Shutterbug

by Laurence Gough

  ‘No problem.’ Not that he necessarily wanted to.

  Wayne stubbed out his cigarette, stood his torch flame-up on the table beside the bed, and unzipped his jumpsuit from collar to crotch. He loosened the cuffs and nylon cord tie-downs at his ankles, and wriggled out of the suit. Now he looked like some fabulous mythical creature trying to shed its skin. He balled up the suit and tossed it at Lewis.

  ‘Go ahead, try it on.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Yeah, Lewis. You have to.’

  ‘Can I leave my pyjamas on, or should I take them off?’

  ‘Take’em off.’

  Lewis modestly kept himself covered by the sheets as he levered himself out of the pyjama bottoms. Wayne didn’t seem interested in his body, but he vividly remembered being asked if he was normal. What did Wayne mean, asking him a weird question like that? It made his skin crawl, just thinking about it. Of course he was normal. He was almost positive he was normal. Other than being kind of lazy, and a thief. His present situation excepted, of course.

  He zipped up.

  ‘Get outta bed. Walk around. Faster. You dance, Lewis? Show me how you dance.’

  Lewis danced around the room. The windows were covered with heavy black-out curtains. With the torch turned down so low, it was hard to see where he was going. He bumped into a piece of furniture, and staggered sideways, his arms flailing.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Wayne. ‘Like that.’ He snapped his fingers, rolled his shoulders, tapped his feet. ‘Just exactly like that.’ He leaned forward, snapped on the bedside lamp. ‘Boogie on over here, Lewis.’ Wayne did a two-hand point. ‘Just look at you! You could be one of them Tap Dog dudes, man!’ He patted the bed. ‘Sit. I got something I wanna show you.’

  Breathing heavily, Lewis plunked himself down on the bed. Wayne offered him a handful of photographs, Polaroids he had carefully selected from his gallery of stars.

  The photos were, without exception, shots of men and women lying on linoleum or carpeted floors. The photos had all been taken from a height of about three feet. Lewis studied them closely, each in turn. He’d thought he might be expected to recognize somebody, and he was relieved that he couldn’t. There was something these people all shared, a certain lack of sparkle, that hinted at a high level of lifelessness.

  Maybe, in fact, they were all dead. He shuddered.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Lewis. ‘Why are you… ‘ His voice faded, dwindled like a trail in the woods that petered out so gradually, so imperceptibly, that you were never sure exactly when you had arrived at nowhere.

  ‘Why am I showing you these pictures?’

  Lewis nodded, not at all sure he wanted to know the answer.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Wayne. ‘I probably shouldn’t. I guess I want you to understand the situation.’

  Lewis stared blankly at him.

  ‘The current situation,’ Wayne explained.

  ‘Where’s April?’

  ‘Can’t help you there, Lewis.’ Wayne’s blunt finger tapped the topmost overlapping photo.

  ‘Know who that is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Warren Fishburg. This’s Madeleine Kara, and that one there, that’s Sandy Newton. Cute, ain’t she? If you like blondes. You got a thing for blondes, Lewis?’ Wayne shuffled the cards. ‘Neil Winwood. Lester Rules.’ Wayne showed him several more pictures. ‘This last one, that’s Sammy Wu. Check the expression on Sammy’s face.’ Wayne playfully nudged Lewis in the ribs. ‘Is that a million-dollar smile, or what? I bet his dentist is proud as hell.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Lewis wanted to swallow his tongue. What a foolish, foolish question.

  ‘Yeah, he’s dead. He was okay when the picture was taken. Well, not exactly okay. But he was alive. Sort of. I mean, he was never what you’d call a flamin’ ball of fire.’

  Wayne flipped the Polaroid belly-up. There was a date typed on the back.

  ‘That’s the day he died. I stand corrected - that’s the day he was murdered.’

  Murdered.

  Wayne lined up the edges of the photos so they made a tidy, quarter-inch-thick stack.

  ‘They’re all junkies, all dead. Overdosed victims of an uncaring society, is one way you might put it.’ He fanned the pictures. There was a sameness to them. Sallow, underfed faces. Stringy hair, hollow cheeks. Burn marks. All those doomed eyes, so many of them, stared incuriously up at Lewis.

  Lewis wanted to be sick. His empty stomach rolled over. He hadn’t eaten for a long time. Hard to say how long, the way the hours and days were slipping past. There was nothing in his belly but bile.

  Wayne said, ‘They look like junkies to you?

  ‘Yes.’

  They did, too. He was sure of it, though he had no idea why. It was like a sparrow stumbling across a flock of sparrows. Recognition was instantaneous, and that was all that mattered.

  ‘What’re you thinkin’, Lewis?’

  ‘I was just wondering how birds recognize each other.’

  ‘Huh?’

  Lewis struggled to find the word. Species. He said, ‘I was just wondering how birds of the same species recognize each other.’

  Wayne produced several more Polaroids.

  ‘What d’ya think of these?’

  The second set of pictures had been taken from varying angles, but each at a distance sufficient to squeeze the whole of the victim’s naked body into the frames.

  Lewis couldn’t help himself. He had to ask. It seemed, somehow, in important ways he needn’t understand, sacrilege not to bother. ‘Are they dead?’

  ‘Almost, but not quite.’ Wayne chuckled. ‘They’re feeling no pain, I can tell you that much.’

  ‘Are they the same people you showed me before?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Wayne ticked them off. Madeleine Kara, Sandy Newton. ‘Not so much of a blonde any more, is she?’ Warren Fishburg. Maggie Collins. Tom Klein. Neil Winwood. Lester Rules, Russ Green and Toby Clark, Sammy Wu.

  The victims lay on their backs, ankles together, ribs and hip bones protruding, arms folded on their chests. Here a syringe, there a syringe.

  Wayne said, ‘Yeah, they look like junkies. Sure they do. Why shouldn’t they? But if you dressed them in expensive clothes, then who would they look like? Society dames? Captains of industry? The idle rich?’

  Wayne stared at the photo of Sammy Wu. Was that a happy smile, or had his mouth been twisted by a semi-realized irony? Father way, you’d have to be out of your mind to confuse him with a captain of anything, except maybe the Titanic. He certainly was idle, though.

  Well, no, he wasn’t.

  Wayne knew what was happening to Sammy Wu, and to dark-haired Madeleine Kara, and the almost-but-not-quite-still-delectable Sandy Newton, and chunky, pockmarked Warren Fishburg, and Neil Winwood, with his bandit moustache, and to double-happy Lester Rules, and all the rest of them. In the chill of the morgue, the pace of decomposition was slowed to an imperceptible crawl. Pull out a stainless-steel drawer, lift the sheet and take a quick look at what was underneath, you’d think the corpse was perfectly preserved. But inside, where it counted, the slow and silent, inevitable process of collapse and decomposition had been under way since the moment the victim had drawn his - or her - last ragged breath.

  In terms of the pathologist’s convenience, the deceased had been stabilized. But even though they were relatively secure in the environment of the morgue, their flesh continued to melt. When the morgue was done with them, when they’d been eviscerated to death, sushi'd to the max, the city would give them a pauper’s funeral. In the warm earth of spring, the bodies would disintegrate at an accelerated pace. Soon there would be nothing left but tattered hanks of hair, heaps of pearly bones…

  Lewis had hardly touched his beer. He didn’t seem to notice when Wayne took it away from him.

  Lewis was slowly coming down, inching towards being miserable, in dire need of his nex
t fix. Wayne told him to take off the jumpsuit. While Lewis snuggled into his jammies, Wayne folded the suit and put it away in a cardboard box, with the photographs. The Polaroids that were now covered with dozens of overlapping fingerprints, all of them Lewis’s.

  By the time Wayne was ready to leave the room, Lewis was back in bed, buried up to his nose under the covers. He told Wayne he was cold. Wayne wasn’t terribly interested in unsolicited bitching. He snatched up his propane torch, turned the burner on high and held it close to his hairy, demented face. A foot-long spear of pale blue flame was reflected, in vastly reduced miniatures, in Wayne’s burning eyes.

  Lewis scuttled under the sheets.

  *

  Lewis’s body ached. He couldn’t stop shivering. The bedroom was dark, and a warm spring rain pattered musically on the sheets. He risked a quick look.

  April lay beside him. Her face was wet. She was crying, but all he could think about was his desperate need, his endless craving, for heroin.

  Outside, in the yard, the dalmatians barked and horses whinnied and frogs croaked, and Wayne, enveloped in a cloud of Raid, cackled like an enormous, totally crazed chicken.

  Chapter 26

  Willows idled the city’s unmarked Ford down the crushed limestone driveway leading from Jake’s front door to the street. He was a little surprised to see Marty, breathing heavily, loitering in the gatehouse. He nodded tersely as he drove by, but received nothing in return. Marty never even saw him. The punk only had eyes for Claire. The gate closed slowly but not quite majestically behind them. Willows made a hard right, slowed for the intersection. The view of the inner harbour and downtown core was postcard-gloomy. The freighters had their sterns to the Stanley Park seawall, which meant the tide was turning.

  Willows was steaming. As they’d walked from the house to their car, they’d passed the open doors of Jake’s twelve-car garage. The twins had exited the house via an unseen door and were on their way over to the garage for a stint of remedial dusting and polishing. The chrome noses of Jake’s collection of purebreds glinted brightly. Willows was no automobile buff, but he was able to identify a prewar Jaguar, a burly Humvee, a Toyota LandCruiser, a Dodge Viper, and Jake’s birthday gift to the twins: a matched pair of brand-new banana-yellow Volkswagen Beetles.

  One stall was empty. Jake’s favourite set of wheels, a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, squatted on the driveway in front of the garage. The Rolls was being lovingly washed by Jake’s most recent acquisition, a massive, bald-headed, bright-eyed employee named Harvey ‘The Rabbit’ Corville.

  Harvey wore a studded black leather jacket, black jeans, heavy black leather boots with silver toe caps. The hairless dome of his skull shone so brightly it might have been waxed. Harvey was working hard, and with good reason. If Jake approved of the way Harvey washed the vehicles, he’d eventually be allowed to groom Jake’s trio of dobermans, and his precious rottweiler, Butch. If and when Harvey cleared the not-insignificant hurdle of properly caring for Jake’s canines, he would be introduced to the exotic world of threats and muggings. After that, the sky was the limit. In anywhere from five to ten years, if he behaved himself, he’d be trusted with the heavy responsibility of killing people. Not ordinary citizens, but criminals such as himself. Only Marty was so deeply trusted that he was allowed to bump off the good guys. And so far, if Harvey had it right, Marty hadn’t taken advantage.

  Harvey didn’t understand how Marty could have so much self-control. Speaking strictly for himself, there were at least two or three times a day when he’d have whacked somebody, if he had immunity. For example that clerk at…

  He finally realized it was his cellphone that was ringing. He dropped the sponge, wiped his soapy hands on his pants, unzipped his jacket and snatched the phone from an inside pocket.

  ‘Hello?’

  Jake said, ‘Where ya been, Harvey?’

  ‘Right here, Jake.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, but I can’t see ya, dimwit! Ya been washin’ da Rolls?’

  Harvey nodded.

  Jake said, ‘Da cops still dere?’

  Harvey nodded again, more forcefully.

  ‘Harvey!’ Jake screeched.

  ‘Yes, Jake.’

  ‘Are da cops still dere, yeah a no?’

  ‘Yes, Jake.’ Christ, was the old man deaf?

  ‘Give da phone to da woman.’

  Harvey nodded. His boots crunched on limestone as he sprinted towards Willows and Parker. The detectives heard him coming, and turned to face him.

  Harvey offered the phone to Parker. ‘Jake would like to speak with you.’

  ‘About what?’

  Harvey made the mistake of asking. The kingpin’s overheated reply turned Harvey’s unbejewelled ear the colour of an autumn leaf. He thrust the phone into Parker’s hand.

  Jake said, ‘Claire, what we was talkin’ about, Marty’s gonna sniff around a li’l, see what he can loin.’

  ‘Thanks, Jake.’

  ‘Will ya promise me somethin’?’

  Parker waited, but not for long.

  Jake’s voice was a furtive, conspiratorial whisper she was just barely able to hear above the hiss and wheeze of Harvey’s hyperventilating. ‘Come to my funeral, will ya?’

  Was Jake serious? He’d never been anything but serious. Parker said, ‘Is that an open invitation, or…?’

  ‘I got no premonition when I’m gonna kick, if that’s what yer askin’. But, Jeez, did ya take a look at me? I’m a fuckin’ geezer. Most a these stoopids I got workin’ fer me could be my grandkids, I should be so unlucky to have any.’ For Jake, it was a long speech, and it ended with as little warning as it had begun.

  ‘Jake, you still there?’

  ‘Fo’ da time being.’

  Parker said, ‘Well, let me put it this way. I’d love to come to your funeral. But only if Jack’s invited too.’

  ‘Goes wit’out sayin’,’ said Jake gruffly.

  Was the old man weeping? Parker found herself listening intently to a dial tone. She tried to return the cellphone to Harvey. He refused to accept it.

  ‘Jake said to give you the phone,’ he explained.

  ‘Fine,’ said Parker. She started to turn away, and then stopped herself. ‘Harvey?’

  He nodded.

  ‘If Marty asks you if you’d like to go for a scenic drive in the country, just say no.’

  ‘Why?’ said Harvey bluntly.

  Parker told him.

  He was still laughing, uproariously, when Willows made the hard right turn at the bottom of the driveway.

  Parker said, ‘What d’you think, Jack?’

  ‘About Harvey? I think he’s going to end up feeding crustaceans at the bottom of Howe Sound.’

  ‘No, I mean about Jake.’

  ‘Jake isn’t going to do us any favours. Why should he? We could pin six murders on him in the next ten minutes, Jake’d be out on bail five minutes later, dead of natural causes years before his trial was even scheduled.’

  They were closing in on Fourth Avenue. Willows lifted a hand from the wheel, and briskly snapped his fingers. The light turned green.

  Parker feigned amazement. ‘How do you do that?’

  ‘It’s all in the timing.’

  ‘Where have I heard that before?’ said Parker. The seatbelt was an encumbrance, but she managed to lean close enough to Willows to rest her hand on his thigh. They drove in companionable silence for a few minutes, and then she said, ‘Obviously the dead addicts are intended to send a message to the survivors. Buy elsewhere. Jake’s got to be hurting.’

  ‘Hurting like hell,’ agreed Willows.

  ‘The killer turned up the heat when he bumped off Melvin Ladner, cranked it up to the boiling point when he moved up the distribution ladder and killed Sammy Wu. The question is - does Jake have any idea who’s trying to wipe him out?’

  ‘If he did,’ said Willows, ‘he’d have reacted by now, and we’d know about it. Jake isn’t the kind of guy who worries about hiding the bodies. Besides, he
’d want plenty of publicity. Everybody in the business knows he’s been hit. He’d want those same people to know he’d hit back.’

  Parker was in complete agreement with Willows’ analysis of the situation. As soon as Jake found out who was bumping off his network of dealers, Marty and the Mirror Twins and a dozen other thugs would hit the streets running.

  At MacDonald, Willows made a left, and ducked down to Cornwall. Traffic was light. In five minutes they were on the approach to the Burrard Street Bridge. The electric readout above the Molson’s Brewery was obscured by a cloud of steam. Willows was unable to make out the temperature, but even so, he knew that it was a lot warmer than it should have been. In Vancouver, the cataclysmic warming of the globe seemed to be proceeding ahead of schedule. In another year or two, the variety of deciduous trees that graced the city’s boulevards would be replaced by row upon row of towering palms.

  Parker had been thinking. As they turned onto the bridge she said, ‘Didn’t the Quick’n’ Easy Escorts receptionist ask if you were interested in two women?’

  Willows sensed a trap. He said, ‘Yeah, but she thought she was talking to Sammy.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Jack.’

  Willows concentrated on his driving.

  Parker said, ‘Why did she think Sammy might want two women?’

  ‘Because he’d used two in the past.’

  ‘The recent past,’ said Parker.

  *

  The third-floor squadroom was unoccupied but for Eddy Orwell. The beefiest of the homicide detectives was hunched over his desk. His posture indicated that he was hard at work, but, as Willows and Parker drew near, they saw he was immersed in a crossword puzzle. Orwell buttonholed Parker as she walked past his desk.

  ‘Hey, Claire. How you doing?’

  ‘Good, Eddy. Where’s Oikawa?’

  ‘You don’t want to know. Give me a hand with this, will you?’ He turned the folded newspaper so Parker could read it more easily. ‘Two across.’