Serpents Rising. David A. Poulsen

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      “That was part of the deal.”

      “That isn’t what I asked you.”

      “I might’ve drove by a time or two, just to make sure the place was still standing.”

      Cobb laid the picture of Jay Blevins on the desk facing Sharp. “You ever see this kid? Maybe during one of your drive bys?”

      Sharp looked at the picture, picked it up and handed it back to Cobb. “Never seen him. Who is he?”

      “Missing kid we’re trying to find for his family. A kid who did some buying at the house you rented to the Smiths.”

      “Don’t know anything about that.”

      “I’m sure you don’t. Appreciate your time, Giff.”

      Sharp handed each of us one of his cards. “You ever lookin’, give me a call. I’ve got some nice condos in the southeast … nice condos. Or if you know somebody and send them my way, I usually offer a five hundred dollar incentive, but you guys, seven fifty.”

      I took the card. “Is that Sharp with an ‘e’?”

      I smiled at him as Cobb turned and led the way back outside. I fought the urge to grind the business card under my heel on the way to the door. Cobb didn’t say anything until we were back in the Jeep.

      “Sharp,” he said. “Middle name Notso.”

      “I’m not sure about that. Seems pretty savvy to me. I don’t know of many landlords pulling down that kind of revenue.”

      “Good point. By the way, nice touch with the notepad.”

      I grinned and Cobb chuckled.

      “You hungry?”

      I looked around hoping there was another option besides the donair spot a few doors down. “I am, but I’d be a whole lot hungrier if we were anywhere but here.”

      He nodded. “Got any more ideas as to where we might look for Jay Blevins or Max Levine?”

      “A couple.”

      “Good, let’s grab a sandwich somewhere and get back at it.”

      “We can do better than that — head down to Chinatown. We do dim sum and talk to a couple of guys I know. Longshots maybe, but worth trying.”

      Cobb looked at his watch.

      I said, “There’s a place that’ll get us in and out fast. One of the people I think we should talk to works right near there. The other guy won’t be hard to find. Both of them are … uh … connected.”

      Cobb nodded. “Let’s do it.”

      Twenty minutes later we had miraculously found a parking spot on 3rd Avenue just off Centre Street and were sitting at a corner table at the Peking King. The “King-King” as it’s known to the locals is one of those best kept secrets, virtually unnoticed and unknown except to the Chinese residents of the area and a few non-Asian types like me who have stumbled across it by accident.

      Cobb told me he didn’t know dim sum from chop suey so I ordered a few things I thought were conservative enough for the fledgling diner: shrimp dumplings, steamed wheat buns with pork filling, a couple of bowls of duck egg and pork congee (a kind of porridge with non-porridge-like stuff mixed in), some lotus leaf rice and, to test Cobb’s limits at least a little, a few Phoenix talons — deep fried chicken feet served in a black bean sauce.

      Cobb did well, eating at least a little of everything — he seemed to like the dumplings a lot, the congee somewhat less and, to my surprise, he went back at the Phoenix talons a second time.

      As he chewed on a wheat bun, he looked at me and nodded. “I wanted to thank you for this.”

      “I don’t need much of an excuse to come to King-King.”

      “I meant helping me look for the kid.”

      “Haven’t helped much so far. You think he’s in real danger?”

      Cobb’s shoulders moved up a couple of centimetres, then back down. “If I was a betting man, I’d lay five to two on they go after the kid. Show the world nobody fucks with them, that kind of thinking.”

      “A lesson.”

      “Something like that. These two guys you mentioned, what’s the deal with them?”

      “One of them, Jackie Chow, works down the street, runs an adult video store. Sells more than videos there. The other guy is a part-time pimp, part-time dealer. Buys and sells guns as a sideline. I only know his first name, Yik. Bigger player than Jackie Chow but not the top banana. Not a nice man, but I did him a favour once and if he’s in the mood he might tell us something interesting.”

      “Yik.”

      “Yeah, he doesn’t like it if people make humorous remarks about his name.”

      “Maybe he should change it.”

      “That would be the kind of remark I’d avoid.”

      Cobb shrugged. “What kind of favour?”

      “It was while I was doing the series on drugs in Calgary. I’d met with Yik and he’d filled me in on the coke scene — without any names, of course — in this part of the city. While we were having coffee at a place not far from here, a couple of cops came into the place wanting to be macho. They spotted Yik and thought this would be a good time to interrogate, aka hassle, him. I let them know I was a newspaper guy and then made a big deal of taking down badge numbers, descriptions, anything I could think of; I wrote down their questions as fast as they could ask them. They either got nervous or pissed off and finally stomped out of there. I didn’t think it was any big deal but Yik liked that I backed him. We’ll see if he remembers.”

      “That notebook of yours is a handy little implement.”

      “Sometimes.” I grinned.

      We finished the main course and though I recommended he try the Malay steamed sponge cake for dessert, Cobb settled for green tea. I ordered an egg tart and opted for oolong tea.

      When my dessert arrived, Cobb pointed at it, not in a good way. “What is that?” It was an accusation disguised as a question.

      “It’s called an egg tart.”

      “I know that. I heard you order it. What’s the stuff on top that looks like hay?”

      “Bird’s nest.”

      “Sure, that’s what they call it. What is it?”

      “Bird’s nest.” I tucked into it.

      “Nice.”

      He watched me eat for a while. “I haven’t asked you because I think I know the answer but did anything further come up in connection with your wife’s death? Any leads? Suspicions?”

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