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By E. R. Yatscoff

4.0 out of 5 stars "A rollicking tale of crime & action!" - Christina Hoag, author, 'Law of the Jungle'
AUTHOR SHOUT 2023 Honorable Mention
Reviewed in the United States on September 22, 2021 Do you have a bully in your neighborhood? A troublesome squatter you can’t get rid of? When the courts and police can’t—or won’t—help, there’s little you can do and hope the problem goes away. Home renovators Ritchie Pearce, ex-con, and Arlan Kovacs, ex-cop, are the go-to guys. Up until now it’s been easy money with little or no risk. Until they rub up against gang-bangers.
In a twist of irony, there is no one they can call to rid them of their problem. They believe they are on the side of angels, borderline vigilantes, helping the public. The two tough guys must come up with a plan to get the gang off their back forever.
It’s a one-shot attempt. Failure is not an option.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. R. Yatscoff
• Release date: Aug 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781989101087

E. R. Yatscoff

Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis Award finalist, John Bilsland non-fiction award, Canada Book Award Winner and Author Shout 2023 honorable mention. Most mysteries and suspense novels have to do with cops, lawyers, and PIs. My protagonist is a firefighter and is the first firefighter pulp fiction in Canada. True grit and reality are my writing tenets.My juvenile/middle grade/chapter books have no magic wands, wise talking creatures, vampires, or parallel worlds. I write stories about children, not so much specifically for children. Many adults enjoy my writing because of this. My stories are about unassuming boys who get in trouble and must prove themselves and show the world they have hearts of lions. There's fighting, conflict, loyalty, bullies, integrity, and courage. I've read samples to Grade 4 and 5 students and garnered excellent reviews.I was born in Welland, Ontario and now live in Alberta. Backpacked the world on the Hippie Trail and lived in Australia. I've worked as a paperboy, grocery clerk, sales rep, all types of construction work, painter, mink ranch hand, assembly line rubber factory, cherry picker, freelance astronaut (no offers), boilermaker apprentice, delivery driver, father, coach, and career firefighter and officer for 32 years. I've also played drums in the Black Gold Big Band for 8 years.I retired as fire captain with Edmonton Fire Rescue, a large Canadian metro fire service. I live in Beaumont, Alberta with Gloria, whom I met on a freighter/passenger ship from Jakarta to Singapore. I've climbed the Great Wall of China, been down and out living in Australia, honeymooned with Gloria during the Grenada Revolution and saw Maurice Bishop, snorkeled with a marlin, almost smuggled a Playboy into Communist Russia, tossed eggs at an Aussie PM, was in Havana when Fidel shocked Cubans and stepped down. My wife made a pot of tea for the Queen of England in N.Z.I travel widely, do a bit of fishing and boating, drink demon rum, manage a writers group, do occasional renos, and sit on my butt outside in the good weather reading a decent book. My writing work consists of travel articles, YA, juvenile, how-tos, and has garnered several awards. Check out my website for some excellent short stories.

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SERVICES RENDERED

by E. R. Yatscoff

Copyright © 2021 by E.R. Yatscoff

Cover art by Sam 4321 – from fiverr

Published by TGR Books

ISBNs

eBook 978-1-989101-08-7

paperback 978-1-989101-07-0

This a Smashwords ebook

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

DEDICATION

To the memory of my lifetime good buddy Rocky Steers who piqued my interest in the world of boxing and forever labeled me as ‘Glass-Jaw Eddie’. His memory will never die.

Also, to the memory of Ritchie Gingras, a pit bull of a fighter.

Thanks to my beta readers Gloria Y and Sherry T. Kudos to my wonderful writers group, an inspiration to me every month: Dan H., Martina K, Edna G., Kim K, Holly G., and Em P. I applaud their encouragement, honesty, and diligence. And not to forget Nicole Davis for the Edmonton Police Service info.

I raise a glass to all the bad boys and scrappers I’ve known. You certainly made life interesting, if at times painful. You’ve achieved a form of immortality. If you do think you recognize yourself, please don’t flatter yourself.

Tough times never last, but tough people do.—Robert H. Schuller

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Chapter 1

Elaine Morales sat in her car parked at the curb outside the Destiny Café a half block off Edmonton’s Whyte Avenue. The café was nearly empty on this mid-afternoon Tuesday. Elaine sized up the man who sat beside the window. He read a newspaper while he sipped on a coffee. Up until now, she’d only been in contact with him by phone. He told her he’d be sitting in a window booth reading The Edmonton Sun.

Elaine sighed with doubt. She needed help and didn’t know any intimidating WWE wrestler types she could call. Her husband of twenty-three years died four months earlier and didn’t leave her much. His gambling and coke habit ate up everything. She’d like nothing more than to take a flamethrower to every casino on earth. All she had was the apartment building and it wouldn’t sell the way it was now.

The two tenants in suite 102 were squatters. They hadn’t paid their rent since they moved in five months ago. All Elaine Morales got from them was a damage deposit and aggressive behavior along with the middle finger when they happened to answer their door. They were a source of constant aggravation for the building super and insecurity for the other tenants. Loud music, unauthorized entries by their seedy pals, fights in the parking lot, police cars always showing up, not to mention the damaged suite were some of the issues she had to deal with.

Another apartment owner she knew with similar tenant issues had mentioned Arlan Kovacs—a rare find. He came well regarded for his fine renovation work at a reasonable price and was quick and efficient. Worth every nickel, the apartment owner said. It was the ‘bonus package’ he offered that she needed.

When you buy a watch, do you really want to know how it works? he said.

Elaine didn’t want to know the details of the ‘bonus plan’. Just make sure they’re gone.

But at this point it was her only remedy; she had exhausted all legal avenues. The courts were a waste of time. The system was weighted against owners.

And if she did nothing?

It would get worse. Already, tenants were complaining about the pigsty -like odor that leaked into the hallway from their suite. The building super, Johan, had snuck in there on one rare occasion when both meth-heads were briefly out. He was appalled by the suite’s condition. It would take thousands to repair the damage. He’d left the apartment to get a camera, but by the time he got back the two rats had returned and refused to let him in. Trying to change the locks with them inside had frightened the locksmith.

She wondered what might happen if the police got wind of the plan she was going to undertake. If it went bad, an investigation could match the chain of court proceedings and eviction notices and she would be in trouble. Johan couldn’t be told what was going to happen. On the phone, Arlan Kovacs was emphatic that the circle had to be tight.

Elaine drew in a long breath, deciding the man in the window was her last and only option.

* * *

In the café booth, Elaine fidgeted with the saltshaker as she spoke. It’s consumed my life. The building is all I have in life since my husband died. I need it sold, she said, her face pinched. She leaned toward him and whispered. You’re sure you can do this?

Elaine. Arlan smiled, trying to reassure her. This is not my first rodeo. You have to relax. After tomorrow they’ll be gone. Remember who you got my name from? Arlan was referring to their mutual acquaintance who he had supplied the ‘bonus plan’ eviction he’d done last year.

She nodded. I’m so glad I met her. I will be so grateful to have this resolved. The Home Depot has a contractor account in my name and yours.

At least your super…Johan, right? He warned you what to expect when you see the suite, right? Arlan sipped his coffee, aware of the worry and concern etched on her face.

She was a wisp of a woman, almost frail, short dark hair, and gold hoop earrings. She was somewhat shabbily dressed; her blue sweater was pilled, and her leather jacket showing signs of wear—much like her downtrodden aura.

You’re a nice-lookin’ woman who has had some challenging times and doesn’t deserve this. I’ve dealt with creeps like your renters before. He sat forward. Post some renovation signs today on all the doors, keep the parking lot clear the night before, and tell the super to keep the back door locked. We don’t want anyone coming or going that way. I’ll be bringing in carpeting and tools that way, too.

She handed him an envelope. Keys and fake rental agreement—backdated. Anyone asks you’ve lived there for five months. Show it to… she shrugged, worry etching her face, the police, I guess. She bit her lip.

Elaine, the cops won’t care if these two freaks have a bad day.

A bad day? All sorts of scenarios rolled through her mind. She bit her lips and wrung her hands. In what way?

Don’t concern yourself with that.

She drew in a deep breath and patted the envelope. Half now, half upon completion, right? She rubbed her ring finger; no ring on it.

Yes, Ma’am. He slid an envelope over to her. "The keys for the new lockset. That’ll be the first thing done. There’s a bogus internet site already up for the fake movers complete with Facebook likes and emails. If anyone asks who moved the rats out, just say it’s the Beefy Boy Renos. I got the phony invoice in there with the new keys."

She nodded a few times, still not quite convinced it would work. She drew in a long breath, took the envelope, and began to slide out of the booth.

He grabbed her wrist.

Her expression flashed with alarm.

Remember, Elaine, not a word. This is all on you. His kind and concerned eyes flashed to steel. I only do renovations. It’s all anyone needs to know. He examined her face which was now somewhat shrunken; caught between fear and flight. You’re paying for the extreme renovation, the bonus plan.

* * *

Arlan moved the sawhorse barricade to one side and drove into the empty apartment parking lot. He backed up against the rear-entry door with Elaine’s sign posted on it. She’d followed instructions well. Not so much on the spelling.

Constructiun and Loading

Parking Lot Maitnance

Please park on street

He stepped from his rental van and gave Elaine’s dark apartment building the once over; three stories, twenty suites, brick exterior, small balconies outside second and third-floor suites. A few lights were still on even though it was almost midnight. No mistaking he was in the right place; heavy metal ‘music’ screeched, vibrated and thumped through the brick walls.

He used to live nearby after he left the military and before he was a cop. This Strathcona neighborhood, with its great elms and variety of people, was plenty lively. The festivals and arts crowd lent it a Bohemian vibe that was awakening after a long winter.

Arlan returned to the sidewalk, dragging the barricade back into position. He wore jeans, a black jacket, and a dark blue ball hat. His thick-framed glasses were for show only and had clear lenses. He didn’t consider himself a master of disguise, but people remembered obvious things that tended to attract their attention. Oh yeah, officer, I remember he wore those big black-glasses But blood on a suspect’s hands?—not so much.

Arlan, at five-eleven, was a raw-boned man who looked taller than he was. He kept himself in shape from jogging and working out at a gym when he found the time. People said he exuded a certain competence and confidence. His renovation business was doing well. Tonight, he wore four rings instead of the usual two. The extra two were for special occasions—like tonight—with embossed skulls for extra impact during a fight.

He unloaded a Shop-Vac, several boxes of tiles, a toolkit, extension cord, tile cutting saw, and hauled it all inside the building using the key Elaine gave him. He piled it all on the landing above the six stairs that led down to the basement suites. The most interesting item was a fog machine bought at an auction, once used at small concert venues in the city. It came with several hose attachments and was non-toxic. It was a hit at one of Ritchie’s spring parties and Arlan used it on Halloween filling his residential street.

Loud booming ‘music’ came from apartment 102; six stairs down and a left turn. The ‘music’ sounded like some industrial heavy death metal crap the same stuff used at Guantanamo to torture prisoners. Enjoy it while you can, boys, he thought.

Arlan saw a tall dark-skinned man passing along the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. He had a twitchy look as though he wasn’t used to being scrutinized. The man slowed upon seeing Arlan then looked down avoiding Arlan’s blue eyes. The man wore grubby jeans—or maybe they were fashionable ones these days—a black tuque, and a green sweatshirt with a Che silhouette print. Arlan shook his head, bemoaning the fact that so few people read history. He supposed the guy’s Hitler shirt was getting washed and Che was a good substitute.

He must have been buzzed in via the front entrance. The entry locks would have to be swapped out ASAP. Arlan went down the stairs and peeked around the corner. At the suite’s door, the man pulled out his cell phone. No knocking. He stood still, waiting a brief time until the suite door opened. A torrent of a million decibels rocked the hallway before the man entered and the door closed behind him.

Arlan located a hall plug-in and began to play out the cord for the fog machine. He went back up the stairs to the van and took off his jacket. Once inside, he slipped on a Kevlar vest and pulled on cut-resistant sleeves. He hoped the tweakers in 102 didn’t have knives, but why take the chance? His partner, Ritchie Pearce, had spent some time scoping out the suite and its occupants.

Elaine had told him one of them had some native blood and could be carrying a knife, as was the cultural habit. When Arlan was a cop he always made sure to check their boots for knives. Elaine also said both occupants were foul-mouthed. Ritchie told him they were small men with little boy bodies; stick-like arms, and bad teeth to match even worse complexions. They were dealing the drugs of the month, likely oxy and meth.

Should be no problem, Arlan thought, a one-two scoop; nice and quick. The renovations would take longer as the exact damage was unknown. He was only going on what the super told Elaine, Extensive damage.

The widowed Elaine Morales was at her wit's end trying to evict them. She’d exhausted every legal option, spending a ton on legal fees. Complaints from other tenants were as deafening as the industrial music the two degenerates played. After tonight they’d be sleeping soundly.

Arlan twitched in the driver’s seat, startled by a rap at the window. It was Ritchie.

Easy man, job got you spooked, or what?

Arlan smiled. Hah. Hah. I see you’re ready to rock.

Ritchie wore the same protective gear. Safety goggles hung around his neck because he had once been pepper-sprayed—a nasty experience—resulting in submerging his head in a sink for an hour.

Ready to rock with bells on, eh? Got everything in here. He held up a small duffel bag with newborn-size diapers, a bottle of ether, burlap bags, and XL zip ties. I’m just eager for the bonus money. Where there’s drugs, there’s cash.

Ritchie Pearce was a genuine tough guy, definitely no gym pussy. He was five-ten, 187 pounds, built like a fire hydrant, with thighs like tree trunks giving him total body power; leverage he used in many ways. His ugly knuckles made for knotted and scarred fists. One ear was rubbed to a cauliflower, nose twisted between hooded eyes, but he had a crooked disarming smile. His unparted, unruly dark hair held flat curls and waves and touched his ears. His appearance gave his opponents pause, thus giving him an edge to unleash a whirlwind attack.

Ritchie never waited for opponents to strike first. He was fearless and loved to mix it up. He did not abide insults aimed his way or at his friends. That would cause his eyes to sharpen and a snake-like vein on his forehead to swell, like a viper ready to spring. He’d challenge the offense and go after the accuser like a starved dog to a bone.

The two men met at the Hit Club, a boxing gym that also trained members for UFC-style fighting. Ritchie dished it out to new guys in a dog’s breakfast of boxing, grappling, and some judo—basically street fighting. Some of the members liked to test their mettle against him. The club’s owner, Nikki appreciated Ritchie’s presence but didn’t like that the new guys got discouraged by getting floored and hurt so much by Ritchie. At the Hit Club, he was tagged ‘Taz’ after the whirlwind Tasmanian Devil of Looney Toons fame.

Arlan never did go against Ritchie on the mat but they did spar with the 16-ounce gloves. Cops and firefighters had to be careful as their departments told them any injuries resulting from that club would not be covered by their health plans. Arlan joined the club after stints in the police department and military. After graduating from the RCMP Academy, he was assigned a remote northern community for a year or so. After that sad and shitty experience, he was posted south to the Red Deer detachment.

Six years of police work was an unsatisfying and disillusioning stint for him. Disillusionment grew into frustration over unequal justice for citizens working in a system heavily weighted for cons, pedophiles, terrorists, and murderers. After six years of policing, he quit and went into the military. After a five-year hitch as an MP, Arlan quit due to the low pay and moved to Edmonton where his cousin Emmet, the cop, introduced him to the club. Arlan labeled it the ‘Injur-arium’.

Arlan and Ritchie became fast friends. Ex-cop and ex-con. Arlan showed Ritchie plenty of self-defense tricks and rapid takedowns used by the police and MPs during arrests. Ritchie’s sense of humor and his occasional part-time work as a bouncer attracted Arlan. Arlan could always get in whatever club Ritchie was working, no matter how late or full the place was. When Arlan caught on with a contractor, learning various trades, they’d share handyman skills on reno jobs. Arlan headed out on his own and, along with Ritchie’s experience at carpet laying and beautiful tile work, managed to get plenty of work. It was their collaboration on a simple eviction that cemented their friendship.

Arlan caught a movement in the van’s side mirror. The same dark-skinned man he saw earlier came up the stairs and shook the locked rear building door, anger twisting his face. Ritchie, standing beside the van door, gave him the stink-eye. The man turned tail, heading back down the stairs.

Saw him here the other night, they had a party, eh? said Ritchie. I walked past here after the club shut down and peeked in through the broken blinds.

The lower suites were half below grade, their windowsills only a foot or so above the grass.

Bare-assed bitches running around, said Ritchie. Still got a headache from their music. Like I’m gonna get here soon.

Who’s supplying them?

A Somali, I think. Why does our stupid government let these people in? Cryin’ and sobbin’ at the border. Heard from a bouncer bud there’s a real badass in town from Minneapolis. He’s gonna want some control here, you know, new guy gotta make his bones, eh?

You mean Little Mogadishu in Minneapolis? My cousin told me how overjoyed the Minneapolis cops are now that the worst ones are leaving there to come to Canada. Hope we don’t run into him. Arlan kept tabs on the entry door in the side mirror. Any money we snag inside is finder’s keepers.

Once inside the building, Arlan pulled his ball cap lower and slid a hose from the fog machine under the door of apartment 102. Arlan set burlap bags on the floor, took a stepladder down the hall, and loosened the ceiling light bulbs leaving the hallway dark. He tossed down three chemical light sticks.

Party on, Arlan,

Party on, Ritchie.

Ritchie stood on the first stair out of sight down the hall from the suite door, the quickest escape route. Arlan stood across from him against the wall. Arlan flicked the toggle switch, and the Mini-Fogger began to heat up. The MAX FOG setting would take somewhat longer to heat the mineral oil. He figured the reason he picked it up so cheap was its fan was too noisy, possibly a bearing issue. Its raspy squeak fit in with the heavy metal playing. The two-bedroom apartment would take a few minutes to fill and about thirty seconds to create panic. They each took a diaper and doused it with ether. It smelled like Mary Ellen’s nail polish. Arlan held it away from his face and checked the luminous dial on his watch. Four minutes. Enough smoke to cause concern.

They waited in the dark, listening to the ear-grating music behind the door. The music was abruptly turned down, voices raised.

Arlan called out toward the door, his voice just loud enough not to alert other renters. Everyone out! Fire in the laundry room!

Seconds later, the door swept open followed by a large cloud of white smoke. A man rushed out a few steps and stopped to look at the green chem stick glow on the floor through the smoke.

Fire! Let’s go! yelled Arlan.

The man looked up at him, confused until Arlan shoved him across the hall to Ritchie. The man tripped and stumbled, caught by Ritchie’s diaper in his face. Ritchie head-locked him and lowered him to the stairs as the ether kicked in.

The fog puffed into the hallway almost up to Arlan’s chest. He lowered himself into the fog, only his head visible, appearing small and non-threatening.

The other creep came out taking a few steps before stopping, almost enveloped by the fog. Hey, man what’s goin’ on…uh, Gerry? Where’d Gerry go?

He’s gone to see his little pony outside, said Arlan.

The creep pulled a face at Arlan. A what? He took a few more steps reaching the stairs and stiffened when he saw his friend’s sneakers on the floor in the dim green light.

Arlan stepped up behind him and reached around to press the diaper into the man’s face. Arlan hugged the creep until the struggle went out of him. He was surprised at how weak the man was, like holding a bratty child having a temper tantrum.

Textbook perfect, Arlan, said Ritchie. This tag-team rocks again!

Arlan switched off the machine. He duct-taped the men’s mouths and set a burlap bag over their heads.

What’s with the ‘little pony’ thing? Ritchie asked and hogtied them with the zip ties.

My psychic ability told me he’s wanted one since he was five. I was sorry to disappoint him, but the distraction worked.

Ritchie chuckled. In a minute they had the two men inside the van neatly rolled up in carpets.

Look-ee here! Ritchie slipped a knife out from an ankle scabbard on the one creep’s leg. Accessorizing. Very stylish. He tested the blade with his thumb.

Arlan nodded. Okay you two kids, let this be a lesson to all of us, never let political correctness interfere with stereotyping and bigotry.

Ritchie laughed. Thank you, Mr. Stenkowski, said Ritchie in a child’s voice, referring to his high school teacher. He closed the van door. Bagged, tagged, and narcotized.

Okay, Ritchie boy, you sniff out any treasure, I’ll start on the locks, said Arlan. Inside the suite, he eyed the open entry closet and saw it jammed with clothes and cartons full of electronic equipment and laptops. Stolen goods here, I believe. Arlan began setting out tools beside the door and opened the package with the new lock.

Oo-o-o-o-we! Man, this joint reeks, said Ritchie, sliding open windows to air out the place, cursing along the way. Piles of clothes were dumped everywhere. Worse than the locker room at the Hit Club.

Arlan chuckled. I’ll have to put some pine scent in that machine later, eh? Smells of sweat, urine, cigarette and weed smoke, and dirty water were just the ones he could identify. He didn’t want to try to ID the rest.

What a mess, said Ritchie as he toured the two-bedroom suite. Look, they used the carpet as an ashtray.

Burn holes were everywhere, mostly beside the beds.

Ritchie kept calling out damage. Oh man, turd in the bathtub. Toilet almost off its bolts. Writing on the bedroom wall. Grafitti here, over there. Used condoms under the dresser. Couple’a stove elements missing, too, eh?"

How the hell can stove elements go missing? I mean what the hell would a person do with them? He shook his head and pointed at his friend. I’ll get you on the bathroom reno tomorrow—turd patrol—Specialist Pearce, said Arlan.

Ritchie chuckled. That was your rank, right?

Arlan began swapping out the new entry door lock, then went into the kitchen. Dishes and pots were piled everywhere. Pizza boxes climbed a wall in a corner complete with ants in a hap-hazard parade to the feast. Broken glass lay here and there. General filth. Various stains marked the place from the floor to the ceiling.

Laptop and a toaster in pieces, said Arlan. Electronics were fascinating to meth heads. Some sort of Humpty-Dumpty affliction. They’d spend hours taking them apart but weren’t able to put them together. I got a student moving outfit coming in here in the morning. Everything goes out except the kitchen table and chairs.

Ritchie whooped from the hallway. He came around into the kitchen holding a cookie jar under his arm, chewing a cookie. What do I like more than Fudgee-os? he asked, crumbs tumbling from his mouth. He held out the jar for Arlan.

Arlan looked inside. Money-O’s! A beautiful sight, he said upon seeing the bundles of cash in the jar; twenties and fifties. This job does have its perks. Count it and we’ll take our women out to some classy place. He pulled out his cell phone and texted Elaine Morales to drop by tomorrow and survey the damage. I’ll be sacking out here in case their friends turn up. I’ll grab my sleeping gear and you do what you do best.

Ritchie followed him out to the van. The two men were still out, laying on their sides. Arlan and Ritchie took off their vests and sleeves and set them in a bag.

Okay, Ritchie. I don’t want to hear about it. Arlan knew the mischievous look on his partner’s face.

Ritchie chuckled and shook his head. I’ll be back here around ten in the AM. He flashed Arlan an exaggerated thumbs-up before climbing into the van.

Arlan groaned, catching the meaning. Ritchie often broke the thumbs of their perps—along with a stern warning to be good boys. When Arlan read about one man found naked in a city park with broken thumbs, he asked Ritchie about it. Ritchie demonstrated why that particular injury was an effective memory jogger in Josey’s bar. Ritchie taped Arlan’s thumbs to his palm for an hour. It was difficult for Arlan to eat the chicken wings and drink his beer, never mind get out his wallet, too. Ritchie told him that broken thumbs mean no return customers.

Where you takin’ the little boys? Arlan asked as he dragged the barricades aside.

Eeenie’s will visit a Bible camp—naked—looking for Jesus. Meenee will wake up in the Pleasantview Cemetery.

* * *

Arlan woke up on the livingroom floor of suite 102 to the chirps of a vehicle backup alarm. He pulled himself out of his sleeping bag and walked out of the suite to the stairs. Through the glass doors out in the parking lot, a 5-ton moving truck maneuvered into the parking lot. Five students guided the truck into the rear building entrance. Arlan went back inside. In the bathroom he threw water on his face, trying to breathe through his mouth while avoiding looking at the turd in the tub. There were a few knocks at the door last night which gave him pause, worrying about some drug supplier demanding money. Whoever the cookie jar belonged to would likely show up to try and collect.

His phone vibrated with a text from Ritchie:

Mission accomplished. Ka-Ching! Cookie jar bonus - 4,000

Arlan smiled and thought of an Italian place where he’d been wanting to eat. He texted his woman, Mary Ellen, for a date at Fredo’s. Once outside, he gave instructions to the movers. "Do whatever you want with the stuff. Put the couch out on the street. Lots of students around here. There’s no cigarette burns in it. Take everything except the kitchen table and chairs."

The moving crew guys glanced at each other, seeming interested.

Got a closet full of electronic gear you can have, too; electronic notebooks, a laptop, X-Box, and some iPads. He was going to ask them if they wanted the stash of drugs, oxy, and meth, and some weed. Why sell weed? It was legal now unless it was laced with something. He’d toss it all in the dumpster.

Two of the movers nodded with much more interest.

Arlan would call his long-time friend One-Eye Bob who had an old blue half-ton and was always eager for any kind of work. If needed, he had an army of his brothers to call on for any tasks. Bob was of Cree heritage, medium height had a sharp nose, kept his black hair slicked back, and always wore scuffed cowboy boots. His glass eye was almost the same brown as his real one. One-Eye wouldn’t balk at ripping out stained carpets, moldy underlay, or clean dirty bathrooms which he’d have to do here.

Elaine pulled into the lot and parked. Please tell me they’re gone? she said, through the car window.

Arlan pantomimed an exploding fist and nodded.

She drew in a deep breath and stepped out of the car. I hardly slept last night.

Arlan couldn’t help but note the relief on her face; it had more color and the lines on her forehead weren’t so pronounced. Let’s go see. He walked with her to the suite door. I’ll be headin’ out for some grub and coffee, pretty quick. I’ll have the bonus bill for you when I get back.

Elaine went inside. What’s that smell?

Uh, might be the turd in the tub…

She made a face. No, the oily odor.

Mineral oil is all.

Here comes my building super, Johan. I’ll explain what’s happening, she said, and they went to speak with the super, a squat middle-aged man with a gin-blossomed face. He appeared quite concerned with all the activity. He wore a gray plaid shirt and his blond hair was streaked with gray.

She introduced Arlan as the renovator and told Johan the two creeps had moved out suddenly late last night.

He pulled a face, some doubt in his expression. Uh, that was quick, said Johan, lowering his brow in suspicion. But I like it.

Your building security is compromised, said Arlan. You get a good locksmith and don’t cheap out on a good lock. Your tweakers in there were dealing and their partners in crime will be back. My friend Chewy has got some heavy-duty commercial locks, better than those toy ones you got on there. I’ll send him over. Arlan told Elaine he’d get started on the renos tomorrow.

He walked over to a nearby café for breakfast and sorted out the four cell phones from the apartment. Two of the phones weren’t even password protected and two were burners. Judging by the number of texts it appeared most of their dealing was done after midnight. The majority of texts were to two numbers. They went into a Fed-Ex envelope designated for his cousin’s Edmonton Police Service desk.

He wrote up an invoice for the eviction: a simple form with a SERVICES RENDERED header for the extreme reno—cash only. Another would be forthcoming for the actual renos.

I love this job, he thought and ordered a refill.

Chapter 2

Two nights later, Arlan and his gal Mary Ellen along with Ritchie and Lorena sat in Fredo’s Ristorante. Arlan and Mary Ellen had been an item for almost five years ever since their first encounter at the Hit Club. Back then Mary Ellen was in a Tae-Bo class. Arlan wasn’t willing to give up the heavy bag to her and they argued. He couldn’t win the war of words and ceded the bag to her. He liked her spunk and gave her a few pointers. While she worked the bag, he worked his charm and flashed his muscles. They met again at the Blues On Whyte where the regulars tended to call her ‘Hippie Chick’. She liked long beads, hoop earrings, wild batik tees, and flashy, colored blouses.

Richie sat across from Arlan and poured red wine into Lorena’s glass. Lorena, a Columbian, had the classic Latino look with liquid black eyes and tawny skin. Her husband had returned to Cartagena almost three years ago after a five-year turbulent marriage. She hadn’t heard from him since and was relieved the fighting was over. As for a divorce, she had no idea where he