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  So, he said, "How much do you want?"

  "I don't want anything—just the photos."

  Rann tried again, "I'll give you half of what the realtor pays me."

  Chendrill stared down at the East Indian with blood running from his nose and leaking onto his nice silk shirt. The guy was holding his ankle, deciding whether to pull whatever he had hidden in his sock.

  Then Chendrill said, "We can sort it out now. You take me to where the photos are and hand them over and we put this behind us or I take whatever you've got hidden in your sock away then I start to kick the shit out of you until I leave you for dead. If you die, you die and if you live, you live. But if you survive, you'll still owe me the photos, so we'll be back to square one when you get out of the hospital. So, what'll it be?”

  Rann stared up at the big guy whose ribs were hurting and said, "I'm connected."

  "Not now you’re not. Right now, you’re connected to the shit house floor."

  Chendrill stared at the guy with the turban and the accent that didn't fit. Chances are he had connections in one of the Asian gangs that ran out of Surrey on the border with the U.S. They dealt in drugs and sold guns and occasionally got themselves shot. But he'd been threatened with worse. So, he said, "So it's make your mind up time, either you can give me the photos today or you can start thinking about not playing cricket on the weekend. "

  "Okay!" the East Indian suddenly said and began to get up. "I have them here, you win."

  And then as he reached his feet, he came at Chendrill. Quickly batting Rann’s fist away to his side, Chendrill swung out with his free hand, catching the East Indian with his fist in the side of his head, sending Rann hard against the wall and a searing pain ripping through Chendrill’s ribs.

  They both stood there staring at each other—the East Indian with his turban wonky on his head, his eyes smiling, pointing right in Chendrill’s direction. The East Indian now speaking in a voice which sounded like he was enjoying himself and just getting started, whispering back to Chendrill in his coarse London accent as he lifted his leg and pulled the knife out from his sock.

  "I'm the ones who's gunna leave you for dead now, you cunt."

  Fuck me, what a way to go, Chendrill thought, dead on the floor of the shitter in Starbucks. He could think of better ways—like having a massive heart attack in the middle of the night pounding some beautiful woman after a night out eating too much food in a restaurant someplace.

  He stared at the knife, long and curved, almost ornamental. It was the second time he'd seen one like it in the past week, this one smaller.

  Then he said, "What is it with you guys and these fucking knives?"

  And the East Indian answered, "Tell the realtor he's got a week and if I see you, this'll be sticking in the stomach of you or anyone else who comes near me in a stupid shirt like that."

  Chapter Seven

  What was wrong with my camo Hawaiian? Chendrill thought about the shirt he liked to use for surveillance work as he sat himself down in the coffee shop and he held his ribs, wondering also how strange it was to have had two fights in one week. Fuck, his ribs hurt.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the wallet he’d lifted from the East Indian just as he'd head butted him and sent him flying back into the toilet stall.

  Rann Singh

  17a – 199, 2022st

  Surrey, BC

  Well that was pretty easy, he thought. He had his licence now and the hole the East Indian Londoner was digging himself was getting bigger. It wouldn't be long before the guy would be calling to get it back.

  Patrick drove through the busy streets of Vancouver cringing every time he saw his face on the back of a bus. Shit, what an idiot he looked. If ever there was time for change, it was now. Yes, he’d still sell places, but only up until he didn’t need to do it any longer, which was in reality right now with the amount of money he had stashed away after selling real estate for the last thirty years, hedging his bets and winning as the highs and lows came and went.

  He reached the outside of Sebastian’s place and parked the Beamer, rode the elevator all the way to the 22nd floor, stepping out with a bing onto a door mat that said welcome and looked odd sitting so high up, parked on the most beautiful parqueted flooring he’d ever seen. The first one to greet him when the door opened was the dog, then looking up he heard Sebastian.

  “Patrick, oh darling what have you been up to?”

  Patrick thought about it. Well, he was being blackmailed and he’d been sent on a train ride along with all the little people and handed over a bag with exactly $100,000 of money that was only good in a mystical country where Patrick was king. On top of that, on the way back, he’d had an identity crisis. Then he’d gone and seen a whore, one he’d started to get to know since his last one had been attacked and couldn’t walk anymore and this new one, she’d done to him exactly the same things that he was being blackmailed about in the first place. So, he answered, “Not much really, you?” as Sebastian came towards him holding out one hand and grabbing his.

  “Oh well, Patrick where do I start?

  ******

  They sat down to dinner at a table by the window which looked out across the bay, the room larger than was necessary but still cozy with its hardwood floors stylishly covered in places by handmade Moroccan rugs, their intricately woven work barely visible in the dim light. Sebastian at the foot of the table, Sebastian’s business partner Mazzi Hegan at the other end with his tightly cut blonde hair with highlights, and Patrick in the middle.

  “I called Chuck, but he said he was busy. I called Marsha and her assistant Buffy. She was in L.A., but said she would take a jet up anyway, then she called to cancel when she found out Dan wasn’t going to show,” Sebastian said, as he brought in a plate of freshly seared Bluefin Tuna and started putting it on the other two’s matching plates.

  “I’m glad on all counts, I can do without the drama from that slut,” said Mazzi. “And tell me why oh why would I want to sit here with Chendrill and risk getting a seizure looking at his shirt?”

  Sebastian took a deep breath.

  “Because he’s a friend of mine and Patrick’s told me he’s hiring him himself to look into a little personal matter he’s got going on.”

  Good luck to them both, Mazzi Hegan thought as he discreetly moved the pieces of parsley from the Tuna with his fork. They both don’t know how to dress, so they should both get along great. They could hang out downtown and make anyone with a bit of style puke. Then he said, “I thought that guy who’s driving my car works for us.”

  “Me,” Sebastian answered, “I pay him out of my own money. He works for me and if Patrick needs a hand with something, then he’s going to get nothing less than the best.”

  Best what? Best guy who finds dogs? Hegan thought as he heard his business partner continue, “After all, you needed to find Dan after you’d broken his nose and he found him.”

  He had done that indeed, Hegan thought; he’d found the guy who was about to make him world famous after he’d snapped the shots that were being shown worldwide when Hegan had come home late one night and found Dan sleeping in his bed like Goldilocks in silver ginch. But nonetheless, he still said, “Well don’t give him that much credit. I’m sure it wasn’t that difficult.”

  Then he heard Sebastian say, “And he found Fluffy.”

  Hegan closed his eyes, fuck me, here we go again about the dog.

  “Patrick, I lost Fluffy and called Chuck straight up, cold-called him right out of the phone book and an hour later, he was back.”

  Patrick nodded saying, “Yes, Chuck’s the best.”

  Fuck me, Hegan thought, looking to the clock. He could be at some club now down on Davie hitting on young guy ass like he liked to, giving a guy a line, like ‘you look good—but you’d look better sucking my dick…’ He stared at Patrick, the realtor, thinking, this guy’s probably never done a kinky thing in his life. Straight guys were like that, just stuck it in the slippery f
ish pie and pumped. He’s probably never had anything except some prostate-obsessed doctor’s finger up there in his life and I bet when he did, he moaned about it for weeks to his wife. Fuck, the guy was a walking advertisement for a realtor if he’d ever seen one—with his loafers and nicely pressed shirt and cufflinks. And Jesus, he was sick of seeing the guy’s face on the back of buses, let alone having to stare and talk about him now over dinner—especially when all Mazzi wanted to do was talk about himself and how good his photos were. The next thing Sebastian was going to say to him no doubt was that the creep needed a makeover and he was the guy to do it.

  Any minute now, they’d say it, he knew it, he could feel it coming closer with every mouthful of overcooked Tuna he took.

  Then Sebastian said, “Patrick’s looking for a new look, Mazzi. Have you got any suggestions?”

  Yeah why don’t you go fuck off and shoot yourself and do us all a favor, Mazzi Hegan thought as he stared at Patrick and said, “Well, you can lose the sweater for a start. Then we can talk.”

  “I think he looks cool in it, Mazzi, don’t you think?”

  Sebastian was a nice man, Hegan thought. As much as he hated his partner sometimes, the guy was good, better than himself, and he knew it. The man could see shit for what it was, but would never ever say so. So, taking his partner’s lead, he said, “I don’t mean it’s not cool, because it’s cool, realtor cool. If you’re looking for a new look, then bring in a stylist first. Dee will do it, she’s got an eye; she’ll get you looking sharp.”

  Sebastian smiled, then said, “Patrick’s already sharp—he just thinks it’s time for a change. I was thinking the same thing, but I’d like you to help. You know, take some photos, Mazzi.”

  Fuck—Mazzi thought, he knew it, there he was on the verge of being an international sensation and wham he was back making idiots look good, which was basically his job, he knew that. But this idiot, the guy with the teeth, he was something different. He stared at him now, this realtor who sold condos all over town and made sure everyone knew his face. Once, years back, he’d fucked a guy and found a picture of Patrick taken from the paper under the bed. The fucking weirdo, whacking off to him no doubt. Mazzi couldn’t imagine it, he’d rather puke gagging on a horse. He gave Sebastian a look, then smiled at Patrick. It was going to be a challenge—the multi-colored cashmere sweater with diamonds across the chest really had to go.

  Chapter Eight

  Rann Singh stood in front of his bathroom mirror and looked at the bruise on the bridge of his nose. An inch lower and the prick would have broken it. Why can’t people just let him get on with his business? He and the realtor had an agreement and as far as he was concerned, the deal was done. Now he had to deal with this prick.

  He still had the bag, which he’d have to burn somehow. If they were found, the notes with Patrick’s stupid grin on the front instead of the Queen’s would find their way to the cops, and then they would find their way to Patrick, who would explain why and then, ultimately, Rann would have more on his plate than a guy with a bad shirt.

  He looked at his own, leaning his chin down, feeling the weight of his turban pulling his head forward. It wasn’t ruined, but it would need to be dry cleaned now—and the fucker had nicked his wallet.

  Things were not going smoothly.

  He straightened himself up, pulled off his shirt, and stood there looking at himself in the mirror, then he walked to the living room and picked up the phone.

  Thirty seconds later, Chendrill answered and Rann heard himself say, “I need my wallet.”

  “I need the photos.”

  “Maybe I’ll call the police and have you charged with assault.”

  “Maybe I’ll call the police and have you thrown out of the country.”

  Rann stayed silent for a second, thinking, the realtor owed him $100,000 and that was that. This guy was getting irritating. Then he heard Chendrill say, “I don’t want to have to come out to Surrey—drop the photos off for me downtown and if I never hear of you again, you’ll be a better man for it.”

  “Maybe I’ll start looking at what Charles Chuck Chendrill does in his personal life and see then if you’re still such a cocky cunt.”

  “Do as you will.”

  “I know you work for Slave International.”

  Fuck me, Chendrill thought as he sat on the other end of the line, how the hell did he know that?

  “Maybe I’ll go digging around there as well, tell them you sent me.”

  “Maybe I’ll come over there and get on with what I should have finished in that washroom.”

  Then Rann said, “Listen Mr. PI, we both know you’re full of shit. I need my wallet, you need the photos. The realtor agreed to pay money for the photos. I’m doing him a favor by not letting them circulate and I can get another licence within a week. It’s just easier if you give it back. If you don’t want to, then go fuck yourself, I’ll start circulating the photos.”

  And with that, he did. He sent the first one straight to Chendrill’s email, the second he sent to the receptionist at Slave, and then sent another note to Chendrill that said, ‘Don’t fuck with me.’

  The guy with the turban was becoming troublesome.

  ******

  About an hour later, Chendrill received an emergency call from Sebastian who said, “Chuck, I’m really shocked. I think I need you to come over and see something.”

  And half an hour later, he was there, sitting in the boardroom staring at the projector screen with Sebastian and Sebastian’s dog and Mazzi Hegan grinning, saying, “Well it’s not quite the makeover I was expecting, but at least things are improving.”

  Then Sebastian turned off the screen and, still sitting in the darkness, looked to Chendrill and said, “Is this the problem you’re dealing with?”

  Chendrill stayed silent and switched on the lights as Sebastian followed him with his eyes.

  “The poor man, he must be so embarrassed.”

  Chendrill just shrugged and said, “I’m sure he will be if they keep coming out.”

  “He’s commissioned us for his new campaign.”

  “Why, what’s wrong with the one he’s running?”

  Mazzi Hegan looked at Chendrill, thinking, What’s wrong with your shirt? Mr. Big, standing there all tall and toned wearing a Hawaiian like he always did. Mazzi almost said, ‘If you don’t know the answer to your own question, start looking in the mirror.’ He was tough, though, in a butch kind of way, which was sexy in itself—but for fuck’s sake, get rid of the shirts. But who was he to judge, he thought, only last night he’d felt the same about Patrick, pulling him apart in his mind as he’d pretended to like the food at Sebastian’s, and now look at him, this square realtor, taking it like a man, even if it was some slut delivering the goods. He said, “Same as the guy’s clothes—it’s out of date.”

  Chendrill looked to the Swede with the frosted tips in his hair and silver pants.

  “Really?”

  Mazzi Hegan stared right at him, saying, “Yeah—really.” They didn’t get along and never would, not as long as Sebastian was letting him use his car, which in fact he hadn’t seen for a few days. Then picking up on what Mazzi was really pissed about, Sebastian interrupted, “Chuck looks good in the Ferrari, Mazzi; besides you can’t park.”

  Mazzi took a deep breath and knowing it was useless to carry on, gave up. Sebastian was right; he’d been having parking issues for some time now and his calling out the company chauffer at all hours to do it for him had caught up with him.

  Then Sebastian asked, “Has this creepy guy you’re dealing with got anything like this on anyone else?”

  Chendrill looked automatically to Hegan, who answered, “Who hasn’t got shit like that on me, I mean come on? I’m hot!”

  Chendrill closed his eyes, the skinny prick looking like something out of ABBA, then opening them again said, “I don’t think so.”

  “What about Dan?”

  “No, this is nothing to do with anyone but Patri
ck and for some reason it’s spilled over onto you guys because somehow it’s leaked out that I’m contracted here.”

  To which Sebastian replied, “Oh it’s not leaked anywhere Chuck, I’ve added you to our website.”

  ******

  Charles Chuck Chendrill sat in the back of a taxi as it cruised around the dirty back roads of Vancouver’s East Side. He needed the Ferrari back if he was going to have to drive down to Surrey to sort out this fucker with the turban and the accent that didn’t fit.

  Sebastian was right, Chendrill was there in the center of things on Slave Media’s website—directly under the heading ‘Security’ for fuck’s sake—but for a grand a day plus expenses and a retainer, he’d deal with it—even if it had only been there a few days and it was already causing issues.

  The taxi turned a corner again and came out onto the main road off McGill St.

  A tow truck would be along pretty soon, he knew it. Their yard was just up the road and just after three o’clock, the traffic constrictions changed downtown and all the vultures would be flying back and forth feeding off the people with real jobs.

  They carried along as Chendrill adjusted himself in his seat. It had been at least ten days since he’d taken one in the ribs from the guy from the bakery and although it was now half as bad as it was, they still hurt.

  He needed to go see Dan, he thought, most of all he needed to see Dan’s mother—sexy with her blonde hair and tight little frame. Dan had been quiet, too quiet really for a guy who’d hit the world stage running. Everywhere he looked now he saw him, posters, magazines with him standing next to the supermodel Marsha crying and looking a mess. It was a funny world.

  Then he saw him in the distance driving the tow truck, dragging behind some poor mother’s family van with blackened out windows behind, the alarm still going, his arm out the window with its tattoos all faded and stretched as his body gained weight. His big sovereign rings now permanently attached to his porky fingers like a young tree moving onwards and up, passing through and smothering its support with its bark.