Seaweed on the Street Read Online Free Page A

half the time. This office is a very dubious exercise in social engineering.”
    â€œYes, that’s what I’ve been told,” Halvorsen said.
    As she was going out I said, “Come back any time.”
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    In the café next door, Lou was frying eggs and bacon. Two com-missionaires in blue uniforms lurked in a corner, resting up before another onslaught on Victoria’s dangerous parking violators. Three pipefitters slumped in a booth, unshaven, red-eyed and drinking coffee. They had been partying all night and soon it would be time to clock in at the dockyard.
    Lou is a small angry man with a Mexican-bandit moustache. I think he’s bald, but I’ve never seen him without a hat. Lou saw me come in and banged his fist on the counter, saying, “What we gonna do about Iraq?”
    I helped myself to coffee. “Bush and Rummy are taking care of it. Everything’s under complete control.”
    â€œBuncha nonsense,” said Lou, flipping eggs on his grill. “What’ll it be?”
    â€œBacon and eggs with everything.”
    Lou stroked his bushy moustache. “This Iraq deal. It reminds me of the time when I was in the mountains with Tito.”
    â€œGeneral Tito made a big impression on you, then?”
    â€œHe was a great man!” Lou said, puffing out his chest and staring at me with his nostrils flaring.
    â€œTito was a street fighter who got lucky,” I teased.
    Lou turned back to the grill and spoke over his shoulder as he cracked eggs. “Tito was a tactical genius.”
    I said, “ Rommel was a tactical genius. Tito was a brigand.”
    Lou grinned. “You can’t fool me, pal. You’re just tryin’a get me going. But listen. Tito was something. Guy about my height, looked like my brother. He’d a’ known what to do with them Iraqis.”
    I said, “Oh, yeah? What would he do?”
    â€œHe’d ship some of you Salishes and a bunch of Quebec Mohawks out there,” said Lou, doubling over with mirth. “Let you bastards fight it out.”
    Lou turned and shouted, “Come and get it, you guys!”
    The yawning pipefitters collected their breakfasts.
    I tried to think about Jimmy Scow, until a young Native street kid — wearing a cheap dress intended to reveal as much tit and crotch as possible without getting arrested — weaved her way out of an alley and leaned against a wall across the street. Spaced out on crack cocaine or crystal meth, another little money-maker for somebody like Alex Cal, I figured she had a life expectancy of about two years. It was enough to put me off my food. No wonder I hate pimps and pushers.
    I went back to my office and checked my answering machine. Iris Naylor had telephoned several times without leaving any definite message. When I returned her call she said, “It’s about last night and that Scow business. Do you think you could possibly come over here again? Mr. Hunt is anxious to talk to you.”
    I was anxious to talk to Hunt as well.
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    Along Foul Bay Road, roomy old houses stood behind high granite walls and cedar hedges. Oak trees swayed their lofty crowns in a light summer breeze. Fallen leaves, picked up in my car’s wake, did a brief dance before resettling. I drove past Runnymede Avenue and turned in to a long driveway bordered by banks of flowering shrubs. An elderly Chinese gardener was steering a self-powered mower around ornamental cherry trees and willows and flower beds. The driveway curved up to Calvert Hunt’s mansion. Seen in broad daylight, Ribblesdale looked the same as it had five years previously — when Jimmy Scow went down for Harry Cunliffe’s murder.
    I parked my Chevy alongside a red Mercedes 280 coupe. Instead of going up to the front door I wandered around for a bit. Ribblesdale stood in at least six acres of prime Victoria real estate. There was a tennis court and a