Karaoke Rap

by Laurence Gough

  Dean’s mouth fell open.

  Ozzie saw the fear in Dean’s eyes. He spun on his heel and shot three times as quickly as he could pull the trigger. The bullets struck the glass panels in the French doors and carried away three perfect circle of glass. A hail of glass pebbles bounced across the deck. Ozzie shot into the door frame. He gripped the heavy pistol in both hands and lurched towards the ruined doors.

  Blood poured from Harold’s self-inflicted wound into his gaping mouth.

  Melanie stared unblinkingly at the television’s blank screen.

  Dean’s brain scrambled to work things out. Ozzie was pissed. The TV had been shot. Harold appeared to have already been shot. Now Ozzie was moving in for the kill.

  Dean dwelled on Ozzie’s likely reaction, when he learned that Joan Wismer wasn’t answering her phone, and that Dean had heard on the car radio that the cops had killed one of Harold’s kidnappers and captured another.

  Dean hurled himself across the room. He swung hard, and accurately, his pistol’s barrel laying flat the little whirlpool of hair at the back of Ozzie’s skull.

  Ozzie fell into the French doors. A sparkly shower of glass sprayed across the sundeck. Ozzie fell face down, but his nose broke the fall. The stump of an unlucky tooth was lost forever in the narrow space between two planks.

  Dean confiscated Ozzie’s gun.

  Melanie yelled, “Hit him again! Harder!”

  Dean hit Ozzie a few more times, striking at the base of his skull. Blood oozed from ruptured flesh. A clump of bloody, matted hair clung to the Ruger’s front sight. Ozzie’s head wobbled, and was still.

  “Dump him in the freezer!” yelled Melanie.

  Dean turned and looked at her. A dark shape, tucked away inside the larger dark shape of the La-Z-Boy. He moved towards her.

  More calmly, she said, “Do Ozzie first, then Harold.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Harold hid a million dollars in my apartment. Emergency money, in case Jake forced his hand.”

  “Hid it where, exactly?”

  Melanie said, “First things first, Dean.”

  Dean shoved Ozzie’s Ruger into his waistband. He dragged him over the chunks of glass and along the hall to the basement door, opened the door and watched Ozzie tumble ass over teakettle down the stairs, sprawl awkwardly across the concrete floor. A rivulet of blood leaked out of his broken nose.

  Dean trotted down the stairs, flung open the freezer lid. Steve looked like Frosty the Gunman. His hands were raised above his head, his fingers wedged into a narrow gap between the top of the freezer and the bottom of the lid. Dean hoisted Ozzie up and over. He let him drop. Ozzie’s falling body snapped Steve’s frozen arms off at the shoulder. Dean threw up all over both of them.

  Ozzie’s eyes popped open. He looked, mostly, surprised. Dean turned as Melanie yelled at him to hurry up. What a voice that woman had.

  Ozzie snatched Dean’s Ruger out of his pants.

  Melanie was still shouting.

  Dean slammed shut the freezer’s lid. He heard a muffled shot, and in that same instant, a ragged oval hole appeared in the top of the freezer. The bullet howled past his startled face. Ozzie fired again and again, quick as he could pull the trigger. Numerous ragged, gaping holes appeared in the freezer’s white-enamelled shell. Shrapnel stung Dean’s stunned face. He tasted blood.

  It was suddenly very quiet. Dean counted the holes in the freezer’s lid. Twelve. Or maybe thirteen. It was hard to say, really, because of the overlaps. He rinsed his mouth at the laundry basin and hurried upstairs, into a firestorm of complaints and recriminations.

  Melanie, still shrieking, pointed outside, beyond the shattered door and gory sundeck.

  Harold was about fifty yards away, dragging the headboard diagonally across the lawn towards a thick stand of evergreens. Dean yelled at him, and he redoubled his efforts. The headboard’s stubby legs cut parallel gouges in the turf.

  Dean hurried across the deck, climbed the rail and dropped to the grass. What did Harold think he was going to do, escape? Dean trotted across the grass. Harold had the wit to realize he wasn’t going to make it to the woods. He veered abruptly towards the lake, lost his footing, and tumbled down the steep slope, the headboard skidding along on the grass behind him. A narrow strip of dirty yellow sand lay between the lawn and the water. He dug his heels into the sand, breaking his slide. The headboard caught up with him, thumped him on the shoulder. He plunged determinedly into the lake.

  About ten feet from shore, the water turned from pale green to inky black. Harold seemed unaware of the sudden change in colour, or perhaps, stunned by his close encounter with a bullet, he failed to realize what it signified. He jogged through the shallow's, trailing a foamy wake. Then, quick as a wink, he vanished.

  Dean took a few hesitant steps towards the water. He craned his neck for a better view, but there was nothing to see but a rising haze of bubbles. He crouched low on his haunches. A fleet of fluffy white clouds flirted with the sun, drifted past the scenic, snow-capped mountain peaks, and were lost from view. A bird on the far side of the lake cackled insanely. He had counted off the seconds to just past a minute when a huge bubble of air ruptured the lake’s placid surface.

  Dean plucked a blade of grass from the lawn. He chewed the grass to a pulp and then stood up and stripped naked and strode into the water. In a moment he was hip-deep and the drop-off was right there in front of him. He shaded his eyes with his hands, and peered into the lake’s shadowy depths.

  Harold was down there, without a doubt. But Dean saw no shiny glint of metal, no soft gleam of waterlogged flesh. However deep Harold had sunk, it was more than deep enough. Dean surged back to shore. He dried himself with his shirt as he made his way back up the slope towards the house.

  Melanie was waiting for him in the La-Z-Boy. She gave him a slow look, head to toe and all the way back up again. There was something in her eyes, a mica-hard glint. What did it signify? Dean couldn’t pin it down but felt diminished nevertheless. He stood in front of her, naked but for the pistol in his hand. What was it he’d seen? Did she dare let him see it again? His wife had looked at him like that from time to time, until he’d put a stop to it.

  He said, “Harold’s dead. He drowned. Ozzie’s froze to death down there in the freezer. You might as well know, the mock-cable guy, Steve, he’s dead too.” Dean scratched himself. “So I guess that just leaves you and me, Melanie.” He smiled unconvincingly. “Things could be worse.”

  He unlocked the handcuff from the La-Z-Boy but left the other cuff dangling from Melanie’s wrist. He told her he believed it would be safer if they waited until full dark before returning to the city.

  There was, Melanie estimated as Dean took her by the hand and led her up the broad pine staircase to the bedroom, about four hours of light remaining in the day. Four hours. Two hundred and forty minutes, with nothing much for them to do but think of ways to make each other happy.

  Her eyes were wet. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  Marty was a nice enough guy but he was always late, and sometimes it just about drove her crazy.

  Dean was no giant, but his body was ropy and hard. If push came to shove, she had no doubt she’d end up on the bottom of the pile. Four hours. That was a hell of a lot of foreplay. They reached the landing and started down the hallway to the bedroom. What she’d already come to think of as her bedroom. She saw what brute force had done to Harold’s door.

  She tried to think of an interesting topic of conversation, some clever distraction. Her mind was a blank. He turned her towards her room, ran his hand casually over the rising curve of her hip as she crossed the threshold. He’d put his gun down sooner or later, wouldn’t he? If she kneed him or head-butted him, and snatched up the gun ... But could she shoot him, if she got the chance? She tightened her hands into fists, and told herself to be brave.

  Four long hours.

  She couldn’t for the life of her imagine a honeymoon with Dean lasting a singl
e minute longer.

  46

  The bedside telephone rang as Willows pried open a waxed-cardboard takeout carton of boneless pork. Sean picked up as Willows spooned a heaping portion of gluey sienna-coloured chunks of meat onto his paper plate. Willows waved the dripping spoon at Parker, who graciously declined. Ditto Annie, who was watching her weight for reasons neither Willows nor Parker could begin to comprehend.

  Willows spooned steamed rice onto his plate, ripped open a tiny plastic bag of soya sauce. Sean pointed at his plate. Willows emptied the bag onto his sons rice. He shifted the narrow, rubber-wheeled hospital table so it was suspended above Sean’s lap.

  Sean was nodding into the phone, looking very serious. Finally he said, “Yeah, just a minute.” Clamping his hand over the receiver, he told Willows it was Sheila.

  Willows accepted the call.

  His soon-to-be ex got straight to the point.

  “It cost me a small fortune to fly all the way up here, Jack. I can only stay a few more days. Maybe it was naive of me, but I’d really hoped you’d be able to squeeze a few minutes out of your busy schedule to see me. I shouldn’t have to remind you, but I am still your wife.”

  Willows felt the blood rush to his face. He said, “I left three messages at your hotel, Sheila. You could have got back to me.”

  “I tried. I left a dozen messages, Jack.”

  “Well, I didn’t get any of them.” Willows stabbed at a succulent chunk of pork with his plastic fork. He popped the meat into his mouth and chewed surreptitiously. Sean was staring at him. So was Parker. And so was Annie. He pointed at their plates, mimed eating.

  Nobody moved.

  Sheila said, “C’mon Jack. Don’t lie to me. I could understand the office screwing up once or twice. But a dozen times? What about the message I left this morning?”

  “What message?”

  “The message on your answering machine!”

  “When did you call?”

  “A few minutes past eight. Why, what difference does it make?”

  “I was out of the house by seven-thirty. I haven’t been in all day. Believe me, Sheila, nobody’s avoiding you.”

  Willows snuck another chunk of meat. It was delicious, even if it was bordering on lukewarm. He put his hand over the phone and said, “Eat up, everybody. Don’t wait for me.”

  Parker took the lead. Sean and then Annie joined in.

  Into the phone, Willows said, “Sean’s just fine. He’s coming right along, should be home in a few more days.”

  Sean held up two fingers.

  “Day after tomorrow,” said Willows.

  Abruptly switching tracks, Sheila said, “Is Annie there?”

  “Annie?” Willows lifted an inquiring eyebrow. Annie shook her head, made pushing-away gestures with her hands. Willows crossed his fingers and held them up for all to see. He said, “Annie’s at home, as far as I know.”

  He helped himself to a square of lemon chicken.

  Sheila said, “I’ll be at the hospital in about an hour. I thought I might visit with Sean, and then you and I could have dinner together.”

  Willows nibbled at his steamed rice, popped the tab on a Diet Coke. He said, “I’d love to, but I can’t make it.” Wimp that he was, he added, “I’ve got a previous commitment.”

  “We need to talk about our divorce, Jack.”

  Willows was suddenly alarmed. After all she’d put him through, was she having second thoughts?

  Sheila said, “Things are moving too slowly. I’d like to pick up the pace a little, if you don’t mind.”

  He said, “Well, I’d be happy to do whatever I ...”

  “What exactly are you doing this evening, if you don’t mind me asking. Are you working? Could we get together later, for a nightcap?”

  Willows said, “I’m sorry, but ...”

  “I’m at the Best Western, in case you’ve forgotten. Call me in the morning, will you do that for me?”

  Willows chewed hurriedly, swallowed. He said, “Yeah, sure.” He sipped at his Coke.

  “At nine,” said Sheila.

  “Nine,” agreed Willows.

  “Tell Sean I’ll be there in about an hour.”

  “Will do,” said Willows. But too late, because Sheila had already hung up. He told Sean that Sheila was on her way over, and that she was tired, and sounded a little distraught.

  Sean held up a thumb-sized paper cup containing a small green pill. He said, “Don’t worry about it, Dad. If things get too intense, I’ll slip myself a mickey.” He shook the cup and the pill rattled. “This little monster’ll take about ten minutes to knock me flat for the night.”

  Willows thought, Great. I’ve taught my son to be a liar and a pill-popper, all in one easy lesson. As he and Annie said their goodbyes, Parker collected the used paper plates and dumped them in the garbage. Jack had bought far too much food; half a dozen of the waxed-cardboard boxes hadn’t even been opened. Sean had learned that many of the long-term patients were eager for food that wasn’t on the hospital menu. Parker would drop the unopened boxes off at the nurses’ station on the way out.

  She unhooked her purse from the back of an orange plastic chair, bent over Sean and kissed him lightly on the forehead. He smiled up at her. She said, “Call my beeper if you want anything.”

  His smile widened. “Have fun, Claire.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do, I do.”

  She gave his hand a quick squeeze, and joined Willows and Annie at the door. Willows had promised to help Annie study for an upcoming biology quiz. Parker planned a leisurely shower, and then a hunt through the clothes closet for something prim and proper, but subtly seductive.

  Eddy Orwell had organized a party at Freddy’s Bar to celebrate the mostly successful conclusion of the Harold Wismer kidnapping. The promoter was still missing and probably dead, but Orwell had pointed out that the promoter didn’t deserve a happy ending, since he was a morally corrupt, bloodsucking leech. All that mattered to Orwell was that the perps were in custody or in the morgue, and that Joan Wismer hadn’t lost a penny of her inheritance.

  But the real reason for the party was the arrest and certain conviction of Jake Cappalletti. For the better part of thirty years, Jake had been maiming and killing and extorting his way across the face of the city. There was hardly an officer on the force who didn’t have the old man pegged for one crime or another. The fraud and vice coppers were particularly happy to see Jake fall. What had started out as a quiet little gathering of homicide dicks had quickly turned into a celebration for almost every detective on the VPD.

  *

  A dozen brightly coloured helium balloons floated at the entrance to the bar. Printed on the balloons in bold navy-blue and gold letters were the words, PRIVATE PARTY!

  Freddy had hired a couple of guys from Beef, Inc. to guard the door. If you didn’t carry a badge, you didn’t get in.

  Willows and Parker arrived late. The dull roar that spilled out the open door announced that the party was well under way. Oikawa had volunteered to pose as greeter. He introduced Willows and Parker to his fiancée, a tall, excessively blonde woman named Barb Klinger. Barb giggled uncontrollably as Oikawa asked Willows and Parker if they’d heard about the huge RCMP drug bust that had just been thrown out of court.

  Willows said, “Missed it, Dan.”

  Oikawa and Barb were drinking domestic champagne. Oikawa threw back his head and drained his glass. “Biggest bust of the century. Undercover Mounties, sailboats, a ton of coke. The case went all the way to the Supreme Court, and the decision came down this morning. The good guys lost on a technicality.”

  Barb refilled her glass.

  Oikawa lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The undercover Mounties? It turns out they weren’t licensed by Disney!”

  Parker took Willows’ arm and they made their way to a table down at the far end of the bar, where Eddy Orwell and his wife, Judith, were sitting alone despite the mob. They exchanged greetings,
and sat down. Judith said, “It’s not that we’re unpopular. Bobby and his bimbo were sitting with us, but Bobby kept making moves on me, and Eddy told him to scram.”

  “Hey, Judith, you wear a skirt like that, I warned you there was gonna be trouble ...”

  “You hoped there’d be trouble.”

  Orwell smiled grimly. The collision with the van had left him with two black eyes and a gap where his left front tooth should have been, but he was otherwise unmarked. He said, “Bobby’s such a dink. One of these days I’m gonna ...” He trailed off as Freddy arrived at the table with a tray crammed with bottled beer and mixed drinks.

  “Going to what?” said Judith belligerently.

  Orwell snatched a glass off the tray as Freddy put it down on the table. Freddy shot him a hard look. He doled out the remaining drinks.

  “Double Cutty on the rocks for you, Jack. Another rum and Coke for you, Judith. Anybody hungry? We got a special on chicken wings ...”

  Orwell said, “We wanted something to eat, we’d go to a restaurant. We decide we want to die a slow and agonizing death, we’ll order the wings.”

  Freddy rolled his eyes.

  Judith said, “Come back in ten minutes with another round, ’kay?”

  Freddy picked up the empty tray. Scar tissue on his nub of a thumb and his one-knuckle fingers glinted slick and shiny under the lights.

  Willows glanced around the bar, looking in vain for Bradley. The inspector had said he might drop by for a drink, even though he’d never been fond of mingling with the troops.

  Parker said, “How’re the kids, Judith?”

  “Pardon me?” Judith had slouched low in her seat. Parker realized Judith was already drunk.

  “The kids. How are they doing?”

  “Not too good, but it isn’t my fault.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Orwell was an inexperienced drinker, and it showed.

  Parker glanced up as Bobby Dundas hobbled towards her with the aid of a pair of aluminum crutches. He collapsed awkwardly into the booth. Parker had to be quick to avoid having him land on her lap.