Submissions sought. Get fresh eyes on your opening page. Submission directions below.
The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.
Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.
What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.
Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this checklist of first-page ingredients from my book, Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling.
Donald Maass,, literary agent and author of many books on writing, says, “Independent editor Ray Rhamey’s first-page checklist is an excellent yardstick for measuring what makes openings interesting.”
A First-page Checklist
- It begins to engage the reader with the character
- Something is wrong/goes wrong or challenges the character
- The character desires something.
- The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.
- There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.
- It happens in the NOW of the story.
- Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.
- Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.
- The one thing it must do: raise a story question.
Rick sends the prologue and first chapter of Handprints. Here are the first 17 lines of the prologue, followed by a poll, followed by the first chapter, followed by a poll. The rest of the narrative after the prologue first page follows the break so you can turn the page.
Prologue
On a high, gently rolling plateau in northern Canada, where blizzards sweeping down from unnamed mountains drop two feet of snow overnight, little grows above the tree line. But a few plant species have adapted superbly on the gale swept ridges. White dyras with tiny cream coloured petals take shelter on rough talus slopes. And wiry bluebells with bell shaped flowers withstand even the most violent gales.
Further down the mountain in the cool sub-alpine forest dwarf blueberry bushes thrive from July through September. Sweet clumps of these edible blueberries were what the sow black bear was searching for when she emerged from a stand of Mountain Hemlock at the edge of an alpine meadow. In the rock-strewn open country, free from danger, the black bear and her two cubs had grazed continuously. But here on the lower slopes she stopped, raised her muzzle and tested a shift in the breeze. This was her instinctive way of sensing if the meadow was safe. Satisfied, she was about to take her first step onto the spongy grasses when a subtle shift in the wind buffeting the edge of the meadow brought something putrid to her senses. She froze. The smell of rotten meat usually signalled a meal. But there was something else on the wind. A sound. To human ears the sharp metallic click might have been the door of a pickup truck closing or a boot step dislodging a flurry of stones down a scree slope. But to a sow black bear with cubs the sound was unknown and an instant cause for alarm. She had good reason to be concerned.
Chapter 1
Surging down Gore Avenue, wildlife officer, Andrew Conners knew life on Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside didn’t get any worse than what went on inside the Ah Sun Hotel. Back in his small wood paneled office he had glared at the inventoried photograph of the poached black bear and the two foot long ruby coloured knife cut slicing upwards through the bear’s abdomen. Fear consumed him. There was only one man capable of that kind of atrocity. The same man that ruined his life. Leaning backwards, Conners kneed the front door open and almost fell into the lobby. The spring loaded door clanged shut behind him.
The keynote speech Conners delivered to hunting guides, big game outfitters and wildlife traders about the imminent threat from poaching had fallen on deaf ears.
“Beware,” the two well-dressed Asians warned. “We don’t have many black bears left. You do and we’re going to come here looking for them.”
If poaching interests in Seoul gain control of the pipeline for black bear gall bladders from Vancouver before China takes over Hong Kong an entire species will be lost.
Conners had crossed the floor of his office and gripped a piece of paper from the top of a filing cabinet. He drew his finger down the sheet until he saw the name of the Skid Row hotel where the dealers lived and sank back down at his desk. Running his fingers tiredly through his chestnut brown hair Conner’s eyes fell back on the photograph of the mutilated bear. There was (snip)
There was engaging description in the opening of the prologue, giving a nice feel of the natural environment. But is this a compelling scene? It feels more like a non-fiction report than a dramatic narrative—we’re being told a lot, not shown. And there was a glitch in the description—at one point, it suggests that a boot step dislodging stones would produce a metallic click, and I don’t see how that’s accurate. For my money, the scene would have been much more powerful if it had been told from within the bear’s point of view. They are intelligent creatures, and there’s no reason to think that they don’t have emotions as well as coherent thoughts about what’s going on in the environment. While there is a hint of a story question when we’re told that the bear has cause for concern, it wasn’t enough for me. I gave this an almost, and would encourage taking a look at how it plays from the bear’s pov.
As for the chapter opening, there were narrative issues that slowed and stopped me. It jumps between the present and the past, and the part about a keynote speech, with no context, seemed like a non sequitur in the action. After that, we hop to the past and then back to the present. The scene, as written, has little flow to it. Nor is there a clear story question. Yes, it’s about bear poaching, and we just left a narrative about a bear being poached, but what is the story about here? I didn’t see that. The narrative needs to be altogether in the NOW of the story, not flipping back and forth. While there is interesting stuff here, and the topic is a new one to me and meaningful, especially to the writer, that alone wasn’t enough. A no vote here. Your thoughts?
Ray
Submitting to the Flogometer:
Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):
- your title
- your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
- Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ. Note: I’m adding a copyright notice for the writer at the end of the post. I’ll use just the first name unless I’m told I can use the full name.
- Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
- And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
- If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
- If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.
Were I you, I'd examine my first page in the light of the first-page checklist before submitting to the Flogometer.
Flogging the Quill © 2017 Ray Rhamey, chapter © 2018 by Dennis.
My books. You can read sample chapters and learn more about the books here.
Writing Craft Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling
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Mystery (coming of age) The Summer Boy
Science Fiction Hiding Magic
Science Fiction Gundown Free ebooks.
Continued:
This was hunting season.
With sunshine glistening off her glossy coat and the muscles in her neck rippling the sow bear rose gracefully on her hind legs. At five-years old, she was in her prime, weighing three hundred pounds and standing almost six feet tall. Her hearing was almost as acute as her sense of smell, but the sound had gone on the wind and she was driven by a more pressing urge: hunger. Dropping on all fours she moved out from the shadow of the forest into the centre of the meadow.
Behind her the two plump boisterous bear cubs fought their way through the blueberry bushes growing near the edge of the forest. One cub, gripping a stunted, ancient yellow cedar with her tiny paws, tried valiantly to climb before collapsing in a bundle of fur and rolling over the wild strawberries carpeting the forest floor. The second cub, with sunshine flashing off the distinct patch of white hair on his right shoulder, rushed boldly forward. Tumbling through scrub brush he looked triumphantly back at his smaller sister, raised his muzzle to issue a high-pitched victory squeal and plunged head first into a shallow arctic tarn.
Startled by splashing water the sow whirled; ears perked, eyes bright and frightened. At the first hint of danger a quick whoomph or cuff from a paw would send the cubs up a sanctuary tree right smartly, but seeing one cub stumbling awkwardly out of the forest and the other shaking water off like a wet puppy, she went back to tearing apart a rotten log lying in the centre of the meadow, scooping up mounds of bees and gorging on thick, rich honey with her paws.
This was the sow's second litter. She had woken up inside her den and given birth last January. With their eyes closed and measuring barely six inches long the cubs were totally dependent on her tucking in against her warm body to nurse and sleep. The sow and cubs emerged from the den in April. The cubs needed to learn a great deal from their mother. This first year after just a few weeks out of the den they’d already started to eat solid foods. By June and July she had taught them how to get food by themselves. In August the cubs were fully weaned although they still needed her protection.
But on this warm sunny day in September as they scurried across the meadow to where their mother was feeding, the cubs knew little of the danger that lurked further down the mountain. Curious and intelligent, they mimicked her, scratching away at the rotten log. Mostly they learned by trial and error. They had thick hides and coats but that didn’t protect them from getting stung by angry bees. The sow watched with all the intensity of a mother teaching her young as the cubs rolled on their backs whinnying in pain and clutching at their unprotected noses with their paws. When the smaller female bolted for the safety and easier pickings from the blueberry bushes, the sow let her go. But when the male righted himself to follow, she gently turned him back, nudging him forward with her paw towards the mounds of honeycomb dripping from the torn-apart log. This time the sweet smell of a food source was too much for the cub to resist and he threw himself at the log, oblivious to the bees as he scooped honey into his mouth.
The cubs would den with their mother this coming winter but before denning the third year she’d force them away. By then the cubs would weigh one hundred pounds and could rummage for their own food. This year, although already late fall, the sow and cubs hadn't denned up. In the high country the best foods are found in August and September. By the time the alpine lakes froze in late October she and her cubs would be in their den on the lower slopes of the mountain. There beneath the snow covered branches of a huge blown down cedar tree, she had scurried out the dirt lining the hollow with grasses and leaves. The den would protect them until late April.
But for now the sow’s focus was on feeding and she gorged incessantly on wild honey, grasses, and plump, ripe blueberries. The sow and cubs would spend days in the meadow leaving only when the berries were depleted. But berries weren't the only food source. They'd eat anything, even carrion and gut piles left by hunters. It was the pungent odour of a gut pile and the rotting carcass of an animal that proved irresistible to the sow the second time the wind eddied over the meadow. Anxious to respond to a food source before ravens, coyotes and a host of other scavengers, she raised her head and stalked down the mountain towards the kill.
The fringe on the sleeves of the man’s buckskin jacket jostled as he raised his high-powered binoculars and adjusted the focus. Crouched on a rock bluff above a row of cabins at the far side of a wild horse pasture, he saw that the sow black bear was almost at the dead elk he had set out near a fence. The man put the binoculars down on a patch of moss beside his right knee. He was happy to be back in the mountains after a hectic trip down south to Vancouver. He reached for the .340 caliber Weatherby Magnum rifle. Steadying the weapon, he brushed the tips of his fingers lovingly over the gold and silver inlay and the ivory carvings of wilderness scenes on the stock. The rifle was hand-made in Europe and had been given to him by a grateful and wealthy hunting client. That was before a wildlife officer brought in new hunting regulations that effectively cut off the man’s guiding territory. Anger surged as the memory of the glory days when he made good money guiding clients on fair chase hunts came roaring back to him. Now there were no more clients and he had been reduced to this. Poaching.
Shifting his weight onto his right leg to ease the pressure off his thighs, the poacher positioned the Weatherby. He liked the stalking part. He liked the rush of adrenaline that at the end of his career as a big game guide had manifested itself into a rage that shocked his peers. But he had long since fallen out with the other big game hunting guides in the Spatsizi wilderness in northern British Columbia. Secured behind a windfall and confident in the power of the weapon resting on a log, the poacher’s heart fluttered as he thought again of the eighteen thousand dollars a single black bear gall bladder would garnish. He picked up the binoculars, looked down at the pasture and focused on his prey. The bear moved purposely towards the bait. Behind her trotted the two small cubs. Carefully the man put down the binoculars, picked up the rifle and adjusted the focus on the elk carcass.
The sow approached the dead elk slowly. If the kill had been hers and covered with leaves and branches to feed on later she would have been less cautious. But she had not made this kill. Head lowered she sniffed the ground and circled the carcass.
The poacher cocked the bolt, lifting the ammunition from the magazine clip. He shoved the bolt forward, chambering the cartridge then gave a half twist and locked it. The Weatherby rifle delivered 1,000 foot pounds of energy; enough power to lift a ton of weight one foot off the ground at 500 yards. And the poacher was a crack shot. He could shatter the bottom out of a coffee cup at 300 feet.
The poacher peered through the high-powered scope, following the bear with the tip of his gun until she stopped by the head of the dead elk. Carefully he focused the cross‑hairs at a place behind the sow's right ear. Within a millisecond of pulling the trigger the percussion of the firing pin would explode the primer at 3,000 degrees Celsius; gas from the explosion propelling the 30mm bullet 3,000 feet per second.
I could shoot out the heart and lungs, the poacher was thinking, shifting his eyes from the centre of the cross-hairs to the thick bulge of the sow’s breastplate. That would put her down quickly and she’d be dead in fifteen to thirty seconds. But there was the slight risk of a gut-shot
A shaft of fear shot through the poacher’s stomach and his line of vision faltered. A gut-shot bear was extremely dangerous and he would not like to engage this animal in hand-to-hand combat. He knew the stories: how a wounded bear would stalk a man lying in thick bush until the man came after her, how bears killed with their teeth, biting and cutting like scissors and then clawing the victim to the ground, holding with their claws and opening a man's flesh like a bowl of jelly. He'd go for a head shot. The poacher refocused his vision and held his breath. The sound of a small stream gurgling through the forest of cottonwood trees out between the cabins and into the pasture rose sluggishly in the warm fall air. Exhaling, he squeezed the trigger.
The impact of the 225-grain Spire point copper-jacketed bullet slamming into the sow bear's shoulder was like being hit by a freight train. The sow bellowed and healed sideways, twisting and tearing with her teeth at the spot where the soft lead tip of the hollow point bullet went in, mushrooming, opening and ripping through shoulder muscles, sending bone fragments splintering into her neck. Unable to see, her eyes filling with blood and more blood streaming from her ears, the black bear careened across the pasture, staggered and lurched a few more yards and then dropped in her tracks. She was mortally wounded.
Inhaling deeply, the poacher eased his finger off the trigger and lowered the Weatherby. He drew back the bolt, ejected the spent shell and chambered another cartridge. Walking up to the sow the poacher poked the barrel of the rifle at her head. Certain she was dead and with no time to waste, he removed his backpack and started a small fire. Next he took a cooking pot from the pack, filled the pot with water from the stream and hung the pot over the flames to boil. Standing to his full height he cast off his jacket, undid his woollen shirt and threw it aside. Then he went to work. Taking his hunting knife he went down on one knee and made a cut from the bear's abdomen to her brisket.
Sweat gathered between his shoulder blades under the poacher’s white T-shirt vest, trickling beneath his arms as he made another cut and removed the intestines. Grim faced and with blood up to his elbows the poacher squinted against the steam rising from the carcass. Closing his nostrils to the stench of the bear's innards he reached behind the diaphragm and located the liver. Attached to the liver was the gall bladder; a small organ that looked like a wet fig. Cutting carefully he detached the gall bladder from the liver and, still squatting in front of the carcass, quickly immersed it in boiling water. After a few seconds he removed the gall bladder from the water and hung it over the fire for a couple of more seconds to dry. Then he immersed it a second time to sear the sac so there would be no drip of the bile. Resting the gall bladder on a flat stone, he stood up and took a flask of brandy from a hip pocket and filled a stainless steel cup. Then he knelt down and placed the cup on the ground beside him. Some customers liked the gall bladder hung over a glass of brandy just touching to absorb the liquor. This was a special order. He serviced a select and affluent clientele.
When the gall bladder was seasoned, the poacher sealed it inside a plastic bag. Then he cut off the sow's paws and threw them into a green plastic garbage bag. At more than eight hundred dollars for a bowl of bear paw soup in the restaurants of Asia, the paws were worth taking. Squatting on his haunches the poacher quickly washed his hands in cold water from the stream, splashed more water up to his elbows and shook the loose droplets from his arms. Then he stood up and kicked out the fire. Picking up his rifle he paused. The crack of gunfire and the sow’s sudden death throes had sent the two cubs scrambling up a lightning-charred cedar snag. The poacher raised the rifle first to the smaller cub halfway up the snag.
Easy to kill the cubs now, he calculated, lifting the barrel upwards to the second cub and focusing the cross hairs on the tiny patch of white fur on the right shoulder. Then he lowered his arms. Let them live. They’ll be worth later.
Flies were already gathering on the spread-eagle carcass of the sow lying on her back, her blood dripping into the stream. The poacher picked up his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and strode through the grass into the cottonwoods behind the cabins. Thirty feet above their butchered mother, clinging to the blackened surface of the cedar snag, the two cubs cried pitifully.
Book One. Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside
1
Surging down Gore Avenue, wildlife officer, Andrew Conners knew life on Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside didn’t get any worse than what went on inside the Ah Sun Hotel. Back in his small wood paneled office he had glared at the inventoried photograph of the poached black bear and the two foot long ruby coloured knife cut slicing upwards through the bear’s abdomen. Fear consumed him. There was only one man capable of that kind of atrocity. The same man that ruined his life. Leaning backwards, Conners kneed the front door open and almost fell into the lobby. The spring loaded door clanged shut behind him.
The keynote speech Conners delivered to hunting guides, big game outfitters and wildlife traders about the imminent threat from poaching had fallen on deaf ears.
“Beware,” the two well-dressed Asians warned. “We don’t have many black bears left. You do and we’re going to come here looking for them.”
If poaching interests in Seoul gain control of the pipeline for black bear gall bladders from Vancouver before China takes over Hong Kong an entire species will be lost.
Conners had crossed the floor of his office and gripped a piece of paper from the top of a filing cabinet. He drew his finger down the sheet until he saw the name of the Skid Row hotel where the dealers lived and sank back down at his desk. Running his fingers tiredly through his chestnut brown hair Conner’s eyes fell back on the photograph of the mutilated bear. There was only one man that could help him.
Conners peered through the gloom of the lobby. That man lived in a room on the first floor. Conners shuddered. “I won’t go through that again. I won’t.”
The vinegar-stench of urine and stale alcohol from the cramped grey place under the stairwell was almost overwhelming. But that paled to the coal black darkness at the base of the staircase. Conners moved his right foot forward and slipped. Steadying himself, he went further into the lobby. His clean crisp clothing would not protect him from the foul air nor the slimy feel of whatever it was he stepped on. There was a flurry as two shapes cowered out of his way. Conners froze. Through the light cast from a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling on the first floor at the top of the staircase, Conners made out the shape of two figures. Conner’s anxiety increased. He was unarmed and the men sitting on the staircase were a good two feet above him. He could be jumped, kicked and stuffed into that space under the stairs and nobody would ever know. A breath of cool fresh air brushed his cheek. Above him light from the single light bulb and a window in the lobby that he remembered was either left open or broken cascaded down the stairs dimly illuminating the two men. Conners bunched his fists. He had to get past these two men. The man on the lower step closest to Conners, his knees pressed tightly like a girl’s and his too short black pants stopping a good eight inches above his ankles leaned against the legs of the second man.
Trying to suppress his terror, Conners stepped onto the staircase.
“I’m looking for someone.”
Both men were dressed in cheap used business suits, the type sold in thrift shops. The man on the lower step began to tremble. Recoiling and pressing even more tightly against the man sitting above him, he peered up as if Conners were about to hit him. Conners fright vanished. He could see the man was young, his face the color of chalk and that he probably hadn’t eaten in days. But Conners knew that there could be four, maybe five such men and that he could easily be swarmed.
The man was still leaning against his friend, his left hand tucked protectively between his knees, but he sensed Conners meant him no harm. With his right hand, he pointed shyly up the stairs.
The smell of urine grew stronger and the darkness pressed in closer as Conners climbed the fuming staircase. How could anyone live here, he asked himself, almost nauseous with fear. A hand gripped his pant leg.
“What do you want!”
“Let go!”
“What do you want!”
“Crowfoot.”
The man paused. “Wait here.” As nimble as a spider monkey the man climbed the staircase and disappeared around a corner.
Conners hurried up the last steps and burst onto the first floor. He stood perfectly still. The place hadn’t changed. It was like an attic that hadn’t been entered for twenty years. A darkened hallway stretched in one direction. The air smelt of rotten curtains and damp wood. Conner’s’ eyes flicked to a sign above a small office that warned tenants: Rooms will be checked without notice. The sign was a warning to the dealers to be on guard for police. Conner’s chest tightened. If this place was raided now, his contact would likely vanish into one of the myriad of alleys that honeycombed the neighborhood and then god knows when he’d find him.
Somewhere a door shut. Then a shuffling sound came out from the hallway. The shuffling stopped. A stocky man stepped into the lobby. He was holding a bag of groceries. Conners almost burst out laughing. The man was dressed in frayed cut-off blue jeans and a tough looking grey muscle shirt that showed his skinny biceps. Conners thought he looked like a little boy who’d skipped out of private school. The man put his groceries down and turned around and it was all Conners could do to hide his shock. Thick dirty blonde hair curled away from a street-tanned face accented by high cheekbones. Sweat trickled between Conner’s shoulder blades as he tried to compose himself. He’d always been afraid of junkies. But more unsettling was the gold necklace strung tightly over the faded barbed wire tattoo around the man’s neck and the tiny crucifix that captured the most brilliant glint of sunlight from the window opening onto the back alley. Conners took a deep breath. Air from the open window filled his lungs invigorating him. He extended his ha . . .
“Police! Open the door!”
“Christ!” Conners muttered. Someone tore past, crashing into his arm. Knocked sideways Conners heard whimpering and the sound of a body tumbling down the stairs. Then the front door was kicked in. Conners spun around. There was nothing to tie him in here; no drugs or visible paraphernalia. Then he saw Crowfoot’s arms and gasped. Bruises and fresh red needle marks punctuated the insides of both elbows. The footsteps on the stairs got louder. Conners whirled off his jacket.
“Here! Put this on.”
Crowfoot caught the windbreaker in mid-air and threw it over his shoulders just as two policemen breeched the staircase.
Crowfoot braced for the bust. If they searched his room they wouldn’t find anything. If they did a body search they wouldn’t find anything. But if they saw fresh tracks . . . instinctively he shifted his position towards the open window and the fire escape hidden just out of view. The first officer stalked across the floor.
“Where’s the manager!”
The beginning of a smile started at Crowfoot’s lips. There was no manager.
The officer did a double take and turned on Conners.
“Who are you!”
A commotion deep inside the hotel distracted the officers.
“I’ll find him,” the second officer volunteered, opening the metal door leading to the rooms on the first floor.
The first officer shot a quick glance back at Crowfoot and hurried after his partner. The heavy door banged shut behind them.
Crowfoot, not a little impressed, started to hand the jacket back. Conners brushed the jester away and quickly handed him a folded twenty dollar bill. Then, grasping the handrail at the top of the stairs, he turned and left.
Crowfoot watched Conners disappear down the staircase. You’ve changed since I saw you last, he thought. Crowfoot waited until he heard the door to the entrance of the hotel slam shut and then, tightening the fist of his gloved right hand on his bag of groceries, he limped slowly past an open door where the police were shaking down a tenant to his old room near the end of the hall. He went in and shut the door behind him. He took the twenty dollar bill out of his pocket and unfolded it. Inside was a note: Blue Eagle Café 6:45 pm, Friday two weeks from today. The Blue Eagle on East Hastings Street was where he met with undercover cops that paid for his contact information gleaned from years of living on the street. Still holding the note, Crowfoot dropped his left hand to his side and stared vacantly into space. At last there was going to be justice. He owed her that much.
The runny icing on the cinnamon buns dripped sending a sluggish ripple of sugar water across the surface of the flat black metal tray near the cash register at the entrance to the Blue Eagle Café. The movement infuriated several flies and wasps that beat incessantly against the glass cover. It wasn’t just flies that craved cinnamon buns. The café did a roaring business with junkies that had perpetual sweet teeth. But at 6:15 pm when Crowfoot walked in the café was mostly vacant except for two Hispanic men standing next to the cash register.
“No one here?” Crowfoot asked genuinely surprised that there were no customers at this time of day.
It wasn’t that the café was empty. Every time he came in here he was rocked by the same questions. How could it happen? Knowing what he knew now, he had forgotten how people could be so uncaring but that was no consolation. To the regulars the washroom at the back of the Blue Eagle with its sickly green painted door and the gap underneath so that a diner could see the feet of someone sitting on the toilet was little different from any other washroom down here. To Crowfoot that was where they found her.
The older Hispanic watched as Crowfoot eased himself gingerly into a booth and hooked his cane on a corner of the table. Crowfoot peered at the two Hispanics. The leg isn’t as bad as it used to be, he would have told them. He was glad he’d listened to that doctor although he would probably always need a cane. The younger Hispanic shrugged and spat on the floor. Crowfoot was instantly on guard. An empty café was as good a place as any for a hit. The owner stepped out from behind the counter. Crowfoot shifted his position and readied the spring knife he still carried strapped to his wrist. The owner went straight into the kitchen, the doors creaking back and forth behind him. The man at the cash register stared at Crowfoot. “It’s early.”
A dry bronchial cough shattered the silence of the café. Inside the kitchen the owner ripped off a paper towel and drew it hastily across his mouth. He hadn’t seen Crowfoot for a long time but that was no reason to trust him. The owner picked up the black wall phone receiver from its perch above the sink.
Another rampant burst of coughing erupted from the kitchen. The metal doors swung open and the owner came through and walked briskly to the front of the café. The owner was resting a little easier. If there were a hit tonight he would have known about it and for now, he had a customer to look after. The owner picked up a damp cloth and went over to Crowfoot’s booth. Smiling politely he began to mop up some old food stains.
“Would you like something to eat now,” the owner asked too quickly in soft-spoken, broken English?
“Soup,” Crowfoot said, not yet ready to order.
Crowfoot watched the owner disappear back into the kitchen and checked his watch. His anxiety increased. There was still fifteen minutes before Conners was supposed to be here.
Crowfoot gazed up at the ventilation slats over the glassed-in front door. It wasn’t like the old days when fresh air blew in through those slats. Now since he’d come back from treatment the slats were so clogged with grime, he could barely see the flickering red neon arrow clutched in the talons of the Blue Eagle hanging on the diner sign pointing to the entrance. A tourist might be repulsed by the neglect but Crowfoot had understood that underneath the soot the arrow beat as determined as ever, a pulsating metaphor for the soul of Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside.
Crowfoot’s gaze dropped to the front door. Used to be this wasn’t a bad place to eat. The blinds were always pulled up neatly to let in what little daylight there was, making diners feel welcome. Now steam from the kitchen had drifted along the ceiling above a TV set, bubbling the green paint on the walls. Droplets of brown condensation stained parts of the door frame and the glass was smudged with handprints. To anyone else that was just from people pushing the door open; just one more signal that the place was dirty, one more reason never to come back. But Crowfoot knew that abandonment and filth had nothing to do with it. Those were the handprints of people who were desperate, desperate to get off the Downtown Eastside.
Another raspy cough came from the rear of the café as the owner came back out through the swinging metal doors. Inside the kitchen, he had hurriedly ladled his soup-of-the-day into one of his cereal bowls partially spilling the contents on the floor. As he tore off another paper towel to cover some of the mess, he saw how dirty his fingernails were. He ripped the paper towel in half and scrubbed his hands but it seemed that he could never really get his fingers clean. Trying to hide his nails, he put the bowl down in front of Crowfoot spilling more of the soup. Crowfoot turned to say something and his lips froze. Three more Hispanic men came out from the kitchen. Crowfoot groped for his spoon praying he hadn’t been seen. The sound of the tiny jingling bells filled the café and Crowfoot’s heart sank. Andrew Conners had just come through the front door. He was wearing jeans and a clean shirt and looked as plainly out of place in the grungy café as he did in the Ah Sun Hotel.
“How are you?” Conners asked, barely able to keep the anger out of his voice when he saw the condescending look on the face of this little jerk. Squeezing into the booth, he noticed the cane. Conners looked across the table directly at Crowfoot who seemed even frailer than when he passed him the note two weeks ago.
Crowfoot stared right back, anger swarming him. Doesn’t he understand the mortal danger he’s in being in this café dressed like that? But kidnapping and being disappeared is too good for him. Crowfoot preferred his own methods, a bit of false information put in the right places and Conner’s career would be over. Again the specter of Crowfoot’s so-called father raised its ugly head.
Conners bent forward, crossed his hands underneath the table and rested them on his knees. The junkies’ fingers fluttered as he took the one hundred dollar bill. Crowfoot leaned back in the booth, loosened his belt and slipped the bill inside a pouch sown into the elastic waistband of his underwear. Then, he took the miniature roll of film and reached back under the table to Conners.
“I saw gall bladders, bear’s paws and ivory on a table in the back room. We talked about the next shipment on October 15. The shopkeeper was about to say when he wanted delivery when these three Vietnamese guys came in. One of them demanded money. I heard the shopkeeper speaking Chin. . . "
“Chinese!”
“Sh . . . shhh! What parta’ town you from man!”
The owner of the café looked over sharply. There was a roar from the hockey game on the TV on the shelf above the coffee bar and the owner turned back quickly to see who scored. Crowfoot hurried on, his brow furrowed with worry, . . . “except gall bladders in English. Those gall bladders are contaminated.”
Conner’s upper body was shaking. If mercury gets into the mainstream there will be an international incident. Increased pressure will be put on South Korea’s president, Yong-Jin Kim to stop the import of endangered species. Conners put his hands on the table where Crowfoot could see them. To Conner’s left, he was vaguely aware of the coffee bar and its round chrome stools, some with slashed green leather seats, the type you saw in neon-lit diners in those 50’s car movies. Across from Conners, Crowfoot sat motionless, glaring at him. Conner’s anxiety increased. He knew that assassinating the president meant that the endangered species trade will flood into China and June 30th is only ten months away. Conners felt weak. He knew that Crowfoot had all the power. Crowfoot’s words were as bland as the light from the florescent lights in the ceiling.
“I seen Peter Redman injecting mercury myself.”
There was a commotion at the rear of the café. Crowfoot turned.
“Don’t look!”
Crowfoot whipped his head back but he was too late. He’d been made. He gripped Conner’s wrist. Conners loosened his fingers away.
“Where’s the assassination?”
“The Asian gangs are controlled by a Chinese middlem…”
“Where!”
Crowfoot stared blankly at Conners and scratched at a lesion on his right leg. Crowfoot knew about the power play between middleman Lin Chou Hein and Paul Chen, the leader of the Red Gyros and that whether the president is assassinated or not the Russians will win. The information he had could delay the assassination. If that happens, the President will stop the flow of bear galls into China infuriating the triads and then, nobody wins. Crowfoot reached across the table and dug his blood smeared nails into Conner’s wrist.
Conners pried away Crowfoot’s fingers mortified that someone might see and watched appalled as he wiped blood on the sleeve of his jacket. Trying to distance himself, Conners sat back in the booth and regarded the street youth. Ancient hardship lines carved deep into his face creased downwards from bags of skin under his smoky blue eyes. Conners studied the encased look and more lines that cracked backwards from the corners of his mouth. Although Conners was loath to be in the company of Crowfoot secretly he had to admire him. He probably knew more than half the police force in Vancouver. Behind the eyes, red-rimmed and rheumy, Conners saw determination, the kind that comes from having been through enough, and pain; the almost unimaginable pain from great loss and regret. There was something else. A resemblance. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. Pushing aside his fear of touching something dirty Conners leaned forward and reached across the surface of the table and cupped Crowfoot’s gloved hand.
A wry smile crept across Crowfoot’s face. He curled the fingers on his right hand feeling the bone hard handle of the skinning knife, hating him, wanting to leap up from the booth and slit Conner’s throat for what they did. But a quick death won’t bring her back. Feeling Conner’s warmth and suddenly worried for the man sitting across the table who was so clearly out of his depth, Crowfoot opened his mouth in warning but all he saw was the crisply ironed shirt and the peachy clean-shaven face of another kind of cop. Crowfoot eased himself across the seat. He got up from the booth, fumbled his cane, dropping it on the floor. Conners reached over to help and Crowfoot shoved his arm away and picked up the cane.
“You still haven’t told me where.”
Gripping his cane, Crowfoot limped purposely towards the front of the café very uncertain whether Conners would survive and yet knowing he had to help. She’d want him to. Stopping at the front door Crowfoot leaned on the cane and looked back.
“The stairwell.”
Smiling victoriously, Conners arched back slowly in the booth and stretched his arms behind his back. Crowfoot hated him all over again, hated him for what he did to his father, blaming him for Sally. For being so phony. Crowfoot dropped his eyes to Conner’s bloodied fingertips clutching the edge of the table. Then he looked straight at him. “I’ve got aids.”
Conners stared at his fingers; the words “aids” ringing impossibly in his ears. Frantically wiping the blood on his pants, he lurched out of the booth and bolted.
“Hey!”
Conners stopped dead in his tracks. The owner had run out from the café, a mortified look on his face. Conners hadn’t paid.
“Sorry,” Conners mumbled and secretively handed him a ten-dollar bill.
The owner wrapped his hand around the bill.
Conners looked, repulsed, at the dirty and cracked fingernails.
The owner shot a glance at Conner’s own blood stained fingers, shrugged, and went back inside the café. He opened the till and reached inside his pocket for the ten-dollar bill and the twenty that the three Hispanics had given him for letting them in the back door of the kitchen. He hacked, spraying the counter with spittle and wiped the back of his sleeve across his mouth. He closed the till and looked outside, perplexed and went back to his hockey game.
“Up? Down?”
“Wha . . .? Get away from me!”
The pock mocked dealer was standing right in Conners’ his face. All around; people, some with complexions mottled with purulent red sores and others wearing dirty yellow-stained bandages, swarmed the public washroom in front of the Carnegie Centre. Someone exchanged a vile of white pills for two dollars. Empty prescription bottles and used needles littered the pavement. In all his training, from confronting hostile native poachers pit lamping salmon on the Fraser River to a run in with a sow grizzly and cubs, nothing prepared Conners for the epicenter of horror on Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. And yet that café owner was gracious, even polite.
Conners plunged into the crosswalk. Sickened that he’d touched Crowfoot’s bloodied fingers, he barged through the entrance of another café. Oblivious to the stunned patrons peering up from their tables, he pushed his way through the swinging doors to the washroom. Inside, he purged his hands in hot soapy water, ripped off three paper towels and rubbed his fingers until they were red. Then he washed his hands again. When he thought his hands were clean, he reluctantly went back out into the café.
Shouldering his way between the counters and the seats and tables, Conners felt a sour affinity with the few street people who were in here. They seemed to know him, to understand the stains that now showed on his pants. Pushing open the front doors, Conners rushed frantically up the sidewalk. Lurching into an intersection, he put his hand on the hood of a car for support. Those inside the car, insulated by the touch of a power window, stared in disbelief. Conners didn’t care. He focused on the ones across the Street; those with canes and bandages that were just like him.
Two blocks later when Conners entered the parkade, he had pulled himself together enough to know that you couldn’t catch aids from shaking someone’s hand. He smiled at his own silliness. He was almost at his truck when he heard screams.