Karaoke Rap

by Laurence Gough

  The girl turned and strolled casually back to the pool as he drew near. The bikini had ridden up over her ass, and Ozzie was pretty sure she knew it, the way she was walking. He heard the coffee truck start up and drive away. He sensed that the crew was watching him. He walked into the beech tree’s puddle of shade and then, making a statement, sat cross-legged on the grass with his back to the pool.

  He popped a Coke.

  Dean said, “Her name’s Erika. I got her to spell it for me. Erika. Cute name, huh?” Dean had stripped off his T-shirt. Ozzie tried to see him from the girl’s addled point of view. Dean had wide shoulders, a thirty-inch waist, a washboard stomach. His hair was clean. He had a nice smile, white teeth. Devils danced in his dark brown eyes.

  “Her sister’s named Monika. Erika and Monika. Double-cute, huh? The mom and dad are in Palm Springs until the end of the month. So the girls are all alone with nobody to watch out for them, ’cept for grandma. And she’s half blind, deaf as a fire hydrant.”

  “Erika and Monika?”

  “The reason they’re all alone over there, haven’t invited any friends over, they’re hoping to make some new friends.”

  Ozzie’s heart slumped against his ribcage.

  Dean let his tongue fall out of his mouth. He panted like a dog.

  Ozzie tilted back his head and drank the first of his two Cokes. Now he had one left. Simple. He said, “You and me and the mirror twins, is that the idea?”

  “Yeah!” said Dean.

  Ozzie popped his second Coke. Did Dean think Ozzie had made friends with him because he liked to double-date? The plan, they were gonna kidnap a guy. A wealthy, full-grown adult male. Grab him right out of the middle of his life. Ozzie knew from bitter experience that this would not be an easy thing to do, how easily things could go wrong. A crime this heinous had to be perfect. There was no room for error.

  Five million. When he’d first mentioned the figure he had in mind, Dean had laughed so hard he’d spilled his beer. Ozzie pointed out you started high, negotiated down, not the other way around. He showed Dean articles he’d clipped that involved Harold and his various promotions. Oil, gold strikes, diamonds, copper. He showed Dean a colour picture, clipped from a national magazine, of Harold’s three-million-dollar Shaughnessy home. Where in hell is Shaughnessy? asked Dean. They got in the truck, Ozzie drove him around, showed him the neighbourhood. Mansions. Curvy streets. Big trees. Shiny Mercedes and jaguars. Not many BMWs, though. Too sporty.

  Now Dean said, “At quitting time, soon’s the rest of the crew’s gone, they’re gonna let us in through the back door.” He grinned evilly. “Granny’ll be takin’ her nap. We’ll come and go, she’ll never even know we were there.”

  Ozzie stood up, careful not to spill his Coke. He dusted off his jeans, turned and glanced towards the pool. Sky-blue water, no bikinis. He turned again, and carefully studied the crew. Nobody was paying him any mind.

  He said, “I got to do some more work on the tapes.”

  “It’ll wait. What the hell, Ozzie. A chance like this ...”

  Ozzie nodded. An important part of him wanted to bounce his steel-toed boot off Dean’s skull until he woke up and smelled the gravy. But a different part of him was reminding him it had been a long time since he’d had any fun worth remembering. Mulling over the possibilities, he turned again. Erika, or maybe it was Monika, stood on the diving board. She flexed her knees, lifted her lovely arms. She bounced, gaining altitude. His brain took a snapshot of her long, curvy, golden body in mid-flight.

  Splash.

  Dean smiled up at him, a look in his eye that was knowing and feral.

  12

  Willows was sleeping one moment, half-awake the next. He pushed himself out of the chair. His joints cracked. He steadied himself, and went over to the bed.

  Sean’s eyes were open, at last. He smiled weakly and said, “Hi, Dad,” his voice hardly more than a whisper. He lay quietly on the bed, beneath a woven baby-blue blanket. The threadbare hospital sheets were not much whiter than his skin. His eyes were dark, and seemed far too large for his face. He moved his left arm an inch or two. Willows squeezed his hand.

  “How’re you doing, son.”

  “Somebody shot me.”

  “So I heard.”

  Sean’s head rolled on the pillow. The tendons in his neck bulged unhealthily. “My arm ...”

  “It’s still there, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Willows squeezed his son’s hand a little tighter. He said, “You’re going to be just fine.”

  “I can’t feel anything.”

  “It’s the medication. If you could feel anything, it’d be pain.”

  “Crank me up.”

  “I’m not sure that I’m supposed to do that, Sean.” Willows went over to the door, leaned into the corridor. There was never a nurse around when you needed one ...

  “I want to see my arm. All of it.” Sean’s voice was pinched, furious. Willows went over to the foot of the bed, pulled out the crank handle. He turned it clockwise and Sean’s legs began to levitate. He reversed the crank, and the foot of the bed flattened out. Sean’s upper body slowly levitated until he had assumed a sitting position.

  “How’s that?”

  “Better. But I can’t ... I can’t move my fingers ...”

  Willows smoothed out the bedding. He gingerly touched his son’s fingers. He felt a trembling in his heart. He told himself to be strong. He said, “It’s okay, Sean.”

  Sean began to cry. He wept silently, the tears streaming down his face.

  “Can you see your hand?”

  Sean nodded, still crying. Willows shifted the barely upholstered chair he’d borrowed from the nurses’ station a little closer to the bed. He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder until he had cried himself out. Smiling gently, he said, “You really thought you’d lost your arm?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Sean took a deep breath, let it out in a racking sob. He plucked at the sheet, wiped his eyes. “Sorry, Dad.”

  “It’s okay. You’ve been through a lot, you were in surgery almost three hours. That’s a lot to endure, but you came through it in great shape.”

  Sean nodded again. He shut his eyes, and turned his head aside. Willows sat there for a few minutes and then stood up, and went over to the window. The sky was clear. There was a brisk wind. Flags snapped. Scraps of paper whirled down the street towards the harbour. A woman waiting for the light to change pressed her hands against her thighs to keep her skirt in place. Willows turned back to the bed, rested his hip against the window sill. He had a strong dislike of hospitals, but believed it was a healthy reaction, given the atmosphere of serious illness, and death. After a few minutes Sean opened his eyes. He said, “Where’s Claire?”

  “Upstairs, in the cafeteria, with Annie. They waited until the lunch-hour rush was over and then went for a bite to eat.”

  “You told Annie about me?”

  “Had to.” Willows’ smile was kindly. He said, “Face it, Sean. Sooner or later, she was bound to notice you were missing.” Outside, on Burrard, a horn blared. The entire block was a quiet zone, but there were a lot of drivers out there whose reading skills were a little rusty. Willows listened to the hum of traffic, the dull, oddly distant roar of a city on the march.

  “Shouldn’t she be in school?”

  “Not in my opinion. It’s not every day her brother is shot in an armed robbery. This is a special occasion, Sean. Relax and enjoy it.”

  Sean shut his eyes again. He lay quietly for several minutes and then said, “D’you know something, Dad?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re a real hard-ass.”

  Willows nodded. He choked back the lump of grief that had risen in his throat, and fiercely scrubbed his eyes. When he was sure he had himself firmly under control, he told Sean that he loved him.

  “You too, Dad.” It had been years since Willows had told his fully grown son that he loved him. He couldn’t recall the last time Sean had made
a similar confession. He leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets. Is that what it took — a bullet? By the time Claire and Annie came back from lunch, Sean had fallen asleep. Annie chose to stay with him while Willows and Parker went for coffee.

  The hours drifted slowly past. There was a change of shift. The new nurse was a hazel-eyed blonde whose hair was caught up in a utilitarian bun Willows somehow found mildly wanton. The nurse smiled at Annie and Parker as she approached the bed. “Sleep is healing, but too much of it isn’t good for him.” She briskly patted Sean’s pale cheek. “Rise and shine, handsome.” Sean’s eyelashes fluttered. He looked around, confused. She said, “Hungry?”

  “Not really.” Sean’s voice was thick with sleep. He licked his lips. “Thirsty, though.”

  “Dinner’s going to be here in just a few minutes. Mashed potatoes. Roast beef. Broccoli. There’s Jell-O for dessert.”

  Sean said, “In the meantime, can I have a glass of water?”

  “Of course you can have a glass of water.”

  “I’ll get it,” said Annie, hurrying to the sink.

  The nurse smiled at her as she briskly straightened Sean’s sheets, plumped up his pillow. “A volunteer. How nice. Would you be willing to help him with his dinner, if he needs it?”

  Annie nodded solemnly. The nurse glanced quickly at Willows and then at Parker, assessing their relationship. She ran her fingers through Sean’s rumpled hair, wished him bon appetit, and hurried from the room. Did Parker give Willows a faintly jealous look? He wasn’t sure. The food cart rattled down the hall. A burly woman checked Sean’s name against his chart, slid a covered plastic tray onto the wheeled table at the foot of the bed.

  “I’m going to help him eat,” said Annie.

  “Good for you, dear.”

  *

  An hour later, Parker drove Annie home via a pizza pickup at Domino’s. Annie was emotionally exhausted. She’d been allowed to skip school, but still had to cope with her homework assignments. Life went on.

  Sean had fallen asleep as soon as he’d finished eating. He slept quietly until soft electronic bells and a recorded message advised friends and family of patients that it was eight o’clock, and visiting hours were over.

  “You leaving, Dad?”

  “Maybe in a little while, if that’s okay with you?”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Yeah, I know. You should be. Feel like answering a few questions, before I leave?”

  Sean said, “I knew we were going to get around to this.”

  “Would you rather have someone else interview you? Claire, or some cop you don’t know?”

  “No, it’s okay. But I can’t tell you much.”

  “More than you know, maybe. I’m going to start off with the toughest question of all, so brace yourself.” Willows was acting in a dual role now. He’d had harsh words with Bradley, pressed him hard for the privilege of questioning Sean. It was important not to screw up. He took out his notebook and Bic pen. “D’you remember being shot?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “You were behind the counter when the shooter came into the store?”

  Sean’s nod was almost imperceptible.

  “A man?”

  Just the suggestion of a nod.

  “Caucasian?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just the one guy? Can you describe him for me? Hair colour? How tall was he? Was he heavyset, or thin ...?” Willows held the pen like a dagger. He was getting ahead of himself. Was this a good idea? He told himself to take a deep breath, relax. Sean was staring up at the ceiling. His eyes were wet. His chest rose and fell a little too quickly.

  Willows said, “If you’d rather do this later ...”

  “No. It’s okay. Really. Just give me a minute, okay?”

  “However long it takes, son.”

  It took a while. Willows occupied his mind by writing down the same list of questions, in the proper order, that he would ask any victim. When he had finished, he tried to make sense of the myriad sounds that came to him through the open window and noisy hospital corridor. The room was warm, stuffy. He went over and pushed up the sash a little higher, letting in more air. Down on Burrard, the trees that lined the street were absolutely motionless. Partway down the block on the far side of the street a flag hung limply.

  Finally Sean said, “His eyes were dark brown. His hair was short, brown. He had a silver gun. I gave him everything he wanted ... He left the store ...”

  “But he came back?”

  “He saw me ... I ... I was looking out the window, looking at him so I could ... He shot me ...”

  “Take it easy, Son.” The Bic was skipping. It was almost out of ink. Willows couldn’t recall a Bic ever running out of ink. He’d always lost them long before. Fuck. He searched his pockets. In his jacket he found a push-button ballpoint with a red barrel. A PaperMate, with the two hearts. He smiled faintly. “How old was he?”

  Sean looked at him. A blank look. He shrugged. “Mid-twenties, maybe?”

  “Do you remember what he was wearing?”

  “A denim shirt. leans.” Sean’s breathing was rapid but shallow. After a moment he said, “He was wearing workboots. Old ones. The leather had worn through, you could see the steel toe-caps.

  Willows wrote it all down, taking his time. “Okay, good. Can you tell me how tall he was? I noticed a police yardstick by the door. Did you ...”

  “He was just average. Not tall, not short ...”

  “You’re doing really well,” said Willows encouragingly. Sean’s face was slick with sweat. His body twitched. The clear plastic bag that fed liquids into his arm was empty. The plastic had collapsed in on itself, fracturing the light. How long had the bag been empty? Willows’ stomach was a mass of knots. What was he, father or cop?

  He told Sean he’d only be gone a minute, left the room and hurried down the corridor to the nurses’ station. The hazel-eyed blonde was on the phone, her posture suggesting an intimate conversation. She glanced up as Willows drew near, saw the look on his face and spoke a few brief words into the phone and hung up. Willows explained the problem, and she followed him back into the room, a look of concern on her face.

  There was, as she quickly pointed out, still a double handful of liquid puddled in the bottom of the bag, more liquid in the plastic tube that ran down to Sean’s arm. She gave Willows a professionally cool, infuriatingly reassuring smile. “This won’t need changing for another fifteen minutes, but I’ll be back before then.” She turned her smile on Sean, and left the room.

  Sean said, “Why don’t you go home, Dad.”

  He’d spoken in hardly more than a whisper. Willows wasn’t at all sure he’d heard him correctly. He said, “How’s that again?”

  “Go home, Dad. I’m tired, I need to rest.” He shut his eyes and then, with a visible effort, opened them again. It took him a moment to focus on his father. He said, “You’re tired too. Aren’t you? You’re all blurry ...” He shut his eyes again. Willows eased into the chair. He watched Sean’s chest rise and fall. The boy’s breathing was deep and steady. He was young. He’d heal quickly. Willows yawned. He was a long way past exhausted.

  He waited until the nurse returned, watched as she hung a clear plastic bag, plump with fresh goodies, from the stainless-steel stand by the bed. He collected his jacket, kissed Sean on the cheek and wished him goodnight, and stepped into the corridor. The ward was quiet. The nurses’ station was deserted. There was no one in the visitors’ room down at the end of the hall. He walked slowly to the bank of elevators, pushed the down button and waited. It was a little past nine. Behind him, the setting sun had touched thousands of acres of glass afire.

  The parking-lot attendant took his money with a smile, and cheerfully wished him goodnight.

  Willows drove the unmarked Ford almost all the way home.

  *

  Most people took a quick peek at Freddy whether they really wanted to or not. It was his clothes, the way he dressed. He’
d often wished he had a nickel for every time a drunk asked him if he was colour-blind. The answer was always the same. “My eyes are perfect. My problem is I’m insensitive.”

  Tonight, Freddy was wearing black patent-leather pixie boots, silk pants in silver pierced through with threads of gold and black, a rainbow-coloured leather belt and a shirt with a gaudy “State flags” pattern. His personal favourite was Wyoming, with its profile of an albino buffalo with a bullseye painted on its flank. He also liked Montana’s “landscape with lake,” which a lot of people thought looked like Pac-Man. Mississippi and Georgia’s rebels flags were ever-popular. Alaska’s Big Dipper was a favourite with the ladies. The only problems with the shirt, from Freddy’s point of view, were Maryland’s weirdly distorted yellow-and-black checkerboard, and Rhode Island’s “clock with anchor.” Both flags tended to confuse the better customers, the drunks.

  Freddy was polishing glasses when his absolutely worst customer came in the door. He mustered a smile. “Hey, Jack. How’s it hangin’?”

  “No complaints, Freddy. Nice shirt.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” said Freddy as Willows strolled past him on the way to his favourite booth, down there by the pool tables, about as far from the bar as it was possible to get and still be in the building. Freddy left-handed a bottle of Cutty Sark from the glass shelf. He poured a fat double into a sparkling clean lowball glass, eased out from behind the bar and carried the drink down to where Willows sat with his back to the wall.