Karaoke Rap

by Laurence Gough

  Ozzie led him inside, let him turn on the TV. He stared down at the back of Richard’s easily snapped neck as he crouched in front of the set, flipping through picture-perfect channels. “Charlie’s Angels.” “Baywatch.” Ozzie signed the papers, his careful scrawl perfectly illegible.

  When Richard had finally left, Ozzie and Dean roamed all over the house, checking it out. They decided to put Harold in the top-floor bedroom, at the front. If he gave them any grief, they’d stick him in the basement. There was a big freezer down there that he’d fit into real easy.

  *

  Back in the city, Dean sprawled on Ozzie’s sofa, unscrewed the cap from a bottle of Kokanee. He tossed the cap out the open window, guzzled the top half of the bottle and assumed the position of a man who was wide awake, and listening with both ears.

  “Hit it, partner!”

  Ozzie pushed the tape recorder’s play button. The machine hissed sibilantly. He fine-tuned the volume. James Cagney said a few terse words, and then an actress whose voice Dean failed to recognize added a short clip. The message in its entirety lasted eleven seconds.

  Ozzie rewound the tape.

  Dean said, “Cagney. Bogart.”

  “Yeah, and who else?”

  Dean drank some more beer.

  Ozzie said, “Bette Midler ...”

  “Bullshit.”

  “From Beaches,” said Ozzie. “That bit where she ...” He trailed off. Dean had forgotten all about him, was holding his beer bottle up to the light pouring in through the window. Ozzie watched him tilt the bottle into the light, give it a shake. Dean’s eyes widened. He marvelled at whatever it was he saw.

  Ozzie said, “Dean?”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Nothing, forget it.”

  “Consider it done,” said Dean. He drank some more beer, sighed as if something was bothering him but he couldn’t decide what that something might be.

  Ozzie went into the kitchen, wriggled his fingers into his unlined black leather gloves and scooped up an even dozen preaddressed envelopes off the Formica counter. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, shook them and made them rattle.

  “Time to hit the road, buddy.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Ozzie listened to the sound of the beer racing out of the bottle, Dean’s drawn-out belch, the hard thump of the bottle hitting the oak-veneer coffee table.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, Ozzie parked and locked the truck, led Dean down a scruffy alley and up a side street and two blocks along East Pender, to a car-rental outlet.

  The woman behind the counter was in her early twenties, professionally bleached, slim, blessed with a dizzy smile sudden as a broken window. Ozzie said hello, rested his elbows on the counter and told her he’d phoned ahead, reserved a Chrysler minivan. He spelled out a name for her, nice and slow, that Dean had never heard of. A strange name, the name of a stranger. Mike Newman.

  Ozzie’s wallet was slim and brown, but Mikes was thick and black. Dean gave him a sideways look.

  The woman tap-danced her fingers across a grimy keyboard, verified Mike Newman’s full name and address, occupation. Because Mr. Newman had no credit card, she required two references. Or, if he owned a vehicle, his registration papers.

  The woman asked Ozzie how long he had been working at his current job, and how long he’d had his current phone number.

  Dean told her she could have his number too, anytime she wanted.

  Strike one.

  The woman smiled at Ozzie. She needed a $550 cash deposit. Ozzie pulled a fat wad of bills out of the black wallet. There were papers to be filled out, crucial details regarding insurance coverage and the proper use of the ashtray.

  He signed on the dotted line.

  Dean asked her if she’d like his autograph, told her he’d write his name on her anywhere she liked.

  Strike two.

  The woman handed Ozzie the keys, raked her fingers through her hair, hit him below the belt with another blistering smile. “Have a nice ride ...”

  “I’d love to,” said Dean. The woman gave him a look that would have shrivelled a lesser man’s balls.

  Strike three. But at least he’d gone down swinging.

  The van was down at the far end of the lot, parked in the shade of the neighbouring building. Ozzie had asked for a neutral colour, something that didn’t make too bold a statement. He was pleased to see that the van was an instantly forgettable shade of green. He said, “What d’you get out of it?”

  “Outta what?” said Dean. He lit a cigarette.

  “Hassling women.”

  Dean looked at him. Smoke poured out between the words as he said, “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

  “That woman back there.”

  “What woman?” Dean glanced back over his shoulder. He grinned. “Oh, her. C’mon, don’t tell me you didn’t notice the way she kept checking me out, running her fingers through her hair, licking her lips. Only reason I talked to her was I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. You want me to be aloof? Sorry, but that just ain’t me.” He lit a cigarette. “Who the hell is Mike Newman?”

  Ozzie shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “Where’d you get the wallet?”

  “Off a guy was loitering in the wrong neighbourhood.” Ozzie gave Dean a look. Like, where d’you get your wallets? He unlocked the van’s door, slid in behind the wheel and leaned across the bucket seat to unlock the passenger door. Dean climbed in. The van seated eight. The glass, except for the windshield, was tinted black.

  Ozzie drove to Harold’s office, and punched the little button below the speedometer. A row of zeros popped up on the trip odometer. He noted the time and then drove in as straight a line as possible to Melanie’s apartment, parked across the street and let the van idle as he located her balcony and pointed it out, so Dean would know which one it was.

  Dean said, “With the bicycle?”

  “No, not that one. Bicycle? Don’t make me laugh. Two up. The white table with the striped umbrella. See it?”

  “Yeah, I see it. We’re not going up there, are we?”

  “Not unless something goes wrong,” said Ozzie, pissed. The reason he’d pointed out Melanie’s apartment was because he wanted Dean to have some appreciation of the time he’d spent researching Harold, learning about the various aspects of his life. Why was Dean being such a hard-ass? He decided it must be jealousy. Dean was hot because the car-rental woman had ignored him, but flirted with Ozzie.

  He told Dean about Harold’s routine, how Harold liked to have a glass of wine, or whatever, before taking Melanie out to dinner.

  Dean made immature remarks about where he’d like to take Melanie, if he ever got the chance, and what he’d like to do with her when he got there. Ozzie tuned him out. He remembered to check his watch, check and reset the odometer. He drove back to Harold’s office on Howe Street. Same distance, similar elapsed time. He drove north on Howe to Pender, made a left and cruised down Pender until it merged with Georgia.

  Dean said, “Where we going?”

  Ozzie turned on the radio, found the all-news station and cranked the volume loud enough to discourage casual conversation. The light at Granville and Sixteenth was red. He tapped the brakes, came to a full stop behind a shiny black Mercedes. Next to him in the left-hand lane was a tan-coloured Mercedes. He thought how terrible a thing it must be, to be sitting snug and smug in your Mercedes-Benz, have Harold pull up beside you in his Rolls, turn you and your whole life into an abject failure in the blink of an eye.

  The light changed. They drove up Granville for a few blocks and then Ozzie made a right. He loved these streets, these gracefully winding, silent, tree-lined streets. There wasn’t a scrap of litter anywhere. No one leaned against a lamppost, smoking and spitting. He loved the tall green hedges and the walls of cut granite, the big houses with their complicated architecture, imposing porches, leaded-glass windows. His left hand draped limply across the top of the steering wheel, he told Dean
everything he knew about Harold’s routine on the nights he met Melanie, and when he was a good boy and went straight home to bed.

  He made a few more turns and found himself on Balfour, travelling in the wrong direction. He turned into a gated driveway, checked the traffic and cautiously backed out.

  Dean said, “You lost?”

  A guy in blue coveralls and black gumboots was peering myopically at them. Ozzie waved. The guy didn’t wave back.

  A few minutes later, Ozzie pulled over to the curb and pointed out the tall boxwood hedge, the great big empty house that he knew had been slated for demolition or major renovations because the trees in the yard and on the boulevard had been boxed in with bright-orange plastic mesh. He pointed out the crumbling garage where they could park the van and not be seen from the street, wait for Harold to cruise past in the Rolls.

  Dean said, “You said we were going to grab him at Melanie’s, in the parking lot.”

  “That’s right. But what if we miss him? What if there’s somebody else in the parking lot when he leaves?”

  “Witnesses?”

  “Yeah, you could call them that.”

  Dean made a fist, stuck out his index finger and pulled back his thumb.

  Ozzie said, “Shoot ’em? Is that what you’d do?”

  “Shoot the men, keep the women,” said Dean. “Pow!”

  Ozzie drove a little way further down Balfour. He wanted Dean to see Harold Wismer’s multimillion-dollar house, because he thought it might help him understand that he’d never have to work another day in his lazy-ass life, if they managed to pull the job off.

  Dean liked the big wrought-iron gate at the end of the driveway. He told Ozzie he hated that black-enamelled aluminum crap people used nowadays.

  Ozzie kept driving. The way he saw it, Joan would roll over and cough up the five million, or she’d dicker with him, try to save herself a few bucks. Either way was fine with him. If Joan balked at five, two would do the trick. Or even one. The important thing was not to get bogged down in negotiations.

  Looking at the situation objectively, Joan had a third option. She could choose to ignore his warning, pick up the phone, call the cops. If that’s what happened, he’d cancel the operation, lie low for another year and then start all over again.

  Either way, Harold was deader than Bogart.

  Dean, too.

  20

  Despite Willows’ best efforts, the investigation into the shooting had already begun to tail off. Nora Parsons’ boyfriend, once he had decided to co-operate, had told Willows and Parker the shooter’s pickup truck was red, about the same shade of red as a fire engine. But that’s all he had been able to tell them, other than to verify that there were two men involved in the robbery and that they were both white.

  Willows was at his desk when his telephone warbled. He picked up, identified himself.

  “Jerry Goldstein, Jack. How’s your son coming along?”

  “Fine,” said Willows. Goldstein was a cautious man. He’d have checked with the hospital for an update on Sean before he risked asking Willows how he was doing.

  “Glad to hear it,” said Goldstein. He paused, shifting gears. “I might have something for you, Jack.”

  “Spit it out, Jerry.”

  Willows’ voice was tight. Parker’s metal desk butted up against his, nose to nose. He sensed that she was watching him, tuned in to his every gesture and every word.

  Goldstein said, “A little over a year ago, there was a kidnapping that went all wrong. The victim was a stock promoter named Ronald LeGrand.”

  Willows hadn’t been involved in the case, but he remembered LeGrand. One of his properties, a mine in the Northwest Territories, had netted him eight million dollars and never produced an ounce of gold. He’d been cruising the outer harbour on his yacht with his wife and child when he’d been snatched. A member of the crew had been shot and wounded.

  The kidnappers had demanded five million dollars. LeGrand’s waterfront home had been wiretapped, surveilled. His wife had agreed to pay the five million, but something — nobody ever knew what — had gone drastically wrong.

  LeGrand had turned up in a suburban drainpipe six months later, with a bullet in his head. His widow had threatened to sue. The department had weathered a storm of negative publicity.

  Willows said, “Yeah, I remember the case.” There had been speculation, at the time, that the kidnappers had been burned by one of LeGrand’s many dubious and ill-fated promotions, that LeGrand had been killed because they were more interested in certain revenge than a dubious payoff.

  Goldstein said, “We recovered the bullet that killed him, Jack. It was a nine-millimetre hollowpoint, a Winchester Black Talon.”

  Willows was taking notes, his fingers tight on the barrel of the pen. Various brands of hollowpoints — bullets designed to mushroom on impact and cause maximum tissue damage within the target — were used by police forces across Canada but were not available to the civilian population. On the other hand, hollow-points were readily available in Washington State, and the border was less than an hour from downtown Vancouver. But crossing that border could be a risky proposition. And criminals were notoriously slothful, and not particularly knowledgeable. To most of them, a bullet was a bullet was a bullet.

  The Black Talon was a special case. The copper-alloy jackets on most brands of hollowpoints were not designed to cause additional tissue damage. The Black Talon’s six sharply curved jacket petals were made of brass rather than the softer alloys, and had been specifically designed to rip and tear tissue as they spread wide to allow the lead core to expand.

  Goldstein said, “The bullet that hit your son was a Black Talon. So were the bullets we recovered from the insurance office. They were all fired from the same pistol. Firing-pin and ejection marks indicate that the pistol was a Ruger. It isn’t going to solve the case, Jack, but it’s something to go on with.”

  Willows thanked Goldstein for his help. He disconnected, and brought Parker up to speed. They agreed that the next step was to inform Inspector Homer Bradley of the connection between the two cases.

  Bradley’s pebble-glass office was down at the far end of the squadroom. Willows knocked. Inside, papers rattled. A dimly perceived shape rippled darkly across the glass. The door abruptly swung open, banged against the frame. Bradley stood there, swaying slightly. After a long moment he said, “Well, what a pleasant surprise.”

  Willows said, “Got a minute, Homer?”

  “Much longer than that, one would hope.” Bradley waved them inside as he made his way back to his unusually cluttered desk. He sat down heavily on his chair, leaned back and contemplated the ceiling. He slurred his words as he said, “What’s up, kids?”

  Had Bradley been drinking, or was he suffering an adverse reaction to an unfamiliar medication? Maybe he’d had a stroke. Willows didn’t know what to think. Maybe it was best not to think anything. He glanced at Parker, but she was studiously looking out the window. He told Bradley about Goldstein’s call, the probable tie-in with the LeGrand kidnapping. Bradley didn’t seem much interested in what Willows had to say.

  Parker said, “We thought we’d pull the file, talk to the investigating officers ...” She hesitated. “Homer, are you okay?”

  Bradley nodded. He struggled to a more upright position in his chair, managed the bottom half of a blink. He smiled wearily, and then his head fell back against the chair.

  “Christ!” Parker reached for the phone, but Willows stopped her hand. He moved around the desk and checked Bradleys pulse, then leaned over him until he was almost nose to nose. He stepped back. Parkers hand was still on the telephone. Willows said, “He’s been drinking.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Gin,” said Willows. He loosened Bradley’s tie and turned off his desk lamp, tracked the telephone cord to the wall jack and disconnected the line.

  Parker said, “What’re you going to do, just leave him there?”

  “He’ll sleep
it off in a couple of hours. What else can we do, hide him in a body bag? Look at him. He’s too drunk to stand up by himself, much less walk out of here under his own power.”

  Parker didn’t like it — but Jack was right. What else could they do? She hit the wall switch, killing the overhead fluorescents.

  Returning to her desk, she asked Orwell if he remembered who’d worked the LeGrand case. Orwell put aside his pencil and shut the file he’d been reading. This was a trick his wife, Judith, had taught him. To always make a show of giving a woman his undivided attention. He locked his fingers behind his blond bowling ball of a head and leaned back in his chair at a precarious angle.

  “Yeah, I remember the case. Ronald LeGrand. King of the sleazeballs. Guy was snatched, stuffed up a drainpipe. Ended up hosting a larva party.”

  Parker said, “Who was the primary, Eddy?”

  “Ralph.”

  “Kearns?”

  “Yeah, Kearns.” Orwell massaged his head. His close-cropped hair was no more than half an inch long, his scalp the colour of an unripe peach. His blue eyes sparkled. He said, “Memory serves, Homer turned over Ralph’s open files to Bobby.”

  Parker went back to her desk. Willows had already accessed the file number from records and was busy searching the legal-size beige cabinets that served as a bulky metal room divider. Parker sat down at her desk. Willows slammed a drawer shut.

  “If you’re looking for the LeGrand file,” said Parker, “try Bobby’s desk.”

  “I did. It’s locked.”

  Parker said, “Eddy?”

  “Yeah. What?”

  “Where’s Bobby?”

  Orwell ignored her. He unscrewed the lid of a fat brown bottle and popped several large, off-white capsules into his mouth. He chewed energetically, swallowed, offered the bottle to Parker. “Wanna try one?”