleep while they did a dragnet through the city’s underworld. They