Seaweed on the Street Read Online Free

sat on a wooden slab beside me.
    I watched the colour of his skin change from purple to red, and then it was my turn to cool off. I stepped outside onto hard-packed sand and hurried down the beach and into the waves. Fifty yards away a huge drift-log was rolling about in back eddies. More loose logs bobbed in the waves. Keeping my eyes peeled for bone-breakers almost took my mind off the north-coast water shrinking my testicles, squeezing my sphincter and giving me an ice-cream headache that started between my eyes and spread through my body like an army of ice worms. Chief Alphonse had stayed in the sea for 20 minutes; ordinary decency compelled me to stay in for at least 10.
    My sweat lodge isn’t elaborate. It’s a dirt igloo. Its skeleton is composed of arched willow wands, poked into the ground at each end and tied together where they intersect. I cover the willows with tarpaulin, shovel dirt on top, and that’s it. I heat my rocks in a firepit and when they’re hot enough I carry them inside on a shovel.
    After a short session in Esquimalt Harbour, that primitive sweat lodge seemed like heaven to me. I carried another big hot rock inside, ladled water over it and got comfortable again.
    Chief Alphonse isn’t a wordy man. We don’t have the kind of relationship that depends on words. We listened to the wind and kept quiet. Then we saw a raven hopping around near the water’s edge.
    Chief Alphonse said, “ Te spokalwets .”
    The way he spoke told me that no reply was called for.
    Te spokalwets . In Coast Salish, the words mean corpse or ghost. The old chiefs are all crazy when it comes to ravens and every time they see one, or hear one, somebody’s expected to die.
    It’s a good thing there aren’t more ravens around Victoria.

CHAPTER TWO
    The following day, a surprise awaited me at my office. The door was unlocked and a stranger in a VPD constable’s uniform was stooped over my desk, writing something in a spiral-bound notepad.
    â€œI’ll be right with you,” she said without looking up.
    After writing a few more words, she turned and raised her eyes. The name tag pinned above her breast pocket told me that her name was Halvorsen. I’d never seen her before. Her welcoming smile faded.
    As a neighbourhood cop, I try to look like a man of the people, and my people are punks, drunks and misfits. With my stubble-beard, shoulder-length black hair, plaid mackinaw jacket, caulk boots and Levis, I blend in nicely with the bums on my beat.
    Constable Halvorsen said, “What do you want?” As an afterthought she added, “Sir.”
    I said, “For a start, you can pass me my electric razor from that desk drawer.”
    She let out a little wordless grunt of realization. “Sorry,” she said as colour invaded her cheeks. “They didn’t tell me that you were big . I was expecting a … ”
    â€œA little drunk in moccasins?”
    â€œYes. I mean no … that is … ” She tried to edit the sentence into politeness and then, giving up, stared outside as if the answer might be found beyond the windows. But by the time she remembered to hand me the razor, her composure had returned. She said, “I hope you don’t mind me coming in here. I absolutely had to take a pee. Somebody lent me the key.”
    â€œEvery cop in Victoria’s got a key to this place. It’s like Grand Central Station in here at times.” I extended my hand and said, “Silas Seaweed.”
    â€œDenise Halvorsen. I’m new.”
    Denise was a good-looking woman of about 25 with short blonde hair. She wore no makeup, but while she was moving around I couldn’t help noticing her neat little waist and the shapely legs that showed above her highly polished boots.
    She said, “Your phone’s been ringing off the hook, but I didn’t think it right to answer it.”
    â€œI don’t know what’s right either,