“Sounds good to me, Jack.”
Willows picked another piece of glass out of the hot, dusty sand. He saw now that the pieces were from a Coke bottle. In the distance, the three boys were chasing the brightly-coloured ball back up the beach towards him. Their voices were high-pitched, unformed. As they drew nearer, Willows noticed that the oldest of the three was about the same age as his son. The boy had that same lithe, hard body, the ungainly grace of movement. His hair was brown, too, although a little darker than Sean’s. Willows idly wondered what colour the boy’s eyes were. Sean’s were dark blue, like Sheila’s. Brown was dominant, of course, and since the separation, Willows had come to resent that minor genetic quirk. Unreasonably, he wished their child had looked a little more like his father.
He clinked the two broken pieces of glass together, moved them around to see if he could make them fit.
There was entirely too much vandalism nowadays. The bottles were worth a dime each at any corner store, but even if they were worth a dollar, it probably wouldn’t make any difference. A beach full of broken glass. Just another symptom. The world his son would inherit was changing fast, and not for the better.
Chapter 21
Something over there to his left. Crouched down low. Staying in the shadows, circling slowly around behind him.
Mannie rolled over on his side. Evasive action. He fell off the chesterfield, out of his dream. His eyes popped open. He sat up, stunned, breathing heavily through his open mouth.
The sound of the telephone filled the house.
He looked at his watch. It was two o’clock in the morning. On the coffee table in front of him an empty wine bottle and a cardboard bucket full of chicken bones and congealing fat sat at eye-level. He blinked. There was an old black and white movie on the TV, but no sound. He burped and scratched his stomach. Except for his jockey shorts and his socks, he was naked. The telephone kept ringing. He pushed himself to his feet and went to answer it.
“You sleep all day and all night too?” said Junior.
Junior sounded like he was in a jovial mood. His voice was light, teasing. There was a soft percussive throbbing in the background, and then the lonely and desolate big-mosquito whine of a steel guitar. Mannie couldn’t make out the lyrics, but he had a feeling he wasn’t missing much. If Junior liked it, he doubted that he would.
“Hello?” said Junior in that tickling voice. “Is anybody at home?”
“Be right back,” Mannie said, and put down the phone without waiting for an answer. Moving very fast, he went down the darkened hallway to his bedroom, edged carefully over to the window until he had a view of the street. Junior’s black Trans Am was parked right in front of the house. The brake lights pulsed rhythmically; bright smears of red that stained the asphalt and the cars of Mannie’s neighbours. It took him a few seconds to figure out that Junior was hitting his pedal in time to the music playing on his radio. He stared out the window at the sleek bulk of the car, waxed paint glistening in the incandescent glow of the streetlight at the end of the block, chrome winking at him as if hoping to share an obscure joke. There was no movement that he could see inside the car, although with the tinted windows he couldn’t see much. The brakes kept flashing, little explosions of red that flared and faded and flared again. Mannie had the eerie and somewhat dislocating feeling that the Trans Am was a living, breathing thing; a creature of the night that was capable of swallowing him whole and spitting out his bones.
Junior revved the big V-8 engine. The sash window vibrated in its wooden frame. Mannie felt the cold glass shiver against the tip of his nose. He hurried back to the telephone. He was wide awake now, and even more frightened than he had been in his dream. “I’m back,” he said into the receiver. Fear made him aggressive. “What the hell you want at this time of night?”
“A cup of hot chocolate and a bran muffin,” said Junior mildly. “You know this town better’n anybody else I can think of, you’ve lived here your whole life, right? So come on out and show me around.”
‘It’s two o’clock in the fucking morning!”
“So what d’you want me to do, synchronize my watch?”
Mannie slipped his hand under his jockeys and used his fingers to comb the pubic hair at the root of his penis. He was still trying to think of something witty to say when Junior added, “Also, I got an urgent message for you. From Felix.”
“Gimme a couple of minutes to get dressed.”
“And to brush your teeth,” said Junior.
Mannie hung up, but the music kept getting louder. Junior must’ve turned up his radio, or tape deck or whatever it was he was listening to. The band sounded like it was right outside Mannie’s bedroom window, playing its heart out and waiting for the flower pots to start dropping.
Mannie’s clothes were scattered around the living-room. He turned off the TV and got dressed. If his breath smelled like anything, it was the Colonel’s chicken. What was wrong with that?
*
They went to Bino’s. Mannie hadn’t ordered a cup of cocoa since he was a kid, but he’d seen the bran muffins and figured they had to be the biggest muffins in town.
“This is one huge mother of a muffin,” said Junior to the waitress. He leaned out into the aisle, gripping the edge of the table to keep his balance, and stared down at her legs. “I like your ankles, too,” he said. The waitress smiled and moved off. Junior picked up a knife and cut his muffin in half. The muffin was so hot it was steaming. Junior dug whipped butter out of a little paper cup, spread the butter on the muffin.
“My mother used to say that if a girl had slim ankles, you could be sure she had a good figure. What she didn’t tell me is that there are a lot more interesting ways to find out how a woman is built. You know what I mean?”
“Sure,” said Mannie. He sipped at his glass of two per cent milk. The milk was so cold it made the roof of his mouth ache. He swallowed.
“Feelies,” said Junior. “One hand under the angora, the other up her skirt. Like the sailor said to his sweetheart, ‘All hands on deck!’”
Junior ripped open a plastic container of raspberry jam. He tried to spread the jam on the muffin. The muffin crumbled and fell apart. He applied the jam haphazardly, in runny gobs.
Mannie took another sip of milk. With his left hand he reached below the table to gently touch the haft of his Italian switchblade. When he looked up, Junior was watching him. Junior’s strong jaws rose and fell as he demolished a chunk of muffin. He grinned at Mannie.
“The girl you’ve been looking for, Carly?”
“What about her?”
“She’s living somewhere out in the suburbs, with a guy named Walter.”
“I don’t know any Walters,” said Mannie.
“Neither do I.” Junior pointed at Mannie’s glass of milk. “You gonna drink that, or what?”
“It’s too cold. I’m waiting for it to warm up.”
“Why didn’t you order a glass of warm milk in the first place?”
“You got an address for me?”
“I love a self-starter,” said Junior. He licked a crumb from his upper lip, reached into his breast pocket and handed Mannie a sealed buff envelope that smelled strongly of cologne.
Mannie wedged his thumbnail under the flap. Junior held out his hand. “Not here, please. Use the can so I can say no when Felix asks me was I there when you looked inside.” Junior gave Mannie a wink. “Felix is happiest when I keep a certain distance,” he explained.
Mannie nodded slowly. He thought about the risks involved in going into the washroom, decided that there weren’t any because if Junior had something in mind for him, there were easier ways.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Junior waved a jam-smeared knife at him. “Take your time, enjoy the moment.”
Mannie went into a cubicle and pulled the flush. He tore open the envelope. There was a single sheet of white bond paper inside, a typed invitation to Sunday Brunch at Felix Newton’s rancher up in the Pro
perties. Instructions to dress for white wine. Whatever the hell that meant. There was no address. Mannie had no idea where the house was, and doubted it was listed in the phone book. He’d have to ask Junior, he supposed. He crumpled up the envelope and piece of paper, threw them into the toilet. Got everything down the tubes with his third flush.
When he got back to the table his glass of milk had vanished, and so had Junior. He’d left the bill, though. Mannie paid the waitress with the nice ankles. He was careful not to overtip. He had just enough money on him for the cab fare home.
Chapter 22
Jerry Goldstein’s office was a dusty, lidless glass box at the far end of the crime lab; his desk a paper-cluttered slab of steel painted vaguely to resemble oak veneer. Goldstein sat behind the desk in a captain’s chair, comfortably perched on a fat crocheted cushion. The chair was on castors. It squeaked minutely as he leant forward to thumb slowly through a stack of pink message slips wedged under the dial of his telephone. He glanced up as Willows and Parker came in, smiled at Parker and said, “Be with you in just a sec.”
Willows glanced at his watch. He’d had lunch a little under half an hour ago. A glass of milk and a tuna melt, coleslaw on the side. Something had been off, and he suspected the tuna. He rubbed his stomach and sat down in a folding metal chair painted bright orange. To match Goldstein’s hair, maybe.
Parker wandered over to the bookshelf behind Goldstein’s desk. There was a jar of cloudy formaldehyde on the top shelf. She peered at the label affixed to the lid of the jar, but the words were illegible, so badly faded that they were hardly there at all. She picked up the jar and held it tilted against the glare of the overhead fluorescents, turned it this way and that. A pale, shiny grey lump pressed against the glass, drifted away. Something that looked like a cauliflower, or a bunch of mushrooms growing shoulder to shoulder out of a single stalk. Parker rotated the jar, trying for a better angle, another glimpse.
Goldstein shuffled through the pile of pink slips, rearranging them in order of urgency. As usual, he looked as if he’d just stepped off the front cover of a fashion magazine. Today he was wearing a light grey houndstooth jacket with narrow lapels and patch pockets, charcoal slacks, a crisp white button-down oxford cloth shirt and a shiny black leather tie. The collar buttons of the shirt were unfastened. The tie was loose. The overall effect was to give Goldstein a casual elegance. Or so he hoped. Within the department, he was famous for his collection of leather ties, which he owned in all widths and colours. He wore the ties in the mistaken belief that they gave him an added dimension, hinted that behind the crisp white shirts and scholarly tortoise-shell glasses there resided a wide-open mind, perhaps even a slightly kinky temperament. He brought the heel of his hand down hard, driving a staple through the stack of pink messages. The desk vented a metallic echo. He looked over at Parker, who was still squinting into the murky depths of the jar.
“Never seen a human brain before?”
Parker put the jar carefully back down on the shelf. Motes of disturbed dust danced in the light.
“Where do you want to start?” Goldstein said to Jack Willows.
“With the weapon.”
There was a rectangular cardboard box on Goldstein’s desk. The box had originally contained a pair of Hart penny loafers. Goldstein removed the lid and flipped the box upside down, dumping the contents across the ersatz oak. He gingerly tested the edge of the knife against the ball of his thumb. There were several small nicks and a filigree of crusted blood in the curve of the blade, where steel had forcibly met bone. The blood type was A Positive, and the blood had come from the boy in the morgue. Goldstein flipped the knife in the air and caught it neatly. The weapon felt comfortable in his hand; it had a nice weight and balance. He glanced at Willows, sensed a growing impatience.
“Unusual design, Jack. Never seen one like it before. Not much good for stabbing or slashing. Odd choice for a killer. But obviously a tool of some kind, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah, right.” Obviously.
“But what kind of a tool?” said Goldstein. It wasn’t a rhetorical question. He fiddled with the knot of his tie, waiting for an answer.
Willows turned to Parker. “You want to hold him while I pour that jar of brains down his throat, or shall I hold him while you pour?”
“You hold him,” said Parker.
“It’s a tool for cutting lead,” said Goldstein quickly.
“Cutting lead?” said Parker.
Goldstein nodded. “The lead strips in stained glass windows.”
“Where can I get one?”
“Almost anywhere.” Goldstein turned to Willows. “There are several dozen suppliers in the metropolitan area. Or you can order one by mail through any of the handicraft magazines.” Goldstein sighted along the flat of the blade at his pile of pink slips. “A very popular item, this knife. You want to work with stained glass, you’ve got to have one.”
“Where’s it made?” said Parker.
“West Germany. Carbon steel, very high quality. Cost you about thirty dollars, if you’re looking for a hobby.”
“I’ll stick with my train set.”
“Anything else?” said Willows.
“On the knife? Zilch.”
Willows had taken out his notebook and a matte-black Uniball pen. He turned a fresh page and wrote briefly, using his own peculiar brand of shorthand, his writing disciplined and concise. “What about the stuff that dropped out of the tree?”
Goldstein shrugged disdainfully. “The guy didn’t spend a lot of money on his wardrobe, that’s for sure.” He grinned, showing large white teeth. “In fact, his clothes were so cheap they didn’t even have labels.”
“Dry cleaning marks?”
“The quality we’re talking about, when it gets dirty you throw it away.”
“Well then, Jerry, what do you have for me?”
“The shoes were sevens. The shirt was a thirty-three sleeve sixteen neck. The trousers had a thirty-six inch waistband, twenty-six inch leg. I look into my crystal ball and see a man who is short and stout.”
Willows was making notes again, his head bowed over the page.
“Then I stop peering into the crystal ball,” said Goldstein. “And I take a look inside the shoes.”
Willows stopped writing. He glanced up.
“Know what I find?”
“What?”
“Stains. From blisters that had burst.”
“He was wearing shoes that were too small for him, is that what you’re saying?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“The old woman in the grocery store,” said Parker, “she told us he walked with a limp.”
Willows nodded, remembering.
“And the clothes in the park, we found everything but socks.”
“You can figure out the blood type from the blister, can’t you, Jerry?” said Willows.
“We’re working on it.”
“Soon?”
“We should have the results some time this afternoon, hopefully.” Goldstein leant back in his chair. The castors squeaked. He locked his fingers behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. The round lenses of his glasses reflected light from the fixtures. It was impossible to tell whether his eyes were open or closed. “Fingerprints,” he said. “You already know about the partials on the suitcoat buttons. We found more on the Certs package and on a couple of loose coins in the trouser pockets. Nothing worth running through the computer, though. And almost certainly nothing that would stand up in court.”
“What about the magazines, the cigar tube?”
“On the tube we found most of an index finger and a thumb. I’m just guessing, in an educated sort of way, but I’d say that if you ever matched them up, you’d find that you’d collared the clerk who sold the cigar.”
“Did you find out what brand it is?” said Parker.
“What, the cigar?”
Parker nodded.
“One thing for sure.” Goldstein smiled. “
It wasn’t an El Producto.”
“Pardon me?” said Parker.
“Why bother, is what I’m saying.” Goldstein turned to Willows, who nodded his head in agreement. Both men sensed what the less experienced Parker did not — that the cigar was a dead end.
“What about the blue mark on the victim’s arm, at the edge of the wound?” said Willows.
“You were right, it was tattooist’s ink. I phoned Squamish. The pathologist is sending down a tissue sample from that girl you found in the river.”
“Naomi Lister.” Willows moved on. “Was all the blood in the Econoline van A Positive?”
“Every last gallon of it.”
“What else did you get out of the van?”
“Some loose hairs that don’t match the victim’s. Otherwise, nothing. The vehicle was spotless. Washed and waxed, you might say.”
“The connecting wires under the dash, you get anywhere with that?”
“Not really, Jack. The soldering was pretty sloppy; a homemade job. The wire and alligator clips you can buy pretty well anywhere they sell wire and clips.”
Willows made a few notes. “I guess that’s about it, except for the hundred-dollar bill. Nobody throws away a hundred dollars, so I think it’s safe to assume the money was left behind by accident, in the heat of the moment.” Willows was struck by a sudden thought. “The bill is genuine, isn’t it?”
“As real as money can be. And your next question is, why all the folds and creases in a brand-new bill, am I correct?”
“So far, Jerry.”
“Mel Dutton took some great snaps. Black and white. Fine grain, terrific resolution. They’re circulating. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“That’s just great, Jerry.”
Goldstein shrugged. “All I know for sure about money is that I never seem to have enough of it.”
“You got a set of Dutton’s pictures for us?” said Willows.
“Two sets,” amended Parker.
Goldstein used a sideways flip of his wrist to skim an eight-by-ten envelope across the room.
Willows unwound the thin red string that sealed the envelope. He pulled out a handful of glossies. The photographed hundred-dollar bill looked like a reverse image in minute scale of the street grid of a perfectly rectangular city: a confusing network of intersecting white lines on a background of grey. Robert Borden’s heavy face had been aged a thousand years by the dense hatch work. The bill was hardly recognizable.
Death On a No 8 Hook (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Page 12