Oliver's Twist Read Free Page B

jetties out over the harbour. And its resources were only a few hours away from Rupert in the beefedup fishing boat Murray had purchased. He made the dash across treacherous and unpredictable waters at night to load up with American spirits, then returned to Rupert where he sold the booze at a markup of 100 percent.
    The risk was worth it and business was good. Murray bought one of the first and most expensive cars to come off the assembly lines after the war, a black Ford Monarch. He turned the four-door limo into a rolling liquor store, delivering the boat’s haul in style and acquiring a taxi licence for cover. It was illegal to sell liquor anywhere but out of a government store and seriously illegal to do so after the government store had closed. But this only made Murray more inventive; occasionally, I was pressed into service as his accomplice. If he was on a run to sell a few bottles and spotted a police car, I hid the goods in my sweater or up the legs of my pants. If we had a passenger, the instructions were to pass the bottles to the kid when the bulls pulled us over.
    Murray was popular with the natives because he offered them the chance to take booze home like everyone else. He also charged them a lower markup, rather than gouge them after hours. His largesse inevitably cut into the profits of local bar owners and the liquor tax revenues of the government. While Dad had no doubt paid off most of the local officials, the heat became too much and they reluctantly charged him with bootlegging. He served six months at Okalla Penitentiary in New Westminster, and as the son of a con, I suffered the merciless taunts of my classmates.
    The first visit after his release, he was more sharply dressed than I had ever seen him, looking handsome in a double-breasted grey pinstripe suit made to measure in the prison tailor shop. Dad wasted not a minute in establishing a new business, a crap and poker game that operated out of the bridal suite, such as it was, in the St. Elmo Hotel. He was a lifelong gambler whose advice to me about the sport was a familiar saw: There is a sucker in every game and if you can’t see who it is, get up and leave.
    Though boarding with others, I was allowed to spend the night with Dad from time to time, closeted in the hotel suite’s bedroom but listening to the action. Amid the fragrance of cigar smoke and beer was the vague thrill that something illicit, possibly even a little dangerous, was going on. The players were seated at a circular table covered in green cloth, tall stacks of bills and poker chips resting neatly by their hands. But it was the revolver beside the dealer that mesmerized me. Designed to protect the house and discourage local toughs who might be tempted to knock over the bank, it had a large steel-blue frame with the brand name “Colt” emblazoned on the pistol grip.There was a lanyard ring on the butt and a flap-top holster with sheepskin lining, which I was allowed to wear during visits. The gun was always loaded except when I was given it to handle. The shiny bullets slid smoothly out of the six chambers. I felt utterly privileged.
    The day a boy got his first gun was the bush country’s equivalent of a bar mitzvah. My eleven-year-old’s pride was immense when Dad took me to Joe Scott’s hardware store to buy a Cooey single-shot .22 rifle. I hardly took a breath as I lifted it out of its shipping carton. The opportunities for father-and-son bonding were few in Prince Rupert and tended to centre on fishing or hunting. We had the accoutrements of neither, but we intended to share the experience. In the wilds of the city dump, Dad with his Colt .45 and I with my new rifle used the rats for target practice.
    After these all-too-fleeting outings, I was returned to the Skinners. Early on, I was aware of Mabel’s penchant for physical punishment. This included bare bottom spanking with one of those thick straps men used to sharpen their straight