The streetcar shuddered and pitched to the right as the passengers all rushed to one side to look out the windows. They jammed between the seats and each other, hands pressed flat against the glass, whispering 'oohs' and 'aahs' as they gaped at the spectacle.

It was a car – a full-sized, gas-powered automobile – as much a rarity on a Vancouver street as a sighting of the hottest new movie star. A full-throated growl reverberated from under the vehicle’s hood as the driver revved the engine, declaring to the world that he was burning massive quantities of precious, irreplaceable gasoline and didn’t give a damn. A sea of bicycles, scooters, and motorcycle taxis parted deferentially around it as the machine glided through the chaos.

Gripping a hand loop against the incline, Richard Hampton craned his neck and peered over the heads in front of him, following the progress of the automobile. The driver leaned on the horn as it plowed through a knot of traffic, rolling smoothly along in contrast to the clanking streetcar and coughing taxis. An old woman on a bicycle loaded down with hay wobbled into the gutter trying to swerve out of its path. A man on foot, hauling a wood-framed cart built from old automobile axles and wheels, barely had time to flip the driver a defiant finger before shoving his cart aside and diving for his life.

On the sidewalk, pedestrians lined up to gawk at the machine. In the windows of the decaying skyscrapers lining the street, shadowy faces turned in unison, like spectators at a sporting event, as they followed its advance. The automobile passed beneath a billboard plastered with the familiar red and blue logo of Can-Cartel – the giant oil company that had dominated all their lives for as long as Richard could remember.

Whoever owns that car, he thought, I’ll bet they’re connected with you guys.

An ear-splitting whine rose from behind them and a pair of ‘Mosquitoes’, as the public had nicknamed the tiny bikes the police rode, screamed through the parting traffic, sirens blaring. The bikes moved into position ahead of the silver automobile, acting as escort and controlling the crowd.

Richard heard an electrical crackle overhead and caught a whiff of ozone, and the streetcar rolled to a stop to a chorus of moaning and cursing from the passengers. It had tilted so much that the electrodes had slipped off the power lines above. As Richard continued to watch, the silver machine glided into the distance, lost again in the teeming traffic.

They were only a few blocks from his stop. As the streetcar driver hauled out the long pole to reattach the electrode, Richard pushed by the other passengers, stepped to the curb, and began the last leg of his daily journey home from a teaching job at East Vancouver Community College.

He strode past an abandoned parking lot, now crowded with cardboard and plastic shacks. This one even featured the rusted hulks of several ancient cars, abandoned long ago and probably homes for some of the dozens of people he knew would be living there. Even as he walked past, an old man shuffled into view, adjusting a ragged sheet of plastic that extended like an awning from the door of one of the wrecks.

At its far end, the lot fed into a narrow alley connecting to the street leading home. Richard passed through the gap and into the alley, scanning the shadows. The faint odour of urine and rotting cardboard lingered in the air. Down a side alley his eye caught a trace of blond that looked familiar. He stopped, peering through the geometric patchwork of light and shade, and spotted what had grabbed his attention.

Two figures stood in a beam of late afternoon sunlight half a block away, discussing something. One was almost hidden behind the corner of a cross alley – only his tattooed forearms, the curve of his gut, and a wisp of beard were visible. Opposite him stood the blond figure, and as the head turned Richard felt goose bumps rise on his skin. The profile bore a striking resemblance to the person he knew better than anyone on Earth – his younger brother, Danny.

At first he assumed it was just some other kid who, at this distance, had similar features. After all, Danny should be at school right now. All the same, Richard turned up the alley, and the scene altered in a way that dispelled any doubt – a white dog with large black spots stepped out of the shadows and stood at the blond figure’s side. It was Zonk, Danny’s dog and his constant companion. At that exact moment all three disappeared down the cross alley.

“Danny!” Richard called after them, and broke into a run. Out of breath, he reached the intersection where they’d stood. There was no sign of Danny, Zonk, or the other man. He rushed down the cross alley and into a maze of passages. Soon after starting down one of them he decided he’d chosen wrong. He backtracked and tried several others, but by then his quarry had disappeared into the dark maze of the inner city.

An hour after Richard got home, Danny walked in the front door, followed, as always, by Zonk. Richard was waiting, mentally preparing for the confrontation that would form the latest link in a chain of sorrow that stretched unbroken back to a warm summer night four years ago.

“Danny, I need to talk to you,” he said as Danny and Zonk passed by.

“I’m busy,” said Danny, heading for his room.

“Whatever you’re doing can wait.”

Danny stopped and slouched against the wall beside him.

“On my way home I saw you in an alley talking to someone,” Richard said.

Danny straightened up. “You’re crazy.”

Richard studied his brother. Danny was seventeen, almost a man. Unlike Richard, he hadn’t inherited their father’s curly black hair; his was straight and blond, like their mother’s. And he wasn’t tall and lanky like Richard, but smaller and finer-featured, like she had been.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “You were with Zonk. You promised me you weren’t going to skip school anymore.”

Danny stared at the ground.

Richard sighed. “Look, I know education isn’t valued the way it used to be, but you still need a high school diploma if you’re going to do anything with your life. Then you can at least get into some kind of trade…”

“Got better things to do than go to school,” Danny mumbled, studying the floor and shuffling his feet.

“What better things? Drugs? Gangs?”

Danny glanced up at him, and for an instant the boy’s expression was a mirror-image of their mother. Richard’s gut wrenched at the recognition. Danny seemed to sense his reaction and returned his gaze to the floor.

“You’re not leaving this house again until you tell me what’s happening,” said Richard.

Danny looked up angrily. “You’re not my father. You can’t tell me what to do.” He turned toward the door.

“I’m your legal guardian,” said Richard, grabbing at Danny’s arm. “I
can
tell you what to do – I
am
telling you what to do!” He felt himself losing control. “I made a promise to Mom…” he blurted out, and was immediately sorry.

Danny turned back and stared at him, his expression a blend of scorn and pity. Finally he jerked his arm from Richard’s grip and stormed out the door with Zonk trotting behind.

“Danny!” Richard yelled. He ran after his brother but Danny had already jumped the front fence and was half-way down the street.

“Where do you think you’re going!” Richard shouted after him.

“Anywhere!” Danny yelled behind him, and disappeared into the night.

The Search Begins

The next morning Danny still hadn’t come home. Richard checked for his bike in the rack behind the house. It was gone. He took the day off work and spent the morning contacting Danny’s teachers and the few acquaintances he knew about. There was no sign of his brother.

In the afternoon he steered his bicycle into a gravel driveway on the eastern edge of Vancouver. It led to a space surrounded by trees on three sides. The air was heavy with the scent of pine needles, and the silence was unsettling. On the south side of the property stood a sturdy wooden shed about thirty feet long and twenty wide.

The shed dwarfed the structure on the north side. The smaller structure, which more properly should be called a motor vehicle, was the home of Jim Keller, Richard and Danny’s uncle, the closest thing they’d had to a father for the past four years. Keller lived a hermit-like existence, with no phone or internet, as far from the city as possible while still close enough to come in for supplies.

Keller’s home had once been a ‘Recreational Vehicle’, or ‘RV’ as he called it. It obviously wasn’t going anywhere, even if Keller had the fuel to run it. It was up on blocks, its rusted-out wheels dangling uselessly from the frame. Richard knocked on the door and got no answer. He headed over to the shed and knocked. Keller’s face, a halo of silver hair ringing his bald head, appeared at one of the windows. He unlocked and opened the door.

Keller was in his late fifties – short and stocky, with wire-rimmed glasses he still seemed uncomfortable wearing. Despite the hint of a paunch, Keller’s physique was hard and muscular for a man his age.

“Hi there,” he said.

“I was just wondering if…” said Richard.

“Wait,” said Keller. “Come on in. You’re just in time. I’ve got something to show you.”

The window blinds were rolled up and the interior was flooded with light. The far corner of the shed formed a workshop where Keller earned his living repairing scooters and motorcycles; a few stray bikes leaned against the wall near a small bench covered with tools. The air inside was suffused with a combination of odours dominated by wood and motor oil.

In the center of the floor something massive stood, hidden by a well-worn tarpaulin.

Keller smiled and strode over to the mystery object. “My little project’s finally finished,” he said. “Ready?”

Richard nodded.

With a flourish Keller swept away the tarp.

Richard gasped. Polished chrome bumpers and mirrors, glittering in the afternoon sunlight, framed a wine-red finish so deep he could lose himself in it. Round, dinner-plate-sized tail-lights stared out like a pair of glowing eyes. A tan button-down convertible top wrapped the interior like a fine leather jacket. Standing in front of him was the largest automobile Richard had ever seen.

“Like it?” laughed Keller. Richard was speechless.

“It’s a nineteen sixty-three Ford Galaxie,” said Keller. “You’re looking at a car that’s more than a hundred years old.”

BOOK: Eldorado

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