Blackfly Season

17

RED BEAR DIDN’T OFTEN DRIVE himself anywhere these days. Leon was always happy to drive for him, and to act as bodyguard. In fact, Leon’s progress was a source of great satisfaction to Red Bear. Bring a little magic into someone’s life, improve his sex life, and the results were fairly predictable. At this point, Red Bear was confident that Leon would do anything he asked. But today, Red Bear drove himself along Highway 11 to Shanley, a suburb of Algonquin Bay, if a place the size of Algonquin Bay may be said to have suburbs.

Shanley is a picturesque little town, hardly more than a crossroads, really. But there’s a lookout halfway up Shanley Hill, and it is not unusual for cars to stop there for a long time as the occupants gaze over the blue expanse of Lake Nipissing. On this particular day, it was a grey expanse. A herd of clouds had gathered over the water and over the hills that morning, and by late afternoon still showed no inclination to move. Whitecaps ruffled the surface of the lake, and even up on the lookout Red Bear could hear the slap of waves hitting the shore.

He had parked his BMW facing the lake and was now sitting in the passenger seat of a Chevy Blazer with windows tinted so dark it made the lake look like a scene of imminent apocalypse. The driver’s seat was occupied by Alan Clegg. Clegg was wearing a checked short-sleeve shirt with button-fly Levi’s over a pair of brown Timberland boots—not even the tan kind that might still lay some claim to being cool. Really, you couldn’t look more like an off-duty cop if you tried.

“Toss ’em again,” Clegg said. “I’m in a tricky situation here. I need to know about this stuff.”

“It won’t do any good to throw again. I told you, I’m tired. I had a late night. Very late.”

“Come on, Red Bear. It can’t hurt. Toss ’em again.”

Red Bear put the multicoloured shells back in their leather pouch and shook them. He tipped the pouch and poured the shells over the Blazer’s console.

“Okay. It’s a little better,” Red Bear said. Sometimes it was like tuning in a picture.

“What do you see?”

“Work. You’re going to get a promotion.”

Clegg grinned. He had big, thick teeth, too many for the size of his mouth. “Promotion, huh? About time, man. You wouldn’t believe the jerks that are making sergeant these days. When’s it going to happen?”

“I don’t know when. Wait. Someone ahead of you is going to leave or retire or something. When that happens, you’ll get your promotion.”

“But you don’t know when. Let me ask you something, Red Bear: You found Wombat alone, right?”

“He was alone.”

“And you found the money, right?”

“We found the money.”

“So how come you don’t tell the future as good as me?”

“Because I’m not on the RCMP narcotics squad, that’s why.” Red Bear took off his sunglasses, giving Clegg the look. “I tell you what I see in the shells. If you want a lot of bullshit, get someone else to do your readings.”

“Tell me about Mary,” Clegg said. “What’s going to happen with Mary?”

“I don’t see you getting back together. In fact, I’d say she’ll likely file for divorce. Now, money. Here’s where things are looking bright.” Red Bear pointed to a group of three shells that formed a crescent off to one side. “You’re going to do very well financially for quite some time. In fact, I do not see anything that will get in the way of your continued good fortune.”

“I got something else I wanna talk about.”

“In a minute. You ask me to do a reading, have the courtesy to let me finish.”

“You’re pretty thin-skinned for an Indian. Anyone ever tell you that?”

Red Bear gathered up the shells and sifted them back into the leather pouch.

“What are you doing? You said you weren’t finished.”

Red Bear strung the bag from his belt with a leather thong. He got out of the Blazer and looked around. There were no other cars in sight. He opened the trunk of the BMW and pulled out a crisp new paper bag. He tossed it through the open door of the Blazer and climbed back in.

Clegg pulled out the three packs of bills. “Seventy-five grand. Not much, considering.”

“Considering what? Seventy-five was the deal.”

“The deal was I give you the information, you do the rip-off. Rip-off, not murder. Where the hell do you get off pulling something like that? The local force is all over it, in case you didn’t know. So help me, if it blows back to me I’m going to come looking for you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Wombat is working for us, now.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Wombat Guthrie is stone-cold dead. They don’t come any deader. And he’s short a couple of hands and one head. Is that your idea of concealing his identity? Because it didn’t work. This thing is all over the radios. The guy was alone. It was totally unnecessary. Why did you kill him?”

“Who said I killed him? You don’t know I killed him. The last time I saw Wombat, we made a deal. From now on, he would be working for us. So if he was murdered, there’s no way it’s coming back to me. How could it come back to you?”

“Are you telling me you didn’t kill this guy?”

“I don’t murder people, Alan. It’s not my way. The most likely thing is he’s been punished by his colleagues for failing the organization so dramatically. I don’t see how that’s a problem for you.”

“All right. Okay. That makes sense.” Clegg seemed to relax a little. “How’d your crew react to the takeover? They had to be pretty impressed.”

“Yes, I think so. Even Kevin, and he’s very skeptical about my magic.”

“He’s not going to be trouble, is he?”

“Kevin?” Red Bear looked out across the lake, the tiny white pennants of surf. “Kevin won’t be a problem.”

“Because I’ll tell you who could be a problem, and that’s your little Toofus-Doofus friend.”

“Toof is a harmless pothead. How could he be a problem?”

Clegg looked at his watch. “I gotta hit the road. I gotta be back at the detachment by six.”

“How would Toof be a problem?”

“I’m not saying he is a problem. I’m saying he might be. Informant of mine gave me a little morsel of info the other day. One Nelson Tyndall. Not the most reliable asshole in the world, but not the worst either—for a junkie. Old Nelson tells me Toof told him that his crew was going to be doing something big in a couple of days. That was before your little trip across the lake.”

“‘Something big’?” Red Bear said. “‘Something big’ is not a problem. ‘Something big’ could be anything.”

“How about something big with the Viking Riders?”

“The Viking Riders? Your informant told you this before?”

“No, he told me Toof told him before.”

“That is not possible. None of them knew we were going near the Riders until we were on the lake and heading for the French River.”

“Like I say, Nelson’s not the most reliable asshole in the world.”

Red Bear cursed. He took off his Wayfarers and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

The sun broke through the clouds above the western shore. Clegg lowered his visor and started the Blazer.

“Keep an eye on the guy,” Clegg said. “That’s all I’m saying.”