Last of the Independents. Sam Wiebe
the breakup had found a place in the long low-ceilinged room. I put some McCoy Tyner on, cracked a beer from the mini-fridge, and sat on the corner of the bed, eating dinner and reading part of an Elmore Leonard western. The plot seemed familiar, either because I’d read it before, or I’d seen the movie, or a character in one of Leonard’s crime novels had read the book and used it for inspiration. Eventually the dog joined me, hobbling over to the stiff-bristled mat. I scrolled down my iPod from Tyner to Sam Cooke, lay on the bed, and drifted off thinking of Django James Szabo’s Missing flyer, sitting on my table in the shadow of the Loeb file.
II
Last of the Independents
Pastor Titus Flaherty had fashionably cut hair, black with a white streak that ran temple to sideburn on his right side. His teeth were widely spaced and jutted at odd angles, and when he spoke he vivisected you with enormous, soulful John Coltrane eyes.
“Cliff Szabo is a difficult person to maintain a friendship with,” he said as we crossed the parking lot in the direction of the mission.
I drank some of my London Fog. “I’m not trying to marry into his family,” I said. “Long as he’s somewhat close to sanity, I can work with him.”
The rain had abated by the time we started back from the café. The Pastor had ordered a pumpkin soy latte and a whole grain fudge bar without a hint of shame. Vancouver. Water droplets from leaky awnings hit our shoulders as we walked along Cambie Street.
Over my shirt and jeans I was wearing a tan trench coat that had been liberated by an ex-girlfriend from the wardrobe department of a local television show. Due to a romance that ended with the girl abandoning her possessions and fleeing to the Maritimes, I’d inherited the coat of the show’s tough-as-nails, murder-solving coroner. Forget that in the real world coroners don’t usually solve murders — neither do private investigators. The coat had taken a beating over the years, and I’d lost the belt, causing it to billow out unglamorously as the Pastor and I walked into a strong wind.
“I didn’t mean to imply Cliff isn’t a good-hearted person,” Pastor Flaherty said. He rolled up his sleeve and tapped the face of a large-dialed, numberless watch that looked out of place on its simple leather band. “My father’s. When it was stolen Cliff tracked it down and paid for it out of a pawn shop window. He wouldn’t let me reimburse him.”
“Almost like giving to the poor,” I said. “If he called the cops he could’ve got it back for nothing.”
“That’s what I’m getting at. Cliff can be suspicious. Truculent. Especially with agents of authority. He will scorn your help. He will make this about anything other than the matter at hand. Just bear in mind, Michael, whatever he says comes from a man dealing with unfathomable heartbreak, pain, and guilt.”
“Guilt?”
“I’ll let him tell you, if he decides.”
The mission took up both floors of the leftmost building on a block of similar-looking grey rectangles. I stood under the canopy on a walkway of crushed stone while the Pastor went inside to find Mr. Szabo. I read the list of activity groups and meetings booked into the top-floor common room for the coming week: NarcAnon, AlAnon, Overeaters Anonymous. Coping Without a Loved One met Monday afternoons excluding holidays. I flung my tea bag into the rusted ashtray mounted by the door.
Szabo came out alone. A short man, bald, with a dark beard and thick dark eyebrows. He wore a light grey polo shirt and slate grey slacks, polished black shoes, and a cheap digital watch. He glared at me for a moment.
“Mr. Szabo,” I said. He nodded. “My name’s Michael Drayton. I’m a private investigator.”
He nodded again. We’ll see.
“I understand from Pastor Flaherty your son is missing and you’re thinking of hiring someone to look for him. I’ve a certain amount of experience in this.”
“In kidnappings?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Django James wouldn’t run away. He had to have been taken.” The earnest expression on his weathered face challenged me to disagree.
“By whom?” I asked.
“If I knew that, would we be talking?”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know my own son?”
“You’re saying he was too obedient to run away?” I thought of adding, “Ever heard of puberty?”
“Django was waiting in the car,” he said, as if summoning every part of his will to remain calm. “When I came out of the pawn shop, the car was gone. You think I’m lying?”
“I don’t know you.”
Emphatic nods from Mr. Szabo. “Or my son. Just like the other vulture, Mr. McEachern, you don’t care. You’re here for your chance to pick the bones.”
“I don’t work like McEachern,” I said.
But he was on a roll now. “You smell blood in the water. You say you can help; only you need money first. You take the money and you ask questions. You get things wrong, you don’t listen. Then you don’t find him and you say, sorry, I have other ideas but they cost more money.”
He paused and lit an American cigarette. It smelled harsh and good in the morning air.
“Do you know what I do for a living, Mr. Drayton?”
I shook my head.
“I buy and sell. Gold, electronics, bicycles, anything. I buy for cheap, fix and clean, sell for more. I support my family on this. You think that’s easy?”
“Couldn’t be,” I said.
“Damn right. I pay attention and I have an eye for scams. I know the difference between gold and gold-plated, between an American Stratocaster and a Korean. I’ve seen every fraud. I even pulled off some, when I was younger.” He sucked on his smoke and stared at me through a yellow cloud. “But I never made money off a missing child.”
“Your mind’s made up,” I said. The cigarette smoke had awakened old urges. I downed the cold dregs of my drink and placed the cup in the ashtray.
“You people exploit grief for money. You sell false hope. I can’t believe I let Mr. McEachern convince me to trust him. You people are all smiles while the wallet is full.”
“I’ve heard about enough,” I said. “I didn’t take your kid and I’m not after your fortune. If you manage to swallow that wad of self-righteous bile lodged in your throat, you can find me in the corner office on Beckett and Hastings. Mira Das with the VPD will vouch for me.”
I took out one of my business cards and tried to hand it to him. He made no move to take it. I set it on the edge of the ashtray. The card gave my address and company name in bold, and in cursive the motto Last of the Independents. Katherine had insisted the old cards looked too plain. Szabo stared down at the card but didn’t move.
Before I left I added, “Whether I hear from you or not, I hope you find your son.”
I crossed the street, leaving him there, feeling bad about letting down the Pastor, but not that bad. There was nothing else to be done. Clifford Szabo needed angelic intervention, not a PI.
Instead of going to the office I went home. Self-employment has its privileges. I made a chicken sandwich and sat on the back porch, eating and reading and every so often tossing a grey tennis ball across the overgrown yard. My dog limped after the ball and dutifully retrieved it, less enthusiastic about the game than I was.
It had been two weeks since the diagnosis. Cancer of the lymph nodes. Before that she’d had laboured breathing and the odd rectal discharge. Physically, she looked deflated, as if someone had let a third of the air out of her. I had a talk with a very nice vet who recommended treatment to postpone the end. I said of course, how