Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery)

by Laurence Gough

  “Miller time!” shouted Garret, and thumped his heels on the dashboard.

  Billy ignored him. He was already thinking that he was a fool, that he should’ve kept her for a while, made her do things to him. The fact was, she was probably in her late twenties. He could’ve shut his eyes, pretended she was Kim Bassinger or maybe Farah Fawcett.

  “How much you get?” said Garret.

  “Just enough to cover all my cigarettes you smoked, dummy.”

  “You got a fuckin’ fistful of charge cards. Gimme the VISA and keep the rest.”

  “Eaton’s. You can have the Eaton’s. Buy yourself a Polaroid camera and take dirty pictures of your mother.”

  Garret stared out the window, his jaw working. “One of these days, Billy, you’re gonna go too far.”

  “Fuck you, Garret.”

  They glared at each other for a long moment, and then Garret turned away. Billy thought he was such a tough dude. Well, fine. Let him keep on believing it.

  Garret said, “What’re we gonna do now, call it a night?”

  “Wanna steal some radios?”

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither.” Billy lit a cigarette. “What kinda radio we got in our new car?”

  “I dunno, can’t see a brand name.”

  “Turn it on. Punch some buttons.”

  The Stones. Some violin shit. Billy Joel. That weird black kid carved himself up or whatever. Slept in bed with a human skeleton, he’d heard. Barbara fucking Streisand. Yuck. Paul McCartney sounding like he was about a thousand years old. “Rip it out,” said Billy.

  “Now, while we’re drivin’? Shit, I could get myself electrocuted!”

  “The way we’re headed, it’s probably gonna happen sooner or later anyway.”

  “What’re you talking about, man?”

  “Kidnapping. Unlawful confinement. Grand theft auto or whatever they call it. You rip off some dude’s Chevy, nobody gives a shit. But hey, try stealing some bitch’s BMW, that’s another thing. Especially if she’s in it at the time.” Billy punched Garret on the shoulder. “They get us now, it’s the chair for sure.”

  Garret thought it over for a while, frowning, and then said, “This is Canada, man. You could slaughter a whole fuckin’ kindergarten, all they can give you is life.”

  “Bust that radio out of there,” said Billy. “Be a good boy and do what you’re told.”

  Garret didn’t usually carry a knife but he always had a big screwdriver on him. The way he figured it, if the cops ever busted them, they’d pat Billy down, find his blade and charge him with carrying a concealed weapon. Then frisk Garret, find the screwdriver and figure he was an electrician or something, let him go. He chopped at the console, slashing at the leather, trying to gouge the radio free. Whack whack whack. McCartney made a sound like he’d swallowed a five-cell flashlight. Bits of leather and chunks of high-impact plastic sprayed across the seat. Whack whack. Garret grabbed and twisted, using his arms and the strength in his wrists. The radio came free, trailing half a dozen red and blue umbilical cords. Garret tossed it in the backseat. “Do I fuckin’ pass, teach?”

  “Wanna rob a store?”

  “What’s open, this time of night?”

  “There’s a Mac’s about a half a mile away.”

  Garret shook his head. “I’m tired, let’s go home.”

  “Chickenshit.”

  “It’s been a long night, Billy.” Garret slumped back in his seat. Just to keep his hands busy, he popped open the glove compartment. Porsche sunglasses, registration papers. A baggie containing about a quarter of an ounce of marijuana and some loose cigarette papers.

  “Hey, look what I found.”

  “Roll it up. Whatsa matter, you stupid?”

  Garret rolled a joint, fired up and sucked smoke deep into his lungs.

  Billy said, “Hey, what about me?”

  Garret tried to pass Billy the joint. Billy knocked it away.

  “Roll me one of my own,” he said.

  “Sure,” said Garret. Billy had a real strong thing about sharing. He just hated it.

  Billy dropped Garret off at his front door, burnt rubber all the way down the street. He parked Nancy Crown’s black BMW in an alley six long blocks from his mother’s house, grabbed the radio out of the backseat, got out of the car and started to walk away. The sky was clear. There was a skinny fingernail moon down low on the horizon. Billy swore, tossed the radio in somebody’s backyard and climbed back into the car.

  He found Nancy Crown two blocks from where he’d left her, walking rapidly down the sidewalk in her long black dress and high heels. He pulled the BMW up against the curb and stepped out on the sidewalk. She stared at him, her face pale. Billy stared back. She was taller than he’d thought, nice figure. Cold, shivering. He handed her the keys. She didn’t thank him. Well, what the hell did he expect. He said, “Nice meeting you, Nancy,” and turned and walked away.

  Twenty minutes later, Billy slipped his key into the lock and opened the door and was safe at home. All the lights were on, but the house was empty. His father had died when he was eleven. Cancer. His mother was out, as usual, probably playing bingo and having a high old time. Billy had a six-pack of beer he’d bought from a drunk at twice the legal price. He’d meant to stick a few cans in the fridge, but had forgotten. If there was one thing he hated more than no beer, it was warm beer. There was no ice in the freezer. As usual, his mother had used it all and not bothered to refill the tray.

  He went into the living room and flopped down on a threadbare sofa stained by a thousand spilled drinks and scarred by a hundred forgotten cigarettes. He picked up the phone and dialled Garret’s number. Garret’s old man was a lush, never heard the phone ring and even if he did wouldn’t bother to answer it. His mother worked nights, so she was no problem.

  Garret picked up. Billy said, “Hey, you gonna be okay?”

  “About what?”

  “That little ride we took tonight. Think, Garret. Use your fuckin’ brain.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m fine.”

  “You got a problem, gimme a call.”

  “I will, Billy.”

  “Don’t talk about it to nobody else.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You sure as shit better not. Understand what I’m sayin’? Keep your mouth shut.”

  “Sure, Billy.”

  “I’m ruthless.”

  “I know it.”

  “And I want those sunglasses, you fuckin’ thief!”

  “No way,” said Garret.

  “I’m gonna wait until you fall asleep and then come get ’em,” said Billy. “Sweet dreams, sucker.” He slammed down the phone, went over to the big Sony television and turned it on. The screen flickered. He cranked up the sound and went back to the sofa, shoved an overflowing ashtray out of the way with the toe of his boot and put his feet up on the coffee table, making himself comfortable. He’d picked up the TV the same way he got most of his stuff. Find an upscale neighbourhood, cruise the lanes and alleys on garbage collection day. People bought a new TV or stereo or whatever, they almost always tossed the cardboard box it came in. When Billy saw a box waiting to be picked up, he’d slow down, take a look. If it was electronics, he’d case the house. Most of the time, in an expensive area, both the husband and wife worked. He’d park in the alley, in the carport or garage if there was one, then go around to the front door and knock real loud. If nobody answered and everything else looked good, he’d do a break and enter. Snatch whatever he was after and anything else that caught his eye. He always took the box, too, because it added to the resale value.

  He flicked his cigarette at the ashtray and turned his attention to the Sony. It was that gap-toothed guy from New York, didn’t like animals. Letterman. Billy cranked the sound up a notch. He lit a cigarette, then turned the disposable lighter up as high as it would go, so it was like a miniature blowtorch, and ran the flame back and forth across his forearm, burning away the hair.

  The talk-show
host was reading postcards from his fans, making wise-ass remarks and tossing the postcards through the phoney window behind him, the pre-recorded tape of breaking glass playing over and over. Real fuckin’ witty. Billy blew a smoke ring at the TV screen. The band blew a few notes. Two short guys in three-piece suits came out from behind the curtain, one of them leading the other by the arm. The guy who was being led kind of shuffled his feet. He stared straight ahead, and when his buddy let go of his arm, he stopped dead in his tracks with his arm suspended in mid-air, didn’t move an inch.

  The short guy Letterman was talking to took something out of his pocket. A black plastic box with some knobs on it, and a chrome rod sticking up. He grabbed the rod and pulled, extending it. An antenna. Billy finally got it. The guy had a remote control device. He stepped back from his buddy and twisted a knob. The guy stepped briskly forward. Another twist and he turned sharply left. Gave the camera the finger. Letterman said, “Is that it?” and mugged the camera, obviously unimpressed. The guy with the controls looked mad. He twisted a dial and his pal turned, jerked sharply towards the talk-show host, grabbed at him and missed and veered towards the bandstand and took a swing at the sax player.

  Letterman ducked behind his desk, smiled his goofy, gap-toothed smile at the camera. Billy pushed himself off the sofa and switched off the TV. He went into the bathroom, urinated noisily into the toilet, missing a little. Dope and booze, a deadly combo. He flossed and brushed his teeth, splashed cold water on his face, smiled into the mirror as he combed his hair. A handsome dude. He left the light on, so his mother, who was more often than not a little disoriented when she rolled in, could see where she was going. Assuming she got home at all.

  Billy’s bedroom was at the back of the house. He shut the door and bolted it, turned on the overhead light and went over to the window, slowly undressed. When he was down to his jockey shorts, he took the weight of his genitals in his hand and idly scratched himself. Then he stripped off the shorts and stretched, lifting his arms high above his head. He turned in a full circle, like a model on display. Maybe she was watching, and maybe she wasn’t. He began to stroke himself. After a couple of minutes a light came on in an upstairs room of the house next door.

  Billy and his neighbour’s daughter stood there looking at each other, both of them naked. She turned slightly away from him and began to brush her hair. When Billy had seen enough, he pulled the curtains and turned off the light and went to bed. Her name was Wendy and she worked at a bank downtown. She was in her early twenties but as far as Billy knew, she’d always lived at home. Probably always would, a girl who looked like that.

  By three o’clock in the morning, the sheets were soaking wet, twisted around his body like a shroud. He couldn’t sleep. He got out of bed and pulled on his jeans, unbolted his door and went into the living room. His mother was stretched out on the sofa, her mouth wide open, snoring softly. Billy crept past her, grabbed his cigarettes and lighter. He padded down the hall and into the kitchen. The phone was on the table, a squat black shape waiting for him on yellow Formica. He ironed the crumpled check flat with the palm of his hand, and dialled Nancy Crown’s number.

  The telephone rang three times, was picked up by a male with a deep, throaty voice.

  Billy said, “Lemme speak to Nance.”

  “Who is this?”

  “She had a bad experience. Maybe you heard about it. I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”

  “Who am I speaking to?” The voice was stronger now, angry and cold.

  “Wake her up, man. Don’t be an asshole. She wants to talk to me, just ask her.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “She tell you what I did to her? I bet she didn’t. Probably won’t even admit it happened. But you wanna know something? She’s gonna remember it for the rest of her life.”

  The phone crashed down in Billy’s ear. He cradled the receiver and went over to the sink, ran cold water over his cigarette and dropped the sodden butt in the garbage.

  His bed had grown cold. He lay under the blankets, shivering, clutching himself. The girl next door hadn’t done a thing for him. It was Nancy he couldn’t get out of his mind, stop thinking of. Her face in profile. The way she’d glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. The smell of her perfume. Her hair, silky and smooth.

  He lit another cigarette. Was he in love? Is that what had happened, he’d fallen in love? No fucking way. He scratched his shoulder, the inside of his thigh. He itched all over. His heart pounded. He was cold and then he was suddenly hot, feverish. His face felt sticky and wet. He wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand, rolled over on his back, tossed the sheets aside and lit another cigarette and used the glowing tip to trace her name in the darkness.

  Was the guy on the phone her husband? Jesus, he’d sounded old enough to be Billy’s father. Mean enough, too.

  Billy squeezed his eyes shut and tried to imagine what the guy looked like. His mind formed a composite of all the half-remembered, nasty, dominating husbands he’d seen on television or at the movies; and came up with a man who was grossly overweight, jowly, in need of a shave, balding…

  A goddamn animal. Possessive, domineering, brutally selfish.

  Billy fell asleep punching the sonofabitch’s lights out, giving him exactly what he deserved.

  Chapter 4

  The phone call came at 6:47. Willows picked up on the third ring.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah, who is it?” Willows’ voice was thick with sleep.

  “Eddy Orwell.”

  Willows fumbled for the lamp. He switched it on, and there was a burst of white light and then a soft tinkling sound as the filaments inside the bulb fragmented. He yanked open the curtains, flooding the bedroom in a soft gray light.

  “Guy that owns the Chinese Times, went missing a couple of weeks ago?”

  “Kenny Lee.”

  “Yeah. Well, we just found him.”

  “Tell me about it, Eddy.”

  “He’s in the Sun Yat-Sen Gardens, playing with the fishes.”

  “You call Parker?”

  “She’s on her way.”

  “So am I,” said Willows, and hung up.

  The coffee machine had an automatic timer, set for seven o’clock. Willows switched it to manual. It made a virulent hissing noise. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  By the time he’d finished dressing, the coffee pot was full. He rinsed a stainless steel Thermos with hot water, poured in the coffee, added milk and screwed the lid on tight.

  There was a light dusting of frost on the windshield of his ’43 Oldsmobile. He unlocked the car, climbed in and started the engine, the heater. He turned on the wipers, but they didn’t seem to have much effect, so he turned them off again. He drank coffee while steadily warming air blew across the windshield, slowly clearing the glass.

  It was ten minutes past seven when he pulled away from the curb. It was a weekday, Monday morning, but traffic heading into the downtown core was still light. He arrived at the gardens at twenty-two minutes to eight, parked in a metered space on the street next to the Starlite Films building.

  The uniformed cop patrolling the sidewalk in front of the gardens recognized Willows. They exchanged greetings as Willows walked briskly towards the main gate.

  The Sun Yat-Sen Classical Chinese Gardens were set well back from the street, surrounded by a twelve-foot-high wall of smooth white stucco. The entrance was to the left. Willows walked down a narrow pathway of flat white paving stones, past the gift shop and into a small, open courtyard. There was a booth where tickets could be purchased, and next to the booth a rack on the wall that held free brochures in English, Cantonese and Japanese.

  Willows helped himself to an English language copy, stuck it in his pocket.

  There was another uniform lounging in the entrance to the gardens proper. Willows didn’t know him. He flashed his shield. The cop stifled a yawn as Willows walked past.

  There was a buildin
g to his left, high-ceilinged and spacious, the wall made of heavy wooden lattice and sheets of plate glass. Willows took a look inside. The room was bare except for a portable tape deck plugged into an outlet in the far wall. He unfolded the brochure and studied the map, orienting himself. The room was called the Main Hall.

  He continued along a paved corridor, past a column of tortured white rock. Parker was standing at the pond’s edge, talking to an elderly Chinese man in a white shirt, dark blue suit and highly polished black shoes.

  The body, Willows realized with a shock, was still on the ice. The late Kenny Lee was sitting in a full lotus position, legs crossed and back erect, his hands in his lap.

  Parker said, “Morning, Jack. Doctor Yang, this is Detective Jack Willows.”

  Willows said hello. Yang’s hand was cold and soft, his grip fleeting.

  Parker said, “Doctor Yang manages the gardens. He discovered the body.”

  Yang was about five foot six, with smooth, unlined features. He was very thin. Willows guessed that he was in his late fifties. He said, “Could you tell me what time you found the body, Doctor?”

  “As I told the young woman, it was six thirty this morning, perhaps a few minutes after.”

  “Do you always arrive so early, Doctor?”

  Yang gave him a sharp look, as if he resented being questioned so directly. “Am I a suspect?”

  Willows smiled. “No, of course not.” He waited patiently.

  “Is this your first visit to the gardens, Detective?”

  Willows nodded.

  “In the gift shop you will find a very reasonably priced and informative souvenir album.”

  “The gift shop is closed, Doctor.”

  “If you read the album, you would learn that the purpose of these gardens is to provide an oasis of calm in this busy city. A refreshment for the heart, as they say in China.”

  Yang turned to look at the body. “At times I feel a need to refresh my heart, Detective Willows. Perhaps it should not be so, but I find the gardens most healing when I am the sole occupant.”

  “When did you phone the police?”

  “Immediately I saw Mr Lee’s body.”