Fall Down Easy

by Laurence Gough

  By now Greg had turned the conversation to the fine art of banking, learned that she’d been double-counting other people’s money for five years going on six, walked straight out of high school and into the job, the only work she’d known. While most of her friends were yukking it up at university or better yet taking a year off to backpack Europe, she was learning how to work an adding machine.

  Greg said, “Ever been robbed?”

  “I wish.”

  He smiled. “Looking forward to it, are you?”

  “Bet your ass, buster.”

  Greg leaned across the table, took her hand. “I want you to promise me something, Barbara.”

  Barbara said, “Okay.”

  Greg said, “Promise me you’ll be careful if it ever does happen.”

  “What happens?”

  “Someone robs you.”

  Barbara leaned forward, frowned at him. He wondered what he’d said, and then realized she was having trouble keeping him in focus. She giggled and said, “Make my day.”

  Greg said, “It’s nothing to make jokes about. You could get hurt.”

  Barbara spilled a little cognac on her cashmere. Greg offered her his napkin. Dabbing at the sweater, she said, “I’m going to have to take this off just as soon as we get home, aren’t I?”

  Greg nodded, searched for something clever to say. His throat was dry. He was remembering the way she’d looked when he’d caught her standing naked in front of the mirror.

  She said, “What are you thinking, Neil?”

  He smiled, reached for his wallet. The cab fare to her apartment, the restaurant. Dinner. A deuce for the hat-check girl. Another cab ride. He was looking at a hundred seventy-five bucks, minimum.

  He hoped like hell it didn’t take Barbara too long to fall for him, that a whirlwind romance was in the cards. Usually it was the hot pursuit that motivated him, the thrill of turning a stranger into a lover. He tended to gloss over the fact that the woman, whoever she might be, had fallen in love with someone other than himself.

  As for the actual robbery, that was usually just the icing on the cake. A way of underwriting his costs. But this time out, it was different.

  If he didn’t break Barbara’s heart in a week, he’d be bankrupt.

  Seventeen

  Willows’ phone rang. He picked up. Mel Dutton said, “All set, Jack. Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Be right there, Mel.” Willows disconnected.

  Parker slapped shut a file folder, put the folder away in her desk.

  Willows dialled a three-digit extension. Fireplug O’Neill said, “Yeah?” His voice was wet and garbled, as if he was in the middle of brushing his teeth.

  Willows said, “Mel’s ready to go.”

  O’Neill muttered something incomprehensible and killed the connection.

  Willows dialled Pat Crowthers. He gave the fraud squad detective the same message and received more or less the same response.

  Parker said, “I bumped into Bernie and Cake in the cafeteria this morning. Cake wasn’t too enthusiastic about the meeting.”

  “Said I was grasping at straws?”

  “Word for word.”

  Bernie Adams and Pat “Patty Cake” Crowthers were a couple of old-fashioned cops, part of the last generation of detectives who’d dropped out of high school and worked their way up the ladder rung by rung, leaving a trail of sweat and unpaid overtime all the way. The new breed had degrees in criminology, sociology.

  Willows cleared his desk, pushed back his chair. His phone rang. He picked up. It was Bradley, calling from his office, less than twenty feet away.

  “Your meeting still on?”

  “It’s all set, Inspector. Parker and I were just on our way over.” Willows instinctively glanced towards the source of Bradley’s voice, but the inspector’s door was shut.

  “You got a minute, drop by when you’re finished.”

  Willows said, “Should be within the hour, Inspector.”

  “Ask Parker to come along, as well,” said Bradley, and hung up.

  Mel Dutton had set up a slide projector in one of the third-floor lecture rooms. Untidy rows of metal school desks faced a podium and blackboard. Someone with a minimum of talent but lots of fevered imagination had filled the blackboard with a much larger-than-life-size, remarkably immodest female nude.

  Dutton said, “Nice, huh?”

  Parker nodded. “Very artistic.” Dutton was wearing a three-piece suit, a mustard-coloured windowpane with wide lapels and full vents. His shirt was mauve, with a buttondown collar. There was hand-painted egg all over his tie. His bald head gleamed almost as brightly as the diamond in his pinky ring. He caught Parker looking and struck a peacock’s pose. “Like the suit?”

  “Really classy.”

  “I was browsing, and there it was, right at the end of the rack. Its sleeves seemed to open out to me, as if to embrace me. I went over and touched the cloth and a salesman appeared out of nowhere. How often does that happen — that there’s a salesman around when you want one?”

  “Never,” said Parker.

  “It was like a sign, a portent. When I tried it on, it was a perfect fit, almost.”

  “Amazing,” said Parker.

  Windy Windfelt and Fireplug O’Neill, Bernie Adams and Cake Crowthers were standing by the window, eating ham and cheese croissants out of a grease-stained brown paper bag, talking in low, conspiratorial tones. The chatter faded as Willows and Parker entered the room. Crowthers and Windfelt exchanged a look.

  Willows shook hands, thanked everybody for coming.

  Windfelt said, “Hey, no problem.” His eyes were on Parker, who had her back to them and was energetically erasing the over-endowed nude from the blackboard. He said, “Can’t you just give her a bikini and leave it at that? I mean, do you have to wipe her out?”

  O’Neill said, “We’re grateful for the opportunity to help, Jack. As I’m sure you know.”

  Parker finished wiping the nude. O’Neill said, “Was she somebody you knew?”

  “My mother,” said Parker. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you didn’t recognize her.”

  Willows said, “First we’re going to look at a number of slides lifted from security film taken at each of the thirteen robberies we suspect this guy might’ve pulled. The slides have been computer-enhanced, so they’re going to show a lot more detail than anything you’ve seen up to now. No preconceptions, okay?”

  “Just so long as there’s plenty of popcorn,” cracked Adams.

  Willows said, “Bernie … ”

  “Relax, Jack. Enjoy the movie.”

  Crowthers picked up the brown paper bag and offered it to Parker. “Croissant?”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “Keeping an eye on your figure, huh? Can’t say I blame you.”

  Dutton said, “Would somebody dim the lights?”

  “As if it isn’t dim enough in here already,” said Parker. Adams cackled, Crowthers flushed with anger. Willows went over to the door and backhanded the switch.

  The projector’s fan whirred. A wash of colour filled the screen. Mel Dutton adjusted the focus.

  This was the perp as cross-dresser. He wore a wig like the one Jane Fonda wore in Klute. Lots and lots of makeup. Plastic jewellery by the pound. A cartoon bust. “Cute,” said Windfelt. “If she wasn’t a guy, I could fall asleep on her pillow real easy.”

  O’Neill said, “You got a sick mind, partner.”

  “Damn right.”

  Next up, the perp looking plenty mean in short, spiky streak-bleached hair, his skin dark, tanned to death. He wore a blue-skies-and-palm-trees shirt, baggy white pants and cheap but durable Mexican sandals. He’d hidden his eyes behind a pair of mirror sunglasses. The puckered red smear of a burn scar on his left arm ran from elbow to wrist.

  “Guy looks like a Club Med reject,” Dutton remarked.

  “You ever done that — got clubbed?” Crowthers asked his partner.

  Adams said, “After I fini
sh putting my kids through school, it’s the first thing I’m gonna do. Well, maybe the second thing.”

  “What comes first?”

  “Shoving the ungrateful little bastards out the door and changing the locks.”

  Dutton put the projector on automatic feed.

  There was their perp at a credit union on West Tenth, in a goofy-looking duckbill cap and baggy white coveralls splattered with all the colours of the rainbow. Bushy red eyebrows and moustache, a ponytail at the back. He had a bulge on the left side of his neck, just beneath his jaw, that was about the size of a pregnant golfball. A tumour. He wore paint-splattered wire-rim glasses with untinted lenses. The computer had decided his eyes were blue.

  Crowthers, losing patience, said, “If you’ve got it right, and all those guys are the same guy, we don’t know a thing about him. And if you’re wrong, and it’s a whole bunch of guys, we still can’t help, can we? Because we don’t know anything about any of ’em.”

  Adams said, “Would you mind repeating that backwards, Cake?”

  Crowthers wasn’t finished. He said, “Me’n Bernie are in the fucking fraud squad. Guys with brains, that’s who we put away, not shooters.”

  Windfelt and O’Neill offered a round of slow motion applause.

  They watched their perp limp, shuffle and prance his way in and out of ten more banks, trust companies, and credit unions.

  O’Neill said, “Even if it does turn out to be the same guy, we’ll never prove it. He changes his hair and eye colour more often than I change my shorts.”

  “Or brush your teeth,” said Windfelt. “Or tell your wife you love her. Or buy a round of drinks. Or douche.”

  “That last one’s a lie, you liar.”

  Willows said “Back it up, Mel.” Dutton worked the carousel until Willows said, “Good, perfect. Hold it right there.” After a moment Windfelt and O’Neill stopped laughing and Windfelt said, “What happened here — somebody switch channels on us?”

  Bernie Adams said, “That’s the bank manager, Martin Ross.”

  “Marty,” said Crowthers. “He likes to be called Marty.” Willows said, “Ring any bulbs?”

  “I got an idea we’re wasting our time,” said Adams. “But that’s about it, actually.”

  Several telephoto shots of Samantha Ross wheeling her Samurai out of the driveway flashed on the screen.

  Parker said, “You take these, Mel?”

  Dutton shook his head.

  Parker turned and stared at Willows.

  Crowthers said, “Is that a gorgeous young lady, or what? She can take a bite out of my croissant any time she’s hungry, lemme tell you.” He grinned at Parker. “Am I a disgusting, swill-sucking pig, or what?”

  “Thoroughly disgusting.”

  “So who’s the babe?”

  “Samantha Ross.”

  “No shit. Marty’s wife?”

  “Daughter.”

  Willows switched the lights back on.

  Crowther said, “Like we talked about earlier, some guy walks away from a dozen scores, it ain’t just a lucky streak. He’s a pro, knows which way is up. Problem is, we still don’t know what this guy really looks like. All that digital enhancement shit did — sorry, Mel — was give us a better look at his disguises.”

  Crowthers said, “You try TV, the film industry? Your perp knows a hell of a lot about makeup. Knife and burn scars, tumours … ”

  Sherman O’Neill said, “It was one of the first things we did, check out TV and the movies, the theatre crowd.”

  “Pinch any starlets?” Adams wanted to know.

  “Dozens. But only in self-defence.”

  Willows said, “How soon are you going to have those stills for me, Mel?”

  “As soon as possible,” said Dutton. “Five o’clock, maybe. Gimme a call if you don’t hear from me by six.”

  Willows, already on his way out the door, nodded and waved goodbye.

  Bradley’s door was open. He saw them coming, waved them in.

  “Shut it, Jack. Sit down, both of you.”

  Parker sat down in a plain wooden chair. Willows leaned against the doorframe.

  Bradley pushed a stack of files aside, sat back in his chair. “How’d the meeting go?”

  Willows said, “Just great.”

  “Yeah?”

  Parker said, “Everybody caught up on their sleep and left feeling refreshed and happy.”

  “Well … ” Bradley toyed with the files, lining them up just so. “Got any more bright ideas up your sleeve?”

  Willows said, “I’ve scheduled a press conference for ten tomorrow morning. Parker and I are going to review the robberies to date, Mel’s developing a series of black and whites of the thirteen perps.”

  “Anything more on Mendez?”

  “Panama’s putting a file together. I don’t know why it’s taking them so long. We’ll get it eventually, I suppose.” Bradley said, “You talked to Gordon Springway, how’d that go?”

  Parker said, “He’s a bereaved widower, and that’s about it.”

  “There was something else … ”

  Parker said, “Alain Bernard, at White Shadow.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Willows said, “He favours the kind of cigars you used to smoke when you were a kid.”

  “What kind’s that?”

  “Cheap.”

  Bradley winked at Parker. “It’s a lucky thing we don’t pay him by the wisecrack; the city’d be bankrupt inside a week.” His green leather chair creaked as he leaned forward. “So — what’s the plan?”

  Parker said, “We’re going to talk to the bank clerks, go over old ground, see if we can come up with something new.”

  “Hope like hell Windfelt and O’Neill screwed up, in other words. I bet they think that’s a terrific idea.”

  Parker said, “Something we worked out — every time our perp hit a bank, the teller he picked on was a female in her early twenties or late teens.”

  “Somebody unlikely to have a sense of loyalty to the bank or pose a physical threat,” Bradley observed. “Makes sense to me.”

  “Another thing,” said Parker. “All but one of the women were single.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. If they were young, it’s less likely they’d be married.” Bradley checked his watch. “What about the stray?”

  “Julia Vail. She’s older than the others and first on our list.”

  Bradley took another long, hard look at his watch. “Have you eaten?”

  “Not yet, Inspector.”

  “Neither have I,” said Bradley, “and that’s what’s next on my agenda.”

  Eddy Orwell pushed away from his desk and stood up as Willows and Parker walked out of Bradley’s office. There was a battered cardboard box on Orwell’s desk. He picked up the box with both hands, offered it to Willows.

  “What is it, Eddy?”

  “A present, Jack.” Orwell shook the box and a soft, shuffling noise came from within. He offered the box to Parker. “If he doesn’t want it, maybe you do.”

  Parker said, “What’s in it?”

  Orwell shook the box again. “A shirt. A raggedy old shirt.”

  “So long, Eddy.”

  “And wrapped up in the shirt, a nine-mil Browning with a round up the spout and two more in the magazine.”

  Orwell put the box down on Willows’ desk. Willows flipped it open.

  Orwell said, “A bum rooting around in a dumpster in the five hundred block Alberni found the piece, wrapped it in the shirt, stuck the shirt and gun in a box, and flagged down a patrol car. Talk about irony.”

  Parker gave him an inquiring look.

  Orwell said, “Think about it: The guy’s pit-mining the dumpster, looking for stuff he can sell or eat. The Browning’s worth a hundred bucks easy, and he has to give it away for free.” Orwell grinned maliciously. “Asked if there was a reward. What could I tell him? Sorry, pal. Maybe next time.” Willows said, “How’d you happen to arrive on the scene?
”

  “Luck of the draw. The uniform noticed the hammer was cocked and the safety was off. He smelled cordite, took his hat off and scratched his head real hard, came up with a possible homicide.”

  “When did this happen?”

  Orwell said, “Couple of hours ago.” He put the box back down on his desk. “I remembered it was a nine-mil that brought down Mendez. Goldstein popped a round and put it under the ’scope next to the slug we pried out of the body. Bingo.”

  Willows said, “Where’s the guy who found the gun?”

  Orwell shrugged. “Out there somewhere.”

  “You let him go?”

  “What’d you want me to do? The dude crawls around in dumpsters for a living. His world is a four by ten steel box. He might’ve smelled something, but he sure as hell didn’t see anything. Jeez, he told me he was born right here in the city, but he barely spoke English. All that bad dumpster air, I guess. On a good day, he’d have a tough time figuring which way was up.”

  “Were there any prints on the weapon?”

  “Got a nice one off the receiver. Goldstein thinks it’s probably a thumb.”

  Parker said, “Eddy, did you get a set of prints off the witness?”

  “What for?” said Orwell, and then it was as if Parker had pulled a plug, so rapidly did the colour drain out of his face.

  Willows said, “You get his name?”

  “Tim. He said his name was Tim.”

  “That’s it — Tim?”

  Orwell said, “We’re talking about a person couldn’t even afford the down payment on a shopping cart. A ‘no fixed address’ kind of guy, Jack.”

  Willows said, “Let’s say we catch our perp, assemble enough evidence to take him to trial. What’s the jury going to think if we can’t explain the alien fingerprint on the murder weapon?”

  Orwell said, “Jeez, how should I know?” He stared at the cardboard box as if he wished he could crawl into it, and vanish. “So what’m I supposed to do now?”

  “Volunteer for dumpster patrol,” said Parker. “You lost him — you find him. And you better organize a door-to-door, talk to people in the area. Maybe somebody saw the perp toss the gun.”

  “Judith’s got a Tupperware party tonight. I gotta babysit. She’s invited all her friends and I’m supposed to get home early, so she can clean house.”