Читать книгу Serpents Rising - David A. Poulsen - Страница 8

“We can walk. It’s not far.” I pointed south on Centre Street, toward downtown.

We stopped at a kiosk where all the publications were in Chinese. I bought two coffees, handed one to Cobb, and we continued walking south, turning left after another block. I thought about how bad the odds were that we’d find a drugged-out kid who didn’t want to be found. On the other hand, Jay Blevins wouldn’t know that some real bad guys might be looking to use him as a lesson in street cred, and he also wasn’t aware of Cobb and me.

So maybe.

“How’d you come to know about this Yik?” Cobb’s eyes were busy, taking in windows on second and third floors, alleys, people passing us, cars on the street. I was reminded that he’d been a cop.

“When I was researching the drug stuff, his name came up a lot. Mid-range importance. Tough guy. Has a lot of people who work for him, more or less.”

“More or less?”

“It’s not like a corporation. Not at this level. No job descriptions, no benefits. You sell for the man, you get paid, you buy to feed your own habit, get wired, wake up, and start over. Yik keeps a set of books, very businesslike; he knows who owes him what and when it’s due on a minute-to-minute basis.”

“Plus he’s got hookers and guns.”

I nodded. “Different sets of books. Same business principles apply.”

“And you have no idea who’s above him?”

“No. I heard lots of names, most of the time from people who knew less than I did. Rumours. Wishful thinking. Pulling names out of thin air, a lot of that.”

“Wishful thinking?” Cobb looked at me.

“Somebody hates somebody, they hope they’re involved in something crooked so that someday they’ll go down. So they suggest that person actually is involved. Sort of start the ball rolling.”

Cobb didn’t get to respond. Yik and two guys, both Caucasian, who looked big enough to play on a defensive line and mean enough to eat people’s pets, came out of a doorway with a sign above it that read, Lam Fong Soon Tong Society. They started toward us and Yik saw me, didn’t recognize me at first; then a glint of recognition came to his face. His mouth moved maybe a millimetre; it wasn’t a smile. Yik wasn’t a smiler.

I tapped Cobb’s arm to let him know that the guy approaching us flanked by two gorillas in expensive suits and overcoats was Yik. He wasn’t wearing a suit but his clothes were designer all the way, topped with a leather coat that went to his knees. It was open to show starched jeans and a western plaid shirt, all a perfect fit, all expensive.

Yik stopped in front of Cobb and me, held out a hand. I shook it.

“Cullen, long time. Last time I saw you, there you were helping me with a bit of cop unpleasantness and now the next time I see you you’re packing a cop with you. Why is that, man?”

“Ex-cop. Private investigator now.” I figured BS’ing Yik would be a bad way to start the conversation. “Mike Cobb, this is Yik.”

“And friends,” Yik indicated the two guys with him. He didn’t offer a hand to Cobb. “I hope you’re not investigating me, Mr. Cobb.”

“No reason to do that that I know of,” Cobb said.

“We’re looking for somebody,” I told Yik. “A kid. Kind of a favour to his dad. He’s worried about the kid.”

Cobb pulled out the picture of Jay Blevins, held it out. Yik took it, made a show of holding it in front of each of the goons, neither of whom took his eyes off Cobb. Yik looked at the photo, shook his head, handed it back to Cobb.

“Sorry,” he said, though his face didn’t look real regretful. “Kid a user?”

“Yeah.”

“Can’t help you. See you again Cullen.” He started forward.

“It’s kind of important. If you have any idea where we might look for him.…”

Yik stopped, looked at me, then shook his head and started forward again.

“Uh, one question, I’m also doing a little research. You know me, always working a story, trying to make a buck.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“So about that question….”

He gave me a look I couldn’t read. “One question. All right, I owe you. I’ll give you one question, then we’re even and after that I don’t want to see you again, you hearing me Cullen?”

I nodded. “Fair enough. I was wondering, for the purposes of the story I’m writing, if you could direct me to someone who might know something about the shooting last night. Over in Ramsay. Crack house, a couple of dealers.”

Yik’s face didn’t move but he didn’t answer right away. Thinking. “I know about the incident, Cullen. My advice is you’d better leave it out of any story you’re writing.” He started moving again.

“Come on, Yik. You told me you’d answer one question. That’s my question. Let’s say I was going to mention it in my story, I’d sort of like to have my facts straight, you know.”

Yik’s mouth moved again, about the same amount as last time. “All right, that’s your question. Here’s my answer and I’m giving you this only because of before, you understand what I’m saying here?”

I nodded. “I understand.”

“That house ain’t Asian. Different group. And here’s the bonus, Cullen. Badass guys. It would be a big mistake to walk up to them like you did with me just now.”

“If it’s not Asian, what should we —”

Yik took a half-step forward, stopped. “You’ve had your one question, Cullen. I won’t say I’ll see you around because that isn’t going to happen. So let’s just leave it at goodbye.”

“What about M and F Holdings? Ever hear of a company by that name?”

“Same answer, Cullen. Don’t try my patience.”

As Yik moved ahead, the gorilla opposite Cobb stepped forward too, expecting Cobb to move. Cobb didn’t move. A game of sidewalk chicken.

“Now, gentlemen,” Yik said, the tone of a dad to his kids. “Remember the golden rule.”

He very deliberately stepped between Cobb and me and headed off down the street. The gorilla stepped around Cobb and followed, his shoulder just brushing Cobb on the way by. I realized that Cobb had not said a word in that entire exchange. Probably a good thing.

I’d never actually seen Cobb in action before today. When he’d investigated the fire and the note, he’d worked on his own, reported in a few times. I guess I hadn’t expected somebody out of a Bruce Willis movie.

We turned and watched the trio walk toward Centre Street. I looked at Cobb. “Why is it I get the feeling that if I’m going to hang out with you I better make sure my health care premiums are up to date?”

He didn’t answer.

When we were back in the car, I said, “You believe him?”

Cobb shrugged. “He was playing it up. Telling you he knows more than you do, that he’s a big deal in this world.” He waved a hand to show what part of the world he meant. “And he’s not afraid of us so there was no reason to lie. But I did get a sense that he was maybe a little nervous when it comes to whoever his rivals are over there in Ramsay. In fact, he might be more than a little scared, even with his goons beside him.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon on Calgary’s darkest, meanest streets. More homeless shelters, a couple of church-run basement flophouses manned by tired looking, well-meaning people. We stopped everyone who looked younger than thirty — there were lots of them — to show the photo and ask about Jay Blevins. A few times glimmers of recognition tried to work their way through fog-shrouded minds. But never did. All we got from a couple of guys was that they knew Jay, had seen him around, maybe even talked to him, but had no idea where he’d be or even who we might ask for a little more in-depth information.

Some neighbourhoods take on a vibrant, pulsing new persona as the darkness of night falls. This one did not. The film noir feel to the place was palpable.

Cobb and I had split up again, agreed to meet at seven on the corner of 9th Avenue and 8th Street. There was a used bookstore there, a good one. The temperature was dropping fast and a north wind was starting to whip around me as I walked. Though we’d had a couple of snowfalls, this was the first real blast of winter cold and reminded me that this season was fourth on my list of favourites.

I tried to bury my face in the scarf I’d had the foresight to stuff in a pocket of the down-filled jacket I was wearing. Gloves too. Good.

I approached a Goodwill store that doubled as a shelter. Small place, wouldn’t house many residents. The sign outside said LET THE SUNSHINE INN. A woman stood just outside, leaning against a red-faded-to-dirty-auburn brick wall.

She was holding a chipped, orange coffee cup, full of what looked like coffee, or maybe tea, steaming a little. Both hands around the cup. She had short blond-brown hair, gentle contours to her face, early thirties, not tall, not short, tired looking, like the building she was leaning against and like most of the people around here. Except she was better dressed than most. I stopped in front of her.

“Let the Sunshine Inn. That the name of the place or does somebody really like the song?”

She straightened only slightly. “Maybe both.”

“Do you work in the Goodwill store?”

She regarded me with what I took to be mistrust. “Volunteer.”

I nodded. “Been doing that long?”

“If that’s a pickup line, it’s one of the worst ever.” A smile softened the words.

I returned the smile. “You should hear my others, they’re even worse.” I held out my hand. “I’m Adam Cullen. I’m looking for someone, a kid I was hoping you might know or at least may have seen around here. His name is Jay Blevins.”

She sipped the drink, her eyes on me over the top of the cup. “Police?”

I shook my head. “Actually I’m a writer. A journalist.” Again the mistrust in eyes that looked like they’d seen some of the downside of life. “But this doesn’t have anything to do with a story. A friend of mine and I are doing a favour for the young man’s father. He’s worried about Jay.”

“Aren’t they all?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

She didn’t answer.

“This one’s different,” I said. “This is a dad who’s not just worried about the kid doing drugs. Jay could be in some danger, real danger, and it’s important that we find him as soon as possible.”

“Good Samaritans, you and your friend.” Her voice was slightly husky, like she’d just woken up. I always liked that kind of voice.

“Actually, no, we’re not. I guess it’s not really a favour in the strictest sense. My friend is a private detective. Jay’s father hired him to try to protect the kid from a potentially serious threat.” I sketched in general terms what had happened on Raleigh and the possible link to Jay.

“And you’re helping because…?”

“Yeah, I don’t really qualify as a good Samaritan either. I lied when I said it wasn’t about a story. I mean, I’d like to find the kid and help him, we both would. But I’m a journalist. I’m always on the lookout for a story.”

She sipped her drink, thought about it. I stared at the cup, tried not to shiver. When she spoke again, her voice had changed; it was still husky but softer now.

“Jay’s a good kid. Messed up on crack, but a good kid. You wish … I mean you wish all of them could get off the shit but there’s some, like Jay, you really —” She stopped, took a last sip of the coffee, tossed the last few drops in the direction of a street garbage container that looked like it was largely ignored by most people. The sidewalk around it made it evident that this wasn’t a noted recycling area. “Come on inside. I have to get back. I’m working the food bank tonight.” She turned and headed inside.

I followed her and immediately understood why someone would want to take their coffee break outside, even on a cold night. The air in the place was a cross between exhaust fumes and stale milk. There was another smell mixed in there too that I couldn’t quite place — wet dog maybe. The total effect was a smell that I’d have thought would put food bank shoppers off their game.

As I closed the door behind us she turned to me. “Jill. Jill Sawley. You can hang your coat up over there if you want.”

She pointed to a wall off to the right and a coat rack that was a rough cut two-by-four and several nails. None of the nails were at the same height or protruded from the two-by-four at the same distance. A couple of coats hung next to a pair of blue smocks, the same shade as hospital gowns. Jill hung her own coat on a vacant nail, took down one of the smocks, pulled it over her jeans and Gap hoodie. An interesting mix of fashion.

I wasn’t sure why she’d suggested I remove my coat. She cleared that up for me right away. “I can tell you about Jay, but it’ll cost you. We had a couple of big donations come in tonight. I could use help sorting.”

I looked at my watch. Twenty to nine. It was maybe five minutes to the bookstore so that left me fifteen minutes to spend talking to Jill. And sorting. Since she was the most promising source of information to date — virtually the only source of information — I figured the fifteen minutes might be well spent. And I’d get a chance to do a little volunteering. Good for the soul.

I hung my coat on the nail that had formerly held the smock. “Okay, where do I start and what do I do?”

She pointed to a table stacked high with cardboard boxes. I actually rolled up my sleeves, ready for work, but with no idea what my role was to be.

“Boxed goods and paper-wrapped stuff over there, canned items on those shelves. Anything perishable has to go out of here right away so set it out on that table next to the back door.”

“Right.” I sorted and Jill talked while she filled cardboard boxes with a mix of items.

“First time I met Jay was at a pancake breakfast one of the service clubs puts on every year. It was December a year ago, so eleven months I guess. About a week before Christmas. I was a volunteer server. Some corporate bigwigs and a couple of politicians were there supposedly to help, but mostly for the photo ops.

“Jay … he looked lost, didn’t even know if he was allowed to have the breakfast. I happened to see him, and told him he was welcome to join in. I noticed he didn’t seem to know many people so I got some pancakes and juice and sat down across from him. Good-looking kid; he looked like he should have been the quarterback on the football team or learning his lines for the school play.

“Anyway, it was obvious he hadn’t had a lot of good meals in a while so I just let him eat. I could tell he was really enjoying the breakfast, every few bites he’d nod as if to say ‘now that’s a great chunk of pancake right there.’ When he was finished we both got another cup of coffee and sat back down. Small talk for a while, then he told me about himself. Or at least he told me some of it. Soup and canned spaghetti on that middle shelf.”

She pointed and I nodded.

“Turns out he was pretty much as advertised. Even though he looked like he’d been on the street a while, he had something about him that told you he had come from something a lot different. Sure enough, he had played on the football team, he told me that, although I’m not sure he was the quarterback. Clean cut, went with one of the prettiest girls, got decent grades, drove a cool teenager car — one of those guys who didn’t give anybody much trouble. Like I said, a good kid.”

“I have a feeling the story is about to turn.”

Jill nodded. “Depression. All that great stuff going on, looked like he had it all but inside he hated himself, hated his life, even talked suicide. Doesn’t remember when it started, just remembers feeling like that as far back as junior high. His parents got him into counselling, some drug therapy. It was hit and miss. He’d go along for a while feeling okay, then it was like the world, all of it, was a real bad place to be. Then when he was in eleventh grade, his parents split and the universe seemed to crash down around him. They got back together after a couple of months, but it didn’t get Jay back to what he’d been. He started skipping, hanging out with different kids at school, badass kids, he broke up with the pretty girl, started staying out later and later. At first it was alcohol, then pot, and the downhill slide was on. A few months later he was living on the streets, doing whatever it takes to get money for the next buy.”

She’d stopped filling boxes while she talked about Jay but now she started again. With attitude, like she needed to be doing something. You wish all of them could get off the shit but there’s some, like Jay, you really …

“He told me he’d tried to kick it a few times but couldn’t. I believed him … about trying to get clean. I guess I wanted to believe him. And I know he went back home a couple of times. But it never lasted.”

“Did you see him after that, after the Christmas breakfast?”

“A couple of times, but never like that. He’d say hi but he seemed to want to keep moving. It was like he didn’t want to connect with anyone. Like he’d chosen that other life. Made the same choice so many of them make.”

Her voice had grown quieter. This was someone who had seen the dark side of this world but was not a street tough woman. What was happening around her, all the misery of these streets, got to her. That’s when I remembered she wasn’t a professional — she’d said she was a volunteer.

“And you don’t know where we might find him? Or who we could talk to who might know where he is?”

She shook her head. “Last I heard he was camped out in a park area over near the Stampede grounds. But that was in the fall. Too cold for that now. So I hope … I’m guessing he’s in a building, a house or something somewhere.”

I rolled my sleeves down, pulled on my coat. “If you should happen to run into him or hear anything, maybe you could let me know. It would really help and it is important.” I wrote my cell number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. She took it, glanced at it, stuffed it in the pocket of her jeans. “And thanks for the insights. It’s tough seeing what happens to these kids.” It was weak, but it was the best I could come up with.

She nodded again, looked up at me. “I hope you find him. And I hope you can help him.”

“So do I.” I turned and headed back out onto the street.

The cold had deepened and the wind was stronger, the combination of the two making the night still more unpleasant. I looked at my watch. I’d be a couple of minutes late getting back to the bookstore.

When I got there, Cobb was inside talking to the proprietor, showing him the picture. The guy was older, with a long grey ponytail and both arms a roadmap of tattoos. He was wearing a T-shirt that read “I’m Kissable.” I wondered if this guy and Jackie Chow shopped at the same Value Village. He was shaking his head. Judging from the look on Cobb’s face, this was the latest in a line of similar responses.

When we were outside the store, Cobb said, “I hope you had better luck than I did.”

“Nothing?”

“With a capital N.”

I gave him the Coles Notes version of my conversation with Jill Sawley. He nodded a couple of times, then pointed a thumb back in the direction of the bookstore.

“This guy mentioned an old warehouse not far from here. Some company was supposed to turn it into lofts. When the economy softened, the company folded and the place has been sitting vacant. Mostly squatters there now.”

“Worth a try,” I said.

“My thinking exactly.”

We headed for the car, walking fast. The cold was intensifying. I was hoping Jeep made good heaters.

I didn’t have time to find out. The drive to the warehouse didn’t take long enough for the heater to generate more than cold, then merely cool, air. We were on a street that whoever built it had forgotten to finish. South of 9th Avenue a couple of blocks, then left. A sign told us it was Garry Street. Looking east, we could see that it just kind of stopped. Dead-ended up against a hill that probably shouldn’t have been there. I pictured a gaggle of 1930s engineers working on their drawings and noticing the hill after the street was started. Saying screw it and moving on to another project.

We parked under a sign that said, VEHICLES TOWED TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. I wondered why the sign was there. It wasn’t like the curb in front of the warehouse was a prime parking spot. Cobb must have thought the same thing.

We walked to the front door of the building. A faded sign above the doorway told us that this had once been the home of Mainwaring Tool and Dye. Beneath it a smaller sign, even more faded, announced “De iver es At Re r.”

We tried both sides of a set of double doors — they were either locked or had simply sealed themselves shut with years of disuse. Cobb stepped back, looked up at the front of the building. Some of the windows were gone completely, others were broken, a few were intact. I followed Cobb’s eyes to one particularly dirty but intact window. Third floor.

A man in an undershirt sat smoking and staring down at us. Cobb motioned to him that the door was locked and tried to indicate to the man that we could use his help getting in. The man behind the filthy pane of glass took a drag on the cigarette and continued looking at us. Didn’t move.

“Let’s try the back. Unless that’s a robot up there, there has to be a way into this place.”

I found myself hoping that maybe the smoker was a robot and we wouldn’t get in. To no avail. The back door was not only open, it was gone.

We stepped over broken chunks of cinder block, two-by-fours and bricks, remnants of the unfinished construction, into the building. Cobb pulled out the kind of flashlight you see in cop shows and aimed it at the hole that had once been a door.

Straight ahead was a large open area where I guessed that back in the day people did whatever you do in a tool and dye plant. To the left was a set of stairs leading up to where the lofts would have been located, had they been completed. Beyond the stairs was an elevator, the door carved, scratched, and painted with graffiti. There was a hole in the wall where the buttons for the elevator should have been.

“Think I’ll take the stairs,” Cobb said.

I followed him. We moved slowly, not because we were trying to sneak around but because the stairs appeared to have been there from the building’s first life and hadn’t received much if any attention during the short-lived renovation.

We came out on a second floor that looked and smelled like it was the building’s garbage dump and communal toilet. As Cobb directed the beam of light first left, then right, I stared down at the mounds of garbage and human filth.

“How is something like this not condemned?”

Cobb didn’t answer. I was hoping he wouldn’t suggest we try to navigate our way through the refuse and he didn’t, opting instead to follow the stairs up to the next floor.

When we reached the top of the stairs we entered a narrow, dark hall that led off in both directions, like the hallway in a hotel. And like a hotel, doors stood on both sides at regular intervals leading into who knew what. My guess was that this part of the renovation had begun and what were to be lofts had at least been framed in.

A small generator hummed away about halfway down the hall to the right and a lone light bulb hanging from a protruding board offered what light there was. Cobb stowed his flashlight and we started off in the direction of the light. As we walked, it became clear that some of the doors were hanging by their hinges; others were missing altogether.

The first door we came to had no handle but was closed. Cobb studied the door for a while as if trying to figure something out. He didn’t say what and finally knocked. No answer. He knocked again, waited maybe thirty seconds, then pushed on the door. It offered no resistance.

Flashlight out again. We were looking at a room about the size of my own, framed and drywalled but not painted. Holes in several places in the drywall. A couple of rooms led off of the big room; they were intended to be a kitchen and bathroom maybe. The main room was empty but for a sleeping bag piled in a heap on the floor, a few cases of empty beer bottles, and a discarded cereal box — Honey Nut Cheerios — in one corner. A large grey and white cat, surprisingly healthy looking, watched us, unconcerned.

“Anybody home?” Still no answer.

We stepped into the room. Several candles and a box of wooden matches lay next to the beer bottles. I lit the longest of the candles and moved to one of the rooms leading off of the main room. I peered into what I guessed was to be the bathroom, though nothing was plumbed. Part of a newspaper lay on the floor and I bent down to note the date. November 17. Less than a week old.

I stepped back into the main room at the same time that Cobb returned from the other room. “Kitchen,” he said, “but all that’s in there is a wooden crate, two empty wine bottles, a used syringe, and half a Coke can.”

“Stove,” I said. Heroin users had taken to using half a soft drink can to heat their smack. Better availability. Easy to use.

“Uh-huh.”

“Someone’s been here not that long ago.” I told him about the newspaper.

We stopped at the door and looked back into the place.

“The cat looks like he’s doing okay,” I said.

“Maybe he likes Cheerios.”

Cobb stepped out into the hall. I followed him and we moved on to the next place. This one had no door but a stained and tattered makeshift curtain hung limply from a couple of nails. Again Cobb called and again received no response. He pushed the curtain aside and we stepped in, did the tour — same layout as the last one. This one looked a little more lived in. Rumpled clothes on the floor, another sleeping bag, this one rolled up, lay next to a makeshift ashtray that was overflowing, mostly cigarette butts, a few roaches.

Several bricks supported a length of board that served as a counter or cupboard or maybe both. Two tins of cat food, a large jar of peanut butter, a plastic-wrapped half loaf of bread, a deck of cards, and one bottled water container, half full, occupied space on the board.

“Must eat out a lot,” I said.

Back in the hallway we continued down the hall, past the generator, still humming, a couple of black extension cords leading away from it. The third door in the hallway was closed and had a handle. Upscale. Cobb knocked once, then again, louder.

A male voice from inside said, “Yeah.”

“All right if we come in?”

“What d’ya want?”

“We’re looking for someone, wondered if he might live in the building.”

“Shit.”

Cobb looked at me. I shrugged.

“All right if we come in?” Cobb repeated.

A pause, then, “Yeah.”

Cobb gestured for me to step back, turned the handle and pushed the door open, stepping to one side as he did. He slowly leaned forward, looked in, nodded to me, and stepped across the threshold. I followed him inside.

The man was the one we’d seen from outside. He hadn’t moved and didn’t now. He was turned away from us, sitting on a stool, still staring out the window. I didn’t get a sense that he was actually looking at anything.

He was wearing a dark blue sweatshirt, faded blue jeans with no belt, and some kind of slippers that looked like deck shoes. No hat, and what hair he still had was mostly grey. It hadn’t been combed in a long time. He was either the toughest person I’d ever met or he had two or three shirts under the sweatshirt. The room was the temperature of a meat locker.

It was also the cleanest we’d seen to that point, which isn’t saying a lot. And there was actual furniture — a worn armchair in one corner, a TV with rabbit ears adorned with scrunched up tinfoil at the tips in another corner, and a refrigerator with a cord that ran into the other room. I guessed if I followed the cord I’d find the other end hooked to the generator in the hall. A space heater was also plugged into the extension cord. Its effect was negligible. A second heater sat unplugged a couple of feet away. I wondered if it would be bad manners to go over there and plug it in, decided it probably was.

There was a kitchen table with two chairs sitting to our left, a dishpan with an inch or so of water in it perched on the heater that wasn’t heating. But what jumped out at me was a potted geranium, healthy and well-tended, sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. I wasn’t sure how the plant survived in the polar-like conditions, but maybe where it was — closer to the functioning space heater — the climate was somehow more tropical.

“Excuse me, sir,” Cobb said in a low voice, “my name is Mike Cobb and this is Adam Cullen. We don’t mean to disturb you but as I was saying —”

“Yeah, you’re looking for somebody.” The voice was sandpaper on mortar, rough but not very loud. And somehow not mean. Mostly he sounded tired, or maybe unwell.

“A young man, late teens,” Cobb continued. “We thought it possible he might stay here sometimes. We’re wondering if you might know of him.”

The man didn’t answer.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to come over there and show you a picture of him, see if it rings any bells.”

“Rings any bells,” the man said.

Cobb crossed the room, held the picture in front of the man on the stool. No reaction at first, but eventually the man moved in slow motion, his head pivoting just slightly to the right as he seemed to study the photo. Then nodded slowly.

“Forget his name, crackhead kid. He’s okay though. Borrowed some winter gloves from me … hasn’t brought ’em back yet. Ray or Clay or something.”

“Jay Blevins.”

The man nodded. “Borrowed some mitts from me.”

“When was the last time you saw him, Mr. … uh …”

“Morris. Not Norris. Last name, not first.”

“Right, Mr. Morris. When was the last time you saw Jay, do you remember?”

“Couple of days ago. Not here. On the street, out there.” He lifted his chin to indicate outside.

“Which street?”

A long pause. “I don’t remember.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Sure, said hey, asked him how he was doin’, stuff like that.”

“Does he stay here?”

For the first time Morris turned away from the window, swivelled slowly on the chair, and faced us. “Not enough room in here.”

The face was lined and creased and the nose was off-centre a little and bent. Thin lips, set back in a face that had gone unshaven for a few days. Looked like he still had most of his teeth. Morris was a man who might have been handsome once.

“Yeah, I meant in the building,” Cobb said.

“Down the hall … at the far end. But he hasn’t been here for a while.”

“How long since he was last here?”

“Don’t know … month maybe.”

“Think he’ll be coming back?”

Morris shrugged, turned his head a little more, and saw me for the first time. I could see him more clearly now and realized that we were talking to a man who looked, sounded, and moved like an old man, but who, I guessed, was maybe forty, not more than forty-five.

Cobb said, “When you saw Jay a couple of days ago, did he happen to say where he was staying?’

“Don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“And you don’t have any idea where we might find him? Where he sleeps at night when he’s not here, who he hangs out with?”

“Not enough room in here.”

“Yes, sir, I understand. Do you know where he sleeps when he’s not here?”

Pause.

“Nope.”

“Mr. Morris, it’s important that we find him. Jay could be in some danger, some bad people are looking for him. You have any idea at all where we might find him?”

Morris shook his head. No pause this time. Definite.

“Anyone else you can suggest we might talk to? Someone who might know where we might find Jay?”

“There’s always kids in and out of that place at the end of the hall. Maybe one of them.” He turned back to the window. The interview was over.

“Thank you, sir,” Cobb said. “We appreciate your time.”

Morris didn’t answer and we left him and stepped back into the hall. I closed the door gently behind us. Cobb didn’t say anything but led the way back down the hall.

Cobb held the flashlight out in front of us, allowing the light to illuminate the last door at this end. It was covered in graffiti art. Someone had talent. There were a few lines of poetry gracing the door’s surface — or maybe it was prose — that mostly seemed to be exploring creative ways to adapt the word fuck to different parts of speech.

Cobb knocked, got no answer. He didn’t bother to wait this time, pushed the door open, and let the beam of the flashlight work its way around the room. “Anybody home?”

Again there was no response so he stepped inside just far enough to let me move up beside him. We surveyed the main room. Stuff, a lot of it, covered most of the floor and a couple of makeshift tables that occupied the centre of the room. Two mattresses, clothes strewn in heaps on both of them; four chairs, none of them matching; several garbage bags, all of them crammed with something, garbage or possessions — it was hard to tell which.

There was more graffiti on the walls, and paper, sheets of loose leaf and a couple of pads of lined paper, several battered paperbacks, and an even more battered Bible lying amongst the rest of the stuff. The room didn’t look or smell bad, really. I’d seen friends’ teenagers’ bedrooms, and this wasn’t all that different. Too much stuff, none of it actually put away — chaos but not filth.

We walked around the room, looking for … I wasn’t sure what. I picked up some of the pieces of paper, more of the kind of art we’d seen on the door and walls. Same artist maybe. One scrap of paper was a note that read,

Zoe, please come home or at least call. Your Dad and I love you and we’re going crazy not knowing where you are and if you’re okay. Please, please call or send an email. We just want to hear from you.

Love

Mom and Dad

No way of knowing how the note had got to Zoe, assuming Zoe was one of the residents of the place, or whether she’d answered it.

Cobb and I worked our way through some of the stuff, but while there was lots of it, most of it clothing, there wasn’t much to identify the occupants of the place or offer much help with our search. Again another room, this one with a door. It was open and I glanced in — more stuff, possessions that defined the word meagre. Stacked and stashed in an attempt at order.

After maybe ten futile minutes, Cobb said, “Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough.”

Neither of us spoke until we were outside. It was dark by then and I was instantly aware of a different look to the street. Different sounds too. It seemed even less friendly, more serious … dour. It wasn’t a place I’d have wanted to be by myself. Cobb looked up and down the street, rubbed a gloved hand against his jaw, then turned to me.

“Any more ideas as to where we might look?”

I shook my head. “No, and I’m sorry I haven’t been much help up to now.”

Cobb looked at me. “No apology necessary. If finding missing people was easy, I’d be out of a career.”

“I guess.”

“I’m bagged. I say we call it a day and start again in the morning. Are you game for another day of this?”

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” I said.