Serpents Rising. David A. Poulsen
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is limited.”
“You want me to provide information that might help you find Jay or assist you in the actual search?”
“Both would be good. I know you’ve written stories on the drug scene here. If I remember correctly, a couple of them focused on crack. I thought you might know some people who might know some people. Or at least where I might start looking.”
“As in who might be the bigs behind the house on Raleigh Avenue?”
Cobb shook his head, then waved a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, that’s information I wouldn’t mind having. But I don’t imagine you know that.” His eyes narrowed. “No, my only real shot is to find the kid before they do. Which is why I mentioned urgency earlier.”
I looked around the room. “Okay, you finish your coffee, while I find my socks.”
“A clean pair not an option?”
“It would be if I’d washed clothes in the last couple of weeks.”
Cobb stood up. “You haven’t told me if you’re going to help me. If you’re not —”
“I can’t make important decisions in bare feet.” Trying to lighten the mood. I resumed my search and discovered the socks under an Oklahoma State Cowboys sweatshirt.
“Anyway, you’re right. If you read the stuff I’ve done on the crack industry in our city you know I never really got past the street sellers. Most of the sellers are also users and they protect the guys at the top, first of all because they’re the employers, sort of a job loyalty thing, and secondly, they don’t want anything bad to happen to their own supply.”
“So, like I said, the only way I can approach this is to find the kid before they do.”
I nodded. “And I’m guessing you may not have a lot of time.”
“Which, as you pointed out, brings me back to you. Any ideas as to where I might start with a kid like Jay? Or Max?”
“Well, there I might be able to help a little. I mean we might start with some of the areas that are hangouts for users. The bigger the user, the crappier the places they tend to hang out. Unless of course the kid comes from money. Those people tend not to be sleeping on the streets and under bridges.”
“I didn’t get a sense from Blevins that they’re wealthy people.”
“Right. Streets and bridges it is.”
“Sounds like bad movie stuff.”
“What I saw when I was researching my stories was a real bad movie.”
Cobb pulled my down-filled jacket off a door handle and handed it to me. “So you’re willing to help?”
I took the coat, pulled it on, checked pockets to make sure my gloves were there.
“Yeah, but don’t get the idea that I’m all about doing my civic duty or helping the less unfortunate. There might be a story here, maybe a compelling one. I’m not talking about the concerned-dad-shoots-drug-dealers story. Everybody will have that. I’m talking about the what-happens-after-that angle. If it turns out to be good, I want to be the one writing that story.”
Cobb looked at his watch. “Let’s go.”
Two
We took Cobb’s SUV, an older Jeep Cherokee with four wheel drive and the biggest engine Jeep makes. While we drove, Cobb filled in a few more missing pieces.
Blevins had given him an envelope filled mostly with cash — I didn’t ask how much — the address of the house on Raleigh, and a picture of his son. Blevins had said the picture was a year old but that Jay hadn’t changed much. A little skinnier and a couple of tattoos, rattlesnakes, but they were on his shoulders and upper arm, not visible if he had a shirt on. The envelope also contained the name of Blevins’s lawyer (in case the money was insufficient) and Blevins’s own business card with his home address on the back.
“What do you think Blevins was wanting to do before he turned himself in?”
“I really don’t know. Maybe try one more time to find the kid. Or look after personal stuff, financial stuff. He didn’t say. I offered to help him with the surrender to the cops but he said he’d handle it on his own. Besides, he wanted me to get started ASAP with looking for the kid.”
We got where we were going in a hurry, partly because the area wasn’t far from where I lived and partly because Cobb seemed determined to test the Jeep’s speed capabilities.
We started in a part of Calgary that shoppers and diners don’t usually frequent. I reasoned that Jay Blevins would have tried to stay fairly close to where he was buying drugs. Convenience.
Inglewood is Calgary’s oldest neighbourhood and has made a comeback from a couple of decades ago when it wasn’t a place you wanted to be. Now, as the transformation moves forward, it’s a funky mix of mostly good and some not so good — both in its architecture and its populace.
Cobb found a parking spot between a couple of sub-compacts and we stepped out into a maze of buildings three quarters of a century old or older. The not-so-good part of Inglewood: a military surplus store, a couple of warehouses, what was once a hotel, a few shelters, the Salvation Army, street counsellors, a couple of community churches run out of very non-church-like buildings. I’d been here before when researching stories and I guessed that Cobb, even if drugs hadn’t been his focus as a cop, was not unfamiliar with the area.
I suggested we start with the shelters. Blevins had said Jay had taken off before, sometimes for fairly long periods of time. He’d need a place to sleep, would know what was out there.
A couple of people hanging around outside the Sally Ann knew Jay Blevins; he had stayed there a few times. But if they knew where he was now they weren’t willing to share that information.
Cobb and I headed inside. I knew one of the people who worked there — a pastor who ran twelve step programs out of the Sally Ann and a couple of other rehab centres in other parts of town. I’d interviewed Scott Friend a few times, and found him to be optimistic without the over-the-top cheery you see on the religion channels. I knew he spent a lot of time on the street and hoped he’d be in.
He was. He was sitting at a wooden desk working on a sandwich and tapping at a keyboard. He looked up, recognized me, and stood up, smiling.
“Adam, how’ve you been?” He extended a hand.
I shook it. “Good, thanks, Scott. This is Mike Cobb. Mike, Scott Friend.” They shook hands. “We’re looking for someone,” I told him. “I wish we could take time to visit but it’s kind of urgent.”
He looked at me. “No need to apologize. I hope I can help.”
Cobb showed him his P.I. card, then held out the picture of Jay Blevins. “Know him?”
Friend took the picture looked at it for several seconds, handed it back, and nodded. “Sure, I know Jay.”
Cobb tucked the picture back in a jacket pocket. “Seen him lately?”
Friend shook his head. “Not in … I’d say a month, anyway. Is he in trouble?”
“We’re not sure. Just need to talk to him. A family matter.”
Friend looked at me. “But urgent.”
“Yeah,” I said
“I heard he had an OD episode. I’m guessing he must be okay or you wouldn’t be looking for him.”
“Yeah, he recovered from that,” Cobb said.
Friend nodded. “And he’s back on the street.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Using?”
“Looks like it.”
“We