First thought: Roen. Crazy. But something about the confident stride, bearing down on Harris out of a halo of light that only extinguished when the bar door finally closed. Not Roen. Of course not Roen, who was entirely dead.
Purma. In Harris’s favorite bar in Kitsilano, an unlikelihood exceeded only by how happy he was to see her. He got off his barstool and opened his arms. And they hugged for several seconds while the regulars looked on and wondered.
“Is this okay?” Purma asked. “Me being here?”
More than okay, Harris thought. It was right somehow. People did this after a loss, sought each other out and took time to reflect. Murch wouldn’t understand. But Purma did. So she pulled up a stool. And sipping wine and cranberry juice respectively, they talked. Harris heard about Purma becoming a counselor. He heard how she loved helping people. And Harris spoke about getting married and quitting the bank. About early successes and a later slow turning. A stupid affair, a messy divorce. A basement apartment in Kits, trouble with money, an uncertain future.
“But you have a new book!” Purma exclaimed.
True, Harris did.
“About what?” Purma asked.
Harris thought for a minute, then couldn’t help himself. Well, it was inspired by real life, in fact.
Purma was intrigued.
Three friends. A musician, a writer, and a lawyer. Hung out on Saturna Island back in the day but drifted apart over the years. The musician had a drug dealer friend for whom he’d been hiding money. Years later the drug dealer dies. The musician dies separately. The two surviving friends learn about it and get to wondering. Competition ensues.
Purma was leaning forward, seemingly riveted. Harris plunged on. The mutual pursuit. The island confrontation and the disappointing results. Purma stood up next to her stool and applauded.
“Maybe hold off on that,” Harris said. “I still need an ending.”
“You got it already! The money’s not there. Those two jerks get what they deserve and it’s exactly what the musician would have wanted,” Purma said.
“It is?” Harris said.
“Yeah! To put those two jackasses back into competition, like revenge from the grave.”
Harris sat back. “Revenge for what?”
“For trying to steal the money! That musician was smart. And good-looking, right? Probably slept with both the women the other two were after.”
Harris laughed tightly. Purma with great gusto. Harris wondered if he was drunk but thought either way that what had been so happy when Purma arrived now felt distinctly darker in tone.
“But what about this?” Purma said. “An alternative ending.”
“Nah, listen,” Harris responded, fumbling for his wallet, “I better go. Let me get this.”
But Purma would not be deterred. She turned to face Harris. And she told him another version of how things might have happened. The lawyer lied. He’d been in touch with the musician as soon as he heard that the drug dealer was dead. No random encounter. He’d gone and found his old friend.
“Why?” Harris asked.
“To get ahead of the writer!” Purma said, eyes bright. So the lawyer confirms with the musician that the drug dealer’s money is still there. And he heads on over to the hiding place to preemptively loot the stash. “Some biker dealer getting whacked isn’t exactly CNN news. The writer totally missed it.”
Harris didn’t remember mentioning any bike gang. But he couldn’t stop her now. “Of course, the writer finds out eventually that the dealer is dead. Only the lawyer arranges for them to both go over and discover together that the money is gone.”
Harris’s drunkenness was moderating, replaced by unwelcome clarity.
“They go over. Nothing there. Too bad. Back to their lives, only the lawyer now has a couple million in cash stashed in the basement of his house in Point Grey.”
Harris couldn’t speak.
“Clever,” Purma said.
“Yeah,” Harris managed.
“Only also really stupid.”
“And, um...” Harris stammered. “Why’s that?”
“Because bikers have associates. And those associates would go looking for the dealer’s stash after he died. First move: shake down the musician. Maybe they kill him. Maybe he kills himself. Either way, he talks. And that means second move: go find the lawyer.”
Harris’s mouth was so dry it felt welded shut. Purma watched him closely for several seconds, expression now very serious. Then she pushed her chair back and stood.
“Leaving you only one plot point remaining,” she said. “You just gotta come up with a good way to kill the lawyer.”
Which was a mental exercise Harris had invested time in already. Harris, who was in an alley by that point. In an alley lined with dumpsters, running home.
7
In his apartment, blinds drawn, lights out, trembling uncontrollably. The worst part of the cascading moment wasn’t Purma proving the transparency of his plan. It was instead the sudden clarity with which he could now remember what the man on the beach had said before hitting him. Not a cruel voice exactly. Only deeply disconnected.
“Just say the word,” the man had said. “Tell me where.”
So Purma had only missed a single detail. It was the death of the writer that remained unwritten. And there was little doubt how that would unfold. Say the word, said the professional now waiting down there among the darkened, skeletal trees. Waiting for further conversation. Different tools this time. A pipe wrapped in cloth. A short blade or pliers. Harris weeping, feeling read to the bones.
Three weeks. Purma had been exactly right about the timing. Three weeks ago that Harris had gone looking for Roen, found him on Cordova in his wheelchair, skinny as hell. But still with the glossy hair and high cheekbones. A woman at his side, beautiful. Dark eyes, coffee skin.
Another lie to add to the many. It was Roen who didn’t recognize Harris, struggling even after Harris tried to remind him. The girl kept tugging on his shoulder saying, “Roey?”
“Hey, come on,” Harris pleaded. “We all partied at that B&B on Saturna Island.”
“Saturna Island,” Roen said, looking up through his shades. “You a friend of Jimmy’s? Dude just died, man. Pretty sad.”
Sad, sure. Only maybe not for the two of them if they cooperated, which was exactly what Harris wanted to talk to Roen about, though not right there on the goddamn street, which meant they had to get themselves into a bar, which meant Roen would have to remember who Harris was.
“Roey? Roey, let’s go, baby.”
“Jimmy was a fucking rock, man. Hey, I just remembered who you are!”
Harris smiled and nodded. Finally.
“You’re the lawyer! Murch, man, put her there!” Roen thrust out a bony hand and Harris took it.
“I’m Harris,” he tried again. “We hung out with Murch. The three droogies!”
Roen’s expression was dreamy. “Murch,” he mumbled, “knew a girl named Shanny.”
“That’s the one,” Harris said, looking around for a bar.
“Roey? Roey, please.”
“Get on down to the corner,” he said to the girl. “Stay there till I come get you.”
Roen back looking up at Harris. He’d taken off his sunglasses. “I remember this other girl from back then. Black hair. Shanny and that other girl and I did it all together once. What do they say — manger a trois?”