by Graham Reed
“I exercise, take vitamins. It’s you I’m worried about. When was the last time you went for a jog?” he called back over the clanking of dishes being removed from cupboards.
“I think it was grade seven. But I went for a nice, long walk today. Met an old friend, got The Norwegian’s phone number.”
The rattle of cutlery abruptly ceased. Richard’s head reappeared. “Why on earth would you do that? Tell me you’re not planning to confront him about what happened at the party.”
“Hell, no. But if Mickey Wu decides to send the cops after me, I may have to point them in his direction.”
His eyebrows formed disapproving auburn arches, though I wasn’t sure whether it was because of what I said or the fact that he instantly spotted my coat on the hallway floor. “You’re seriously considering ratting The Norwegian out to the cops? Maybe it won’t be your diet that kills you after all.”
“I’m not ratting him out,” I replied heatedly, joining him into the kitchen. “But if the cops suddenly turn up at my door wanting to talk about a murder rap, I’m damn sure going to mention that he was there.”
Richard said nothing and busied himself with the food.
“You have a better idea?”
“Anything that doesn’t involve fingering The Norwegian sounds like a more palatable option to me.” He sighed. “Didn’t I warn you about getting involved with that man?”
“You did. And you were right. As I’ve admitted many times in the past. But it’s not like I’m talking about going back into business with him.”
“Good. Because I recall that the only thing that stopped him from breaking your legs at the end of that little misadventure was a three-hundred-thousand-dollar severance package, when you were the one who quit. What are you going to do if he finds out you ID’d him to the police?”
“It’s not going to happen.” I was not an optimist by nature, but I was even less a planner. The only thing I knew for sure was that I would do everything in my power to avoid talking to the cops about The Norwegian under any circumstances. But if I couldn’t avoid it, and worse yet, The Norwegian found out about it, I’d burn that bridge when I came to it.
“This is your plan?” Richard muttered, speaking his mind as usual, and seemingly reading mine.
Not enjoying the incredulity he was serving up with the saag-paneer, I switched from defence to offence. “You’d at least back me up, wouldn’t you?”
He paused, looking thoughtful. “Well…I didn’t actually see The Norwegian at the party.”
I scowled at him.
Richard reached over and rubbed my stubble-covered head playfully. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Of course I’d back you up with the police. But if Mickey Wu was going to call them, don’t you think he would have done it right away?”
I shrugged. “He’s threatening to call his lawyer. If that happens, I doubt the cops will be far behind.”
Richard’s expression became serious. “He told you that?”
“No, I heard it from Nina.”
Richard’s expression became pained. “You talked to Nina?”
“I wanted to ’fess up and do damage control before she heard about it from Mickey Wu. No such luck.”
He opened a beer and handed it to me. “You poor thing. Have a slug of this and tell the Big Dick all about it. How’d it go?”
I grinned. “Surprisingly well.”
After I provided an executive summary of my lunch date with Nina, Richard added a summary of his own: “You’ve got more than your fair share of luck, my friend.”
“Turns out some of it’s even good.”
Richard nodded. “Assuming this sordid little episode heralds the end of relations with your ex.”
I finished my beer and changed the subject. “So are we going to watch this movie or what? When will Dante get here?” The pair were close to inseparable but they drew the line at cohabitation. It was one of Richard’s “Ten Commandments For Maintaining A Healthy Relationship,” ranking just below “Have Sex With Whomever You Want, But Not Breakfast Afterwards” and just above “To Each Their Own Tube Of Toothpaste.”
“He’s not coming. The only Kubrick film he’ll watch is Dr. Strangelove.”
Richard took one look at my pained expression and raised his hand. “I know, I know. Don’t say it.” His tone bespoke the long-suffering nature of love. I didn’t know whether to envy or pity him.
After liberating a bottle of single malt from Richard’s liquor cabinet, we settled in for what proved to be a thoroughly therapeutic cinematic experience. Full Metal Jacket put our weekend’s comparatively negligible body count into perspective.
Chapter Eight
After an evening at Richard’s immaculate condo, I was shocked by how messy my place was. Particularly since I hadn’t left it that way. I couldn’t even blame my roommates since I didn’t have any. At least now I knew how Mickey must have felt when he returned to find his house trashed by uninvited guests.
Entering the living room, I was relieved that my two prized possessions had escaped unscathed—a 1968 Eames Lounge Chair (rosewood frame with the original down-filled cushions) and my aquarium of neon tetras. I dropped my butt into one and stared at the other. After a moment, I noticed a black object roughly the size of a TV remote control lying amongst the plants at the bottom of the aquarium.
The fish darted away from the net in little iridescent flashes of blue and red as I scooped what was in fact my TV remote control out of the water. After drying it off on my shirt, I tried a few buttons. Nothing happened. I suspected the remote was toast, but couldn’t be certain since the TV was gone.
I tended to watch the fish more than the television anyway. I also took solace in knowing the thief would have to get up off the couch every time he wanted to change the channels.
I was just about to sit down again when I heard a faint crunching sound in the kitchen. Fishing around in the aquarium had already blown any stealth advantage I might’ve had, so I opted for speed instead. I dropped the remote and ran back to the front hall to retrieve the Louisville Slugger I kept in the closet in case I ever took up baseball, or started dealing again.
I choked up on the bat and headed for the kitchen.
It was ugly. Dishes were strewn across the countertop and the cabinets were almost empty. Nothing unusual about that, but my extensive collection of almost-empty cereal boxes had been thrown to the floor, spilling their meagre contents across the tile. Sitting in the middle of it all was Mr. Saturday Night, my upstairs neighbour’s Siamese cat. He stopped eating Honey Nut Cheerios long enough to stare at me cross-eyed.
I loosened my grip on the bat. “You want some milk with those?”
In accordance with the feline prime directive, Mr. Saturday Night ignored me. The fact that he was making himself at home made me suspect that the burglar no longer was, but I searched the loft anyway.
It was empty. There were no signs of forcible entry on the front door or bedroom windows, but many of extreme prejudice toward my belongings. In every room, the contents of drawers and cupboards had been dumped out.
I returned to the kitchen to see if Mr. Saturday Night was ready to talk. This time when he saw me, he hissed, jumped up on the kitchen table and disappeared out the open window onto the fire escape. Maybe he wanted milk after all. Mr. Saturday Night’s rude exit at least answered the question of how the burglar had gotten in.
Looking around the room, I noticed that a lone box of Lucky Charms remained standing at the back of the cupboard. Awash in hope and dread, I went over and pushed it aside. My heart leapt when I saw that the mason jar that lived behind it was still there, its contents unmolested. I smiled back at the leprechaun on the box. “Impressive,” I told him. “Not only are your wares magically delicious, but they actually work too.”
To celebrate, I took the box and the jar down from the cupboard and star
ted looking through the mess for a cereal bowl and some rolling papers.
For the second time in twenty-four hours I made the questionable decision not to call the cops. Partly because I couldn’t decide where to hide my mason jar, but also because little of value appeared to be missing. Sure, my television was gone, but it was a five-year-old Sanyo with a replacement cost that was undoubtedly less than my insurance deductible. I could only assume the intruder had left my Rega turntable, along with the Anthem amp and B&W speakers, out of respect.
The half-assed nature of the plundering combined with the full-assed nature of the mess made me question whether I was dealing with a straightforward burglary. One unpleasant alternative that came to mind was that The Norwegian stopped by to deliver a message. Although the continued presence of my stash led me to discount this possibility.
After a cursory attempt at tidying up, I grabbed the mason jar and retired to my bedroom, screwing over future Jake yet again by leaving the mess for him to deal with.
Chapter Nine
Sleeping half the day felt like a reasonable way to balance the ledger after two exhausting nights of skullduggery. It also felt damn good. Until I opened my eyes and took a fresh look at my place. After cursing past Jake for his laziness, I spent the afternoon cleaning the loft. The results weren’t up to Buff standards, but at least the floors were once again navigable.
I was running out of reasons not to go get groceries when Richard called to report a higher-priority domestic issue. “Jake, you’re not going to believe this but…”
“Let me guess—your place got broken into?”
There was a brief silence on the line. “How the hell did you know that?”
“I’ll explain when I get there.”
I took Richard’s word for the fact that his condo had been similarly trashed, because he and Dante already had it back to looking like a display suite by the time I arrived. So much for comparing crime scenes.
“It’s not healthy for you guys to bring your work home like this, but it would be great if you could take it over to my place.”
Dante brushed off my suggestion with his ostrich feather duster, but Richard latched on. “So your place got burgled as well?”
“Burgled is a generous description. Violated might be more apt. Whoever did it made a real mess—emptied all the closets and cupboards, but as far as I can tell nothing much is missing.”
Richard adjusted a piece of art on the wall. “Same here, now that you mention it. That’s why I haven’t called the police. What little I could claim on insurance would be clawed back in premiums anyway. Who needs the hassle?”
Looking around, I noted with relief that Richard’s giant television was still securely bolted to his wall. At least our movie nights weren’t going to be cancelled. His Bang & Olufsen stereo also remained, along with the art and wine, which Richard assured me was also of significant value.
“Do you think the break-ins are connected?” asked Dante.
I spread my hands. “Could be. The M.O. is pretty similar, and it’s not like we’re neighbours.”
“Maybe it has something to do with what happened to that guy at the party,” Richard said uneasily.
Dante stopped sweeping. “What if The Norwegian did this?”
“I wondered about that but it doesn’t feel right. The Norwegian’s preferred medium is people, not property. He’s all about face-to-face intimidation.” I nodded in agreement with my own analysis. “The Norwegian is much more likely to break your legs than your dishes.”
For some reason, my friends weren’t reassured by my theory, so I tried again. “If this is connected to our party, why would they only break into Richard’s and my places? Why not Dante’s as well?”
Dante’s eyes went wide. “I haven’t been home yet. We came here straight from our last job.”
Dante was so delighted by the pristine, unviolated state of his abode that he offered to make us dinner to celebrate as well as to console us on our own misfortunes.
Over a truly excellent seafood stir fry, we discussed what to do about the break-ins. Nothing, is what we decided. If there was no need to call our insurance companies, there was no need to call the cops. The last thing we wanted was to bring them into the picture if all this was connected to our ill-fated party. Our places had been trashed, not looted. If this was done to send a message, we didn’t know what it was. If the intruder was looking for something, maybe he or she found it, since Dante’s place hadn’t been hit as well. It was time for everyone—except the dead guy—to move on with their lives.
Chapter Ten
This time when I got home I felt more depressed than surprised by how messy my place was. The door being kicked in was the tip-off. There are a variety of ways a three-hundred-pound man can get what he wants, but stealth isn’t one of them.
The Norwegian greeted me with a wave. “You should get some new furniture, Constable. This chair must be twenty years old.” The rosewood creaked ominously as he spun around.
“Closer to fifty, so go easy on it, would you?”
He looked hurt. “Do you think I’m getting fat? I recently acquired an exercise bike from a former customer. Should I give it a try?”
“Is this customer ‘former,’ as in no longer a patron, or no longer of this world?”
“Since when do you want to know the details of how I handle collections?”
It was a fair point. The Norwegian used to handle sales and distribution for “Granddad’s Ganja.” A purebred Viking with an MBA from the University of Oslo, he was the best and only applicant for the job when my business got big enough to attract the attention of the Serious Criminals. It was undeniably a rash application of “if you can’t beat them, join them” logic on my part. Life is often less about making good decisions than figuring out how to live with bad ones.
After The Norwegian came on board, we both rolled up our sleeves and got our hands dirty—me on Hornby Island tending the crops, and him dealing with the turf war my success had incited. Things quickly came to a head when an Indo-Canadian gang leader named Mangalmor mocked The Norwegian’s leather cowboy hat—I never saw either one of them again. After that, the only criminal element left to bother me was The Norwegian himself. His incessant lectures on “exploiting market synergies” and “realizing economies of scale” were tedious, and the assigned readings incomprehensible since the textbooks were in Norwegian. When he presented me with a business plan to make the entire operation more efficient, it was time for us to part ways. The party was over.
“New topic then. Why are you here?”
“I just wanted to find out what you’re doing with yourself these days.” The Norwegian picked up the mason jar from the floor beside the chair and raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“Strictly for personal use,” I assured him.
“And you’re not thinking about branching out?”
“Into what?”
The Norwegian’s eyes narrowed. “Anything that might encroach on my business interests.”
Opium? Murder? I wanted to assure The Norwegian that he had those markets cornered almost as much as I craved a speedy conclusion to his visit. I shook my head.
The Norwegian gave me a knowing look. One of his standard intimidation tactics, but still unsettling because it meant he was contemplating an act of violence to test the veracity of something he’d just been told. I stared out the window, hoping he was feeling lazy.
“Okay,” he said at last. “I believe you. I just had to be sure after running into you last night.”
I exhaled the tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding. “Hey, I was as surprised as you were. How’d you hear about my party anyway?” I already knew the dead guy had called him, but I was hoping The Norwegian might tell me who the man was, or how he ended up dead.
“That was your party?” The Norwegian’s expression brought to mind
a stormy night at Stonehenge, charcoal sketches of Neandertals, the Dark Ages. “I thought I saw your fancy-boy friends there. Dick and Donny, yes?”
“Richard and Dante, yes. So you didn’t know I was the one, uh...hosting it?”
“I didn’t even know there was going to be a party. I was there to do a favor for my boss.” He heaved himself up and headed for the door, pausing at the threshold to give me a look heavy with disappointment. “This is the second time you’ve messed up my business, Constable. You know I can’t let that kind of thing go unpunished. People will say I’ve gone soft.”
I said nothing. As far as I was concerned, I had already paid plenty for terminating our partnership. The Norwegian had obviously found a new supplier, but beyond that, I didn’t know what business The Norwegian was referring to, or how I had screwed it up. At least this time he didn’t leave with three hundred grand of my money. He did, however, take what little peace of mind I had left. And that was priceless.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning I was filled with regret as I contemplated my recent mistakes. What could have possessed me to eat the last of my Lucky Charms before going to bed? As I showered, I debated between the old greasy diner on the next street that does great eggs but terrible coffee and the nouveaux greasy diner on the next block that has excellent coffee but was guilty of transgressions such as serving me salmon with my eggs. I like salmon and I like eggs, but not together. Never together.
It occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to make it an entire block without coffee anyway. As is so often the case, the answer became obvious once I got my priorities figured out. I got dressed and headed toward the kitchen feeling positive. Sure, the weekend had presented me with a few problems, but maybe the week ahead would offer up some solutions.