An Ordinary Decent Criminal

by Michael Van Rooy

  I put the final pieces into place and then went back inside and Claire followed.

  “How do you remember where you put all that stuff?”

  “Practice.”

  She gave me a hug and I kissed her.

  “In addition I’m very talented, skilled, lucky, smart, wise . . .”

  “That explains all the jail time.”

  I ignored her and cleaned up before we went to bed.

  26

  At quarter past four I heard the screams start, but they were quickly silenced as though someone put their thumb on the mute button during a scary movie. At the first peal of noise I’d rolled out of bed and was crouched at the door with the bayonet in hand. By the time I started to think, the screams were just echoes. Listening carefully, I could barely hear sotto voce cursing, so I relaxed and put the bayonet back under the pillow. Claire rolled over and threw an arm onto my empty side of the bed.

  “Whazamatta?”

  I kissed her and she rolled back. When she was breathing deeply again, I went to the bathroom and stood off to the side of the window where I’d cut a slit in the drapes. Through it I could see most of the yard but anyone down there wouldn’t be able to see me. The dog came in and I scratched him behind one ear as I let my eyes adjust to the dim light. In the middle of the lawn, there was a large, pale shape lying prone. As I watched, the figure crawled a body’s length forward towards the fence and then paused.

  “Good boy.”

  I scratched the dog some more and knuckled his ear until his rear legs started to spasmodically kick. The figure in the yard was moving like a half-squashed bug and I began to admire its perseverance as it finally reached the right-hand fence. That would mean that the visitor was one of the Kilpatricks, either the big, fat husband or the equally big, fat wife. I wondered if it might be one of the big, fat children but I decided against it, the two girls and a boy were all in their early teens and they weren’t as big as the figure seemed to be in the dim light.

  The figure had reached the fence and levered itself upright when suddenly it began to spasm wildly before dropping to the ground and shaking its arms wildly.

  “Hmmm. I’d forgotten that one.”

  Renfield looked up at me uncomprehendingly and I scratched him some more.

  In the first light of morning I went out and gathered up the traps. I found the note the intruder had left in the middle of the yard. It was butcher’s paper again and it had “LEAVE, YOU FUCKING KILLER!” written in yellow crayon. As I was reading it, Mr. Kilpatrick, senior, came over to the fence and put his arms gingerly on the top. He was moving very slowly and carefully, like an old man dealing with new pain.

  When I noticed him, I waved cheerfully. “Good morning.”

  “You know . . .” His arms and face were covered in small, flesh-colored Band-Aids, and he had a pronounced limp. He swallowed audibly and started again. “You know . . .”

  He stopped and his wife edged out of their back door and peered at me. They were both big people and looked quite alike, both over two hundred pounds and squatly built. They had pale skin, frequently washed, that was rarely exposed to the weather, and lank brown hair that was rapidly graying, although they seemed to be in their early forties. I walked over to the fence and gestured with the folded note.

  “Know what, sir?”

  I looked into his eyes from an extremely close distance. Mr. Kilpatrick found it uncomfortable so he started to back away until his wife made a harrumphing noise and he froze in his tracks and continued.

  “You know, it might be a good idea for you to leave.”

  It almost came out as a question and I shifted my weight onto the other foot and ignored his statement entirely. Their house was beautifully kept with aluminum siding and bright red paint on the lintels and around the edges of their windows.

  “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  He swallowed convulsively. “Me, and the other neighbors . . .”

  I interrupted him again. “Yep, a beautiful day and my wife and me, we were thinking about how lucky we are to have such beautiful neighbors and to live in such a beautiful neighborhood.”

  His wife, I think Claire had said her name was Emily, took a step out onto the porch and I could see she was holding a frying pan in her meaty palm. He glanced over at her and went on. “Well, we think that maybe . . .”

  “Yep, beautiful neighbors and a beautiful neighborhood and a beautiful city but we don’t know them very well, at all. It’s really quite a shame.”

  He stopped trying to talk and stared so I added brightly, “So, of course, you’ll be coming to our barbecue. Right?”

  He turned full face to his wife, who began to shake her head violently from side to side. I looked at her for a moment and then nodded, and she stopped as though someone had cold-cocked her. Mr. Kilpatrick shivered then and turned back to me with his mouth a little bit open so I repeated myself and made it into a question.

  “Right?”

  He nodded dumbly and I handed over the note he’d left behind. “You dropped this.”

  He clutched at the paper until it crumpled and then bolted inside, so I finished cleaning up the booby traps. I’d barely picked up the last item when Renfield squealed and darted between my legs and through the open door of the house. I was still rubbing the muscle he’d bruised during his passage when a triple fork of lightning split the sky and a hard spring rain started.

  After breakfast I’d handed Claire a highlighter marker and half the stack of the pamphlets I’d brought back from the Residential Tenancies office. We sat down at our kitchen table and twined our feet together underneath and went to work. Every few minutes the thunder would come and finally Claire looked up.

  “Huh. I didn’t know that.”

  I criticized her idly. “Don’t grunt, it’s not ladylike. What didn’t you know?”

  “I didn’t know about the fire alarms. We’re supposed to have fire alarms, three of them, one on each floor. Where’s your dog, by the by?”

  “In the basement. The thunder scares him. Where’s Fred?”

  “Trying to escape from his crib. And, dear?”

  I looked up and she kicked me in the shin with the side of her foot. “I’ll grunt if I want to.”

  “Isn’t that a song? ‘It’s My Party and I’ll Grunt if I Want To’?”

  She sighed and brushed hair back from her forehead. “You’re not funny, you know.”

  “I know.”

  It took us until past noon to go through the piles of paper. After that, we wrote out our lists separately and then traded pamphlets and went over them again. It was while we were checking for duplication that the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it.”

  The crowbar went behind my back, just in case, and I opened the door a crack to see Frank from the archery shop, standing in the rain and looking like a drowned Chihuahua. He sneezed and wiped his nose on a sleeve. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  He was wearing a pale blue poncho made out of some kind of rubberized material and he stood and dripped water all over the foyer of the house as Claire came forward with her best smile.

  “Hello, I’m Claire Parker, and you are?”

  “Frank. Frank Wyzik. Your husband sort of works for me on Wednesdays.”

  “I know. It’s a lovely bow you sold him, or so I’ve heard.”

  I put the crowbar back with the umbrellas. “Would you like a cup of coffee? Or some lunch we’re about to have?”

  He shook his head, ran his hand through his hair, and turned to look at me carefully. “Wanted to tell you, I got a call yesterday saying you were a killer and thief, that you were living in the neighborhood and that it might be a good idea if you left town.”

  He left a space after his words and I waited politely so he went on. “Anyhow, I figured I’d tell you. The man said to call Detective Walsh for information.”

  Frank scratched the side of his leg through the poncho. “Anyhow, I asked some of the other
businesses around and they all heard the same thing. Some of them confirmed it with Walsh too. They say he seemed real enthusiastic and nasty. Showed up to visit a couple of them with your picture in hand and talked about raping and killing and stealing.”

  Claire put her arm in mine and I waited.

  “Just wanted to tell you.”

  He pulled up his poncho hood and opened the door behind him.

  “So, I’ll see you at noon tomorrow, right?”

  His words hung there and I could barely understand them until Claire squeezed my arm.

  “Yes.”

  My voice broke suspiciously and he stomped off into the storm without another word. Claire closed the door and relocked it and then I spoke. “I think I have a friend.”

  That night after supper, Claire went out jogging. On the previous nights, she’d gone out alone and I’d wondered about her safety until she’d showed me the sixteen-inch bayonet taped under her left forearm with the hilt towards her hand.

  “I pity the fool who tries to mug me.”

  I eyed the set-up. “You can’t draw that fast enough.”

  She pulled on her warm-up jacket and pulled the sleeve over the blade with difficulty. Then she tried to reach the hilt. “Hmmm. You may be right, oh wise one.”

  “Professional opinion.”

  The blade and her hand and her arm were all parts of the problem and I touched her right palm gently.

  “Here.”

  I tore the sleeve along the seam from her wrist to her elbow and then sealed it with a couple of pieces of electrical tape. “There you go.”

  “You gonna sew it back?”

  “Sure. Cloth sews easier than skin.”

  “Guess it does.”

  She reached with her right hand and easily pulled the knife free. I taped it back together and gave her a kiss.

  “Remember. Stab, don’t slash. Short, controlled arm motions. Yell ‘fire’ throughout.”

  And off she went. I tidied up and did my exercises, and while listening to the radio and thinking long thoughts, I was looking forward to love and sleep. At the hour the CBC announcer came on with the local news full of good cheer, minor mayhem, and unhappy businesspeople. My hand turned the radio off and I went upstairs to bed and waited for Claire. It would be a busy day tomorrow and meanwhile, out there in the dark, people were working against me and mine.

  27

  When Rebecca Gantz finally answered her door, I was standing on the porch holding the gold-lettered NST folder in both hands. From the house she used as an office came the smells of coffee and the sounds of distant typing.

  “Good afternoon.”

  The rain was still falling and it beaded off my plastic jacket and pooled on the garishly tiled concrete patio at my feet. My hair was plastered back, which made me feel oddly refreshed and clean but probably explained why she didn’t recognize me. She stared for a moment and then spoke. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

  “You can help me by reading this.”

  I handed the folder to her and stepped forward confidently until she had a choice of moving to the side or letting me walk through her. She moved to the side and limply accepted the folder in manicured hands. I knew the moment she recognized me because she went rigid and squeaked at a pitch so high I could barely recognize it. The sounds of typing stopped and a young woman came bounding up through an open doorway from the basement.

  “Ms. Gantz? Are you okay?”

  The new woman must have ears like a bat. I stared at her for a few moments until she blushed. Then I said, “She’s fine. My name’s Sam Parker.”

  She recoiled from my hand and I let it drop. Gantz managed to find her voice. “I don’t want to talk with you.”

  “Landlords and Tenants Act. Landlords, in other words, you, must talk to tenants, in other words, me, when there are problems. There are problems. We’ll talk.”

  She was panting now like she’d just had a good orgasm, but finally she nodded and retreated into the house, all the while keeping me within her line of sight. I followed cautiously and the other woman followed close behind me. We ended up in the kitchen. The landlord went to a phone mounted on the wall and picked it up. “I’m calling Wal . . . the police.”

  There was a nice table and chair set in chrome and brass with a heavy glass top tinted gray, and I sat down and rested my arms on the top. I’d heard her start to say Walsh but I didn’t react.

  “Call whoever you want. But why?”

  “You broke in here.”

  I shook my head.

  “No. You let me in. I came to talk with you as a tenant talking to a landlord. If this is a bad time, I can come back. However, the Landlords and Tenants Act does allow us to set an appointment within a reasonable space of time. How’s tomorrow for you?”

  The braless young woman came over, staying out of my reach, and the two looked at me for a few seconds in silence.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Read the letter, it’s short.”

  She went to where she had dropped it and came back, scanning as she went. I waited and let the water drip off my coat onto her kitchen floor. In the corner, a small ceramic coffee urn steamed and perked away merrily but none was offered to me. When she’d finished reading, she looked at me. “This is ridiculous.”

  I stood up, ready to go.

  “I’m glad you think so too. Just make the repairs in the next two or three days and we’ll forget that pesky little complaint. It’s nice that you’re being so reasonable.”

  She looked confused and handed over the two sheets of laboriously typed paper to the woman beside her, who began reading them. As she read, she developed a slight smile.

  “No. You have to leave my house you rented.”

  “Not really. Again, referring to the Landlords and Tenants Act, you haven’t given me enough notice, so we don’t have to leave. But that’s just part of the problem. Do you want me to forward this to the authorities or do you want to deal with it here and now?”

  I lowered my voice. “Mano to mano, so to speak.”

  She started to pace, three steps forward and three back, and she began to waggle her finger and lecture me. “You’re a dangerous criminal. You lied to me. You haven’t kept the place in good repair. You’ve irreparably damaged both my property and my reputation.”

  I sat down again and put my hands on the table. “Are you done?”

  She stood there triumphantly and accepted the papers back from her assistant.

  “Okay. First, the police cleared me of any charges, so I’m not a criminal, and even if I was, you can’t refuse to rent to me on the grounds of past behavior. Secondly, I never lied to you, my wife made all the arrangements and you’ll find that I am listed everywhere with both my birth name and my legal name, and my employment status is also listed. Third, we’ve only been in the place a brief period of time and we’ve kept it in fine condition. Fourthly, your professional reputation is fine, unless you want to try to press charges against me under a slander/libel suit, which, I tell you three times, you’ll lose.”

  Unconsciously I raised my voice. “Regarding the property we’ve rented. The locks are bad and the roof leaks. The damage done during a robbery attempt has not been repaired. The heating vents are badly maintained and heat doesn’t reach to the second floor. There are insects in the basement. There are no fire alarms.”

  I controlled myself and managed to lower my voice. “You refused to meet with me when I asked. And, lastly, you attempted to evict me and my family for no reason at all.”

  I started to walk to the front door. “A copy of that letter will go to the authorities tomorrow morning. You have until 9:45 a.m. to respond to the letter in specific. The mail pickup near our place is at ten.”

  Both women followed me to the foyer and Gantz blurted out, “You’re bluffing.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then you’re delusional.”

  “Probably, but your response should be in writing.
As a matter of fact, I insist.”

  It was still raining, harder now, if anything. I went on. “Find a lawyer. Talk to them. I assure you that I’m within my rights.”

  “You can’t be serious.” She had grabbed my arm and was looking at me from about eight inches away, and I felt a surge of anger.

  “Of course I’m fucking serious. You’ve tried to kick my family out. What did you think I would do?”

  The assistant was about two yards away and probably couldn’t hear me over the rain outside, but I really didn’t give a shit, so I leaned in and whispered. “You’re lucky I’m not as bad as you seem to think, or I’d cut your throat from ear to ear.”

  Her face went white and I smiled and left. Before I’d made it to the end of the sidewalk, the assistant came running out. She had stopped to pull on a clear plastic overcoat. “Mr. Parker? Please wait.”

  I waited and she stood between me and the street. “I’d like to talk to you about this.”

  “So talk.”

  She bit her lower lip and looked over her shoulder at the house and her boss.

  “Not now, I’ve got to get She-Who-Must-Be-Ignored calmed down. She’s ready to send in the marines and I’m sure we can come to some kind of reasonable agreement.”

  “She-Who-Must-Be-Ignored? Cute. Come to my place in an hour. I’ll be a little less pissed off.”

  “Okay.”

  She waited but I didn’t ask, so she offered.

  “She-Who-Must-Be-Ignored is a name from the Rumpole of the Bailey book series. It’s what he calls his wife. Actually he calls her She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, but I like my version better.” She smiled engagingly. I walked home. All in all, I was relatively cheerful. I’d found out it was Walsh behind some of the crap that seemed to be coming down and that made me feel a little bit more in control.

  28

  It took her slightly longer than an hour to show up, which was fine by me. I arranged the dining room table so it was clear and then I stacked the pamphlets from the Tenancies office in the middle. When I was done, I put a chair for her in the middle of the biggest stain on the carpet.