A Cloud of Suspects

by Laurence Gough

  “If you were caught.”

  Harvey sipped his beer. He said, “I’d never murdered anybody before. I had no chance whatsoever of killing all the witnesses, unless they were unusually cooperative, and lined up in a row so I could knock off more than one of them with a single bullet. I knew that if I’d fucked up in the smallest way the detectives would track me down and either arrest me or shoot me to pieces, depending on their mood.

  “Either way, I’d never get to belly up to the counter and order another Big Mac and chocolate shake, unless I lived to be about a hundred and eighty. That seemed doubtful. Still does.” Harvey smiled. “What’ve you got for me, kid?”

  “Wanna score some drugs?”

  “Do I look like a dumb-ass scumbag addict?”

  The kid shook his head, no. He said, “Anything else you maybe think I might be able to do for you?”

  “Like what, helping me across the street?”

  Harvey drank a little more beer, ate a few more nuts, drank a little more beer. He hunched forward in his chair. “I’m looking to purchase a large-calibre handgun.” He leaned back. “You can help me with that, start talking. Otherwise, fuck off.”

  “I know a guy.”

  Harvey leaned forward again. “The cops come knocking on my door, i’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

  “I wouldn’t rat you out.”

  “Can you get me a piece,” said Harvey, “or not?”

  The kid sat there, nodding but not saying anything, until Harvey was about ready to punt him through the ceiling. When “Stairway to Heaven” finally ended, and the last cloying notes had faded away into the general hum and rattle and hiss of the bar, the kid turned towards the stage and snapped his fingers. To Harvey’s surprise, the blond stripper jumped lightly down off the stage and came rolling over, her hips churning. She was a big hunk of woman, moving in five or six directions at once, and she looked like she was all business.

  The stripper rested a hip on the table. She said, “What’s up, Richie?” Harvey decided there was a lot more he could learn about breast augmentation. Hers looked real, but he knew they couldn’t be. He wondered if she wore a bra when she wasn’t working, and if Frederick’s of Hollywood had her size, or if she had to get them tailor-made.

  The kid said, “He needs to talk to Anders.”

  “Buying or selling?”

  Harvey said, “Buying.” He didn’t like them talking about him as if he wasn’t even there, and he let it show.

  The woman said, “Hi, I’m Charlene.” She lifted her hand to her mouth, did that thing with the thumb and pinkie that irritated him so much. “Got a phone?”

  Harvey shook his head, no. She gave him a disbelieving look. He didn’t blame her. It seemed as if everybody had a cellphone growing out of his ear.

  Charlene said, “You can stare at them if you want to.”

  Harvey jerked his eyes away. He said, “i’ll try to remember that, in case I ever get the urge.”

  She laughed. “Don’t kid yourself. I get off in half an hour. Stick around, you might learn something worth knowing, and wouldn’t that be a change.” She jerked her head at Richie. “Give him twenty and tell him to fuck off.”

  Harvey peeled a ten and two fives off his wad and shoved them across the beer-stained and cigarette-burnt table with the tips of his fingers. Richie grabbed the money and pushed back his chair and headed for the door. He was even slower and more awkward on his feet than Harvey had imagined. From the back, he looked like something that was born to be brought down by wolves.

  The music started up again. The stripper held out her hand. She said, “Help me up on the stage.” Harvey sat there as if glued in place. She said, “Don’t worry, nobody’s gonna try to steal your fucking tiny little insignificant bankroll.”

  He said, “Maybe that’s not my only problem.”

  She gave him a knowing look, and turned away laughing. Her laughter was surprisingly light, good-natured, and feminine, and seemingly genuine. Harvey watched her climb effortlessly up onto the white shag stage, the muscles in the backs of her legs bunching up, rippling, gliding smoothly under the pastel lights. In prison he’d spent anywhere from four to six hours a day in the gym, pumping iron with the other white guys, bulking up, making himself strong. By the time he was released, he could bench press twice his own weight fifty-two times in a row, fourteen sets of three reps, in twenty minutes flat.

  He figured Charlene could take him easy, in more ways than one.

  *

  Another home sweet home

  Sandy lived on Napier Street, in a genteel part of the city’s East Side. His open-plan apartment was an illegally converted one-car garage. The garage was old and small, but its green-painted cedar-shake siding and white trim lent it a certain charm. The apartment’s single small window faced the untended backyard, tall grass and a garden run wild, the rusty, falling-apart swing set left behind when his landlord’s wife ran off with their three small children and the door-to-door milkman. But there was a big skylight, and you could prop it open with a pole, if you felt like some fresh air.

  He parked his pickup in the lane close against the cinder-block wall that butted up against the garage, so there was room for local traffic to get past him. He set the dual alarm systems and the tempered-steel bar that hooked onto the steering wheel, then got out, and locked the door with his remote. A lot of cars got broken into in his neighbourhood, but that didn’t mean much, because it seemed like the entire city was riddled with thieves; shattered safety glass glittering like diamonds along the side of the road everywhere you looked.

  He glanced casually around as he walked down the narrow brick-lined sidewalk that led to the converted garage’s only entrance. The back door of his landlord’s house swung open, and the man’s middle-aged girlfriend stepped out onto the back porch with a wicker basket overflowing with laundry. She gave him a meaningless smile, the kind of smile that told him that he’d better keep his distance, if he knew what was good for him. He unlocked his door and pushed it open. Behind and above him, the clothesline squeaked.

  The answering machine’s message light blinked red. Number of messages — 3. He hit the play button. Jan told him she needed to talk to him. She told him not to call her back, just come right over as soon as he could. She’d be waiting for him, any time of the day or night. Click. She’d called back a minute later to add that it was urgent, but not what he thought it was, if he knew what she meant, but they could do that anyway, if he was in the mood. Giggling, she hung up.

  The third call was from his sister. She rambled on about what great weather they were having, ran out of steam, told him she loved him and missed him, and abruptly hung up without saying goodbye.

  Sandy went into the kitchenette and got himself a Coke out of the fridge. He ran cold tap water over the top of the can, wiped it dry on his T-shirt, popped the can open and drank thirstily. Jan’s message hadn’t given anything away, but he was pretty sure he knew what she wanted. She wanted nobody but him. Endlessly, if not forever. On the other hand, what if he was wrong? What if she wanted to talk to him about Matt Singh, or that moron Harvey?

  He cleared the machine, and finished his Coke. The sugar gave him a lift, but he knew it wouldn’t last. He’d been busting his sorry ass twenty-four hours a day seven days a week for so long it made him cramp up just thinking about it. So far, he had nothing concrete to show for all his hard work except a nagging, low-level fear that he might have a sexually transmitted disease.

  He twisted the empty Coke can into a compressed hourglass shape and tossed it at the garbage can, and missed by a mile.

  Chapter 7

  Risky business

  Charlene finished her set to muted applause. A tall redhead with a prominent Adam’s apple and a five o’clock shadow took her place on stage. Charlene threw on a robe and sat down at Harvey’s table. She’d been working hard. Her body gleamed with sweat, but he noticed that her breathing was relaxed. She was in terrific shape, not an ounce of fat
anywhere that he could see — and there weren’t many places he hadn’t got a look at. He figured she had to be in her early forties. Well preserved, but fading. It must be a hard thing for a professional woman, looking in the mirror and knowing you were getting a little bit older with every tick of the clock.

  He said, “Thirsty?”

  “i’ll have a Sprite.”

  Harvey signalled the skinny waiter. He pointed at his half-empty beer glass and then at Charlene. The waiter headed for the bar. Harvey said, “What happens now?”

  “What would you like to happen?”

  “Uh … ”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Charlene.

  “No, I mean … ”

  “Just hang on a sec.” Charlene smiled. She said, “First things first, okay. Just let me catch my breath and enjoy my Sprite, and then i’ll phone Anders and we’ll get just as busy as you want to be.”

  She helped herself to Harvey’s pack of cigarettes and his lighter, lit up. “Know something?”

  “Probably.”

  “The very first thing I ever noticed about men is how fucking impatient they are, just like a bunch of little kids. I’m not just talking about sex, either. And I’m not saying it’s the only thing wrong with them, but … ”

  The waiter brought Charlene’s Sprite and a tall glass full of ice, and her purse, a large black shapeless thing outlined in sequins. Harvey slipped the waiter another five bucks. Charlene poured some Sprite into the glass. She opened her purse and fished around in there for quite some time, then pulled out the smallest cellphone Harvey had ever seen. Not that he was an expert. She flipped open the phone, daintily tapped buttons, guzzled half her Sprite. “Mmm, that’s so good.”

  “My pleasure,” said Harvey. She gave him a toothy smile and reached over and patted his knee. Her expression suddenly hardened. She sat up straight and said, “Hi, baby, it’s me.” She listened intently for a long moment, and then said, “I know, and I’m so sorry to bother you, but I got a fella here needs to see a fella like you.”

  Harvey could hear the guy on the other end of the line. He sounded like he’d been hibernating. Charlene said, “Richie.” She jerked the phone away from her ear and thrust it at Harvey. “He wants to ask you a question.”

  Harvey took the phone. He said, “Hello, Anders.”

  “How the fuck you know my name?” The voice was deep, powerful, bad-ass authoritative.

  “Charlene mentioned it to me.”

  “Stupid bitch.” A high-pitched giggle. “Don’t you quote me, now.”

  Harvey said, “We’ll see.”

  That gave Anders pause. He made a sound like he was sucking at something that was caught between his teeth and was still alive and struggling. Finally he said, “Who the fuck I talking to?”

  “Harvey Goodman,” said Harvey. He had no idea why he’d said his last name. It just happened, that’s all. Like he was back in the slammer, crouched down on all fours, looking up at the rest of the totem pole.

  “You a cop, Harve?”

  “Crook.”

  “How long you known Richie?”

  “Maybe forty-five minutes. He eyeballed my bankroll. It was love at first sight.”

  “Gimme Charlene.”

  Harvey handed back the phone. Charlene listened a moment. She said, “Yeah, okay,” and slapped the phone shut. She dropped the phone in her purse, and poured the rest of her Sprite into the glass of ice.

  Harvey said, “You and Anders pretty tight?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Just asking.”

  Charlene said, “We have a relationship. I’m not saying it’s exclusive, or that I’m totally opposed to meeting and becoming intimate with new friends.”

  Harvey nodded thoughtfully.

  She said, “Shall we do some business?”

  “You mean, with Anders?”

  “What else would I be referring to?” Charlene gave him a goofily saucy wink. She said, “Follow me, handsome. But not too close, or people will talk.”

  Harvey followed her out of the bar and onto the street. There was an unmarked door twenty feet to the left of the bar’s entrance. The door opened on a narrow flight of stairs. Harvey followed Charlene up three flights of stairs and down one of the hallways to an unmarked door.

  Charlene knocked three times, loudly. She waited a few seconds and knocked again, twice.

  Harvey said, “How old is Anders, about six?”

  Charlene unlocked the door with a key. She pushed the door open and stepped aside. “After you, Harve.”

  Harvey grabbed Charlene’s arm just above the elbow. He stayed close behind her as he propelled her into the apartment, kicked the door shut behind him. They were in a short, narrow, unlit hallway, the cramped equivalent of an entrance hall. She unlocked another door. Open doorways fed into two other rooms. One dark, the other filled with a soft, golden light.

  In a musical voice Charlene said, “Where are you, sweetie?”

  She led Harvey into the golden light. Anders lay on his side on a green and fluorescent-orange striped corduroy sofa. Because Anders’ bathrobe was a perfect match for the sofa, Harvey almost didn’t see him. He’d expected somebody kind of Nordic-looking, pale and blond and athletically thin, with ice-blue eyes and a somewhat reserved personality. Anders was black, darker skinned than any black man Harvey had ever seen. Mirror-lens sunglasses covered his eyes, so it was impossible to tell if he was awake or dozing. He lay on his back, listening to music that leaked faintly from his headphones. Some kind of jazz. The lonely wail of a tenor sax lifted up, and fell back, and was lost. Anders was bald. His head looked heavy, and dense. Harvey had seen bigger men in prison, but not many of them. He pegged his host at about six-four, a solid three hundred pounds.

  Anders spread his arms wide. Really wide. He hooked four inches of index finger under the headphones and pulled them off his head. The sunglasses stayed put. He sat up, and up, and up. “John Coltrane, ever heard of him?”

  Harvey shrugged.

  Anders slid the sunglasses up on his forehead. He said, “What you think?”

  “About what?”

  Anders’ wide gesture somehow encompassed his world and everything that was in it. The dazzling punch in the eyes that was the sofa, the pink sea of wall-to-wall shag carpet, a La-Z-Boy recliner with a leopardskin cover, the gaudy paintings of hourglass nudes that covered the walls, his collection of doorknocker woodpeckers and peacock feathers, numerous lava lamps, the pulsating red and blue lights of the silver stereo in the shape of a one-eighth-scale spaceship, an elephants foot full of Zulu-type spears, a coffee table made of a three-inch-thick slab of clear acrylic with hundreds of shiny cds and one apparently genuine human thumb sunk in it, a massive chandelier made of interlocked deer horns from which dangled far too many shrunken-head candle-holders to count … There was a lot to look at, and it was all so unbelievably ugly that Harvey’s eyeballs were getting whiplash. Anders himself, with his brick-flattened nose, lost teeth, burn scars, stapled-shut scalp, missing ear, and permanently stitched-shut eye, was probably the ugliest thing of all. Since Harvey was a guest in Anders’ house, that didn’t seem like the right thing to say. Especially since Anders outweighed him two to one.

  He came up with, “Charlene sure does have a major talent.”

  Anders said, “You got that right.” His voice was pitched so low it was almost subsonic. He reached out and yanked on a woodpecker doorknocker’s dangling cord. The woodpecker’s pointed beak rattled on a split birch log. Anders pushed the mirror-lens glasses back down on his nose. He said, “Charlene is a woman of many, many talents. You can take it from me that exotic dancing is the least of them.”

  He yanked on the cord again, and then tilted his head towards the ceiling, as if some small but vitally important sound had caught his attention. A quintet of shrunken heads was reflected in the mirrored lenses. After a moment’s silence, Anders rotated his massive head towards Harvey until he could see himself in the glass
es. Anders said, “What kind of piece you looking for?”

  “Something loud. A .44 would be perfect, but i’ll settle for a .357, or even a 9-mil, if I have to.”

  “I don’t suppose you got a firearms licence?”

  Harvey said, “You selling licences, or guns?”

  Anders chuckled good-naturedly. The sound of his humour was like the low rumble of distant thunder.

  Charlene had vanished. Harvey’s turncoat imagination pictured her in the kitchen, slipping into a plastic apron and sharpening a big knife.

  He said, “Where’d Charlene go?”

  Anders smiled in a way that wasn’t helpful. His gums were the same shade of pink as the rug. The teeth he still had left were small as baby teeth, and were crammed tightly into his mouth, top and bottom. It seemed to Harvey that there were way too many of them. Fifty or sixty, at least.

  Anders plucked a spear from the elephant’s foot. He tested the long steel blade with the ball of his thumb, and sucked away the blood.

  A fat bead of sweat rolled down Harvey’s ribs. More beads of sweat chased after the first. His throat was dry. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He wiped his face with the back of his hand.

  Anders said, “What kind of budget we talking?” He snapped his fingers, rapid little pops that sounded like distant gunfire. “Show me the money, Harve.”

  Harvey flashed his roll, shoved the money back in his pocket. He said, “Quit fooling around. Let’s see what you got, or I’m gonna have to move along.”

  “All business, huh?” Anders clapped his Frisbee-sized hands. “I like that. Don’t worship it, but admire it. Know why? ’Cause that’s the way I work, cool and efficient.”

  Anders stood up. It took a while.

  Harvey revised his estimate of Anders’ height and weight to six-foot-six and three-fifty, respectively. The man was huge. He shambled past Harvey, moving slowly and taking small, child-like steps. As he walked out of the room, ducking his head and turning his upper body sideways so he could get through the doorway, he said, “Back in a minute.”