No Going Back Page 5

  Nothing stands out.

  If there’s surveillance on him, it’s not an amateur job. The downtown eastside is at once derelict and bustling, as it always is, but no one here seems to care about Brazuca’s movements.

  When I return to the dumpster my friend is stirring. I leave quickly so she doesn’t have time to take in any identifying details. People would be surprised at how much a body on the street can observe. I would have asked her if she’d noticed anybody watching the place, but I don’t want her to pay any particular attention to me. It could be self-defense, a hunch, evidence of a life lived in the shadows. Whatever it is, I simply don’t want anyone to get a good look at my face. There’s a man who’s made a target of me. No woman in her right mind can shake that.

  As I walk back to Chinatown I feel more myself with every step, finally back in a city that has come to be my home. The rain falls in a fine mist, and I’m soothed by the slick of moisture it leaves behind, until it turns to snow again, and my mood changes along with it. Winnipeg, where I grew up, was far, far colder than this. In my youth, I would even consider this to be T-shirt weather. But I am old now, or, at least, older. I am no longer an idiot.

  When I get back, I take Whisper on a short walk. Keeping her on-leash, even though it irritates the scratches on my hands. It’s only when I close the door to Leo’s apartment that I’m finally able to leave Brazuca behind, along with the easy camaraderie we seemed to have fallen into. I took the back alleys through to Leo’s apartment, and I was careful to keep a watch out. I make sure to check the cars on the street from the balcony anyway. There are no dark sedans to be seen, but there are quite a few station wagons and beat-up SUVs.

  Funny, I’d never imagined that Leo would choose to live in a place like this, this tiny one-bedroom apartment that smells of fried food and marijuana. After their relationship ended, I’d been so concerned with taking care of Seb that Leo disappeared from my life.

  He hasn’t done well in my absence.

  The space itself is clean and relatively tidy, but Leo’s upscale wardrobe looks out of place here, crammed, as it is, into makeshift shelving. His artisanal pottery collection is strewn about hodgepodge, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen his shoes in worse shape. His bed looks secondhand, and he hadn’t even bothered to make it up before he left.

  What in holy hell has Seb’s death done to him?

  The one thing that’s quintessentially Leo is still in place, and I breathe a sigh of relief to find the sleek espresso maker he ordered from Italy a couple of years ago still in working order. Though, he’s out of the beans he used to special-order from Portland and is now relying on average grocery-store coffee beans. It’s sad how far he’s come down in life. A man like Leo doesn’t naturally forgo his fair-trade, organic Arabica. The coffee is a reflection of his state of mind, which is so obviously depressed. Leo and I . . . we’ve been through too much for me to look at his coffee selection and not feel a twinge of concern.

  He’s been in here while I was out, too, and filled the fridge with gourmet dog food for Whisper and a pitiful selection of cheap frozen pizzas for me.

  And there’s Chopin playing from somewhere, our own personal dirge.

  His note to me begins with a Hey, Roomie, so I put it down unread and sit at the kitchen table, which is bare except for a book on dating in one’s thirties.

  I leave that unread, too.

  After I clean off the dirt and traces of blood from my scraped palms, Whisper and I both eat ravenously, as if it’s our last meal. I let her out onto the balcony to cool off and close the sliding door to keep the warmth in. I watch her until a kind of peace settles over me. She falls asleep to the sounds of the city, and it’s her utter relaxation that guides me to the sofa.

  It gets cold after an hour. I pull a blanket over me and wonder just who could have been following me and Brazuca in the car and who tried to grab me at the protest. The protest attack certainly happened, but it was confusing and sloppy, so I file it away.

  But it’s possible that Brazuca was imagining things on our drive. He’d been looking at me in a way I don’t like. As though I’m some sort of fragile thing. Like I can be broken. I don’t blame him for being on edge. When I saw him about a month ago, he’d been on a health kick and had even been consuming large quantities of vegetables. This commitment to his well-being seems to have vanished. And his limp is worse than ever.

  Earlier today I watched him drink almost an entire pot of coffee on his own. He dropped his car keys on the way to the back lot, and when he bent to grab them, his bad leg seized up. He spent several minutes driving through what must have been excruciating pain. When he jerked the wheel of the car suddenly to get us off the highway, his hands shook. He didn’t notice, but I did.

  Brazuca’s nerves are shot, and he’s too damn proud to admit it.

  12

  I call Simone, my friend from AA, to let her know I’m back in town.

  “I know,” she says. “Brazuca came to a meeting last night and told me. I shouldn’t have to find these things out from him, Nora.”

  “I’ve been distracted by Whisper.” Somehow I know this is the only answer she’ll accept. She has a dog, too, so she knows what a woman’s priorities should be.

  “Don’t give me that,” she snaps.

  A lot must have changed since I saw her last. She’s never been quite this testy with me. “Are you performing tonight? I’ll come by to see you.” I don’t mind her drag club, and it’s been a while since I’ve witnessed the level of coordination she can manage in stiletto heels.

  “No, I’m doing pole class tonight, but you can meet me after. I could use someone right now.”

  Ever since we first got to know each other through our various addictions, Simone has become a fixture in my life. Drag performer by night and cyber security expert also possibly by night (no one who’s ever met her seems to know what she does with her days), she is my one constant in this whole city.

  She’s right. I should have called her a long time ago.

  The temperature is dropping by the minute. I shut the balcony door, turn on the heat, and curl up on Leo’s couch. I’ve taken Leo’s work computer and now put on some Aretha Franklin because it makes me think of Detroit, Nate, and his famous soul singer of an aunt. The depression and guilt hit me almost immediately. I know he’s still alive and recovering at home. But I’m not sure I can reach out to him. I wouldn’t know what to say. Sorry you almost died because of me doesn’t quite cut it. This guy has a vendetta against me, see. Tell me, what do you know about triads?

  I could also tell him how good our song sounds on the radio, but is a hit record worth it if it comes at the price of his health?

  As I watch the sun drop out of sight, my thoughts turn from Nate (who I can’t help) to Brazuca (who I might not want to). I think it must have something to do with the fact that Brazuca seems to be having such a hard time getting a grip. But that’s ridiculous. I’m not the center of the universe, after all. He must have problems of his own. And now he is trying to avoid dealing with his own shit by taking on my burdens, too.

  Well, that’s unfair.

  I don’t want to be responsible for the downward spiral of his life. Which is why, several hours later, I go out without him.

  I know where Nolan works. Brazuca must have forgotten that I’ve spent the past several years looking for people that others have misplaced or temporarily forgotten. It was almost too easy for me to locate the name of the club from some of Nolan’s online posts. And Granville Street isn’t too far away.

  But first, I have some pole dancing to take in.

  13

  I don’t find Simone at her pole dancing studio in Gastown, and she’s not answering her phone, either. People need their space, and some of us need a lot of it, so I don’t fault her for not showing up or forgetting to give me a call. Maybe grinding against a metal pole just doesn’t seem as attractive a way to spend her evening as she’d thought. Or maybe, like me, the thoug
ht of holding her body on said pole in dangerous and unlikely positions is enough to keep her away. It’s possible that she’s only just started thinking of the hygienic implications of rubbing her bits and pieces against a surface that so many others have rubbed their bits and pieces against.

  Whatever it is, she’s not here, and I have a feeling she’s not planning to drop by anytime soon.

  I stick around the pole studio as long as I can without looking like a subway flasher or that I’m interested in a membership, and then I go clubbing.

  It’s not for me.

  I’m wearing far too many clothes, and I refuse to stand in line for the opportunity to have my eardrums blown out. The bouncer working the door ignores me completely. I’m forced to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. He turns. His ears are pierced on both sides, and he’s got tiny genie hoops that glint at me in the dim light outside of the club. “Yeah? I don’t got any change on me, lady.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I have lots of money.”

  He takes a long look at me now. “Good for you. Save up some of that Welfare Wednesday cash?”

  “You know it,” I say. I’m used to people casting aspersions based on my general appearance. But have they considered the cost of cosmetics lately? “So much that I want to spread it around. Joe Nolan working tonight?”

  “Don’t know who that is,” he says, lying.

  I can tell it’s an instinctive reaction, that it’s not personal. He’s just not used to giving out information for nothing. This is a game I’ve played many times on the cases I used to work for Leo. “I owe him some and want to give it back. You know, before I spend it all on hookers and blow.”

  He’s interested now. Even laughs a little, making the genie hoops dance. “You could give it to me. I’ll make sure he gets it.” His expression is telling me there could be hookers and blow for more than just me.

  “I like to look a man in the eye when I settle my debts.” This comes out harsher than I expected. The techno music inside makes me short-tempered.

  “I respect that,” he says, though his voice is doubtful that he does. “But I’m not sure if I know where he is, if ya know what I mean.”

  “Maybe this will help you remember.” There’s forty dollars in my wallet. I hand him twenty, in hopes that he comes cheap.

  To my delight, he does.

  “Joe sometimes works the door at the Van Club, for private events. If you don’t find him, come back. You can leave the cash with me.”

  “Sure thing,” I reply, even though I have no intention of leaving any more money with him than I already have.

  I look at my phone and think about calling Simone. I don’t do it, because if she wants space, that’s fine by me. She probably got wrapped up in work, hacking into servers and chatting about her various digital accomplishments with other cyber fanatics the world over. If that’s even what they do. I send her a text instead and even try out an emoji, for effect. It looks wrong, coming from me, and I immediately wish I hadn’t. Lesson learned.

  In truth, I’m relieved that she’s ditched me for the night. I’m not sure I’m up for much conversation. My voice, normally deep, is venturing into Tom Waits territory. Traces of the smoke I inhaled during the warehouse fire in Detroit linger in the tissue of my lungs.

  As I walk to the Van Club I hum a little to clear it, even though it hurts. I’m in tune, which isn’t surprising because it’s me, and I always am.

  14

  The first thing I notice about Joe Nolan is that he has a lopsided, little-boy smile that he directs only at the attractive women entering the Van Club. The smile disappears for the men and the average-looking ladies, even though they have money to spend, too. Nolan’s blunt features are softened by the smile, but nobody looks at him long enough to notice.

  The club is a members-only affair and I’ve never received an invitation, but I’ve seen pictures. There’s no view like it in all of Vancouver.

  With a membership, you can go in and see clear views of the harbor, see the seaplanes take off. On a cold night like this, you could be in short sleeves, sipping hot toddies by one of the fireplaces inside, looking out over your kingdom.

  Without a membership you’re out on the pavement with me, watching a man smile at women who are so far out of his league they might as well be in a different stratosphere.

  Soon, whatever event has been held here empties out and there is no longer any need to watch the door. A man in a tuxedo says a few words to Nolan and hands him an envelope. He pockets it without checking what’s inside and heads for the seawall behind the strip of buildings. It’s cold and late, and I’m not sure what he’s doing or why, until I see him stand at the railing overlooking a line of docked boats. I understand the fascination, even though I don’t share it.

  This is where the wealthy go to park their toys.

  Nolan puts on a hat, pulls a cigar out of his pocket, lights it, and leisurely smokes it. He’s looking at something intently, something I can’t see.

  My hands go numb in the time it takes for him to finish. I’m standing in the shadows, off the bike path. I think I’m being quiet and am relying on the fact that most people usually look right past me without registering anything about my presence.

  But not Nolan.

  Without turning he says, “You gonna tell me what this is about?”

  I know he’s talking to me. And I realize my mistake. Just because Nolan has an eye for the gorgeous socialites of Vancouver doesn’t mean that he hasn’t also noticed me. I go to the railing and follow his gaze to one of the boats in the marina. The dock lights are giving off enough illumination to see shapes moving on one of the boats. Two shapes, moving rhythmically. If I listen carefully, I can hear moaning. Or that could just be the sounds of the night, amplified by my hyperawareness of the man standing next to me, still smoking.

  “You ever seen rabbits fuck?” Joe Nolan asks.

  I wonder what kind of pornography he’s into, but I don’t say that. Don’t even respond.

  “Yeah, me neither, but I have a feeling it would look something like what those two are up to in that boat over there. The guy who owns the boat comes to the club for some of the events I work. After, he brings back one of the waitresses. Spends an hour tops in there and then sends her on her way walking like she’s holding a beach ball between her legs. Works those girls over real good.”

  There’s no emotion in his voice. No thrill of sexual interest, even. Which is unexpected, given what he’s just said. If he thinks he’ll shock me, he’s talking to the wrong woman. Casual misogyny isn’t shocking. I don’t like it, but it doesn’t surprise me.

  The cigar is down to the end. He flicks it, still lit, onto the closest boat. “You wanna be one of those girls on the boat? Want me to hook you up with a job?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so. You’re too old for him, anyway. So how about you get to the point.” He looks at me now.

  My first instinct is to lie, even though it sits uncomfortably with me. But I sense, somehow, that it wouldn’t be the right move. And I’ve already underestimated this man once. “Back in the day you ran with Jimmy Fang. Fang got busted, disappeared, trial fell apart, you resumed your life like nothing happened.”

  “Second time today someone’s brought that old shit up. I’ll tell you what I told your friend, the one with the gimpy leg. That all happened years ago. I don’t remember a goddamn thing about it.”

  He’s lying, of course, but that’s not the point. The point is my friend with the gimpy leg has already spooked him.

  I keep my expression neutral. “You were talking to the cops about your friend Jimmy, weren’t you?”

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “Look, I don’t care about your involvement. I need to know about Fang. Who he might have here in Vancouver still.”

  He looks around suddenly. Takes in the marina. “Where’s the other guy, Sir Limps A Lot?”

  “I don’t know. I came
alone.”

  “Why do you want to know about this shit, anyway?”

  Again, I have a choice. It’s hard, but I go with my first instinct. The truth. “Someone’s after me. You don’t know him, but you used to know the people he’s connected to. I want to find him, and to do that—”

  “You gotta find them.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I ain’t a snitch.” But he is. I can hear it in his voice, in the way he says it with real anger, real passion. It’s not directed at me. His emotion is internal. He’s ashamed of himself.

  “I ain’t a cop.” It’s partially why I’m here without Brazuca. I looked at the photos of this man, and some part of me knew that Brazuca would turn him cold. That his cop face can’t be scrubbed away so easily.

  But maybe I have a chance.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  “Someone stupid enough to be on their radar.”

  “Hell.” He pulls down his hat. Fiddles with the edge of it. His fingers are red from the cold, and stiff with it, too. He’s coming to a decision, and I can sense the struggle taking place inside him. He’s wondering if he can trust me.

  Maybe I have to trust him a little, too. “My daughter’s scared. She’s the only family I have, and they know who she is. I have to protect her.”

  “I don’t know anything about them anymore, okay?”

  “Yes,” I say softly. “Yes, you do.” I heard it in his voice, that little hitch, and I know I’m on to something.

  He’s about to say something, then stops.

  A woman wearing a long coat unbuttoned over a short dress approaches from the docks. She looks to be in her twenties. Her hair is a tangle about her shoulders, and she appears to be weeping. We watch her disappear. About a minute later a man at least three decades older than her follows. He’s in a tuxedo, strolling off like he doesn’t have a care in the world.