We heard the splash.
I was carrying my father’s MagLite, and I aimed it at the water. A head bobbed above the black waves. We heard gasps and sputters, then the thundercrack of gunfire accompanied by a spout of flame from the pier’s end.
Joe was aiming his son’s pistol at the water. He turned and pointed the gun at me and smiled.
“’Bout time you got here, Matt.”
Up close I could see the shirt of his uniform was unbuttoned, stained with something. A hole in the knee of one pant leg. He nodded his head toward the water.
“Smart-ass thought I wouldn’t remember,” he said. “We warned him, didn’t we, about him and his pals hanging out in the park, bothering the nice people.”
In the water, Michael Rosato thrashed. His hands broke the water, still manacled together in a pose of supplication. Katz knocked off his shoes.
“Think this one’s just about got the message,” Joe said. “Either shape up or start swimming for Japan. You hear me, kid?” He fired again at the water, missing Rosato by several feet. Intentionally, I hoped. Rosato’s scream was choked back by waves.
“What do you think, Matt, another couple shots?”
“Where’s it stop?” I said.
“With the city safe for decent folks, and this hump in his place. Was your idea, Matt. You want a shot? You’re up after me.”
He turned and held the gun with both hands, sighted on Rosato. As I moved I thought of what he’d said to me the night before. He’d been right. Not even a fucking shred. I swung the flashlight as hard as I could and struck him across the temple.
The gun fell. Joe fell. Katz dived into the water.
And me, I collected the pistol, and stared down at a sick and bleeding man, and wondered for a second why I felt like I’d betrayed him.
Katz emerged from the water to the left of the dock, dragging Rosato onto the rock-studded beach. Rosato looked frail and ancient, his thin hair matted into dark gray tendrils. He crawled up to the sandbank and lay on his back, sobbing. Katz unlocked his cuffs and tended to him.
Joe Itami turned over and moaned softly. “Christ, my head.”
I unloaded the gun, pocketed the clip. I helped Joe to his feet and led him toward his son’s car. Joe glanced at the quivering figure of Michael Rosato with mild curiosity and zero recognition. He seated himself in the passenger’s side of the Nissan. His eyes closed. Soon he was snoring.
“All forgotten,” I said to Katz.
“Yeah. Lucky him.”
I said I’d wait with Rosato for the ambulance. Katz thanked me and drove his father home. As the taillights of his Nissan bounced onto the pavement, I saw he’d left his cigarettes on my dashboard.
I hauled a Hudson’s Bay blanket out of the trunk of my car and handed it to Rosato. He seemed shaken up but physically fine. He massaged his wrists, shivered, and refused the cigarette I offered him.
“Worst night of my life was when those cops threw me and Gord into the water,” he said. “That man is sick, isn’t he? His poor son. Lord have mercy on them both.”
The ambulance approached, all lights and sirens. Rosato stood and walked across the grass to meet the EMTs.
Lighting a Rooftop, I leaned against the hood of the car and stared at the water for a while, thinking that there was a lost name for every place in the city. At one point I might have believed that if I could just learn enough of them, an entire secret history would reveal itself to me. The world as it was, or should have been. But it didn’t work like that, and even if it did, there simply wasn’t time. Not even enough to forget.
Author’s note: Credit is due to Charles Demers for the quote at the beginning, taken from Vancouver Special, and to Aaron Chapman for his article “Gangs of Vancouver,” published on February 4, 2011, in the Vancouver Courier, later expanded into the book The Last Gang in Town.
Bottom Dollar
by Dietrich Kalteis
Strathcona
The way he did it, Lonzo D’Cruz pulled up out front, flicked on his four-ways, left the Benz running, and walked up to this French bistro. Some guy with a sandwich board walking back and forth out front got in his way.
Lonzo stepped right, the guy stepped the same way. Lonzo tried left, the guy doing it too, misstepping, smiling like it was funny. Taking it wrong, Lonzo gave him a shove. Awkward with the sign hanging on him, the guy went down and turned turtle. Not giving him another look, Lonzo moved past him and into the place. The maître d’ looking horrified, asking if he had a reservation.
“I look like I’d eat here?” Lonzo weaved around the tables, up to the couple at the corner booth, nice romantic spot with white linens, candles, and a bottle of bubbly on ice. Cracking his knuckles to get their attention, he smiled and waved a finger at Carmen Roth, the guy who did the laundry, made dirty money clean. Lonzo smiled at the woman and asked if she’d like to dance.
“You hearin’ music, Lonz? ’Cause if you do...” Carmen Roth looped a finger at his temple, grinning at the woman named Bobbi Lee. He picked up a cocktail shrimp, dipping it in sauce and sticking it in his mouth, now grinning up at Lonzo.
Clutching shirtfront, Lonzo sent a jab, accented by the big ring he always wore. Carmen reeled, spitting bits of shellfish. The rocket that followed would have sent Carmen to the floor if Lonzo hadn’t been holding onto his collar. Lonzo asking if Carmen heard the music now.
Coughing shrimp and blinking, Carmen put up a pudgy hand in surrender. Straightening his own jacket, Lonzo smiled again at Bobbi, held out the hand with the ring, asked, “How about that dance?”
“Jesus, gonna hit me if I say no?” Bobbi finished her drink.
“I’m a lover, not a fighter, you know that.”
Sliding from the booth, she shrugged at Carmen, said thanks for dinner, slipped her hand on Lonzo’s arm, and let him lead her past the tables, all eyes on them. The maître d’ keeping his distance, snapping his fingers for a waiter to go clean up Carmen.
Stepping close, Lonzo pressed a hundred in the maître d’s hand, saying his friend just had a bad shrimp. “Ought to be more careful what you serve in this joint.” Leading Bobbi to the door, holding it for her.
“Mind me asking where we’re going?” Bobbi said.
“Little place I know.” Lonzo steered her around the guy with the sandwich board, the guy still trying to get up. Going to the passenger side, Lonzo opened the door, saying to her, “Feel like Italian?”
“You mean Umbertos?”
“Mean like my place.”
“Thought we were going dancing.”
“Yeah, after.”
The guy with the sandwich board got his feet under him, the board cracked, bent, and ruined. Lonzo stepped over, tucking a twenty in the guy’s shirt, telling him, “Get a real job, man. This is embarrassing.”
It was raining when Ronnie Trane arrived at the Strathcona address. Some old factory near Venables and Clark, used to make sensible shoes. He’d heard some realtor on a talk show call this part of town gentrified. Lofts going in, an exotic car dealer with a Ferrari in the window, promises of Starbucks and yoga studios, ladies walking dogs that fit in a purse. Sure didn’t look like that to Ronnie.
Counting a dozen heads in the outdoor line ahead of him, Ronnie guessed they were all applying for the same job. Some A-list entertainer needed a personal assistant. The Craigslist ad didn’t say who it was, only that the successful applicant needed no experience, just a valid driver’s license. Ronnie had to lie about that, not due to get his back for a few months.
The rain was light when the door opened, letting the next applicant in and closing again, the line inching forward. A couple of twentyish women under a black umbrella in front of Ronnie speculated who the star was. Too busy bandying celebrity names, they didn’t notice him without an umbrella. Every man for himself. One hoping for Beyoncé, the other going for Bieber.