Karaoke Rap

by Laurence Gough

  At the beginning of his shift Orwell had honed the lyrics of his epic ground-breaking rap song, the song he’d been working on for months and months. It was tough work, writing what boiled down to nothing less than poetry. Especially poetry that made sense, and rhymed — sort of. Mentally exhausted, he’d decided to improve his mind with a little recreational reading. As Joan answered her telephone, he put aside his battered copy of Bill Watterson’s The Days Are Just Packed, and turned up the tape recorder’s volume just a tad.

  Joan said, “Is anybody there?”

  Orwell sat on the van’s bench seat, the earphones clamped to his skull. The seat had lost most of its original upholstery. Somebody had padded the seat with a piece of quarter-inch-thick blue foam, but even so, Orwell’s butt was causing him no little grief.

  There was no response to Joan Wismer’s query. Suspecting equipment failure, Orwell further adjusted the volume. His ears filled with a sound like air escaping from a high-pressure tank.

  Joan said, “Hello? Hello? Is anybody there?” Her voice climbing the scales. Man, she was ready to snap like a frog’s leg. She said, “Where’s my husband? Is anybody there? Who is this?”

  The headphones screeched. Startled, Orwell half-rose out of the seat, banging his head against the van’s roof. Cursing, he lowered the volume. A voice he recognized said, “We’re only in it for the money!”

  Joan was silent.

  A different voice, but instantly recognizable, said, “Five million dollars. Don’t mess with me.”

  A third voice said, “Have it ready ...”

  A fourth voice said, “... tomorrow. Noon sharp.”

  “Sharp!” said a fifth voice.

  “Or he dies,” said the first voice. There was a sharp click. The line hummed.

  Joan Wismer asked again if there was anybody on the line. Her voice trembled. She began to cry.

  Pathos had never been Orwell’s favourite musketeer. He wound down the volume until Joan’s grief was barely audible. The call had lasted less than fifteen seconds. No chance of a trace. Joan was sobbing uncontrollably when she finally hung up.

  Orwell rewound the tape, played it through as he dubbed a copy. There was a little dead air between the threatening phrases. As the voices spoke, he handwrote the transcript in the log.

  We’re only in it for the money. Edward G. Robinson.

  Five million dollars. Don’t mess with me. Arnold Schwarzen ... How in hell did you spell the guy’s last name? Orwell tried Schwarzenegger. Could that be right? It looked right. The tape had spun away from him. He rewound to the beginning, and played it again. Edward G., Arnold ...

  Have it ready. Orwell was stumped. He scrawled a question mark opposite the phrase.

  Tomorrow. Noon sharp. He smiled. Had to be James Earl Jones.

  Sharp! Brando?

  Or he dies. Hmmm. Orwell chewed on his pen. The voices, urgent and shrill, skittered past as he rewound the tape a second time.

  The van’s side door slid open. Bobby’s face was warmed by the burning coal of his cigarette, as he took a last deep drag. He dropped the butt and crushed it underfoot, entered the van and slid shut the door. “Got something?”

  Orwell played the tape for the third time.

  Bobby said, “Edward G. Robinson. I love that guy.”

  “He’s dead,” said Orwell.

  “That’s the way I like ’em — they don’t put up so much fight. Arnie! How cute can one man be ...”

  Have it ready.

  “Rutger Hauer,” said Bobby, smiling. He laughed aloud when James Earl Jones delivered his line.

  Sharp.

  “Brando,” said Bobby. “That fat fuck, that bloated watermelon, that rancid piece of cheese.”

  Or he dies.

  Bobby eyed the on-board clock’s digital readout. Fourteen-point-eight seconds. If they were lucky, they’d be able to narrow the call down to an area code. He said, “Jeez, who was that last one?”

  “Beats me,” said Orwell.

  “Must make a nice change from beating yourself,” Bobby observed. He shot his cuff, rewound the tape.

  Or he dies.

  “Paul Newman?” suggested Orwell.

  “Fuck, no. Don’t make me laugh.” Bobby frowned. “Andy Garcia? One of the Baldwin brothers?” He rewound the tape and played it again.

  Or he dies.

  “Keanu Reeves?” said Orwell. “Or maybe Steve Reeves, or Steve Martin? Martin Short? Martin Borycki? Martin Landau?”

  Or he dies. Or he dies. Or he dies.

  Bobby snapped his fingers. “Got it!”

  Orwell was sceptical.

  “Peter Falk,” said Bobby.

  Orwell smiled. Not because Bobby was right, but because Orwell had finally learned what Bobby did in his spare time. Stayed at home and watched “Columbo” reruns on Arts & Entertainment.

  Pitiful.

  The Wismer phone rang again. On the fifth ring, Joan picked up. Hiss. Bobby fiddled with the sound. Orwell said, “There’s a problem with the volume. You got to crank it to the max.” He stuck his fingers in his ears. In a moment the van reverberated to the louder-than-life roar of a flurry of gunshots. Bobby screamed, “Jesus Christ!” His eyes bulged in his head. Tears of pain flooded his cheeks. Another volley of shots rocked the van. Shrieking, Bobby clapped his hands to his ruined ears and fell to his knees. A booming voice whispered “Gotcha!” loud enough to rattle the van’s windows.

  Orwell knew that voice, and believed he recognized the line. Demi Moore’s husband, in Last Man Standing. Bobby scrambled to turn the volume back down to a normal level. But the call was over, and the line was dead.

  Bobby said, “What the hell was that all about?”

  “An equipment malfunction,” said Orwell.

  “No, I mean the shots. What’s the point?”

  “Joan’s supposed to feel threatened, Bobby.” Willows and Parker were staked out halfway down the block. Orwell wondered if he should tell them about the call. He decided not to bother. His cellular phone warbled. He unfolded, BC TEL had responded to his request for an automatic trace. He listened for a moment, muttered his thanks, disconnected. He made another note in the log.

  “What?” said Bobby.

  “The call came from out of town. Up north. Whistler. Pemberton. D’Arcy. Somewhere in there.”

  “That’s it, that’s all they got?” Bobby shook a cigarette from the pack, stuck the cigarette in his mouth.

  “You ask me, I’d say they did pretty good, given the time they had, the duration of the call.”

  Bobby struck a match.

  The Wismer phone rang again.

  Robert Mitchum said, “Go ahead, spit it out.”

  “Help me!” shouted Harold Wismer.

  The line went dead.

  Bobby lit his cigarette. He said, “Jeez, who was that last one?”

  “The victim,” said Orwell.

  “Right,” said Bobby, laughing. He stepped out of the van and slid the door shut behind him. Orwell picked up The Days Are Just Packed. That kid Calvin. That tiger Hobbes. The van’s door slid open. Bobby stood there, his hand on the shoulder of a kid wearing bluejeans, ratty black sneakers, a shiny red and blue shirt.

  Bobby said, “Eddy, you order from Domino’s?”

  “What ya got?” said Orwell to the kid. “Two large with green peppers, olives, mushrooms and double anchovies, the twisty garlic bread, a six-pack of Diet Coke?”

  The kid nodded.

  Orwell said, “How much do I owe you?”

  *

  The segmented doors of the Wismers’ triple-wide garage rose up into the rafters. Parker lowered her binoculars. She said, “Jack ...”

  Willows glanced up from his newspaper. He folded the paper and tossed it into the Ford’s backseat. A few moments later, Joan Wismer’s white ’97 DeVille eased cautiously down the driveway. The garage doors slid shut. The Caddy’s tires chirped like angry birds as Joan made a right and accelerated east on Balfour. Willows glanced in the re
arview mirror. Dan Oikawa gave him the thumbs-up sign from behind the wheel of his unmarked Caprice.

  The Caddy’s brake lights flashed briefly at the corner of Balfour and Osier. Joan had run the stop sign. Willows gunned the Ford. The right front tire bumped across the curb. The front fender brushed the trunk of a large tree. Willows got the car straightened out and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The Ford surged forward. Willows caught up with the Caddy as Joan waited for a break in the traffic at the corner of Balfour and Oak — a major artery. Joan made a left, heading downtown. Willows cut straight across Oak. Oikawa followed the Caddy as Willows activated the fireball, made a left on Laurel, drove a short block and made another left on Twenty-First Avenue, a hard right as he got back on Oak Street.

  It wasn’t as if they didn’t know where Joan Wismer was going — they’d recorded her as she’d repeatedly phoned the Tenth and Granville branch of the Toronto-Dominion, and listened in as she finally got through at a few minutes past nine.

  The manager’s name was Bill Sheridan. Joan Wismer told him without preamble that she wanted to liquidate her RRSPS, term deposits, annuities, and anything else he could think of.

  As a financial strategy for the nineties, liquidation was right at the top of Sheridan’s list of undesirable tactics.

  “Joan, you can’t do that. Think of the tax repercussions. You’d take the maximum hit on your RRSPS ...”

  “Let me worry about that. Just do your job, Bill.”

  “My job is to protect your money, Joan. Yours and Harold’s. Forgive me for asking, but is Harold aware that you intend

  “Harold is otherwise engaged!” Joan snapped.

  “I see ...” Sheridan was clearly bewildered. His voice took on a guarded tone. “I wonder if it would it be possible to reschedule this meeting for a time that might be convenient to both of you ...”

  “I’ll be there at ten sharp, alone.” Joan had hung up before Sheridan could manage another word.

  Traffic on Oak was moderately heavy. Willows swung in behind a black Jaguar ragtop driven by a woman whose blonde hair was cut so short it was hardly more than a gauze-like haze, a golden cloud that forever hovered above her head. Her driving was erratic, and Willows was careful to stay several car-lengths behind, even when the traffic slowed to a crawl. When they stopped for a red light, he examined her at his leisure. When she turned her head to glance at a passing cyclist, he saw that she wore sunglasses with oversized black lenses. The back of her neck and her hand on the steering wheel were dangerously tanned, the diamond on her ring finger bright as a mini-nuclear explosion.

  Willows decided to buy a ticket on next Saturday’s lottery. Maybe he’d get lucky. The odds were something like thirteen million to one, but somebody had to win. Didn’t they? On the other hand, if somebody had to win, about thirteen million people had to lose. He glanced at Parker. Her hands rested quietly in her lap. He knew nothing about ring sizes. And anyway, he was getting ahead of himself, wasn’t he?

  Oikawa was on the radio, suggesting that he fall back, let Willows take the lead. Willows passed him in the block between Sixteenth and Fifteenth. He agreed with Oikawa’s observation that Joan wasn’t paying much attention to her rearview mirror.

  Joan drove straight through to Granville. Given her destination, she’d taken a moderately circuitous but probably relatively efficient route. This was a neighbourhood of upscale clothing stores, banks, antique shops, art galleries. She drove across Granville and made a right-hand turn into the bank’s parking lot. Willows parked in the lane, in the shadow of the adjoining building. Oikawa pulled in behind him a few seconds later.

  Joan Wismer got out of the Cadillac, used her remote to lock up. The car’s alarm beeped. She walked diagonally across the parking lot, along the sidewalk and around the corner and into the bank.

  Parker pushed open her door, walked back to Oikawa. The detective popped a wad of gum. He said, “Think she’s gonna rob the joint?”

  Parker smiled. “No, but I’d love it if she surprised me.” She said, “Jack wants to talk to Sheridan as soon as she’s done with him.”

  Oikawa nodded. “Okay, I’ll tail her home.” He popped his gum. “You don’t play the market, do you, Claire?”

  “Or the horses,” said Parker. Walking back to the Ford, she replayed the familiar phrase in her mind. Play the market. Lovely.

  She and Willows sat in the Ford, thankful for the shade, for the better part of half an hour. Willows was reminded of his days on the robbery squad, where he’d come to believe that all cops really did was keep the line moving, that the primary reason they were allowed to put one villain away was to make room for his inevitable successor.

  Parker said, “What’re you thinking about, Jack?”

  “We should phone the hospital, let Sean know we won’t be able to drop by this afternoon.”

  Parker held her tongue. She said, “No word from Sheila?”

  “Not yet.”

  A fireball-red Volkswagen Rabbit rocketed up the lane. Where was Farmer Brown when you needed him?

  Joan Wismer came around the corner, walking briskly. Parker took note of the fact that she was not carrying a vault or an overstuffed suitcase dribbling wads of cash.

  Willows glanced in his rearview mirror. Oikawa looked very relaxed. His eyes were closed. His chin was on his chest. He’d stopped chewing. Had he fallen asleep, or merely died? Willows started the Ford’s engine. He put the car in reverse and slowly backed into Oikawa’s Chevy, jostling the car and making it rock on its springs. Oikawa’s head rolled to the side. His mouth fell open. Had he choked on his wad of gum? Willows shifted gears, put five feet between the two cars and then shifted into reverse and goosed it.

  Oikawa woke up cursing. Willows pointed at the white DeVille rolling speedily down the lane.

  The Chevy’s tires screeched as Oikawa’s foot came down too heavily on the gas pedal. So much for covert surveillance. Willows comforted himself with the thought that it was only average driving. Par for the racecourse. He and Parker got out of the Ford and walked towards the bank.

  Bill Sheridan was in his mid-sixties, an inch or two under six feet, no more than a hundred sixty pounds. He wore a dark-blue suit, plain white shirt, silvery-blue tie, shiny black shoes. His hair was white, a little on the longish side. He looked like a comfortably retired golf pro. His office had windows on two sides. The mini-blinds were a tasteful greyish blue, the carpet a darker shade of grey, the walls a subdued off-white. Willows introduced himself, and Parker. Sheridan offered a cautious smile. He shook hands and retreated behind his gunmetal-blue desk.

  In strictest confidence, Willows told Sheridan that Harold Wismer had been kidnapped, and that the kidnappers were attempting to extort five million dollars from Joan Wismer. Sheridan absorbed the information without a flicker of emotion.

  Parker said, “Did Joan Wismer come to you for a loan, or to make a large cash withdrawal, liquidate her assets?”

  There was a small framed photograph of Sheridan’s wife and children on his desk. Sheridan shifted the photograph so it faced him more directly. Not an attractive family, thought Parker. The banker said, “About six months ago, Harold sought my advice regarding short-term investment strategies. He informed me that he had a large sum of cash but that it was only available to him for a period of three months to a year.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” said Willows.

  “Seven million, U.S. currency. Harold told me he’d rid himself of a large block of stocks. He was looking for 5 or 6 per cent, a nice safe return.”

  “Were you able to help him?”

  “Yes, of course. Helping people manage their money is what I do for a living, detective.”

  “Where’s the money now?”

  Sheridan hesitated. His eyes strayed to the family portrait, as if he sought guidance from his wife. Or maybe the geeky kid with the bowl haircut and a million freckles. Finally he said, “Harold always kept a safety-deposit box, of course.”

>   Parker said, “Yes, of course.”

  Sheridan cleared his throat. “Now he’s got fifteen of them.” He smiled. “Fifteen of the large ones.”

  Willows said, “Does Mrs. Wismer know about the boxes?”

  “She does now.”

  “Does she have access?”

  “Harold had arranged joint ownership. I’ve just given her the box numbers and keys.”

  “Does she know what’s inside the boxes?”

  “I assume so, since she spent the past twenty minutes inspecting the contents.”

  “Did she take any of the money with her, when she left?”

  Sheridan smiled. “She might have stuffed her purse, I suppose. I don’t know if you noticed, but she has a very large purse. Could she have spirited away a few thousand dollars? I should think so. But certainly not anything like the five million you’ve told me she requires.”

  Willows said, “What denominations are the bills?”

  “Hundreds, in Bank of America packets of fifty. Brand-new bills with consecutive serial numbers. The money arrived in a Brinks truck. We had to bring in extra staff to count it, packet by packet.”

  Willows gave Sheridan his card. “Call me the minute she gets in touch with you, or arrives at the bank. Or if anyone other than Joan attempts to gain access to those boxes. Or you think of anything.”

  Sheridan nodded thoughtfully as he accepted the card.

  “Or if Harold makes contact,” said Willows.

  Sheridan’s head came up. He looked startled. “Is that possible?”

  Parker said, “Anything’s possible. Isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Sheridan readjusted the family portrait so it was angled away from him. He said, “Perhaps you’re thinking of our competitors.”

  32

  Steve had vanished quick as a fart in a hurricane. Jake wanted to know why. Marty repeatedly dialled the car phone and “da idiot’s” pocket cellular, but got no satisfaction. He had already searched Steve’s private room above the garage, rummaged through the kid’s sordid little bachelor life in a futile attempt to figure out what might have happened to him.