Accidental Deaths (A Willows and Parker Mystery)

by Laurence Gough

  Willows could feel himself slipping into a morbid frame of mind.

  Freddy thumped his tray down on the table, eased into the booth beside Parker. “It’s been a long time. Mind if I join you for a minute?”

  “Tick, tick,” said Parker.

  Willows said, “Your round.”

  “Naturally, Jack.” Freddy distributed the drinks, sipped at his Coke.

  Willows said, “So what’s the problem?”

  “’Scuse me?”

  Parker and Willows exchanged a look. Parker said, “Let’s put it this way, Freddy — what’s the problem?”

  “No problem.” Freddy snagged a chunk of ice, bit down hard. “Well, okay, I got a flea in my ear. But nothing worth bothering a couple of hotshot homicide cops about, believe me.” Willows picked up his glass, held it to the light of a Budweiser sign. The glass looked clean, and the colour of the Scotch was just about right. “Hit the punch line, Freddy.” Freddy demolished another ice cube. “Extortion, it’s still a crime, right?”

  Parker said, “What’s the bite?”

  “Three-fifty a week, but it just got bumped to five hundred.”

  “Anybody we know?”

  “The guys I’m talking about, they’re real nasty, and real serious. But experienced, they ain’t. So I doubt it.”

  “How long’ve they been hitting on you?”

  “This is the third week.”

  Willows said, “When’s the next payment due?”

  Freddy leaned across the table, peered at Willows’ watch. “It’s twenty past six, Freddy.”

  “They’re due any time now. When you two waltzed in, I thought for sure that Sally’d dropped a dime. I mean, you ain’t been around in months and then, bingo, there you are.” Freddy’s smile was so forced it looked as if he’d got all dressed up in someone else’s teeth.

  Parker said, “How many are there?”

  “There’s two of them, but somehow it always seems like a whole lot more. The top honcho’s a little Italian guy. Dino. His muscle’s a black dude. Calls himself Crow. I got no idea what his real name is either, except it ain't Bill Cosby. They come in here, help themselves to the booze, muss my hair and eat the pickled eggs … ”

  Willows said, “Can you describe them — aside from the fact that they're heavy eaters?”

  Freddy savaged another ice cube. “Black guy’s got a chrome-plated revolver long as my arm. Last week, after I paid his boss the three-fifty, know what he did?”

  “What, Freddy?”

  “Told me to open my mouth and close my eyes, and put a bullet in my mouth. The guy stuck a bullet in my mouth, Jack. Made me swallow it down. Is that a sick personality, or what?”

  “They threaten you?”

  “Yeah, you bet. Said if I messed with them, black dude’d stick his gun against my head and pull the trigger until there was nothin’ left to shoot at.”

  “That’s a threat, all right,” said Parker.

  Willows toyed with his Scotch. He glanced past Freddy towards the bar and then said, “Stay calm and follow my lead.”

  “Jack, l don’t think I’m up for this.”

  Parker glanced up as the two hoods moved in. The Italian guy who called himself Dino looked a little like Al Pacino, but without Pacino’s brains and good looks. There was another major difference, of course. Pacino was an extremely talented actor, and Dino was extremely bad.

  The black, Crow, was about six-four, wide in the shoulders and narrow in the hip. No neck to speak of. He was wearing a black shirt and black jeans tucked into knee-high black leather boots reinforced with shiny metal shin plates and pointed toecaps. His hair was cut short and a jagged picket fence of razor-cut lightning bolts marched around his bony skull just above ear level. His black silk shirt was loose-fitting and wasn’t tucked into the jeans. Willows, studying his posture and the way he held his hands, decided the gun was hidden in the waistband of his pants.

  Dino had a complexion like a bruised banana, smokey-green eyes. He wore a hi-style lightweight cotton suit and the kind of pointy black shoes favoured by ballerinas. His long black hair was combed straight back and looked as if it had been trained with a frying pan. When he spoke, he sounded as if he started each day by gargling with a cup of warm olive oil.

  “Tell your pals to beat it, Freddy.”

  Freddy said, “Scram, Jack.”

  Willows said, “Take a hike, sweetheart.”

  “Huh?” said Parker.

  “Now, sugar!”

  Parker cast her eyes demurely down and slid out of the booth. Until that moment, Freddy hadn’t even noticed she was chewing gum.

  Crow pointed at Willows. “You too, whitebread.”

  Willows leaned back in the booth. “My deal with Freddy is I gotta stick around until I’ve sweet-talked you two dummies into refunding his money.”

  Crow said, “Say whaaat?”

  Dino put both hands flat on the table and leaned over Freddy. “Five hundred bucks, that’s how much you owe me. Pay up, or your customers are gonna wish they was wearing asbestos suits.”

  Willows said, “How fast are you, Crow?” He slipped his hand under his jacket and drew his .38. “Faster than a speeding bullet?”

  Crow said, “Don’t shoot, man. Nothing’s happening. Relax.”

  Several hours later, Parker sighed, and massaged her aching hand. When she’d first thought of joining the force she had imagined all sorts of dangers, but writer’s cramp hadn’t been one of them. She glanced up from her desk, caught Willows’ eye. “It’s always the same, isn’t it — the bust takes ten seconds and the paperwork lasts forever.”

  Willows nodded distractedly, went back to the task of chewing on his pen.

  Dino Nathaniel McGuire and the black called Crow had been booked, fingerprinted, escorted across the alley to the remand centre and tucked snug in their beds for the night. Except for Willows and Parker and Eddy Orwell, who'd wandered in half an hour or more ago, the squadroom was deserted.

  Orwell had been working quietly at his desk, but now he suddenly said, “Got any paperclips, Jack?”

  “Yeah, and Em going to keep’em.”

  “I’m all out, I just used my last one.” Orwell held up the daisy chain he'd been making, turned it so the thin metal links caught the light. Willows had wondered what he’d been up to, to hold his attention for such a lengthy stretch of time. The links reached from Orwell’s hand all the way to the carpeted floor. Dolefully, he said, “A chain to bind me, and tie me down.”

  Willows and Parker exchanged a quick glance. Parker said, “Have you been drinking, Eddy?”

  “Had a few beers. I’m not drunk, I’m just, I don’t know … Orwell cast his eyes up to the ceiling and made a sort of pushing motion with his hands, as if he feared the building was about to collapse. “Despondent best describes the way I feel, I guess.”

  Willows smiled, and had to turn away.

  “Isn’t funny, Jack.”

  “You’re right, Eddy. Nobody’s arguing with you.”

  Parker said, “What’s the problem?”

  “Judith hates me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “And she’s gonna leave me.”

  “No, she isn’t.”

  “If she hasn’t already gone and done it.”

  Parker said, “How can you say that? I’ve seen some of the stuff she packs in your lunch. She’s obviously crazy about you.”

  “Used to be, maybe. Once upon a time, a long, long time ago.” Orwell wrapped the paperclip chain around and around his wrist. “She’s pregnant. I told her I didn’t want to be a daddy. Wasn’t ready for it. And she, well, she took a swing at me and told me to get out and not come back.”

  Parker said, “Judith’s what? Did you say pregnant?”

  “The bunny seemed to think so.”

  Parker sank a little deeper in her chair. She said, “Maybe when you’ve both had time to think it over … ”

  Orwell’s fist thumped down on his desk. “I’
ve been thinking it over!” he shouted. “I’ve been doing nothing but thinking it over!”

  Willows said, “Take it easy, Eddy. You’ll wake up the janitor.”

  “She’s so darn stubborn. Won’t answer the phone. I’ve been calling all day. The machine’s turned off. It rings and rings, and I hang up and I can still hear it ringing … I’m afraid something terrible has happened to her.” Orwell studied the floor. “This feeling has been growing inside of me all day long. Tragedy. Something bad has happened to my wife, or is going to, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s like a premonition.” He spread his arms wide. “I’m afraid to go home.”

  Willows said, “You still living in Port Moody?”

  “Yeah.”

  To Parker, Willows said, “Can you clear the last of this for me?”

  “No problem.”

  Willows snatched his jacket from the back of the chair. “Eddy. Let’s hit the road.”

  “Jack, I can’t ask you to drive me home. It’d take you at least an hour and a half, to get there and back.”

  “We’ll take my car. You’ll have to figure out a way to make it in to work in the morning.”

  “Dan Simpson lives about six blocks away. Danny’ll give me a ride.”

  “C’mon, Eddy. Let’s go.”

  “Maybe Judith and me’ll work things out. A kid … I can handle it.” He turned and waved goodbye to Parker, slapped Willows on the shoulder. “Funny how things work out, sometimes, isn’t it?”

  Hilarious, thought Willows. But maybe it wouldn’t be quite so funny when Eddy found out that he was paying for the gas.

  20

  Newt liked his suite, which was no great surprise considering how much it was costing him — three hundred eighty smackers a day plus various provincial and federal taxes. He unpacked, hung up his clothes and yanked open oak-veneer drawers until he found the Gideon Bible, which he stuck in his suitcase, so he wouldn’t forget it.

  Rikki said, “What you want another of them things for?” Newt smiled. “Bored, Rikki?”

  “You betcha. What’s happening, man? Nothin’.”

  Newt said, “Watch a little TV, why doncha. Relax, you’ll live longer.” He picked up the phone, dialled a local number. Rikki picked up the TV guide, studied it, then grabbed the television’s remote control and stabbed viciously at the buttons with the index fingers of his left and right hands. It looked to Newt as if Rikki was hitting the buttons simultaneously. His face was grim, upper teeth biting down hard on lower up, eyes bulging just a little. Newt had to ask.

  “What’re you up to, Rikki?”

  “Tryin’ to tune in two stations at once. Cosby on five, Clint Eastwood on twelve. Really be something, check’em both out at once.”

  “Right, right.”

  Newt listened to the phone. It was still ringing, and every ring sounded exactly the same. He was going to let it ring no more than a dozen times before hanging up, but thanks to Rikki’s bugbrained electronic tinkering, he had lost count. One of these days someone would invent a phone that kept track for you. It’d ring at the other end, but all the caller would hear were numbers. One, two, three … Newt wondered how many numbers the phone company would program into their equipment. He pictured kids going for a world record, getting into a million rings or more … Nah, they’d have to put a limit on it. A hundred rings, maybe. That oughtta be enough. Jeez, what in hell was he thinking about — he was loonier than Rikki, and with less excuse.

  “Yeah, what?”

  Startled, Newt jerked the phone away from his ear. He cleared his throat, identified himself. It had been a few years. The guy on the other end of the line, Slick was his name, on account he used so much Brylcreem on his hair, had to think about it for a long time before he recognized Newt’s voice. And then he called Newt by his old name, Junior, which he’d stopped using the day Daddy bought the farm. Slick was full of questions — where had Junior been the past couple of years, had he done some time, or what? Newt told him about the name change and got down to business. How much for an Uzi or Mac-10 or M16, basically any reliable automatic weapon that was available for immediate delivery, plus extra magazines and, say, five hundred rounds of ammunition.

  A figure was named. Newt squeaked. The line went dead. Newt threw the phone at the wall and made a dent in the plaster. So much for old pals. He dialled the number again and said, “Yeah, okay. You deliver?” He listened quietly for what seemed to Rikki to be a very long time, then gently cradled the phone. He printed an address in large block letters on an embossed sheet of hotel stationery, gave the address and eleven hundred and eighty dollars to Rikki.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s an address, what’s it look like?”

  “I don’t know my way around this fokin’ town. How'm I gonna get anywhere?”

  “Remember the lobby, Rikki? No? Okay, remember the train, remember how much you liked the model choo-choo? That was the lobby, where you saw the train. Now, listen real careful. First you get in the elevator and push the button that’s pointing at your feet. When you get to the lobby, go to the desk and ask for a road map of the city. Tell the guy where you want to go. Get him to point the address out on the map, draw some lines. Ask if one of’em will go with you.”

  “Go with me to pick up some guns?”

  “Canadians are real friendly, you’d be surprised how much they’ll go outta their way for a stranger.” Newt wound up like a major league pitcher about to deliver a 100-mph fireball, tossed Rikki the keys to the rental. “Just get the hell out of here.” He made a brisk flapping motion with his arms. “Vamonos.”

  “I know what you’re saying to me, I unnerstand English real good.”

  Newt waited with rapidly growing impatience as Rikki crouched in front of the mirror, combed his hair, moved in dose to check his teeth, made sure his zipper was up. Newt watched him drag his shoes sideways on the carpet to give them a better shine. It was the slammer that did it to you, took away any sense of urgency, time passing faster than it should, and leaving you behind.

  When Rikki’d finally gone, Newt dialled room service and ordered a cheeseburger deluxe, glass of icewater. He hung up, left the room and prowled the halls until he found an ice machine. He’d forgotten to bring along the little plastic bucket, and was forced to carry the ice back to his room in his cupped hands. His suitcase held a fifth of Wild Turkey Kentucky bourbon. Newt poured himself a fat one and thought about how good it was going to feel to get the job done, head back to L.A.

  It was weird, how the caper had started. A couple of years ago he’d read about Frank in one of the Vancouver papers, given him a call and, more out of idle curiosity than anything else, offered him a job. Frank had turned out to be a real gem. He didn’t overindulge in drugs, kept his big hands off Newt’s bimbos and out of Newt’s cookie jar. What more could he ask, especially at the wages he paid?

  Then, a few months ago, Newt had been unceremoniously ditched at the tail end of a long and frustrating night by a woman with big brown eyes and black hair — a rarity in LA where, at times, it seemed as if everyone had sky-blue eyes and tangled blond hair and had been hatched out of the same vat. The woman had reminded Newt of Parker; set him off. He’d rambled on for hours about the Vancouver homicide dick and homicide jane who’d had such a negative impact on his life.

  Settled comfortably into his bourbon and deck chair beneath the late-night stars, Newt reminisced about the evening, about five years ago, that he’d exchanged gunfire with Willows and Parker and caught a .38 Special in the chest, had most of his hair burned off and got his Trans Am impounded. And how his daddy — bless his soul — had put up a quarter-million cash bail so Newt could skip if he needed to, and how a lawyer who cost a lot more and was therefore a lot smarter than the Crown Attorney had eventually got him off due to what the judge termed an unconstitutional delay in proceedings.

  Towards the happy end of his tale, Newt decided more or less on the spur of the moment that it’d be nice to bu
mp off Parker. Why he hadn’t told Frank to knock off Willows while he was at it, he couldn’t say. Probably because although both cops had been shooting at him, it was Parker’s round that had put him down, caused him such agony and pain. In any case, the idea of hitting both cops at once simply hadn’t entered his mind …

  Until now. Nah, forget it. It’d be impossible to whack both of them and make it look like an accident. Even the cops weren’t that dumb.

  The burger arrived. Newt ate it at the table by the window, washing each bite down with a measured mouthful of bourbon and water. Robson Square, the open space down at the far end of the Law Courts, was lit up by zillions of tiny white lights that hung from the trees like the sparkly bloated corpses of so many dead fireflies. Newt chewed on his burger and drank his liquor, watched the cars roll slowly by, the funereal drift of people on the sidewalks. Vancouver was a weird town. Laid back, but very tense, with the highest crime rate of any major city in the country. Newt smiled at a parking meter. Maybe that was why he felt so much at home, because of all the robbery and murder.

  He found himself thinking about Felix, his poor old dad, and the sprawling house he’d owned in West Van, on the far side of the harbour, high up the mountain in the British Properties. The house had a terrific view. You could see the whole city if you climbed up on the roof and stood on the chimney.

  Newt scooped up some bits and pieces of fried onion that had fallen out of the burger. He licked his greasy fingers, leaned over and wiped them dry on the bedspread. His favourite thing about the house in the Properties was the heart-shaped swimming pool in the back yard, with its walls and bottom painted hot pink, the underwater lights. Because of a couple of moonlit skinny-dipping episodes he’d indulged in, and the inevitable complications that followed, Newt found himself remembering Misha, his dad’s sly youngstuff sweetheart who’d done him wrong.

  What was that sleek beauty up to now? Badness, no doubt. Offences to the Criminal Code.

  Newt overreached himself trying for the telephone, fell out of his chair. Sitting on the floor, he dialled room service and, slurring his words somewhat, asked if they could fix him a banana split. No problem. Was the whipping cream the real thing, or out of a pressurized can? His choice. Newt ordered the latter, and then, as an afterthought, tossed in a request for a double order of onion rings.