Blackfly Season

35

CARDINAL SLID INTO the passenger seat beside Delorme. She backed up, making a sharp two-pointer, then left a little rubber in the driveway. Whenever she was driving, Delorme’s eyebrows knit in a frown. She had the most expressive eyebrows Cardinal had ever seen, and the fading check-mark wound only added to their appeal.

“So, who are we going to see?” Cardinal said.

“Alan Clegg. He’s Musgrave’s man on the drug scene these days, at least as far as our neighbourhood is concerned.”

“Get out. They haven’t had a detachment here for at least ten years.”

“It’s not a detachment. They have a temporary post over at the Federal Building. Just two guys, but most days Clegg’s here alone.”

She parked around back of the post office, under a sign that said Authorized Vehicles Only. They took the elevator to the third floor. Cardinal remembered when the RCMP had maintained a permanent detachment in Algonquin Bay. It had always been a small office, never more than four men, and they’d mostly kept out of the local cops’ way. Then the age of cutbacks arrived and the detachment was only one of many that had been forced to close up shop.

Alan Clegg must have heard them coming, because he stepped out into the corridor, forming a sudden silhouette against the window at the end of the hall.

“You must be Delorme,” he said.

“This is my colleague, John Cardinal,” Delorme said.

They shook hands. Clegg had the T-shape of a middleweight. He looked to be in his late thirties but he hadn’t let himself go. He showed them into a cramped office with two metal desks for furniture and not much else. It smelled of stale coffee and chewing gum.

“I understand you want to talk about the drug trade,” Clegg said. “I’ll tell you everything I can, short of jeopardizing sources.”

Delorme looked over at Cardinal, who nodded. It was her lead, she could call the shots.

“You’re probably aware of the two murders we’ve had recently,” she said.

“Wombat Guthrie, sure. I haven’t heard a name yet on your other guy.”

“Morris Tilley.”

“Morris Tilley?” Clegg shook his head. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

Delorme showed him a photograph they had borrowed from Mrs. Tilley.

“The face is familiar,” Clegg said. “I’m sure I’ve seen him around. But where and in what context … you’ve got me.”

“The two killings are linked,” Delorme said. “The gun used on Morris Tilley was recently in the possession of Wombat Guthrie. It was also used in an assault—”

Cardinal laid a hand on her arm. “We can’t go into that.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Delorme said. She didn’t manage to hide the note of irritation in her voice, perhaps she didn’t try.

A half-smile formed on Clegg’s face. “I understand.”

“What do you know about Wombat Guthrie?”

“Ugly as sin, mean as hell. Lifetime member of the Viking Riders. Drug runner from way back. Not the most popular guy with the Riders’ new president is what I hear.”

“Tell us more.”

“Wombat was left guarding a substantial amount of dope. Exactly how much I wouldn’t know, but substantial. Other Riders show up, dope’s gone, Wombat’s gone.”

“Do you think they killed him?”

“It’s certainly possible. They’re excitable boys.”

“Tilley was living in a house full of other junkies up in Greenwood,” Delorme said. “Why don’t we give you their names, and you tell us if any of them are connected to Wombat Guthrie in any way.”

Toof’s sad-sack housemates had all resolutely denied ever having met Wombat Guthrie, though a few allowed that, yes, they had heard the name—in what context they couldn’t recall just at that moment.

Cardinal and Delorme ran through the six names they had. Clegg was happy to take them down in his notebook with a two-inch stub of pencil. He had heard most of the names before, but did not connect them to Wombat. Then there was Sami Deans.

“Sami Deans we’re very much aware of,” Clegg said. “We’re wondering lately if he hasn’t branched out into dealing as well as puncturing his arm.”

“I don’t think so,” Delorme said. “We keep hauling him in for break and enter. What about his friend Paco Fernandez?”

Clegg laughed. “Paco Fernandez? Honestly, I think he studied the Cheech and Chong movies when he was a kid and decided he wanted to be just like them. I’m not even sure he bothers with the harder stuff. He wouldn’t be able to find his own vein with a map. But you know, we’re not interested in guys like Deans and Fernandez. They’re strictly a local problem.”

“Leon Rutkowski would be more your type of target,” Cardinal said.

“Absolutely,” Clegg said. “I arrested him way back when. Caught him with six grams of H in his Trans Am. He’s been in and out of Algonquin Bay for some time now, but he’s been keeping a pretty low profile.” Clegg snapped his fingers. “That’s where I’ve seen your Morris Tilley character! I saw him with Leon one time, coming out of Duane’s Billiards. I didn’t get the impression they were close, though.”

“We wouldn’t know,” Delorme said. “We just heard they hung out together.”

“It’s possible. I think when Leon first came to town he thought he was going to set up shop here, maybe get himself a little ice cream truck and sell smack from it, become the local Good Shit man. But two things happened: First, he ran into me. Surprise, surprise. The thought of doing another bit in Millhaven kind of let the air out of his tires.

“The second thing that happened was the Viking Riders. The Riders take their drug business very seriously. You can’t just waltz onto their turf and expect them to send out a welcome wagon. Even though they almost never set foot in your fair city, I guarantee they control most of the dope flowing in or out of it—the hard stuff, anyway. If Leon’s dealing anything, it’s very small amounts.”

“Is he a junkie?” Delorme said.

“Nope. Former speed freak.”

“He has a couple of serious assaults on his record.”

“Yeah, Leon can be nasty when he gets worked up. Hasn’t done anything like that for a long time, though. Not as far as I know. I’ve been keeping an eye out for him, but he’s been keeping such a low profile I’m beginning to wonder if maybe old Leon is going straight. On the other hand, that would require getting a job.”

“We also heard Morris Tilley—also known as Toof—hung around with a First Nations guy. Indian name like Black Cloud.”

“Black Fly?” Clegg laughed. “There’s a few of them around these days.”

“Black Cloud. Something like that.”

“Oh, I know who you’re talking about. There was a guy named Red Bear in and out of town last year. Kind of a mystical type. Claimed to read people’s cards and all that kind of thing. A shaman—isn’t that what they’re called? I saw him a couple of months ago in Reed’s Falls with a bunch of guys—but not Leon. Anyway, I was just passing through—Reed’s Falls is OPP territory. He’s from the Red Lake reserve. Does this help at all?”

“Sure,” Cardinal said. “We don’t know anything about him at this point.”

“Sorry I can’t be of more use. I’m not really here to keep an eye on these little guys.”

“But you’ve got sources in the Riders, correct?” Cardinal said.

“I have sources who sometimes tell me things about the Riders. I think we should put it that way.”

“Well, what can you tell us about them?” Cardinal said. “We’ve got a dead Viking Rider and a dead civilian connected. We also have reason to believe someone else may soon become a victim.”

“Really? Who’s next on the hit parade?” Clegg said.

Cardinal silently cursed himself. “I just meant the killer or killers are obviously on a roll, here, and will probably kill someone else.”

Clegg thought a moment.

“Anything you can give us,” Delorme said. “The Riders aren’t talking, the junkies don’t know anything and we’re really up against it.”

“All right. This is going to raise hell a little, but I don’t think it’ll blow my sources. How about if I tell you the last place Wombat was seen alive?”