Willows and Parker Box Set

by Laurence Gough

  Yeah, painful but quick.

  The three of them sat at the kitchen table and ate hamburgers and ripple chips and drank Samantha’s vague idea of what a Tom Collins should taste like. The meat was overcooked and there was too much gin in the drinks, but what Gary kept going on about was Samantha’s table manners.

  “Hey, baby. Slow down. What is this, a table or a fuckin’ trough? Frank.”

  “Yeah, Gary.”

  “She eats like a bird, wouldn’t you say?”

  Frank waited.

  “A fuckin’ pelican!” said Gary. His laugh was like someone slamming the lid down on a garbage can. There was chunky green hamburger gunk on his chin. He wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve. “Know what the Heimlich maneuver is, Frank? Where somebody’s choking on a big hunk of meat and you put your arms around them and give ’em a squeeze?”

  Frank shook his head. The Tom Collinses were giving him a monster headache, a real skull cruncher. He got up and went to the fridge, grabbed a Coors.

  Gary poked Samantha in the ribs, making her wince. “This the last meal of the summer? You stuff your face and then crawl under the table and hibernate till spring, that what happens?”

  Gary winked at Frank but Frank pretended not to notice, concentrated on pouring his beer. He’d seen it all before. First Gary started pounding on them with words, and then, if they didn’t take the hint, he went at them with his fists. The way Samantha was gnawing on her burger, Frank figured her for one of the smart ones.

  When Gary had finally finished eating and drinking and burping and being critical, he got down to business.

  “We’re gonna need a junkie. Somebody who knows how to appreciate a good rush.”

  “Or a chemist,” Frank said. “You think he messed around with the dope?”

  “Why would he risk it? On the other hand, why should we take the chance? Give Randall a call and tell him to send somebody over.”

  “When?” said Frank.

  “Tomorrow night.” Gary was stroking Samantha’s arm, his hand crooked like a big spider, his fingernails leaving pale streaks in her flesh. “Tell Randy I want him here at ten o’clock sharp.”

  “Maybe,” said Frank slowly, “it’d be a good idea to have Pat Nash here, too.”

  “Why?”

  Frank rubbed his chin. He said, “Nash owes you a big one. All those people around, maybe you could use him.”

  Gary thought about it. He said, “You worried about Randy, is that it?”

  “And the businessman. We don’t really know who he is, anything about him. You said he’s got a gun. Maybe he plans to use it.”

  Gary leaned back in his chair. One of the Siamese cats wandered into the kitchen. It saw Gary and hurried out. “Okay,” Gary said. “Give Nash a call, too.”

  “I’ll go have a beer somewhere,” said Frank. “Use a payphone to call Randall.”

  Gary nodded. He had his nails deep into Samantha’s arm, was getting himself all lathered up.

  Frank stood up, patted himself down. He turned his pockets inside out, frowned his displeasure.

  “What?” said Gary.

  “The phone call,” said Frank. “I ain’t got any change. Can you lend me a quarter?”

  Gary leaned over and grabbed Samantha’s purse and zipped it open, rummaged around inside.

  Frank drove Gary’s Caddy down Tenth, turned right on Dunbar. At Dunbar and Thirtieth there was a neighborhood pub, a wine and cheese joint. Frank ordered a cold plate and pint of draft beer. He drank half the pint, studied the clock over the bar. Five past eleven. He glanced at his watch. Check. There was a pay phone by the door. He got Randall DesMoines’ number out of his wallet and punched buttons. He couldn’t tell if the phone was ringing or not because of the TV over the bar, plus an old couple in a corner singing mournfully in a language he’d never heard before, but was maybe Gaelic, because they were both wearing tams.

  A voice, shrill as a tin whistle, sounded in his ear. He said, “Lemme speak to Randall.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Tell him, Frank.”

  “Frank who?”

  “Frank Lloyd Wright.”

  The girl giggled. “Mr Right, huh. I knew you’d come along sooner or later.”

  Frank went back to his table and drained his pint, signalled to his waitress for a refill. When he got back to the phone, Randall was waiting for him, whining apologies.

  “Who was the bimbo?” Frank said.

  “I dunno. Just somebody wandered in. A party girl, know what I mean?”

  “No idea,” said Frank. He could hear Michael Jackson in the background, the percussive thud of drums. Randall had a weird taste in music. “Turn that shit off,” Frank said.

  The music died instantly. Randall must’ve had a remote control.

  “What’s up, Randall?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Gary wants some company.”

  “No shit,” said Randall. “You mean a real woman, all growed up? Way I heard it, he likes to cruise the juice bars and ice-cream parlors. Skim the young stuff.”

  “This is business,” said Frank. “Remember the guy in the hotel?”

  “Whenever I take my doberman for a walk. I get ahold of him, Tyson’s gonna have himself a real good time.”

  “Who?” said Frank.

  “My dog. Tyson. I named him after the boxer.”

  “What boxer? Didn’t you just say he was a doberman?”

  “I said he ...” Randall hesitated. “You pulling my leg?”

  “And you can make book it’s the only part of you I’ll ever pull.” When Frank finally stopped laughing he said, “We just spent some time with the guy who popped you. A natural-born salesman, real smooth. Gave us back some of our product. Gary wants to run a test, see if it’s tasty as it looks.”

  “I know a chemist,” said Randall. “Give him a couple twists, he’ll take care of you.”

  “Bring a woman. Gary wants to watch her shoot up, see what happens.”

  “I don’t much like that idea,” said Randall. “That girl Moira’s still fresh in my mind, know what I mean? Jeez, I’d hate to lose another one.”

  Frank waited. After about ten seconds, Randall caved in. “What time you want her there?”

  “Ten o’clock sharp.”

  “It’s already past eleven!”

  “Tomorrow night, Randall. That give you time to get organized, or should I tell Gary you can’t make it?”

  “We’ll be there,” Randall said.

  Frank disconnected. He used another of the juicer’s quarters to dial the number Pat Nash had given him. A woman answered. Frank asked for Nash. She asked him who was calling. He didn’t say anything. The phone made a clunking sound. In the background, he could hear what sounded like a baby crying. Nash came on the line. Frank told him where and when. He hung up and went back to his table. Still a nice head on his beer. He sipped. It was twenty past eleven. Gary’d be wondering where he was. Well, fuck Gary. The Caddy was a V-6 and had about as much acceleration as a wheelbarrow, but he could still make it back to Drummond Drive in under ten minutes, if he hit the lights. He got home a little late, he’d lie and say the line was busy, he had to call back.

  He tilted his head back and emptied the pint, caught the waitress’ eye. He was pretty thirsty, for a guy who did his best work when he was sober. He told himself all he was doing was trying to drown the godawful hamburger Gary had stuffed down his throat, but that wasn’t it and he knew it.

  Truth was, Gary was driving him to drink.

  Truth was, Frank could hardly wait to blow the dumb bastard right off the face of the map.

  22

  Half a ring, and then the answering machine cut in.

  “You there, Parker?” It was Sergeant Curtis, of the Marine Squad.

  It was early, a few minutes past seven. Parker was in the kitchen, waiting with dwindling patience for the last of her breakfast coffee to dribble through the filter and into the pot. She stared at the answering machin
e, the slowly turning cassette.

  There was a pause, and then Curtis said, “I’ve been trying to get in touch with Jack. He isn’t answering his phone.”

  The toast popped. Parker reached for the butter.

  “Reason I’m calling,” said Curtis, “Removal Services just returned Oscar Peel’s body bag. I don’t know if you were aware of this, but they always clean the bags before they give them back to us.”

  Parker poured coffee into two mugs, added cream from a black and white container in the shape of a cow.

  The machine continued to run as Curtis said, “I gave Leyton the job of stowing the bag back in the boat. He found something I think you’ll find pretty interesting.”

  Parker waited, knife in hand, over the cooling and forgotten toast.

  “Give us a call,” said Curtis, and hung up.

  *

  What Leyton had found in the bottom of the body bag was a rectangle of polished metal about three inches wide by five inches long and approximately half an inch deep. In the middle of the rectangle were two jagged, rusting stumps. There was an engraved inscription:

  3rd Place

  Men’s Singles

  1988 Inter-City Squash Championships

  “It’s the base of some kind of trophy,” Curtis said.

  “You play squash?” said Willows.

  “Not really.”

  “Know anybody who does?”

  “Nope.”

  Willows looked at Constable Leyton, who grinned and said, “I feel the need for some exercise, I walk the dog around the fire hydrant down at the end of the block.”

  “Try the daily papers,” said Parker. “The sports columnists.”

  Willows picked up the phone and started dialling. No one at either of the city’s two major dailies would admit to any knowledge of the tournament. Both papers were owned by the same company and shared the same building. Willows asked if he could gain access to the library to research back issues. He was told it was possible, but he’d be required to pay a thirty-dollar per hour fee. It was also necessary to get clearance from the Head Librarian, who was on holiday and not expected back until the end of the following week.

  Willows disconnected. He turned to Curtis. “Got a Yellow Pages?”

  Curtis slid open a drawer, handed Willows the phone book.

  Willows turned to Health Clubs. Walked his fingers down the page until he found a local club that had squash courts, dialled the number.

  “Bodyworks, may I help you?” A woman’s voice, thin and chirpy, professionally cheerful.

  “This is Detective Jack Willows, Vancouver Police. I want to talk to your squash pro.”

  “Jay?”

  There was a pause.

  “I’d like to ask him a few questions, that’s all. About a local tournament.”

  “Jay’s from back east. Toronto. He moved here just a few months ago. I really don’t think ...”

  “Tell him I’d like to talk to him, will you.”

  “He isn’t in at the moment. As a matter of fact, he isn’t due to start work until four o’clock.”

  “What’s his home number?”

  “One moment, please.”

  Willows heard the shuffling of paper. The telephone clattered on the desk.

  He hung up, dialled the number of another downtown fitness club. The pro had been let go. Lack of demand. Willows explained his problem. He was given another number, and a name. He dialled and got a busy signal. Slammed the phone down.

  “We had a direct line to everywhere,” said Curtis, “just think of the time we’d save.”

  Willows tried the number again. The phone rang five times, was picked up by a kid with a lisp, who sounded about ten years old.

  “UBC Squash Courts.”

  Willows identified himself. “I’d like to speak to Rich Woodward.”

  “He isn’t here.”

  Christ. “Do you know where I can reach him?”

  “He could be in the gym. Try the weight room. Or maybe the pool.”

  “Is there a phone?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Is there a phone number for the gym or pool?”

  “Oh yeah, sure. Hang on a minute.”

  Willows was given two numbers. Rich Woodward hadn’t used the weight room. He’d just left the pool.

  “Do you know where I might be able to reach him?”

  “Probably the squash courts. Want the number?”

  A different kid answered when Willows called back. Willows identified himself and said he’d been told that Woodward was on his way over. Would the kid please tell him that Willows wanted to ask him a few questions and should be there within the hour?

  “No problem. He’s got two forty-five minute bookings. Reserved the court for an hour and a half, is what I mean. It’s a regular thing with him, six days a week. He’ll be playing until ... lemme see ... about half-past twelve. After that he’ll ...”

  Willows hung up. Parker and Curtis stared idly out the window. Willows scooped up the evidence bag, stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He started for the door.

  “Drop by some time,” Curtis said to Parker. He smiled. “We’re on duty until midnight, be glad to take you out for a tour. The harbor looks real nice by starlight.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” said Parker. Through the open doorway, she could see that Willows was already halfway to the car.

  Willows drove through the downtown core and along Beach, past the stone Inuit sculpture that was no doubt authentic but to his way of thinking cluttered up the shoreline. They sped over the Burrard Street Bridge, along Point Grey Road and South West Marine Drive past the beaches and then up a winding road through a scrim of hardwoods to the sprawling campus of the University of British Columbia.

  “Still know your way around?” said Parker.

  “Not so much anymore.” It had been almost twenty years since Willows had graduated. In the interim he’d taken a few criminology courses, but always at the city’s other major university, Simon Fraser. He braked to let a clutch of blue-jeaned students cross the road, wondered if he’d ever looked that young, that aimless.

  “Ever come out to Freddy Wood?” said Parker.

  “The theatre?”

  “Right.”

  “Haven’t seen a play in years.”

  Willows made a sharp right and found himself driving the wrong way down a dead-end street. He made a hasty U-turn. At the intersection an RCMP cruiser drifted past — the campus and Endowment Lands were patrolled by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

  “Why don’t you ask him for directions?” said Parker, glancing over her shoulder at the cruiser.

  “We’re doing fine.”

  “You ever see that Mountie you met up in Squamish, Pat Rossiter?”

  “He quit the force. Moved to town and went to work for a private detective agency.”

  “But you don’t stay in touch?”

  “He called a couple of times, trying to chase up some business. It’s been a while since I’ve heard from him. Couple of months, at least.”

  They drove past the university bookstore. Willows remembered it as being much smaller, and in a different location. He came to another intersection, made a left turn on the yellow. A girl in a short black dress and cowboy boots stared at him. Her boyfriend said something and laughed. Willows glanced in his rearview mirror.

  The RCMP cruiser was right behind them, headlights flashing.

  Willows pulled over to the curb, got out of the car and walked swiftly back to the cruiser. The RCMP officer was in his early twenties. He glanced up, startled, as Willows reached the cruiser. The Mountie pushed open the car door and Willows stepped back, giving him room.

  “Can you tell me how to get to the squash courts?” Willows said.

  The Mountie flipped open his ticket book. “May I see your driver’s licence, please.”

  “Sure,” said Willows.

  “Would you please take your licence out of ...” The Mountie saw the
gold detective’s shield, leaned forward to take a closer look.

  “The squash courts ...” prompted Willows.

  “There’s a T-shaped intersection about a mile down the road, maybe a little more. The sports complex is off to the left. You’ll see it.” He removed his peaked cap, yanked open the cruiser’s door and tossed the cap on the seat. “Next time you think about making a turn without signalling, do yourself a favor and take a look in your rearview mirror, okay?”

  “Thanks for your help,” said Willows.

  There are four squash and two racquetball courts in the UBC complex. The kid with the lisp was back at the desk. He told Willows that Rich Woodward was in the end court, number six. Willows asked for directions.

  The kid gave Parker a big, uncomplicated smile. He locked his cash register and led them down a narrow concrete hallway and up a flight of stairs, past a white-painted door. Willows found himself standing at the top of the spectator’s gallery — several rows of wooden bench seats that were separated from the courts by strong netting. He said, “We wanted to talk to him, not watch him play.”

  “He doesn’t like interruptions. Won’t talk to you until his court time’s over. Anyhow, there’s no way to get at him. The door’s locked from the inside.”

  “Which one is Woodward?”

  “The guy with the wristbands.”

  The ball caromed off the end wall, hit the leftside wall and began to drop. Woodward attacked, delivered a backhand smash. The ball smacked against the end wall an inch above the foul line, rolled slowly across the polished wooden floor.

  Willows crooked two fingers in his mouth and uttered a long, piercing whistle.

  Woodward glanced up at him. Willows showed him his badge. Woodward used his racket to point at the big electric clock on the wall. He jammed his racket under his arm and made a fist with both hands and opened and closed both fists three times in rapid succession.

  “He’s got another thirty minutes on the court,” the kid translated.

  The netting was thick nylon cord. Willows supposed he could probably find a knife somewhere, or a pair of scissors ...