The Vanishing Track (7 page)

Denman finished his breakfast and cleared his dishes away. He looked at the clock on the stove in the neat, orderly kitchen. It was just after seven. He took his jean jacket from the hall closet, put on a comfortable pair of leather shoes, donned his flat cap, and slinging his computer bag over his shoulder, headed out into the morning. He walked west to Main Street, then turned north along the rejuvenated main artery of the old city, heading toward downtown. Most mornings he would stop and catch the #3 somewhere along the way, but this morning he decided to walk the entire distance. He needed the time to contemplate the day ahead, and the complex challenges that he might face.

There were many. It seemed to him that John Andrews was
inviting
a confrontation with the End Poverty Now Coalition. In a little over six hours—Denman looked at his watch—little old ladies and mothers with kids in strollers and small businessmen would be gathering in Pigeon Park to hear a speech or two, sing a few protest songs, and march five or six blocks into the Downtown Eastside as a show of support for the work being done there to solve homelessness and end poverty.

It wasn't news to Denman that the more radical elements of the anti-poverty movement thought that peaceful marches did little to solve the problem. He had become a lawyer and started Priority because the mainstream groups working on homelessness had fallen into a trap of complacency. Denman used the law to address homelessness the way he applied aikido in a confrontation with a street thug: use as little force necessary to get the job done, and try to make sure nobody gets hurt.

The skyline of downtown Vancouver came into view. He considered his next challenge: what Juliet Rose had told him over lunch the previous day.

Juliet believed that people were disappearing from the Downtown Eastside. There hadn't been anything about it in the media, but if Juliet said that people were disappearing, then people were disappearing. For the last eight years, she had been one of a handful of people who knew just about everybody who made the streets of Vancouver their home. She had the best information around; the
VPD
often turned to her when they received a call from a family member claiming that someone had disappeared.

Juliet not only kept tabs on her flock, but she had a network of people she could check in with just by picking up the phone. Primary among those was the Welfare office; you want to find someone living on the street, thought Denman, find out where they are picking up their check. Juliet had told Denman that she knew of two people who were missing—two people whose routines she had known for months, if not years. Two people who, in the space of a few weeks, had suddenly stopped doing what habit and convenience had dictated they do for years.

Denman couldn't help but wonder if there would be more. He would have to raise the issue with the
VPD
. He thought about the man in charge. Divisional Commander Andrews was forty-five, and had risen quickly through the ranks of the police force. He had a reputation as a hard-ass, a “get the job done no matter what it takes” sort of man. That meant cracking skulls if need be. And for Andrews, that need seemed ever present. It was a doctrine that got passed down from the Divisional Commander's office to the beat cop on the street.

People were disappearing. And people were being harassed and assaulted by police. Denman's office had more than a dozen cases of complaints filed with the Police Commissioner against officers in the Downtown Eastside for harassment, wrongful arrest, and assault. Was it possible that an officer had gone too far? Had someone on the force taken John Andrews' “kick ass and take names” attitude
two
steps over the line?

As he made his way toward his office, the doomed façade of the Lucky Strike came into view. Denman now remembered his third interrelated challenge: Cole Blackwater.

THE LONG WALK
meant that Denman reached his office later than usual, although still early enough to wake the three men who were sleeping on the front step. Denman offered them coffee and made a few calls to try and arrange rooms for them at one of the nearby
SRO
s. One man needed to have a gash on his left hand attended to, so Denman called him a cab and phoned ahead to a nearby twenty-four-hour medical clinic.

That daily routine finished, he sat down in the tiny room that was his office, turned on his computer, and checked for messages on his phone. Today, Denman told himself, he would focus exclusively on the rally and on the disappearances. He scribbled a plan of action on a legal pad with a stubby pencil. He was about to pick up the phone to start making calls when it rang.

“Priority. Denman here.”

“Denman, this is Trish Perry from the City calling.”

“Good morning, Trish. You're up bright and early. How are things at City Hall this morning?”

“Pretty good.”

“You're taking a bit of a chance calling me
this
morning of all mornings, aren't you?”

Her laugh was girlish. “I guess I am. I'm on my cell phone in the garden behind City Hall.”

“Really?”

“No, not really. Well, I
am
on my cell phone. Until you and the mayor make nice, I've got to be careful. Look, I'm calling you with a heads-up. A courtesy call, really. Verbal brown envelope.”

“What is it, Trish?”

“The Lucky Strike sale is going to close today.” Denman was silent. “You there?”

“You know, it's funny. I must have had some kind of premonition about that. I just walked by it this morning on my way into the office.”

“Yeah, well, the sale has been in the works for a month or so. It's closing today.”

“Frank Ainsworth?”

“Yup.”

“Evictions?”

“Afraid so.”

“How long?”

“People will get forty-eight hours.”

“You're kidding.”

“It's better than two hours.”

“Not by much, Trish.”

“What do you want me to do, Denman? The new owner is exercising his right to evict and make renovations. Like I said, this is just a courtesy call.”

“Okay. Well, thanks. I don't mean to be pissed at you. But this is going to hurt a lot of people. And the timing couldn't be worse.”

“I know. I've already had Andrews on the phone this morning. He's calling out the riot squad.”

“Good God.” Denman put his bald head in his left hand, his right hand cradling the phone. “Okay, well, I've got to go. It's going to be a busy day.”

WITHIN AN HOUR
twenty people were assembled in Priority Legal's windowless boardroom.

Denman stood at the front of the room, a whiteboard behind him, dry-erase marker in his hand. “We'll coordinate the legal challenge,” he said loudly over the three or four other conversations taking place around him. “Patrick Blade—” he acknowledged one of the lawyers in the room with a nod “—will be leading our response.”

“I'm heading over to the Lucky Strike in about fifteen minutes to start collecting affidavits. If anybody wants to hop a ride, be out front in ten. There's going to be a lot of upset people,” said Blade. “If the Advocacy Society can spare a few bodies, that would be helpful.”

“I'll make a call,” responded Beatta Nowak, her dress billowing around her voluminous body as she rose. “They'll likely meet you there.”

“Does anybody here have access to the people at End Poverty Now?” asked Denman.

“I do,” said a young woman at the back of the room.

“I'm sorry,” said Denman, “We've not met. Lots of people coming and going this morning.”

“I'm Francine Lanqois. I'm working at the Carnegie Centre as an outreach worker.”

“Francine, are you able to contact the Coalition and ask them if there is any way of dialing things down today? With this news breaking, I'm worried about the police response.”

“I can try. They seem to keep their own counsel.”

Denman smiled. “I'd be happy to talk with George Blunt if need be. I don't know if he's still the ringleader over there.”

“He is and he isn't,” said Francine. “Some of the younger members of the Coalition are trying to push him out. Not radical enough.”

“Denman, I just got off with some of my people.” Nowak shut her phone. “We'll have some folks meet Patrick over at the hotel in about twenty minutes. We'll coordinate the effort to find new housing from our office.”

“Great.” Denman looked down at his notes.

The room started to break up.

“Listen, folks,” Denman called out over the chaos. “This is going to be a long day. Let's just remember that if it's a long day for us, it's going to be even longer for the residents of the Lucky Strike. Those people won't be able to go home for a hot shower and a cold beer after they've put their day in. So let's keep them in mind. My staff, if you want to take time this afternoon for the rally, that's cool. But if the Coalition shows up, your job is to document and steer clear. No doubt we're going to be getting calls about police brutality and what have you. Take your cameras and keep your eyes open.”

People began to leave and Denman sat down. He heard his name and looked up, then smiled.

“Juliet.” She was standing at the door.

“I heard the news on the radio. I thought I'd walk over and see how you were doing.”

“I'm fine.
I've
got a place to sleep tonight.”

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

Denman looked around him as the boardroom emptied.

“It's going to be a long day, Denny. Come on.” She motioned with her head toward the door. “Hard to say no to a girl with an orange backpack.”

IT WASN'T A
Starbucks kind of neighborhood; wrong demographic. They sat in a small, brightly lit Chinese café and drank drip coffee from porcelain cups.

“This is our worst nightmare come true,” she said.

“By tomorrow there are going to be hundreds of people on the street, frightened and desperate. Between now and then Beatta's people at the Community Advocacy Society should be able to find temporary housing for maybe fifty of them. Sixty if we're lucky. But you're right, it's a nightmare.”

“I'm going to have to do a new round of night inventories next week,” Juliet pointed out.

“No rest for the wicked.”

“Yeah, but it's necessary with all the changes that are occurring. I need to keep track—”

“Of your flock?” grinned Denman.

“I was going to say, of my charges.”

“Same thing.”

“Up at midnight for breakfast, then walk, wake, and talk till 8:00
AM
.”

“One night's not going to do it.”

“You're probably right. Want to come along for a night?”

“Is that your idea of a date?”

It was Juliet's turn to smile. “I'm an old-fashioned girl.”

“We'll see. If I get any sleep between now and then, I'd love to.”

“Invitation is always open.”

They sipped their coffee, a calm pool around them in the storm of the day.

“I'm going to call Cole,” said Denman.

“Good,” said Juliet. “You know, I still haven't met the famous Cole Blackwater.”

“I can't believe that!”

“It's true. But his reputation precedes him.”

Denman smiled. “Cole is a professional pain in the ass, which if you're the mayor, or a developer, means trouble. A smart guy to have at the table when you're trying to figure out how to stop things. I think if you asked Cole, that's what he'd say. ‘I stop things,'” Denman said in his best Cole Blackwater, southern Alberta drawl. Juliet laughed. Denman smiled at her.

She stopped. “What are you smiling at?”

“It's just that I love it when you laugh.”

Her smile faded. “Let's just see if anybody is laughing tomorrow morning.”

COLE STEPPED FROM THE SKYTRAIN
at Stadium and made his way down Beatty Street toward the old
Vancouver Sun
building. He plodded toward Pender, his thoughts dark and distracted. His cell phone rang as he reached the steps of the Dominion Building, which housed the humble headquarters of Blackwater Strategies.

“Blackwater.”

“It's Denman, Cole. How you doing this
AM
?”

“Hey, Denny. I'm good. How about you? I heard you on the radio this morning. Another one bites the dust.”

“Yeah, it's a biggy.”

“It's funny, you and I were just there the other day. Bad timing,” said Cole. He sat down on the steps.

“Listen, Cole, I could use your help right now,” said Denman.

“What do you need?”

“I've got a perfect storm on the horizon. I've got Captain Condo choosing today to close the sale on the Lucky Strike, a march this afternoon to highlight police brutality in the city, and the End Poverty Now Coalition ready to start burning tires in the street. All the elements of a disaster.”

“I can't stop a riot, Denny.”

“No, but you can spin it and help us figure out how to salvage the opinion of the mainstream voter in this city, after they see pictures of kids throwing rocks at riot police on their televisions later today.”

“Okay, I'll check in with Mary and walk over to your office. Be about an hour.”

“Cole, there's one more thing.”

“What is it?”

“Well, I don't want to sound alarmist. Juliet Rose, you know the street nurse? She came to me the other day with a story that I think has a lot of credibility.”

“What is it, Denny?”

“People are disappearing, Cole.”

MARY PATTERSON HAD
been in the office for two hours when Cole arrived at ten.

“Good morning, Mr. Sleepyhead,”

“Morning, Mary.”

“You look like you were awake most of the night again.”