Willows got out his badge.
There was a long silence broken only by the hiss of the stove.
“She belongs to a friend of mine,” the man said at last.
“What’s his name?”
“Rowland. Oliver Rowland.”
“His friends call him Rollie,” said the girl. She sat up. The sleeping bag fell away.
“What’s your name?” Willows said to the man.
“Wayne Clark. I use the boat all the time. It’s a business arrangement. I got a key, you want to see it?”
“What’s your name?” Willows said to the woman.
“Wendy Lewis.”
“How old are you, Miss Lewis?”
“Twenty-three.”
Wayne Clark tried to look surprised. Willows didn’t believe it.
“Can I see some identification, please.”
Wendy Lewis’ clothes were in an untidy heap at the foot of the bed. She found her purse, offered Willows her driver’s licence.
Willows handed the licence back. He turned to Clark, snapped his fingers.
Wayne Clark was fifty-three years old. His marital status wasn’t noted on his licence, but there was a gold band on the third finger of his left hand.
“Were you here on the boat Friday night?” Willows said.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“He’s lying,” said Wendy Lewis.
Clark glared at her.
A candle wavered as Willows sat down on the end of the bed. “Spend the night?”
The girl shook her head. She ran her fingers through her hair. Were her breasts implants, or real? Willows made an effort to concentrate on the issue at hand.
“What time did you arrive?”
“A little past eight.”
“In a car?”
She nodded.
“Whose car was it?”
“Mine,” said Wayne Clark.
“What d’you drive, Wayne?”
“A Caddy.”
“Where’d you park it?”
Clark gestured with his arm. His knuckles banged against the bulkhead. Apparently he was accustomed to making expansive gestures. “There’s a paved lot behind the restaurant. It’s private, but I’ve got a key.” He sucked on his bruised fist.
“Poor baby,” said Wendy Lewis. She smiled at Willows.
Willows studied the black construction paper. “Were the windows covered over on Friday?”
“Yeah.”
“You said you got here at eight. Exactly when did you leave?”
“About ten.”
“More like one o’clock in the morning,” the girl said. “We heard the car drive up, the crash, and then the shots.”
“How many shots?” said Willows.
“Two,” said the girl. “Or maybe it was three.”
“See anything?”
“No,” said Wayne Clark.
“You heard a car crash and gunshots, but didn’t get up and take a look?”
“He stuck his head under the sleeping bag,” said the girl. “Like one of those big birds that can’t fly. A flamingo, no, an ostrich.”
“What about you, what did you do?” Parker said to Wendy Lewis.
“Went outside, took a look around.”
“Stark naked,” said Clark. “She wasn’t even wearing a hat.”
“The engine was racing, really loud. That’s how I figured out where the car was, by the noise.”
Willows took out his notebook, a pen.
“There were two men standing on the far side of the car. One of them knelt down and then he started walking backwards, away from the car.”
“What did he look like?”
“It was dark, he was too far away, I couldn’t see ...”
“Was he tall, short ...”
“He was big, they were both big.”
“Heavy-set, thin ...”
“Average, I guess. They weren’t skinny.”
“What were they wearing?”
“I don’t know, I can’t remember ... Like I said, it was dark.”
“The one who walked backwards away from the car, which way did he go?”
“Towards the far side of the parking lot, that new apartment block.”
“What about the other man?” said Parker.
“He stayed where he was, beside the car.”
“He’s the one you should’ve had the best look at,” Parker said. “Can you remember the length or color of his hair, anything at all?”
Wendy Lewis shook her head. “No, not really.”
“But you could see that they were both men,” said Willows.
“I think they were men.” The girl shrugged. “But I wouldn’t want to swear to it in court, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Is there any chance either of them saw you?” said Willows.
“No way.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’d bet my life on it,” said the girl. She giggled nervously.
“I’ll need your home and business addresses and phone numbers, Mr Clark.”
“Wait a minute now, if this ...”
Willows gave him a look. “We phone you at home and your wife answers, we’re supposed to hang up, right?”
Wayne Clark repaired typewriters for a living. He worked downtown and lived in an apartment in Kerrisdale. Willows made a mental note to get the licence number of the Caddy, just in case he was lying.
Wendy Lewis was unemployed. Willows got her home address and telephone.
“Do me a favor,” she said as he put away his pen and notebook. “Pass me my panties.”
“Not a chance,” said Willows.
Parker was still smiling as she stood on the deck of the sailboat and watched Willows walk back to the parking lot. He stood where the car had crashed and looked for her in the darkness. Parker was wearing black, but in the incidental light from the security lamp at the top of the gangway, he was able to see the pale oval of her face, her hands.
The advantage he had over the killers was that he knew she was there and was looking for her. On the other hand, Wendy Lewis was a blonde, and her skin was very pale, and she had been naked. He started back towards the boat, to advise Clark and Lewis that they’d better find another love nest.
In the Olds, driving out from beneath the looming bulk of the bridge, Parker asked Willows if he had time for a drink.
“Sure,” said Willows, diffidently.
“Forget it, some other time.”
“Freddy’s?” said Willows.
“That’d make a nice change.”
When Willows and Freddy had first met, Freddy’d been cuffed to a skid-row radiator, his left hand spouting blood. The hand had been stuffed in a blender, the three middle fingers chewed off right down to the knuckle. Years later, he’d told Willows of the horror he’d felt as he’d watched the glass wall of the blender turn bright red and then pink, chunks of raw flesh swirling and spinning. Now, years later, the stumps were white as a glacier, covered in a mass of scar tissue slick as ice.
The lost fingers had a remarkable effect on Freddy, calmed him down. Six months after it happened, he flew the redeye to Reno and married his business partner and barmaid, Sally.
In the chapel there was a moment of panic, and then Sally slipped the wedding ring over Freddy’s thumb.
Freddy had been married almost two years now, but still hadn’t lost his eye for women. Parker was at the top of his wish-list. He spotted her as she walked in the door, and reached for the bottle of Cutty Sark. She wasn’t the kind of woman who liked to drink alone. He was sure Willows would be right behind her.
Freddy was right.
Willows nodded at Freddy as he walked past the bar, held up two fingers and rotated his hand to indicate a pouring motion.
Doubles.
Freddy poured the drinks freehand, carried them down the length of the bar to the end booth. Dropped napkins on the table and put down the drinks.
“Thanks, Freddy.”
“We got a special on chicken wings. Interested?”
“I’ll pass.”
Freddy shook his head, stared gloomily down at the floor. “Brother, what a week.”
Willows sipped his drink.
Freddy turned to Parker. “Brother,” he said, “what a week.”
“Problem?” said Parker.
Willows glanced up at her across the rim of his glass, gave her a look.
“Sally’s always liked to read in bed. Usually it’s only a magazine, or maybe the newspaper. But since last Sunday, she’s been dragging the Encyclopaedia Britannica into the sack with her. And I’m not talking about one volume, either. I mean the whole goddamn ...”
“Stop,” said Willows.
“You heard it?”
Willows nodded.
“Pretty good, eh?”
“A real side-splitter, Freddy.”
“Laughed until I cried, swear to God.”
“I haven’t heard it,” said Parker.
“Ask him to tell it to you,” said Freddy, indicating Willows with a disdainful jerk of his thumb.
Parker said, “The boys in fraud tell me you water your drinks.”
“With my tears,” said Freddy. He gave the table a brisk wipe and walked away.
“You get the forensics on the Pontiac?” said Willows.
“Jerry Goldstein called in sick. We got shoved to the bottom of the pile.”
Willows opened his mouth but, whatever he was about to say, thought better of it.
“Hey,” said Parker, “don’t blame me.”
Willows drank some Cutty.
“It’ll be on your desk first thing in the morning. They promised.”
“I’ll bet they did.”
“I phoned Jerry at home, told him to call his staff and get them off their asses.”
“That must have cheered him up.”
Parker tasted her Scotch, put the glass back down on the table. “Orwell talked to the kid who worked on the Aquabus. Kid’s name is Steve Bromley. He didn’t see or hear a thing, didn’t even know there’d been a murder until Orwell told him about it.”
“Why’d he quit work?”
“Had an argument with his boss.”
“Eddy believed him?”
“Every last word.” Parker swirled the ice in her drink. “Tell me something, Jack.”
Willows waited.
Parker took a mouthful of Scotch, gulped it down. “How’re you getting along with your wife?”
Willows leaned back in his seat. “Okay, I guess.”
“Okay?” said Parker.
“Not too bad.”
“She still in Toronto?”
“Yeah.”
Parker reached across the table. Lightly traced her fingers across the back of Willows’ hand.
Willows drained his glass. Not looking at her, he said, “You want another drink?”
“But not here, okay.”
Willows reached for his jacket.
“My place,” said Parker. “It’s closer.”
“Tidier too, I bet.”
“For the time being,” Parker said.
11
The door rattled against the frame. Paterson went for the Ruger, held the gun down low against his hip. He sat up. The bedsprings creaked. He felt ridiculous — a character in a melodrama, an old black and white movie. He stuck the Ruger back in the pocket of his jacket and said, “Who is it?”
“Room service, pal.”
The nightclerk, rumpled and ironic. Paterson imagined him leaning against the wall, thumb hooked in the waistband of his jeans. He said, “Come on in.”
The door swung open and a man slipped into the room like a shadow, silent and fluid. His skin was the color of smoked glass, smooth and gleaming. He was about six feet tall, and very thin. He had on a dark blue poplin trenchcoat, black leather gloves, tight black pants and shiny black patent leather shoes. The shoes were small, about a size eight. The collar of the trenchcoat was turned up, the belt cinched tight. He was shaved bald; there was a razor cut above his left ear, another nick at the base of the skull. The guy looked theatrical and dumb — but very scary.
Paterson stood up. He tried not to think about how stupid he’d been, wished that the Ruger was still in his hand. A woman stepped into the room. He began to relax. The woman stayed just inside the door, her back to the wall. She was white, wearing a sequined jean jacket, tight yellow skirt, mesh nylons. Her hair was a bright, garish orange, shot through with streaks of green. She glanced at Paterson and then looked away, disinterested.
The man danced lightly across the room, stopped near the foot of the bed.
“Shut the door, Moira.”
The woman shut the door.
Paterson stood there by the bed, waiting, not quite sure how to handle the situation. He decided to let the pimp make the first move, follow his lead.
As if reading his mind, the man pointed a gloved finger at him and said, “Relax, baby. I’m Moira’s talent agent, her manager. The name’s Randall.”
Randall stared at the bulge in Paterson’s pocket. “Carrying some weight, baby?”
“I told the nightclerk I wanted three women.”
“Pete don’t count too good. You a cop?”
Paterson shook his head.
“Humor me, baby. Say it out loud. Then I don’t gotta worry about entrapment, any of that shit.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Well, that makes two of us.” Randall stuck a finger in his ear, poked and prodded, studied what he’d caught beneath the nail. “Three girls at once, huh.” He moved a little closer. “Tell me something, does it matter how old they are?”
“Not particularly.”
“Color?”
Paterson shrugged.
“Reason I ask, tell you the truth, is you look as if you could barely handle one of my sweet ladies, much less a trio.”
“I want to meet a junkie.”
“A what? A junkie? Why is that?”
“I’m writing a magazine article.”
“You’re a fucking writer?”
“Yeah.”
Randall stared down at him. Eyes cold and shiny as his patent leather shoes. “I don’t get it, man. What is it, somebody worked the numbers and told you one out of three hookers bound to be wired?”
“Simple as that,” said Paterson. He wondered if he looked as terrified as he felt. He wanted to sit down, but the way Randall was standing there, it didn’t seem like a very good idea.
“Bullshit, baby. That ain’t no pen you got in your pocket, it’s a fuckin’ bazooka.”
Paterson hesitated. He pulled out the Ruger, held the pistol with the barrel in his left hand.
Moira made a small sound of dismay. “Shut the fuck up,” said Randall, not bothering to look at her. To Paterson he said, “What is that thing, a twenty-two?”
“Yeah.”
“Got a silencer on it?”
“Bull barrel,” said Paterson. “For target shooting. The extra weight minimizes the recoil.”
Randall scratched the razor cut on the back of his neck. He began to bleed. He sucked blood from his finger. “You gonna splash me, that it?”
“What?”
“Forget it.” Randall giggled. He flapped his hands in a gesture of dismissal. “What you really want, man. Or do you even fuckin’ know?”
“I want to sell some heroin,” said Paterson.
Randall hesitated. “Sell, or buy?”
“Sell.”
“How much we talkin’ about?”
“Twenty kilos,” said Paterson. “A little more than forty-four pounds.”
“I know how much a fucking key weighs, goddammit!” Randall studied the gun in Paterson’s lap. “You shittin’ me, man?”
“No, of course not.”
Randall nodded. He’d heard Gary Silk had suffered a major loss, but he hadn’t had any idea how big it was. “It here with you?”
�
�Sorry, Randall.”
Randall grinned, showing small teeth and lots of gum. “Where you got it stashed, man?”
“That’s a million-dollar question, Randall. You got the cash you need to buy the answer?”
“Tell me something, babe. You started out on this here day trip, you remember to load your gun?”
“With hollowpoints. Want one, Randy?”
Randall held up his hands, palms out. “Maybe later. Wouldn’t mind a little taste of the merchandise, though.”
“In the bathroom, down at the end of the hall. On the floor behind the toilet.”
“Got it all worked out, huh?”
“This’s way too big for you, Randy. Go-between’s the best you can do. Somebody you know might be interested, I’ll be at the Sunrise Hotel until they close the bar.”
“The Sunrise.”
“One night only. Then I’m gone.”
“Go get Walt,” said Randall. Moira frowned. “He’s in the fuckin’ car,” Randall said. “C’mon baby, get yo’ pretty little ass in gear.” Moira yanked open the door. Her heels clattered on the linoleum.
“Wait a minute,” said Paterson.
Randall went over to the door and kicked it shut, leaned against the frame with his arms folded across his chest. He said, “Easy, now. Don’t do nothin’ foolish.”
Paterson pointed the Ruger at Randall’s face. “Get the hell away from that door.”
“Or you’ll blow my head off, right?” Randall reached inside his trenchcoat, took out a pack of Virginia Slims. He offered the pack to Paterson. “Smoke?”
Paterson forced himself to move towards the window. His legs felt stiff, as if they were made of wood.
“What’d I say?” said Randall.
Paterson tried to yank open the window, but it was stuck, nailed shut. He used the butt of the gun to smash the glass.
“Don’t get me mad, baby. I lose my temper, something real bad could happen.”
Paterson kept working at the glass.
Randall pulled a butterfly knife, flicked it open. “Back off, baby.”
Paterson used his elbow to clear away the last shards of glass. He crouched, managed to get his left leg and part of his lower body out the window. Randall lit his cigarette and then came at him, moving incredibly fast.
The Ruger exploded. Randall skidded to a stop. The cigarette fell out of his mouth. He lifted the hem of his tight-belted trenchcoat and touched the bloody hole in his pants, high up on the meaty part of his thigh.
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