Frank was thinking about Friday night. He was thinking about Oscar Peel, and Pat Nash.
*
Frank had made Nash drive the Pontiac all the way downtown and under the bridge, Oscar sitting up front next to Nash, in the passenger seat. He’d thought about sticking Oscar in the trunk, but that seemed like kind of a dumb idea; something Tony Curtis would do in a gangster movie, Marilyn Monroe wriggling and squealing in the background.
Frank snuck a quick, contemptuous look at the dumb blonde from the Orange Julius stand. No doubt about it, Gary could really pick ’em. When it came to women, he was about as predictable as a fart in a beanery.
The ride downtown hadn’t been too bad, except Nash was too nervous to think straight. Frank had to keep reminding him to speed up or slow down, not bother stopping when the light was green.
Traffic stuff, nothing serious. Nothing to worry about, yet.
Frank had killed before. He knew that a failure of imagination rarely failed to occur; that for most people death was never real until the event was actually about to happen. But at the last moment, and Frank didn’t have any idea why this happened, the victims always went one of only two ways. What they did was almost fall asleep on you, or go completely berserk.
So when they turned off Beach and went down Granville towards the water, Frank got ready.
The lights of the car shone on the roundabout. Nash slowed the car and Frank had to tell him to go left. The road was gravel. They hit a pothole, bucked and swayed. Frank almost squeezed the trigger right there, but a part of his brain told him that Nash wasn’t trying to get cute, it was just the Pontiac needed new shocks.
The road turned right. On their left there was a chain-link fence, empty space, the outline of a few boats and a low, dark building. No lights except down on the water, where there was a narrow wharf and maybe a couple of dozen sailboats. Frank wondered if anybody lived on them. The water gleamed darkly. He leaned across the seat and pointed. “Over there, Pat.”
Nash started into the turn and Oscar leaned over, grabbed the wheel, got his boot in and stomped on the gas pedal. The rear wheels spat gravel and the Pontiac shot towards the harbor.
Frank grabbed at the steering wheel. Oscar tried to stick his fist in his eye. The goddamn car was still accelerating. Oscar had apparently decided that if he was going to die, everybody was going to die. Frank went for the ignition keys, intending to turn the engine off. Oscar bit him in the neck.
Frank stopped thinking and started reacting. He cocked the .45 and tried to shoot Oscar in the back of the head. The muzzle blast lit up the interior of the car. The sound of the shot was deafening.
Oscar’s cheeks bulged. Pink foam sprayed out of his wide-flared nostrils. Frank’d missed at a range of maybe six inches. The windshield was frosted over. Oscar had a hand on the Colt, was trying to take it away from him. Frank jerked back, put a bullet through the roof. Oscar clawed wildly at his face. Frank batted away his hands and tried to line up another shot.
The Pontiac slowed abruptly, the nose dropping. Pat Nash had stuck out his foot and hit the brakes. Bless you, thought Frank. A fraction of a second later the car smashed into a concrete pillar, one of the bridge pilings. Frank was lifted out of his seat. His head hit a side window. Glass shattered. He fell back on the seat. Somebody was screaming. The voice sounded vaguely familiar. The car veered sideways and stopped at an odd angle, nose up, the front end sticking out over the water, the left headlight lighting a pathway to heaven. Frank caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, shut his mouth.
The screaming stopped.
There was blood all down the front of Oscar Peel’s face but he was alive, conscious, desperately trying to force his way out of the car but too panicked to think of opening the door first.
“Do it,” said Frank. He handed Pat Nash the dinky little .25 calibre Star, thrusting it into his open hand and at the same time keeping the Colt on him. Nash gave Frank a look Frank had never seen before, rage and grief and a kind of empty hopelessness. He twisted in his seat and put the muzzle of the Star against Oscar’s ear.
Oscar jerked his head sideways. His hands tore at the tape that sealed his mouth shut.
*
Pat Nash had an idea, just like that. He jammed the stubby barrel of the Star up against Oscar’s plump hip. Oscar punched him in the mouth. The gun went off. Oscar started bouncing up and down like he’d sat on the world’s biggest tack. Nash couldn’t say whether or not Oscar’d been hit. Oscar was banging his shoulder against the car door but it wouldn’t open.
*
“Stay still, dammit!” Frank was trying to get set, but Oscar wouldn’t stop squirming and wriggling, and it was dark, and it wasn’t going to be easy. Frank lunged at him, came away with a fistful of hair. There was something in Oscar’s hand, the glint of metal. The door handle. Oscar got down on the floor of the car and did his best to hide under the brake pedal. Frank gritted his teeth and shot him in the ass. What a life. Oscar burrowed deeper. Frank reached down, grabbed Oscar’s jeans, tried to haul him upright. There was a movement to his right. Nash hit him on the ear with the Star. Suddenly Frank was in Vegas — there were flashing colored lights all over the place. He grunted, shook his head. His vision cleared. He swung the Colt and Nash went down. Frank’s heart was pounding hard enough to break his ribs, his throat was on fire and he could hardly breathe. He got a bead on Oscar Peel, shot him once and then shot him again, shot him a third time and saw in the bright orange lightning bolt of the muzzle flash that the last two rounds had been wasted, Oscar was down for the count.
Nash groaned. Frank pushed him out of the way and opened the passenger-side rear door of the car. He got out and looked around. Nothing. He opened the front door and dragged Oscar’s body across the seat. Nash fell half out of the car. His head hit the gravel.
Frank got Oscar all the way out of the car and let him drop. He went around to the far side of the car and peered down at the water. There was a kind of backwater down by the pier. No current, that he could see. Not a good place to put Oscar. He walked backwards diagonally across the parking lot, past a birdshit-splattered Cutlass, to the water’s edge. Almost directly below him, five or six feet down, there was a narrow wharf, a floating walkway. He jumped lightly down, grabbed Oscar by the lapels and pulled him on to the dock and dragged him out as close to the main current as he could get. There was a smear of blood on the boards. Well, so what?
Frank pulled Oscar upright, gave him a push. Oscar looked as if he was learning to dive and had no talent. His body collapsed into the water. A headstone of froth, then nothing. Frank stepped on something, glanced down. Oscar’s wallet lay on the boards. He took the cash and tossed the wallet into the water. Looked for Oscar, but couldn’t find him, despite the bright yellow rain slicker, which he should’ve taken off, so the body’d be harder to spot in the water. He could feel blood on his hands, sticky and warm. He crouched and washed himself off, rinsed his face. Salt stung his eyes.
When Frank got back to the car, Pat Nash was sitting on the back bumper with his head in his hands, as if he had a flat tire and was waiting for someone to come along and fix it for him.
“Where’s the gun?” said Frank.
Nash showed him the Star.
“Get rid of it.” Frank jerked his head towards the water.
Nash pushed himself upright, staggered like a drunk across the gravel, fell down. Frank started towards him. Nash stood up. He took a few more steps and made an overhand throwing motion. Frank heard a distant splash.
He started wiping down the car, using a rag he’d brought along for the job, methodically obliterating any and all fingerprints.
“Want some help?”
Frank shook his head. Something his daddy had taught him: you need something done good, better do it yourself. He finished wiping down the car and jammed the rag in his back pocket and started walking up the road towards Beach Avenue.
“Where the hell you going?” said Nash. His voi
ce sounded thin, shaky.
“Get a drink,” Frank said. He heard footsteps but didn’t bother to look behind him. By the time he got to Beach, Nash was walking alongside him, starting to ask questions. Frank stopped under a streetlight. Oscar’s yellow slicker had caught most of the blood, but not all of it. Nash’s leather jacket had to go. He told Nash to empty his pockets and take the jacket off.
“Jesus, Frank. It cost me three hundred and fifty bucks, and that was on sale.”
“Tell Gary about it,” said Frank. “Maybe he’ll buy you a new one.”
Nash took the jacket off, handed it to Frank. Frank dropped it on the sidewalk and kicked it under a parked car.
They went to a club on Richards Street. It seemed Frank knew the doorman. They slipped past the lineup and went straight inside, sat down at a table near the bar. There was a three-piece band. People dancing. Frank unbuttoned his jacket and then remembered the gun, buttoned the jacket back up again. He grinned at Pat Nash. “Know what a Peter Pan is?”
Nash shook his head.
“A cocktail,” said Frank. “Two dashes bitters, add three-quarters of an ounce orange juice, dry vermouth and gin. Shake with ice and strain into a glass.” He stood up. “Order one for me, will you?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Frank pushed away from the table and disappeared into the crowd. Saturday night and the joint was jammed to the rafters, everybody hustling. Frank headed towards the washroom and then circled around to where he could watch Nash. Frank was curious. He wanted to see what Nash would do, now that he was alone. Stick tight, or beat it?
A waitress cruised by, cute little thing. Nash stuck out his leg and she glared at him, less than charmed.
Frank watched Nash’s mouth move as he ordered the drinks — a Becks for himself, Frank’s Peter Pan.
The waitress went away and Nash lit a cigarette and leaned his elbows on the table and eyed the ladies. Not that Frank thought he’d be in the mood for love, unless he was a lot tougher than he looked.
Frank wandered around for a few minutes, used the can, went back to the table, sat down. He took off his jacket and slung it over the back of his chair.
Nash saw the Colt was gone.
“What’d you do, flush it down the toilet?”
Frank smiled. He had a big, wide face. His smile was unexpectedly warm, full of humor. He pointed at Nash’s Exports. “You mind?”
“Go ahead.”
Frank shook a cigarette from the pack, ripped off the filter, struck a match.
“I thought you were gonna do me, back there,” Nash said.
Frank looked over his shoulder, put a finger to his lips.
Nash turned, glanced behind him. The waitress put the Peter Pan down on the table in front of him and he pushed it away, towards Frank. She looked a little surprised, recovered quickly. Nash flushed and Frank laughed. The girl gave Nash his beer and a glass, the tab. Frank dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table. He raised his glass. “Here’s to Oscar. After all, he’s paying.”
Nash drained off half his Becks, taking it straight from the bottle.
Frank leaned across the table. He put his hand on Nash’s arm. “Oscar had to go. He didn’t have any choice, and neither did I. Understand what I’m telling you?”
“I understand.”
“Guy screws up, he’s gotta pay the price. Let him go, word gets out and in no time at all Gary’s got people lining up to bite chunks off him.” Frank let go of Nash’s arm. He held his drink up to the light. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m no fan. Far as I’m concerned, you want to know the truth, Gary’s a first-class asshole.”
Nash looked up from his beer, puzzled. It was clear he was wondering why Frank was telling him this.
Frank answered the unspoken question. “What I’m trying to tell you, don’t go away mad, okay? It was a job and I had to do it. Simple as that.”
Fine, said Nash’s face. But why bother to explain it to me?
Figure it out, thought Frank. Use your brains, you got any. Aloud he said, “Three days, is that what Gary gave you?”
Nash nodded.
Frank drank some of his Peter Pan, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. He balled up the napkin and tossed it on the floor. “Stay in touch, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And if you get lucky, who you gonna call?”
“I’ll call Gary, call him right away.”
Frank helped himself to another cigarette, did the thing with the filter. Lit up. Leaned across the table with the cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth, smoke running along the hard, bony flank of his cheek and up into his unblinking eye. He gave Nash a slip of paper with a phone number printed on it in big block letters. “Don’t call Gary,” he said. “Call me.”
Nash drank the rest of his Becks. He was parched, the beer didn’t seem to be doing a thing for him. He glanced around, wondering what the hell had happened to the waitress. And also wondering if he was getting the right message, if he and Frank were speaking the same language.
The band had taken a break but now they were back at work, music blasting out of the club’s speakers, the bass so heavy it was making the floor vibrate.
Frank signalled another round of drinks. He started talking, his eyes holding Nash’s, keeping his voice so low he knew it would be impossible for Nash to hear a word he was saying. Nash nodded along, doing his best to seem agreeable. His head bobbing up and down reminded Frank of one of those stuffed dogs you see in the back windows of cars driven by old people with sticky-out ears.
After about ten minutes of this, Nash excused himself and went to the can.
Frank knocked back the dregs of his Peter Pan, threw some more of Oscar’s money on the table. It had been a long night. He stood up, pushed away from the table and through the crowd towards the door.
*
“Something wrong with the beer?”
Frank glanced up, startled. Gary was standing over him, looking pissed.
“Must’ve dozed off,” said Frank. “It’s the fire, I guess.”
“Me’n Samantha are gonna go wrinkle the sheets,” said Gary. “We don’t make it back by the time the Jays get up to bat, tape it for me.”
Frank nodded.
Gary dragged his new girlfriend out of the den. She was laughing and giggling, having a good time. But Frank knew from past experience it was a phase that wouldn’t last. Gary left the door open behind him. His bedroom was down at the end of the hall. He’d leave that door open too, would expect Frank to listen carefully to all the noises he made.
Afterwards Gary’d give Frank a little quiz, twenty questions. Then he’d supply the answers. As if Frank was interested. Gary was a pervert. At times Frank was so ashamed of working for him that he didn’t think he could do it any longer. But if he quit, Gary would have him killed.
So there was only one way out, really. Sooner or later, Gary had to get splashed. If Nash beat the odds and came up with the missing heroin, Frank would let him bump Gary. Nash had the best of all possible motives, revenge. So Nash’d whiff Gary, be happy to do it. And then Frank would waste Nash. Kick the Orange Julius girl’s cute little ass out on the sidewalk, along with Gary’s collection of cactus plants.
A happy ending, for a change.
10
Parker’s apartment was on West Eleventh, just off Burrard. Willows pulled up against the curb in front of the building. He saw movement in the lobby. The door swung open. Parker, dressed in jeans, ankle-length black leather boots and a black silk jacket, came out of the building and hurried down the sidewalk towards him.
Willows smiled at her as she got into the car.
“What?” said Parker.
“You’re dressed like a burglar.”
“Burglars wear running shoes. Sneakers, because that’s what they do. Sneak.”
Willows put the Olds in gear, checked his side mirror and pulled away from the curb.
“How was court?” he said.
“Lousy. Junior got him
self a very good lawyer, guy so expensive he wears a four-piece suit.”
Junior was a Californian who’d strayed across the border, become involved in a shootout with Parker. He’d been wounded and spent several months in the hospital. Now he was in Oakalla, awaiting trial, and he’d applied for bail.
“He’s going to make it,” said Parker. “They’re going to let the murderous bastard walk.”
Willows shook his head, no. “He won’t make bail, and they won’t let him plead, either. He shot at a cop, for Chrissake.”
“The lawyer claimed mitigating circumstances. We were in an unmarked car. It was dark, the light was bad. And on, and on. It was also the little scumbug’s first offense. Until now, his slate was clean. Plus he’s on title for that house in West Van. Which makes him a property owner. A solid citizen.”
“We flashed our badges,” said Willows. “He pulled his cannon and started shooting. He won’t make bail. By the time he gets out, he’ll be a senior citizen.”
“I hope you’re right,” Parker said. “But I’ve got a hunch you’re wrong.”
“A hunch ... what’s that, bad posture?”
“Five dollars says Junior’s home by Hallowe’en.”
“I need the money,” said Willows, “so I’m going to take it.”
They were on the downslope of the Burrard bridge, the lights of the downtown core glittering in front of them. Willows cut to the inside lane and turned right on Beach, drove two blocks and made another right. The building site was deserted. They drove down to the lower parking lot. There were a few lights on in the condominium, but Miss Tyler’s apartment was dark.
Willows stopped about twenty feet from the abandoned Cutlass. He switched on his brights and a huge, distorted shadow of the Cutlass seemed to leap from the car, cling to the concrete bridge support.
He turned off the Olds’ engine but left the lights on. Flipped open the glove compartment and retrieved his police-issue flashlight, got out of the car.
There was no movement inside the Cutlass. He tried the door. It was locked. He pointed his flashlight at the car window but the encrustation of bird droppings was so thick it was impossible to see inside. He tapped on the glass with the heel of the flashlight.
Hot Shots (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Page 7