Almost Criminal: A Crime In Cascadia Mystery Part 11

Randle operated a company, a tax-paying business named Kaya Property Management. He had customers all over town - a network of stores, restaurants, and other businesses that handled a lot of cash. Randle's courier - which had been Ivan for the past couple of months and would now be me - handed "dirty" cash to these businesses, and received, in return, a "clean" cheque for unspecified services rendered made out to Kaya Property Management. The clean cheque could be deposited anywhere.

Ivan didn't like the job, but to me it seemed a lot less risky than picking up truckloads of weed from remote grows with electrified fences and guard dogs that frothed at the mouth when I approached.

The backpack was fat with cash. I had regained Randle's trust.

The first business on the list was a laundromat. Too appropriate, I thought. And a perfect business: cash-only, no receipts. The most successful laundry in town, Ivan muttered grumpily when he saw my grin. I knew it well - Beth and I had done our was.h.i.+ng here when we first arrived in Wallace.

I walked in like a regular customer and told the chubby manager that I had "a package from Mr. Blunt." With a smile of recognition, she swapped my thick envelope for a skinny one, containing a check to Kaya Property Management. Easy-peasy, as Skip would say.

Next on my list was a pizza joint, then a bar. I flipped through the envelopes - I couldn't believe how many businesses were in on this. I felt like I was going door-to-door collecting for a charity.

The Sleepy Scone bakery was the most popular m.u.f.fin takeout joint in Soowahlie's tourist strip, and there was always a lineup out front. I looked for another entrance, but saw none, so I got in line and waited. When it was my turn, I smiled at the friendly, fifty-ish Chinese woman at the counter. She smiled back and waited. I leaned over, extending the envelope with the subdued words, Delivery from Mr. Blunt.

Her face frosted over and she crossed her arms. "There is no Mr. Blunt here. Do you have an order?"

"No, this is from Mr. Blunt. Understand?"

She fiddled with the cash register and waited. This wasn't working. I was handling this wrong. Someone in line muttered about the delay.

After a moment she said. "I don't know you. Are you going to order something or not?"

Someone jostled my elbow, and I nearly dropped the envelope.

"Is there somewhere else we could talk? Is Mrs. Yu Fei here?"

"I am Yu Fei. Do you want to order?"

Time to cut and run. "Thanks, no."

Within thirty minutes I was back with Ivan, riding shotgun in his black offroad pickup, feeling like a little kid who'd run to his big brother for help. He rolled into the lane behind the bakery and left the truck with its motor rumbling, blocking the entire service entrance.

"This kind of business, you do in the back." he said, reinforcing my feeling of inept.i.tude.

When I'd found him tinkering on his bike, he'd rolled his eyes, spat, and then refused to be seen riding in my j.a.panese pickup. His bike did not fit two riders.

He took the loading dock steps two at a time, and pushed into the hot, crowded bakery. Grabbing the arm of a white-ap.r.o.ned girl, he demanded to see the owner.

Mrs. Yu Fei appeared. She nodded to Ivan, unsurprised and unrepentant.

"What is this problem?" Ivan said. "Look at the trouble you cause."

"No, it was my fault -" I said.

"Where is Ramon?" She spoke as if I was invisible, crossing her flour-dusted arms at Ivan.

"You deal with this one now. Tate." He plucked the envelope from my hands and handed it to her.

"I don't know him." She tucked it into her waistband. "n.o.body said. I only know Ramon." She turned her back to us. "I am being careful."

I put a hand to Ivan's sleeve. "She's right, I should have -"

"Shut up." To her he said, "You apologize to Tate. You embarra.s.s him. And make me come all way down here."

She said nothing. Her shoulders lifted slightly, and then she nodded and reached into the envelope and pulled out a twenty for me. Her face was expressionless.

"And you have a cheque." Ivan said.

On the way back to the bike shop to pick up my truck, I said, "No one told me there was a rear entrance."

"Front door, back door is no difference. You want respect, be strong." Ivan said. "Make her listen and don't leave until you get what you need. And grow up. You are what, fifteen? What does Randle expect, using children?"

"I'm seventeen," I said, then instantly felt immature and defensive, which was exactly what he was accusing me of.

Ivan whistled. "You don't look it." He stopped outside the engine shop to let me out. When I opened the door he grabbed my wrist. "Young offenders, you know the law?"

"What are you talking about?" I knew, but I wanted to hear it from him.

He let me go and looked away, seeming to debate whether to answer. "You are stupid. Under eighteen, you are in and out of jail, boom." He snapped his fingers. "No record. But, over eighteen -" he shrugged.

His reminder was only a reinforcement of what I'd already decided - that I was getting out of the business, and soon. Then something clicked. The missing Ramon. He'd turned eighteen.

"Randle hires a lot of under eighteens?"

Ivan pursed his lips. "One at a time, usually."

"Luke!"

Lucas didn't hear me over Anarchy in the UK, which sounded like it was tearing the cones off the shop's pathetic ceiling speakers. To get his attention I thumped the counter in time with the s.e.x Pistols. I'd just arrived for my noon-through-supper s.h.i.+ft-my first s.h.i.+ft in over a week. Human Beans was empty, which was unusual. Quiet, yes, but not empty, not just before lunchtime.

"Dude?" Lucas had a cordless drill in one hand and looked confused.

"What's new?" I asked. Christine had been covering all my s.h.i.+fts recently.

"No, no and no," Jeannie said, barely missing me as she swooped past, orange hair flying, a vacuum flask in each arm. "We'll have none of that music and you know it. Nice to see you again, Tate darling." She placed the flasks on the counter.

As James Taylor took over from Johnny Rotten, I looked at what she'd deposited on the counter: parts for an office-style self-serve coffee stand.

"Wow, flat-bottomed filters. Did a hospital cafeteria have a garage sale?"

"Don't be smart," Jeannie said. "They're brand-new, Lucas feels we should upgrade our service. These are far more energy efficient than running a heater all day."

So instead of over-heated battery acid, we'll serve lukewarm swill, I thought. More work for the barista - people who want to taste their coffee will have to buy espresso drinks.

"You should have told me you were in the market for a new machine, I could have talked to Vincenzo in Vancouver. He knows all the suppliers. There are good machines out there. These things -" are s.h.i.+t, I wanted to say, but I liked Jeannie.

"Well, you weren't here to advise us, were you, dear?"

Anatole came in, carrying a piece of melamine shelving. He patted Jeannie's b.u.m as be pa.s.sed, humming along with Don't let me be lonely tonight. Those two liked each other - loved each other - after who knew how many years. Why couldn't I have had parents like that?

"Tate! You've come to help?" He said with surprise. "He knows. That's good."

What did I know? I could see they'd pulled out the Internet station to make room for the new thermos jugs. I'd put that PC together for them, built it from raw components to save them money, to be a good team player for Human Beans. These days, anyone who wanted the Internet brought their own laptop.

"He's just arrived, hasn't he, Toley?" She clasped her hands together and took a breath. "All right then. We have some news."

News?

She spoke slowly, her gaze somewhere in the middle of my forehead. "We've made some changes. We're retiring now, really retiring this time. Lucas will be the new manager."

Lucas. Manager. Not me, the trained barista, but the careless slob who couldn't be bothered to set the grind, let alone control the pressure on the flaky Elektra. At least once every s.h.i.+ft I had to step in and cover for something he'd screwed up. For that, he was promoted. Not that I wanted the job, but I should at least have been asked, and given the chance to politely turn them down. But apparently I didn't even rate a warning.

I held my temper. This was not the time for a scene. I needed a job, or at least the appearance of a job, for a couple more weeks. So I sucked it up with a nod and a fist-b.u.mp to Lucas. "Luke, my man. Well done."

If I'd had any doubts about choosing Randle over Jeannie, they were gone now. When it was time to get out of Wallace I'd be gone, with no regrets.

"I'm glad you're down with it." Lucas still wouldn't meet my eye. "But, uh -"

"There's more?"

"Christine. She's full-time."

"For the rest of the summer?"

Human Beans didn't have enough work for two full-time staff. Jeannie had always given me priority, because I had a family to support. But if Christine was full-time, I was second-string to a high school student who pulled a worse shot than Lucas. I caught myself flexing my fists, and tucked them in the pockets of my jeans.

"She's not a student anymore," Lucas said. "You didn't see her at the ADC grad? She saw you, dude, taking on those bruisers. We've all been wanting to hear about it. What were you trying to prove?"

"So I don't have a job at all?" By now I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from him, from the mouth of the dude who'd been my friend, whose a.s.s I'd saved countless times.

"You weren't here, man." Lucas said.

Jeannie added, "And you never answered your phone."

Of course not. Half the time it had the battery pulled out.

"You could leave a message."

Anatole tapped Lucas and made the fingers-to-the-lips gesture, and a little whhp-whhp inhale sound. Luke countered with the eyebrow-waggle and giggle and the two of them left for the back alley. So subtle, those guys. Sharing the stoner bond. Being a smoker opened up social circles in this town. Got you promoted. You don't smoke, you're not a member of the inner circle.

Jeannie waited for them to leave. "This isn't the sort of thing that you leave a message about. And you do still have a job. We need you Friday afternoons and Sunday mornings."

The s.h.i.+fts that only I could work, serving Americans up for the weekend with Seattle coffee standards. No way could I support the family on two, maybe three s.h.i.+fts a week - she didn't know I had income from Randle - and she was supposed to be a friend of Beth's.

She added, "And we'll need you to train the new staff that we'll be bringing in."

I saw her strategy. She wanted me to quit. She didn't have the guts to fire me to my face, so she put me in a bind where I'd be forced to leave, either for my self-esteem or because I needed more money. But she didn't want me going home and telling her friend Beth that I'd been dumped.

I don't care what you want, I'm not leaving, I decided. I'll be the one who says when it's time, not you. I needed to keep the job for a while. It was my cover. My excuse to Beth and Bree for where the money came from. I forced a supportive smile onto my face.

"That's great news," I said. "Lucas will do you proud."

I took my place behind the counter at the Elektra. "This is cold."

"We're closed," she said. "We can't serve while we're building the new coffee station. But you're welcome to lend a hand. I know that Anatole would trust you with his tools."

"Not this time." It was all I could do not to throw my ap.r.o.n in her face. "Since I'm free this afternoon, there are a few things I should take care of."

Chapter 14.

"Make sense of this and you'll save my life," Randle said, ushering me into his home.

Exaggerate much? I don't know what I'd expected it to look like, but when the Craigslist address led me to a private gated entrance and down a waterfront road to a gla.s.s-walled, cantilevered structure that hovered over the water, I was not surprised to find a smiling Randle, in a j.a.panese kimono, behind the heavy black door.

Everything inside was sharp angles, hardwood and polished stone. A few abstract paintings, no books. It had the pine-fresh smell of household cleaners. It was the opposite of Pop's sagging mansion. I loved it.

Kaya Property Management had its office downstairs, where two gla.s.s-topped black desks faced each other against a wall of windows. Far off, near the marina, sunlight glinted off a row of holiday houseboats, putting along like ducklings in each other's wake.

Randle bit down on his joint, "I thought I was stocked up, but the pressure's on. Demand's through the roof, I need more production."

He padded around the room, which was littered with controller circuit boards, sensors and wires, rattling the words out, nervous and high-strung, despite the weed.

"They get here from Amsterdam in pieces. Can you put them together? I have a manual."

A woman with large-framed gla.s.ses and unruly dark hair busied herself at a keyboard. In her thirties maybe, toned and tanned, wearing nicely clinging yoga clothes. He waved a hand to introduce her. Her name was Maddie. His accountant.

"You were genius at Skip's grow," Randle said.

I was learning Randle's ways. I knew when he was sucking up.

"I hooked a cable to the box, I didn't build the thing."

I leafed through a few pages of the manual, looking for a list of parts. I knew a few things about PCs. Back in Vancouver I'd custom-modded some systems for friends who wanted faster gaming. But this was some kind of PLC system, a logic controller. Which might or might not be non-trivial, depending.

If I'd known there was a manual I'd have had an easier time at Skip's grow. The pinouts and colour codes were all here. a.s.sembly instructions in a final appendix. On the surface, it didn't look much harder than putting together an IKEA bookshelf. But Randle didn't have to know that.

"You have one here that's already a.s.sembled? It would make it easier." I felt I should ask for something, otherwise Randle might suspect.

He was really worried. "I'll head over to a grow with a camera," he offered. "It's all supposed to be in there, pictures too."

"I'll give it a try, no guarantees." My concern was maybe too exaggerated. For once I had something on him - I could do something that he couldn't - and I felt like making the guy suffer a bit for the young offender bulls.h.i.+t. And maybe I just wanted to push back a little. One more paycheque, I told myself, and I was gone. Maybe today would swing me a bonus.