On the Up Read online

  Copyright © 2018 Shilo Jones

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Jones, Shilo, author

  On the up / Shilo Jones.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 9780771049101 (softcover).—ISBN 9780771049118

  (EPUB)

  I. Title.

  PS8619.O5339O5 2018    C813’.6    C2017-904800-7

                        C2017-904801-5

  Book design by Terri Nimmo

  Cover art: © Sybille Sterk/Arcangel, silhouettes © Shutterstock

  Inset art: © Shutterstock

  McClelland & Stewart,

  a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited,

  a Penguin Random House Company

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  v5.2

  a

  For the ruck

  I don’t fit the big picture.

  —Subhumans

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  MAKING MOVES

  SURVIVE TO THRIVE

  I AM DRIVEN BY PASSION AND PURPOSE

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  I imagine Ryan phoning me. Odd hours, random days. Four years later. He sounds older than he is. Talks slow, like a guy who lives quiet. Makes an effort to ask about me. How are you, Jasminder? Never calls me Jaz. It’s not small talk. Not a casual question between acquaintances. I can tell he means it, really wants to know. There’s authenticity in Ryan’s voice, and a resolve that makes it clear he’s finished being afraid. If there wasn’t I’m not sure I’d answer his calls. I don’t owe him anything. I think Ryan believes how I am has some relationship to how he is, like if I’m doing okay then he should be doing okay too.

  Is this really you? Ryan asks. You’re not lying?

  That was only then, I tell him. I only lied when I was lost in it. But usually I say: Of course it’s me. Who else would it be? Don’t I sound like me?

  I imagine Ryan asking: Did Mark have a good heart? That’s the expression he uses: a good heart. It reminds me of the cartoon heart painting at Hawksworth. It’s impossible to know what will stick with you. A cartoon heart with dead butterflies.

  Ryan must be around eighteen now. Living in North B.C. Won’t tell me exactly where, and I can’t say I blame him. Sometimes I laugh when he says that. A good heart? C’mon. Other days I hang up. Sometimes I ask if such a thing is possible, is it ever that straightforward?

  Mark would say it is, Ryan tells me. He’d say for sure it is.

  Ryan dreams of violence. I don’t want to, he says. It’s not what I want.

  I know, I tell him. Me either.

  Do you think you did the right thing? Ryan asks.

  Jasminder Bansal

  Everything hinges on being believed. I’ve spent months angling to get inside the corruption story and finally…a meeting with the man who employs my brother’s killer. Vincent Peele, real estate attorney and the youngest board member of Marigold Group, one of the largest development firms in the country. You don’t rise that far and fast without—

  “—this is maybe not the best idea? Friday evening, life-changing interview with the boss, what kind of guy am I, to spring that on you with zero notice?”

  Vincent uses his teeth to remove his soaked riding gloves while I tell him no problem, it’s an honour, I appreciate the opportunity. I wipe moisture from a plastic patio chair and settle into the persona I’ve created to handle him, keeping my voice quiet and my body language subdued. The trick to getting sources to speak freely is to appear non-threatening. Mentally rehearse my pitch, how I’ve improved my proactive sales-oriented attitude, the steps I’ve taken to craft strong relationships with—

  Vincent leaps out of his chair, admires the mud splattered across his fluorescent yellow rain jacket. Like a child, it seems he’s having a difficult time staying still. “Just went for a killer mountain bike ride. Look at me! Covered in mud, maybe even blood. It’s awesome! There are bears in the woods. Predators. March, they’re hungry. Seen a bear, Jasminder? Not many bears where you’re…anyway, cool. Tigers, though?” Vincent curls his hands into claws, pretends to snarl and scratch. “Do tigers still exist? Do I have mud in my teeth?”

  Give him a you-must-be-joking hand wave, sip my tea, and decide he’s the kind of okay-looking that, depending on lighting or mood, could easily become obnoxious. His face narrows from the square foundation of his beard to a sharp widow’s peak. Precisely trimmed eyebrows. A mouth that hangs slightly open. He has the shitty habit of not looking directly at me, like I’m an interruption in an otherwise outstanding view. Vincent catches me sizing him up, gets the wrong idea, buries his fingers in his beard, says “uh-huh, yeah” under his breath, takes a selfie with the North Shore Mountains in the background.

  I was hired as an entry-level sales associate at Marigold Group five weeks ago. Making cold calls. Harassing mortgage admin. Guiding clients to local sights. The probationary period is over. My hope is that Vincent called this meeting to hire me permanently. To get this story written I need access to his office, his files. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Mr.—”

  “Wonderful, always, sure.” Vincent crosses right leg in front of left, bends at the waist, grabs his grimy cycling shoe, stretches, flexes his shoulders. “Mmm…brutally tight hamstring…jeez! Getting structurally integrated tomorrow, soma deep tissue, re-educate the body, heard of it? Nah, didn’t think so. Invented locally? Pretty sure, yes. Isn’t this great? Exercise and espresso! Simple needs. I live a very minimalist lifestyle, despite doing so well for myself.” Vincent looks up without breaking his stretch, nods toward a group sitting at a table on the other side of the outdoor café, lowers his voice. “Those people? Giving me stink eye for stretching in a coffee shop? Uptight, not real Vancouverites, not true West Coasters, stiffs from back east who don’t understand what makes this place so special. But anyway. I’m glad you came. Because I’m a very relaxed person, you know, not business-uptight at all, maybe too casual—I thought, well, how ’bout I call our promising new sales associate Jasminder Ba…uh, Bay…Bi…”

  “Bansal—”

  “—right now, and see what she’s doing? Give the girl some good news heading into the weekend. Brighten her day! Of course, you don’t mind?”

  “Mr. Peele? Are you offering me a full-time sales associate position?”

  Vincent waves toward the clouds ringing the mountains. “Look at this city. Nowhere like it! We are so. Lucky.”

  We’re at Lonsdale Quay, seated under a steel and glass atrium on a paving stone patio a few steps from the Pacific. The corners of the structure have gone green with algae or moss or something that thrives in near-constant moisture, and the wind coming off Burrard Inlet inspires me to wrap my scarf more tightly around my neck. A blunt, red-hulled tanker inches beneath the Lions Gate Bridge, looks close to clipping the underside of the span. Seagulls shriek and dive into the ship’s frothing wake. “So lucky, Mr. Peele. And no problem about the short notice. I was close by. With family. In Stanley Park.”

  Watch him, see if he clues into the lie.

  “Family? I have some of those. Vancouver, ooh!”

  “Lovely.”

  It mig
ht even be. Everyone says it is. But I’m not sure anymore. Horizontal lines of slate-coloured water and depthless cloud interrupted by a skyline that appears blocky and indistinct, flattened, as if carved from a single mass. And a new tower rising in the middle of the downtown core. Needle-thin and twice as tall as the rest, made of platinum or chrome or a material not yet discovered…and an invasive organic growth erupting two thousand feet overhead, a plague or virus spreading toward the city. No. I take a second look. Of course the malformed skyscraper doesn’t exist. Visions. Hauntings? The anniversary of my brother’s death is less than a week away.

  “Perfect view. What it’s all about? My city right there. Super world-class.”

  Vincent’s on script, expects me to know my lines. Instead I say nothing, which seems to irritate him. He has a cyclist’s physique, taut and slim beneath his riding gear: black plastic pads on his shins and elbows that make him look like an armoured insect. His mud-caked mountain bike is leaning against the flimsy patio table, threatening to collapse onto me. I’m trying not to feel put out, wary of the bike and the man, reminding myself of my investigative persona, pretty simple really, a conceptual membrane I wrap around myself when working a source, a filter between the real me and—

  “Check out this bike! Brand new. As in not on the market yet? I’m on Cove’s crazy elite demo team. Like it?”

  “It’s—”

  “Huge. I know. Eight inches of travel front and back. All carbon. Nine grand for this beast. I said I spent nine thousand dollars on this bicycle?”

  “But if you’re on the demo team don’t you get bikes for free?”

  Peele leans into the handlebars, compresses his bike’s front suspension. “Totally worth it. The North Shore? We invented the freeride revolution. Also did some trail maintenance, giving back to my community, accruing killer karma points. Rode Jerry Rig clean. No dab! Heard of that trail? Course not. Blind twenty-foot gaps, mad skinnies that side-loft to bermed transitions. Pros only, although I’m not quite pro. As in: too busy to formally compete. Wait! Feel it coming…holeshot! Post-ride endorphin high! Skin all a-tingle…feeling super loose! You?”

  “Loose? I’m—”

  Vincent frowns. “Not looking so loose. More like anxious? Fidgety? Game face, Jasminder. Big meeting with the boss.”

  Smile. “It’s been amazing, these last few weeks at Marigold. A wonderful learning opportunity. There was a time when, to be honest, I didn’t think I was much of a people person. But Marigold’s in-house mentoring program, that really helped. And…learning how to maximize client satisfaction…and…”

  Vincent looks delighted. “Hey, rain’s almost stopped. Only sprinkling! Sounds pretty stock, that answer, by the way? Client satisfaction? Whatevs. Need more from you. What’s this Jasminder person all about?”

  What does he want to hear? “I guess what I’m saying is—”

  “So about this gimongous condo development we have coming up, mega-ginormous Solstice Homes in beautiful-incredible North Vancouver, largest development Marigold’s ever taken on, woot!” Vincent raises his voice to make sure everyone on the patio can hear him. “I’m in charge, of course, head honcho, big responsibility, feeling slightly stressed, truth be told, which is normal when there’s like billions on the line, opening up here for you, sharing, because we’re in the middle of securing the property, a very delicate and crucial time. Yes, I said billions, plural…sorry, did I interrupt? You were saying something boring about selling being a passion of yours?”

  An espresso machine erupts inside the coffee stand. “A passion? Maybe a learned skill? A multi-billion-dollar development? That is so…wow.”

  “And me running point.” Peele squeezes his front tire, frowns, digs through his tiny backpack, grabs a bicycle pump. “Truth bomb! I’m not big into selling either. I’m more of a connector.” Waves the pump in the air. “Us connecting? See how I make it seem easy? Marigold, we’re searching for diverse ability. The role of modern management is to match talent to task.” Peele points the bicycle pump at my chest. “First impression: this Jasminder person makes people feel at ease. You’re very agreeable. And…charming isn’t the right word. Pleasant? I’m not sure how to describe it. I find it quite easy to like you.”

  A gull flaps onto the splintered dock, snaps a yellow-black eye in my direction, scurries too close. “You’re saying I’m likable?”

  Vincent crouches beside his bike, clamps the pump onto his tire. “Not exactly? It’s almost like…you’re such a relief. Jasminder? What a great name. Pretty like jasmine, but with an inder tacked on? So cool. And unique! I love this country. You?”

  Another gull screeches in, pecks at the first, tears out a beakful of feathers, and flies off, keening and diving through cloud. A rhythmic hissing sound as Vincent forces air into his tire. “Canada? Well, I think it’s—”

  “Perfect? Of course. Everyone does. People like you are why I love this country. Partly. A shining light guiding the world.”

  Vincent’s arm ratchets back and forth. I decide the best course of action is to play along. At Langara College I learned to resist the urge to speak into silence. Sources often return to what’s really on their minds if you give them space. “You mean…Canada’s a beacon for the world?”

  “On the same page! A shining beacon of rad. That’s what Canada is.” He stands, taps the table with the bike pump. “You’re proof. We both are! Look at us, sitting together, total equals, with me maybe deciding to hire you. How great is that?” Peele puts the pump away, runs his fingers through his beard, picks out a piece of mud, flicks it in my direction.

  The bastard’s trying to put me in my place. This condo developer with a murdering gangster named Clint Ward on his payroll? What Peele doesn’t understand is that I’m not the woman sitting in front of him, slump-shouldered, smiling at the right times and sounding unsure, deferent to his hold on my future, looking how he expects me to look, eager and expectant and hoping he chooses to be beneficent in his dealings with me. That woman? That’s the me I want him to see. The real me is way over here, thinking fuck you, Mr. Sir, watching from a distance, taking what I need, witnessing. Things are easier when I imagine myself as someone else. “Mr. Peele, I’m truly grateful—”

  Vincent tears open a PowerBar, stuffs half into his mouth, mumbles: “Okay, grateful, who isn’t? Acing the interview! But I’m soaked, chilly, time is…almost five thirty? Already? Want to ride the bridge before dark.” Peele glares at the PowerBar, tosses it on the ground. Seagulls skitter and hop. “Gross, chocolate oat? Least favourite! Anyway—”

  “You’re going to waste that?”

  “Waste what?”

  “It’s nothing. Only…I was raised not to waste food?”

  Peele mulls this over, brightens. “The seagulls will eat it. Organic. All natural.”

  I tell him sure, of course, angle away, watch waves circle barnacle-studded pier posts, pretend to check my phone. Vincent makes a show of scaring the gulls away. Picks up the wrapper and deposits it in the garbage. He’s slightly bowlegged, walks with his weight too far forward. Tells me he’s had his team looking for promising sales associates for a long time, sounds irritated until I refocus my full attention on him. Says I did mostly okay during the new-hire probation period. Areas of improvement, sure, always improving, but that I did better than expected. Grabs his water bottle, shoots a stream of pink fluid into his mouth, wipes his lips with a backhand. “Electrolytes! Bzzzt! Anyway, what was I talking—”

  “My future?” A month more, maybe less, inside Marigold Group. Digging into the connection between Vincent Peele and Clint Ward. Is Peele washing cash through his developments? Snooping through emails both personal and corporate, bank statements, client lists, light it up online and use the story to kick-start my journalism career. “We were talking about…am I hired?”

  “Ha, right! Almost. Because I know you understand Vancouver. Diversity, outdoorsy, all that excellent. Marigold isn’t looking for licensed real estate agents, Ja
sminder. No. Stuck in their ways. Expectations about commission rates, always criticizing, comparing. Legal issues…no. We have, uh…” Peele smacks his lips, hesitates. “A very successful proven model? Yes! We’re looking for…talented up-and-comers? To follow our model precisely. This is an incredible time. The opportunity…” Peele looks at the atrium roof and shakes his head, like he can’t fully comprehend the enormity. “For a motivated self-starter like you, I like to say we create our own limitations.”

  “We do?”

  “I’m sure of it. Welcome to the Marigold Family.”

  “Family of…”

  “Of us!” Peele glares at a kid admiring his bike. “Marigold treats all our employees like family.”

  “I guess that could go either way?”

  “Oh, ha! Like a nurturing, supportive, well-off family. We’re drafting a community-oriented core philosophy to reflect how we totally dominate. Second place is for losers! And civil servants.” Peele taps his phone, sticks it in my face. “See that document? Stage-two expansion, with the Solstice development being the king or lynch-whatever-pin? We’re redefining work in the twenty-first century. To make it seem like more fun?”

  I kick at a nasty seagull milling too close to my feet. “That’s interesting. So…in the Marigold Family…you’re like my boss and brother?”

  “Father. On top. In a non-hierarchic or patriarchal way, of course.”

  I give him an excited expression. Is it feigned? I want to say absolutely. But I’m already thinking: What if I don’t pursue the story? What if I take my sales associate position at Marigold seriously? It pays better than any job I’ve had. What about the bills my mother and I are behind on, my grinding car brakes? I fight down a shudder because what if wanting to expose Vincent Peele and Clint Ward is simply a lie I tell myself so I can live with working for a twit like Vincent? “Okay…thank you? I mean, for sure, I’m excited, this is excellent—”