The Goldfish Bowl

by Laurence Gough

  Willows noticed he had to duck his head when he came through the doorway.

  “The guy’s name is LeRoy Johnson,” said Dutton. “A failed basketball player. Almost made centre for the Sonics. The club said they couldn’t sign him because he was too tall to play, but I hear drugs might have had something to do with it.”

  On the screen, Annie unbuttoned LeRoy’s uniform jacket and discovered to her surprise that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. LeRoy tore the cap off a quart of milk, brought the bottle to his mouth and drank thirstily, white rivulets pouring down his muscular, hairless chest.

  Dewey was on her knees, working on the wide studded leather belt holding up LeRoy’s twill pants. Drops of milk fell across her face. She licked her lips, her eyes sparkling with simulated lust.

  Willows squinted through the smoky gloom at the feeder reel on the projector.

  “Another twenty minutes,” said Dutton, his sharp photographer’s eye missing nothing.

  Willows held up his little package, and pointed at the door leading to Dutton’s darkroom.

  “What’s the matter,” said Dutton, “you don’t want to find out what happens next?”

  “I have a feeling I already know.”

  Dutton nodded. “Art imitates Life, and Life imitates Art. But most of all, Art imitates Art.”

  None of the vice cops looked up when Dutton and Willows left the room. Slouching ponderously in the gutted ruins of the upholstered chairs, heavy-lidded, consumed by their own dark and formless shadows, they stared bleakly at the screen and the mute tangle of bodies that squirmed and wriggled on the milk-slippery kitchen floor.

  There was an old round-top fridge in the darkroom, used by Dutton to store undeveloped film. He opened the door and reached deep inside, came up with two bottles of Kokanee beer. He popped the electric blue caps and handed a bottle to Willows. “What are we drinking to this time, Mel?”

  “Reincarnation. The possibility that next time around I’ll be a seven-foot hunk with a full head of hair.”

  “Instead of an aphid?”

  “Listen, if I’m a nice guy during my current life, there’s no problem with regression. So what can I do for you that’ll improve my Karma?”

  Willows showed him the photograph Claire Parker had found in Flora McCormick’s office.

  “I heard you fellas did an awful lot of leg work,” Dutton cracked, “but I had no idea I was supposed to take the job description so literally.”

  “Can you enlarge that for me?”

  “How many times?”

  “I’d like about a dozen copies.”

  “No, I mean how big do you want it?”

  “As big as possible.”

  Dutton sank half his beer. “You looking for something in particular?”

  “Whatever I can find.”

  Dutton frowned. “To maintain any degree of clarity, I’m going to have to make an interneg. That means photographing your picture, developing the negative and using it to make a series of prints at various exposure levels.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “Everything’s complicated. Until you break it down into its component parts. Then everything all of a sudden becomes ridiculously simple. Which is why we do our best to lead such complicated lives.” He tapped the bottom right-hand corner of the photograph. “These shoes with the little hearts, they’re the same as the shoe that was left on Jervis, am I right?”

  “Could be, Mel.”

  “This guy you’re after, he’s killed what, four people?”

  “So far,” said Willows.

  “Point taken,” said Dutton, and drained his beer.

  A little over an hour later, Dutton pulled the last of the enlargements out of the flatbed drier. Willows went over the print inch by inch while Dutton stood anxiously by.

  “You find anything, Jack?”

  “No, not yet.”

  Dutton scowled. His good deed for the day appeared to have been wasted, he hadn’t racked up a single Karma point on that big scoreboard in the sky. Who was it that had said the road to being an aphid was paved with good intentions? Shit, he was no closer to a perfect rematerialization than if he’d spent the morning watching drool movies with his pals from vice.

  *

  Inspector Bradley stuck his cigar in his mouth and used the flat of his hands to push open the metal fire door. He hurried down a short flight of concrete stairs, bubbling grey paint sloughing off under his heels. Parker, a little out of breath, managed to stay right behind him. A counterweight rattled on the end of a length of rusty chain. The door slammed shut.

  Parker’s irises shrank before her advancing pupils as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. They were somewhere in the basement of 312 Main, following a sparse string of naked low-wattage bulbs that dwindled into the distance in a perfectly straight line. Off to her left, somewhere in the darkness, water dripped on metal.

  Bradley paused under the third lightbulb in the string. His breathing was fast and shallow, and the film of perspiration on his forehead made his skin look freshly lacquered. Ever since they’d left his office, they’d been walking so fast that Parker had been forced at frequent intervals to break into a trot in order to keep up. She was pleased to see that the rapid pace had also taken its toll on Bradley.

  Leaning towards her, he took her gently by the arm. They were so close that she could smell the thin scent of his aftershave under the burly pungency of his cigar. He smiled, but even in the dim and murky light she could see that his eyes were not twinkling.

  “You know where I’m going?” he said quietly.

  Parker shook her head.

  “City Hall. Superintendent Foster and I have an appointment with His Honour the Mayor. And to tell you the truth, I’m not looking forward to it at all. Because voices are bound to be raised. Many rhetorical and some pointed questions will be asked. And if I don’t want to get my shoes scuffed, I’m going to have to come up with some hard answers.”

  They started walking again, into alternating pools of darkness and light.

  Bradley indicated the green plastic folder Parker was carrying under her arm. “Franklin tells me you’ve been a very busy lady. Does that contain the fruits of your labour?”

  “Mine and everybody else’s,” said Parker. There were a dozen clerks working on Flora McCormick’s files, putting together a master list of the more than six thousand past and present members of the singles club. The names were being fed into the department’s IBM mainframe computer in blocks of one hundred. So far, about two thousand names had been processed. Of these, fifty-three men and eight women had been found to have previous convictions. Parker explained to Bradley that only twelve of the men and one of the women had been involved in crimes of violence.

  “That’s fine,” said Bradley. “Thirteen is a number the Mayor can understand, it’s a number he can deal with.” He held out his hand and Parker gave him the green file. “These people are our primary suspects,” said Bradley. “I want all thirteen of them brought in for questioning, and I want it done right this minute. See Franklin about it. Tell him it’s a top priority item.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bradley tapped the file with a tobacco-stained finger. “Exactly what have I got in here?”

  “Names, rap-sheets and mug shots. A selection of crime-scene photographs. A list of the physical evidence.”

  Bradley nodded, apparently satisfied. “I’ll never know why, but His Honour always gets a big kick out of looking at mug shots.” As he spoke, Bradley abruptly veered left, down a narrow, dimly lit corridor. “You got anything else for me, or is that it?”

  “That’s it for now,” said Parker. As far as she knew, Willows was still up in the lab with Mel Dutton. Until she found out if they’d come up with something, she saw no point in telling Bradley about the photograph they’d taken from Flora McCormick’s office.

  They turned left again. Parker smelled burning oil, steam. Bradley stopped in front of another metal fire door. He fiddled with a ste
el bolt. The bolt was rusty and made a harsh grating sound as he pulled it back. The door swung open, flooding them in soft grey light.

  They stepped outside, into cooler air, a sloping, feathery rain. They were in the alley at the rear of 312 Main, standing opposite the police parking lot. Bradley jumped a puddle, strode across an open expanse of asphalt and past an untidy row of police vehicles. The squad car Furth had shot up two days earlier was parked at the far end of the lot. Next to it was Bradley’s shiny white Chrysler. He unlocked the car and got in, tossing the green folder on the seat beside him.

  Parker stood in the rain, waiting to be dismissed.

  Bradley started the Chrysler’s engine. He leaned forward in the seat, his chin propped on the steering wheel, and listened intently to the sound of the motor. After a moment he turned to Parker and said, “Automatic choke’s giving me a little trouble. Won’t run steady when it’s cold. I keep meaning to take it in, but where am I going to find the time?”

  Parker smiled sympathetically, and turned up the collar of her jacket against the rain.

  “You ought to realize,” said Bradley, “that at the moment you happen to be in a unique and enviable position. This is your first homicide, and its turned into a real headline grabber. Very high profile, the sort of case that could make your career.”

  Parker nodded but said nothing, knowing there was more to come.

  “But you’re going to have to watch your every step,” said Bradley, “because somebody’s going to be watching every step you take.”

  “I understand,” said Parker.

  “The lowest rung on the ladder is the one that gets stepped on the most,” said Bradley. He gave the Chrysler some gas, and frowned. “A police department is a lot like an automobile engine. To make it run efficiently, you have to have all the parts working together to the maximum of their potential. Jack Willows is a hell of a talented cop, but that’s something he tends to forget, that we all have to work together.” Bradley revved the engine again. It idled smoothly and quietly.

  “I appreciate your concern,” said Parker.

  “Good,” said Bradley. He leaned across the seat towards her, reaching out, and for a moment Parker thought his intention was to shake hands. But all he’d wanted was to shut the Chrysler’s door. Parker retreated a step as the big car lurched forward. She watched it pick up speed as Bradley drove diagonally across the lot towards the exit.

  The rain was falling more heavily now, hissing on the asphalt and in the wide, shallow puddles. Parker turned on her heel and started back towards the station house.

  A dark green Impala pulled into the lot, George Franklin hunched myopically over the wheel. He waved at Parker and gave her a big, sloppy grin. She waved back at him, and slowed her pace. Franklin parked the Impala in the space vacated by Bradley. He got out of the car and slammed the door shut, hurried towards Parker. His raincoat hung on him like a shroud, and as he came closer, Parker saw that his face was thin and pale, his eyes sunk deep in shadow.

  “Haven’t seen you for a couple of days,” said Franklin. “You hear the news?”

  “What news is that?” said Parker.

  “Internal Investigations finally decided I hadn’t been such a bad boy after all. Decided to let me keep my little gold badge. Suggested we all get together sometime for a couple of beers. Handshakes all around. A pat on my back.”

  “I’m glad you’re off the hook,” said Parker.

  “So am I,” said Franklin. “So was the little woman.” He splashed through a puddle without seeming to notice. “We just had lunch at Puccini’s. A celebration. You ever have lunch at Puccini’s?”

  Parker smiled, shook her head. “Was it a good lunch, George?”

  “Terrific. Very tasty.”

  “What did you eat?”

  “Numerous martinis. Some kind of green-coloured pasta. Bottle of white wine. Tomato salad. A couple of liqueurs to finish.” It was an effort for Franklin to climb the steps leading to the rear entrance of 312 Main. He reached for the door handle and missed by a foot. Staggering, he bumped his head against the wire-mesh glass.

  Parker heard him giggle, saw him wipe a tear from his eye.

  He tried the door again, and this time managed to get it open. Standing to one side, he waved Parker into the building. As she walked past him, she noticed a small patch of stubble under his chin, a bevelled cut high up on his cheek. She had a sudden, vivid image of him standing at his morning mirror with his razor in his hand. Full of remorse, trembling, barely under control. Listening with one ear to the little woman down in the kitchen, patiently making a breakfast her husband would not eat.

  Franklin had managed to keep his badge, but when Dave Atkinson had died, Franklin had lost something a lot more important than a shiny piece of tin. As they walked down the hallway together, Franklin trailing a cloud of alcohol fumes, Parker wondered if there was any way he could ever get it back.

  XV

  THE ROSE & THISTLE was crowded, hot, and very, very noisy. Norman Tate, Ron Moore, and Terry Foster were sitting at a corner table with a view of the dart boards, the bar, and the door to the ladies’ washroom.

  But the subject wasn’t darts or women, it was hockey. For the past half hour Foster and Moore had been exchanging Wayne Gretzky anecdotes, making snaking motions in and out of the clutter of empty glasses on the table as they took turns describing yet another miraculous rush up ice.

  Tate scowled into his beer. He was bored and he was restless, verging on irritable. Leaning back in his chair, sipping from his glass, he regarded his two friends with that special degree of fond acrimony accessible only to drunks.

  Foster could have been Moore’s brother, and he, Tate, might have been kin to either of them. All three could have been brothers. Triplets. Of course, Moore’s complexion was a little on the dark side, and Foster had lost most of his hair. But all three men were in their early thirties, average height, a few pounds overweight. They were all single and determined to stay that way. And despite the amount of skull Foster was showing, all three continued to look two or three years younger than their actual age.

  Why was that, exactly? Suddenly, without consciously thinking about it, Tate had the answer. It had nothing to do with being young at heart, the luck of the genetic draw, magic. It was an excess of fat and a lack of ambition that had, so far, managed to keep the lines and wrinkles of old age at bay.

  Tate’s heart ached.

  Smoke got in his eyes.

  He drained his beer, slammed the empty glass down on the table and yelled, “Shit!” into one of those freakish glades of silence that, from time to time, inexplicably occur. Every female within a twenty-foot radius turned towards him, glaring. This is no rowdy hotel bar, those sleek and youthful faces reproached.

  The waitress, standing at an adjoining table, gave Tate a look of bleak revulsion. His eyes wandered over her gold lamé jumpsuit, which she must surely have climbed into one thread at a time. He smiled, and gave her the finger. Turning, she tried to catch the bouncer’s eye. In a few short seconds, Tate was the only male in the bar who wasn’t looking at her. Responding to her audience, her gestures became less hectic, more graceful and theatrical.

  Tate leaned over and helped himself to a beer from her tray, tipped her with a pinch.

  The bouncer started towards them, taking a straight line through the crowd. Tate watched him through the sudsy bottom of his glass, marvelling at the way he seemed to double in volume with every stride he took.

  He looked at his watch. It was getting late, it was time to leave.

  Foster dropped a five-dollar bill on the table, timing it perfectly. The waitress swooped down like a shapely, golden vulture. The bouncer, in order to avoid knocking her flat, was forced to swerve sharply to his left. He hit a chair and knocked it over, lost his balance and threw out an arm to steady himself. Knocked a rye and ginger into a customer’s lap.

  Moore was first out the door. Foster was right behind him. Tate brought up the rear.r />
  It was raining, but only just. A gentle wind drifted up the street from the harbour, half a mile away. The air smelled of salt and mercurocrome. Tate belched and said, “Where’s your car, Moore?”

  Moore lifted his nose and sniffed the air, pointed towards a multi-storey parking lot at the far end of the block.

  “There’s no way I can make it that far on foot,” said Foster. “Somebody’s gonna have to call a cab.”

  “Walk or die,” said Moore.

  Tate belched again.

  “That reminds me,” said Foster. “I’m hungry. After we get the car, let’s drive over to the Fresgo and grab a burger and a brew.”

  “Good idea,” said Tate.

  “Let’s do it anyway,” said Moore.

  Moore’s dark green Triumph TR3 convertible was parked on the fifth level of the lot, sandwiched between a silver Cadillac and a dark blue Buick. Moore rapped his knuckles on the roof of the Caddy. “Detroit shit comes in big lumps,” he said, and eased down into the soft leather bucket-seat of the Triumph.

  Tate beat Foster to the single passenger seat by a half-step. Foster gave Tate a sneer as he wedged himself sideways into the small space between the seats and the rear deck of the car.

  Moore slipped on a pair of black leather racing gloves, flexed his hands, and jammed an undersized tweed hat on his head. The hat gave him an obtrusive, ferrety look. He patted himself down, found his keys and started the engine.

  Tate made a show of fastening his seatbelt.

  “Fuck off,” said Moore, “I taught Mario Andretti everything he knows.”

  “That’s the Mario Andretti who tends bar over at the Phoenix,” said Foster.

  Moore adjusted his rearview mirror, smiled at Foster’s reflection. “You comfy back there?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Moore lit a cheap cigar, flicked the burning match out on to the oil-stained concrete. He put the car in gear, red-lined the engine and popped the clutch. The rear end dipped and the little car shot forward. Moore spun the wheel, and they slewed sideways towards the exit ramp. He shifted into second gear and they powered through the descending spiral tunnel, the rich clamour of the exhaust reverberating off the concrete walls.