Freddy owed Jack. Owed him huge. During his younger days, Freddy had played the piano in just about every bar in town. He’d been a talented musician, but had a fatal weakness; he liked to wander his hands over strange women with even more enthusiasm than he tickled the ivories. The last professional gig of his life, he’d got himself mixed up with a local mobster’s girlfriend. Eleanor. What a babe. Willows and his partner, Norm Burroughs, had chased Freddy’s screams into a ratbag Gastown hotel, found him chained to a radiator with the bloody remains of his right hand stuffed into a churning blender.
The mobster had meant to blend away an even more crucial appendage, once he’d finished with Freddy’s fingers. Freddy’d been so grateful to the two detectives for saving him that, when he opened his bar, he promised them free drinks for the rest of his life. Norm had passed away but Willows was still taking advantage. If you asked Freddy how he felt about it, a payback that had been going on close to ten years now, he’d tell you he was grateful for the opportunity to serve, and he’d mean every last word. But wasn’t he entitled to experience a vicious little twinge of resentment, once in a while?
Like now.
He slid into the booth as he delivered the drink. “There you go, Jack. Cutty straight up, a double.” He twisted his wedding ring around his thumb. “I heard about your kid. My sincere heartfelts.”
Willows acknowledged Freddy’s sentiments with a slow nod of his head. He picked up his drink and put it down again.
Freddy said, “So how’s your daughter doing? What’s her name — Annie?”
“Annie’s fine,” said Willows.
“Claire okay?”
Willows nodded. His look told Freddy he’d showed enough interest in Willows’ personal life, and to abandon the interrogation.
Freddy said, “The cook’s got nothing to do, he’s back there playing solitaire, listening to the radio. Want something to eat? A shepherd’s pie, or maybe a burger, some nachos with sour cream ...?”
Willows drank half his double. He drained the glass and put it down on the table.
“Another?”
“Please,” said Willows.
The light in Freddy’s eyes faded perceptibly. He had learned long ago that the more polite Willows was, the more inclined he was to drink heavily. Tonight, it looked as if he planned to stick around until the chairs were on top of the tables and the roaches came out to play. He said, “Be right back,” and stood up and started towards the bar. He’d deliberately left the empty glass on the table, so it would be easy for Willows to keep track of his freeloading.
As if he cared.
A little over an hour later, Willows lifted his fifth double to his mouth and there was Parker, right in front of him, at confrontational, point-blank range. She sat down next to him, hip to hip. His words were a little slurred as he said, “Evening, Claire.”
“Jack.”
“Want a drink?”
“Not really.”
Standing beneath the bright lights of the bar, Freddy waited until he had caught Willows’ eye, then screwed up his face in a futile attempt to convey the message that he was not responsible for Parker’s sudden appearance.
Parker’s hands lay in front of her on the table. Willows put his glass aside, reached out and lightly touched her fingers. He said, “It’s pretty late. I guess Annie’s been worried about me ...”
“Me too,” said Parker.
13
Jake sat in his imported Italian chair, a mohair blanket over his skinny legs, listening with half an ear as Marty read to him from the city’s two daily papers. Marty read the headlines first, got deeper into the articles when Jake roused himself and said, “Yeah, dat one.” Marty would read until Jake lost interest, told him to move on. Steve drifted in and out as he tidied up the house. Axel stood by the window, his back to the room, stolidly scrutinizing the landscape.
At the moment, Marty was reading a front-page article that told the sad tale of an unarmed drug dealer who’d been sitting in his Jaguar minding his own business — dealing drugs — when he was shot in the chest and killed by a friend of a customer. No problem, except the customer was an undercover cop and the guy who shot him was wearing a uniform. The cops, hoping to protect their trigger-happy asses, immediately released the victim’s petty-criminal record to the media. Indicating that, because he’d done a little time, they had every right to squib the poor bastard.
Moving right along, Marty informed Jake that the city was considering, at some vague indeterminate time in the future, reducing the allowed number of private-residence garbage cans from three to one.
“Fuckin’ assholes!” screeched Jake.
“Right on!” yelled Axel, who was always looking to score points. Axel’s relentless toadying turned Marty’s stomach. It was as if the Teutonic Thug believed Jake could, if motivated, wave a magic wand and transform him into a reasonably intelligent human being.
Jake told Marty to write a letter of complaint to the mayor, copy all ten alderpersons, for his signature.
“Want me to use foul language?”
“By all fuckin’ means.”
Marty made a note in the little spiralbound book he kept in his shirt pocket. Jake paid a little under twenty grand in property taxes and fired off two or three letters a week to City Hall, an equal number to the Parks Board dolts. His letters were always vaguely menacing but never openly threatening. He’d had only one response, an anonymous computer-generated plea to clean up his language if he wished to correspond in the future.
Steve came in carrying a tray with Jake’s lunch: a bowl of homemade Italian tomato soup, side plate of original-flavour Ritz crackers. Marty folded the paper and put it aside. He smoothed out Jake’s blanket and motioned Steve forward. Steve rested the tray on the arms of the chair.
Axel turned his broad back to the window. He said, “Mr. Cappalletti, vould you like me to feed you?”
Jake lowered his head and sniffed at the soup. His eyes watered. He scrutinized his spoon.
Steve said, “It’s clean, Jake.”
“So you say, but dat don’ make it so.”
Jake turned the spoon every which way in the light until he was certain that it was spotless. He dipped deep into his bowl of soup, waited patiently until the spoon had stopped dripping. He carried it to his gaping mouth. He sipped, swallowed, reached out and whacked the newspaper. “Ain’t nothin’ in dere ’bout dat guy Steve squibbed?”
“Not a word,” said Marty.
Jake dipped his spoon into the soup. He lifted up the spoon and emptied it into his mouth. A thin stream of soup ran down his chin. He sighed. Not enough oregano. Was there such a miracle in all the world as a thug who could cook?
He wiped his face with a linen napkin stolen from the Wedgewood Hotel. Marty had sewn his initials into the material with gold thread, and done a fairly good job of it. Pointing at Marty, his stiff index finger covered by the napkin, like a gun, Jake said, “Ya lyin’ ta me ’bout dat guy Steve shot, I’ll find out sooner a later. Cut out ya tongue an’ feed it to Butch. Unnerstand?”
“Yes, I do,” said Marty solemnly.
Jake had been a young man for a very long time. Fifteen, twenty years. All those women. He’d never fallen in love except that one time, when he had visited the Motherland. Even then, he wouldn’t have admitted he was ready to marry the girl. Get engaged, maybe. So far as he knew, he’d never fathered any children. So, really, all he had was Marty. He said, “I ain’t gonna cut ya, Marty. Ya know dat as well as I do. But if I find out ya lying, ya can’t watch no TV for a entire week.”
“Swear to God,” said Marty, “I ain’t seen a word about a shooting in the park.”
Jake nodded, satisfied. He said, “Wha’ time ya got?”
“Three minutes to eleven.”
“I haff eleven sharp!” said Axel.
His arms were so hairy, all that curly blond hair, Jake wondered how he could see the dial of his watch. He nibbled at his soup. Not enough oregano. Too much salt.
Add it up, maybe Steve was trying to kill him.
And what about Melanie. What about Melanie? She was late, or would be in a couple more minutes. He dropped the spoon into the bowl. A few drops of soup splashed onto the blanket. It looked like anemic blood. Jeez ...
Marty said, “You okay, Jake?”
“Where’s Melanie? Where’s dat gorgeous broad?”
“Stuck in traffic, I bet.”
“Be here any minute,” said Steve. Jake waggled his fingers above the tray and Steve stepped forward and picked it up. He stood there, hovering. “I made lime Jell-O with miniature marshmallows in it, you’re in the mood for dessert.”
“Lime Jell-O!” hissed Axel, wide-eyed. He licked his sausage lips. “From ven I vas a child, I haff a great luff for Jell-O!”
Jake sneered. He leaned back. He closed his eyes. Steve and Marty exchanged a look that could have meant anything.
Jake said, “Where’s my special li’l girl?” His eyes snapped open. The ambient temperature plummeted.
There was a hands-free Motorola in Melanie’s leased Acura, and he knew she used it all the time, because he paid the bills, which were enormous. He jerked his head at Marty. “Give dat pretty li’l bitch a call.”
Marty snapped his fingers.
Axel got to work on his cellphone.
Jake gave Steve a hot-eyed look. He said, “Maybe I’m gonna have me some a dat Jella after all. What flava ya said?”
“Lime.”
“Harry Lime,” said Marty.
Jake, a lifelong Orson Welles fan, smiled fleetingly. He said, “Okay, I’ll give it a shot. Axel! Get ya ass inna kitchen, an’ yank alia stinkin’ mushrooms outta da Jella.”
“Marshmallows!” said Axel. “Fluffy little clouds of delight!”
Jake pointed a spatulate finger, the curving, sharply pointed fingernail gleaming ivory-yellow in the light. “Don’t fuck wit’ me. Just do it.” He glanced worriedly at Marty. “Am I allowed ta use dat phrase, or dey got it copyright-protected?”
Marty shrugged. His face was blank as an unglazed plate. What in hell was Jake going on about now? Not that he wanted to know.
4
14
The alarm woke Ozzie at seven sharp. He phoned in sick. The boss’s daughter, Iris, reminded him that his crew was behind schedule, and strongly suggested he get his ass to work. Was this part of the plan? Ozzie didn’t think so. He said, “Yeah, okay, half an hour.” An hour later, the phone woke him again. This time it was Iris’ daddy, Franz. Tension or anger had resuscitated his accent. He yelled at Ozzie to get up or get fired.
Ozzie said, “Fuck you and Iris. No, wait a minute, I’ll pass on Iris.”
His head ached from too much single-malt Scotch. His eyes stung from an overdose of chlorine. He had a bruise the size of his fist high up on his hip, from falling on the concrete apron of the pool. Why had his pratfall seemed so hilarious at the time? He went into the bathroom, urinated, gulped a quartet of Aspirins as he stood beneath the shower. Feeling marginally better — as if he were perched on the edge of his grave instead of lying face down in the bottom of it — he dressed in pleated black Dockers, a plain black shirt with dull black buttons, a black linen sports jacket, black silk socks and a pair of shiny black penny loafers. He examined himself in the mirror. The shoes pinched his feet, but this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, as he believed a person could see in his eyes that he was tormented, but not by what.
He straightened the shirt’s button-down collar, fastened then unfastened the top button. He looked like somebody, but he wasn’t sure who. He tried on the plain-lens glasses. Better.
He made coffee and drank two cups, sitting at the round maple table in the tiny kitchen nook. It was a sunny day. He had left his Ironman watch somewhere. He remembered taking it off and throwing it away, but the details were vague.
He poured another cup of coffee and went into the living room. If the VCR could be trusted, it was twelve minutes past ten. He pulled the drapes and watched television with the sound turned down to almost inaudible for a little more than an hour, until it was time to go. As he reached the door he thought to check his wallet. His face purpled. Monika or Erika or whichever one of them he’d ended up with had left his Visa card but pinched his cash. Thieving bitch!
In the bedroom, he rooted round in his bureau until he found the sock with his emergency wad stashed inside. He peeled off a quartet of twenties and a pair of fives, stuffed the much-diminished roll back in the drawer.
He took the elevator to the underground parking lot. His truck squatted gleaming under the fluorescents, aviator-style Ray-Bans sitting there on the dashboard, begging to be stolen. He unlocked the truck and got in and turned the key and the engine caught immediately, the sound of the exhaust rattling off the concrete walls. He drove out of the parking lot and slipped the Ray-Bans up on his nose where they belonged.
He turned on the radio and learned it was thirty-two minutes to twelve. He’d done his research. Harold Wismer always left his desk at twelve sharp and it took him, on average, a little less than five minutes to ride the elevator down to the lobby, cross the marble floor and push his way through the revolving door and take that first step outside. Add another ten minutes for the leisurely stroll to Janice’s, the intimate French restaurant that was Harold’s exclusive lunchtime domain.
Ozzie added it up. He had forty-seven minutes and counting to make it downtown, find a parking spot and get to the restaurant. Less if he hoped to catch Harold outside his building. It was going to be a squeeze, but he was pretty sure he’d make it.
The radio guy invited him to stay tuned for Nancy Sinatra’s hit ‘These Boots Were Made for Walking.” Hey, no need to ask.
As he made a left onto Oak Street, Ozzie tuned in the all-news station. A plane had crashed ... He drove straight down Oak, hit the Granville Street Bridge on-ramp at speed, eased into the right lane, exited onto Seymour Street and, a few minutes later, parked the truck on the third floor of the Bay Parkade. He killed the engine and tilted the rearview mirror towards his face, pressed the false moustache firmly against his upper lip. Now he looked like Jon Voight. Or so he told himself. He leaned back against the seat, shut his eyes and stroked the little piece of hair. To his gently inquisitive fingers the moustache felt like a very small, recently deceased pet.
He strode briskly across the glass-enclosed elevated walkway into the department store, rode an otherwise empty elevator to the main floor. He hurried past a display of miniature imported totem poles, a booth where you could buy a thousand different kinds of lottery tickets, shiny glass cases full of cheap watches, a clutch of women wearing white lab coats and too much makeup. He faltered. His pace slowed. The women stood dull-eyed and passive at their stations, as if victims of some benign gas. Ozzie drew closer, until he was suddenly enveloped in a fogbank of perfumes. They had been gassed! And now he was being gassed! He trotted towards the Georgia Street exit, turned right as he left the building.
The streets were crowded. Clusters of runaway kids squatted on the concrete. Most of them looked pretty well maintained, for homeless people. They wore Doc Martens, leather jackets, complicated haircuts. A girl of about sixteen, one of the genuinely raggedy minority, made eye contact. She had bad teeth but a nice smile. She muttered a few words. Had she spoken in a foreign language? No, it was only that she had a very strong Quebecois accent. In the national interest, and because she was cute, he slipped her ten dollars. The money galvanized her. Wide-eyed and smiling, she leapt to her feet and chased after him as if she might follow him to the ends of the earth. What did she want? He never found out. Between one step and the next she abruptly lost momentum, turned away from him as if he’d never existed.
There was a film crew working behind the art gallery, big white trailers lined up along the curb, an auxiliary cop moving traffic. Ozzie asked the cop what was being filmed. “X-Files.” He followed the lens of the camera, peered at the actors. Where was Scully? He asked the cop what time it was. The guy
gave him a look, pointed at the big clock on top of the Vancouver Block. But just then the foghorn on top of the Electra began to play the first few notes of the national anthem. It was high noon. He was running late.
Harold Wismer’s offices were in a tower located in the 600 block of Howe Street. Ozzie loitered directly across the street from the entrance. Sunlight on the revolving glass door had turned it into a bronze-tinted mirror, so it was impossible to see inside. He waited. The door shot beams of golden light across the street as it spat out several young women, a couple of guys in suits, lots more women, another suit. Hardly anybody over thirty, that Ozzie could see. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, staying loose. People kept coming out of the building, dozens of them. The men wore black or dark-blue suits. The women wore colourful blouses, boxy jackets, short skirts. Nobody seemed particularly happy. When the stampede was reduced to a trickle, the door spun wildly on its axis, and flung a signature three-piece suit the colour of a ripe banana onto the street. Harold Wismer had made his move.
Harold was, as usual, all by himself. Not that he liked to eat alone. Tuesdays through Thursdays there’d be two or three of his crooked stockbroker pals at the restaurant when he arrived. Twice a week his girlfriend would be waiting for him at an intimate little table for two way at the back, with a view of the gas fireplace and the restaurant’s tiny bar, the singing midget bartender with the pink hair, who wore a different colour pastel tuxedo every day of the week.
It hadn’t taken Ozzie long to figure out the stockbroker crowd. They liked to think they were creative types, that they led exciting, risky lives. They craved a little weirdness, but it had to be weirdness that was predictable and easily controlled. If you catered to that need, you could make a fortune. A midget bartender with pink hair struck just the right note.
Harold crossed the sidewalk to the curb. He glanced up and down the busy street, shook a fat cigar out of a shiny aluminum tube the size of a small jet aircraft. He bit the end off the cigar and spat, lit up with a heavy gold lighter. A black Jaguar swept past, horn blaring. Harold shouted, gave the Jaguar the finger, cackled happily in a cloud of sunlit blue smoke.
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