Hot Shots (A Willows and Parker Mystery)

by Laurence Gough

  “Bachelor number two,” blared the television.

  Willows made a fist, thumped his knuckles repeatedly against the wood.

  Inside the apartment, a telephone began to ring. A moment later the television abruptly died.

  “Now,” said Parker.

  Willows pounded on the door. No response. The door was locked. He stepped back and kicked it, leaving black scuff marks on the yellow paint.

  “Who is it?”

  “Police,” said Willows.

  “Beat it!”

  “It’s about Oscar,” said Parker. Willows admired the effortless way she was able to raise her voice without seeming to shout.

  They heard the thud of a withdrawn deadbolt. The door swung open three inches and was stopped by a chain thick enough to anchor a freighter.

  “Lemme see your shields.”

  Willows opened his wallet; Parker dug in her purse. They held up their gold detective’s shields and the chain rattled and the door swung wide.

  “C’mon in. The place is a mess, but that’s the way I like it.”

  The ceiling was low, about seven feet high. Heating ducts from the furnace further reduced the height between the living-room and kitchen. Closed doors led to what Willows guessed was the bedroom and bathroom. It was hot in the apartment, the air dry and stuffy. He could still hear the television. The phone was off the hook. There were dirty pots on the stove and the smell of burnt meat permeated the air.

  “So what’s the problem?” Oscar Peel’s wife was a bleached blonde. Her hair was cut short at the sides and long at the back, combed into a froth over her forehead. She was about five feet tall and weighed maybe a hundred pounds. She was wearing a bulky burgundy cardigan and faded jeans cinched tight around her narrow waist with a silver-buckled cowboy belt, knee-length black leather boots. Willows guessed her age at eighteen or nineteen.

  Parker pointed at the telephone dangling at the end of its cord. “Did you want to take care of that?”

  “Oh yeah, sure.” Mrs Peel picked up the phone. “I got somebody here, they just dropped in. Call you back in a few minutes.” She hung up as she finished speaking, without waiting for a response.

  “It’s about your husband,” said Parker. “Would you like to sit down for a minute?”

  “Oscar’s dead, is that it?”

  Parker nodded. The widow Peel stared at her for a moment and then glanced towards Willows, as if seeking a second opinion, confirmation. A vent gushed hot air into Willows’ face. He blinked, moved to one side, took off his jacket.

  “We’d like you to come down to the morgue with us and identify him,” said Willows. He added, “But it’s Oscar, no question.”

  Behind the door that Willows had guessed led to the bedroom, there was a dull thud and then the sudden wail of a baby.

  “Oh, Christ. Just wait a minute, will you.”

  The widow Peel pushed the door open and went into the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind her. The crying doubled in intensity and volume. The door opened and she came out carrying a baby wrapped in a pale blue blanket. She sat on a sagging tartan sofa, lifted her sweater and gave the infant her breast, lit a cigarette, scratched at a sticky brown substance that had spilled across the arm of the sofa. “You gonna tell me what happened to him, or do I have to guess?”

  “He was shot through the back of the head,” said Willows. “Somebody executed him. We thought you might be able to help us find out who did it.”

  “I got no idea, believe me. Oscar was the kind of guy everybody liked, real easy to get along with.” She blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “I doubt if he had any enemies, tell you the truth. If he was shot, it was probably a case of mistaken identity.”

  “You think so, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised, really.”

  Parker sat down on the sofa. Mother and child ignored her. “She’s a lovely baby,” said Parker. “What’s her name?”

  “Rebecca.”

  The baby was switched from the left breast to the right. Willows had been caught looking. The grieving widow gave him a winsome smile.

  “Since your husband was shot four times at close range,” said Parker, “I seriously doubt it was a mistake.” She raised her voice, and this time it did seem as if she was shouting, even though she wasn’t. “Are you listening to me, young lady!”

  The ash on Tracy Peel’s cigarette was an inch long. It fell to the carpet.

  “If you know of any trouble that Oscar was in, a drug deal, somebody he ...”

  “Oscar wasn’t involved in drugs.”

  “Somebody he owed money ... Another woman.”

  “And he was a good husband. Hardly ever went out, was happy to stay home and be with the baby.”

  “Then why won’t you help us?” Parker said.

  “Because I’m scared what happened to Oscar could happen to me.”

  “Did somebody threaten you?”

  “Walt threatened me.”

  Parker sat down on the sofa. She risked putting an arm around the girl’s shoulders. She could smell hair spray, perfume, deodorant, nail polish, stale beer. She said, “Who’s Walt?”

  “My case worker. He’s with MHR. Warned me he had his eye on me. Said all I had to do was make one little mistake and he’d seize Rebecca.”

  Willows glanced around the tiny apartment, at the dirt and grime, unwashed dishes, overflowing ashtrays, the plastic bags of garbage stacked against the wall by the door. MHR was the Ministry of Human Resources. He sniffed the air, wondered where the diaper basket was and how long it’d been since the widow Peel had been to the laundromat.

  “If you think of anything ...” said Parker. She gave Tracy Peel her card.

  The door wasn’t quite slammed shut. The deadbolt thudded home, they heard the rattle of the chain. Parker started up the short flight of concrete steps to ground level, but Willows loitered, waiting for the blare of the television. “ ... bachelor number one, it says here that you’re an aspiring actor, and that you’d like to get involved in the production end of ...”

  The baby started crying again.

  “What d’you think?” said Parker when they were back in the car.

  “Notice how hot it was in there?”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “She was wearing a sweater. The sleeves rolled down. You heard the baby crying. Saw the way she handled her cigarette ...”

  “You think she was wired?”

  “That’s what it looked like to me.”

  “Up there,” said Parker, “and not quite ready to come down.”

  “Prime time junkie heaven.”

  Parker rolled down her window. “Oscar was a dealer.”

  “That’s right, he was.” Willows started the car and fastened his seatbelt.

  “Is that why you didn’t push her to come down to the morgue, because she was high?”

  “No rush,” Willows said. “They can fine-tune him after the autopsy, make him a little more presentable.”

  “You think she already knew about him, that he’d been killed?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me, the way she reacted.”

  Parker had a sudden, horrifying thought. “What about the baby, Rebecca?”

  “If Tracy’s an addict, and she’s breast feeding her, then the kid’s an addict too.”

  “A baby junkie.”

  “I wonder who’s dealing to her mother,” Parker said.

  “Maybe Walt can tell us.”

  “Just what I was thinking.”

  “Sure you were,” said Willows. He grinned. “But I said it first.”

  *

  Pat Nash waited until he heard the door slam shut, counted to ten and then cranked the TV back up. Hard to believe the way the three guys sitting up there on the stools were making fools of themselves. The broad didn’t sound too bad, had a nice sexy voice. But if they could see what she looked like, they’d trample all over each other trying to get out of the studio.

  Or maybe not.
Maybe they were the kind of guys who were willing to eat cold leftover shit to get on TV, a shot at a free trip to Burbank, wherever the hell that was.

  Tracy came into the room. Pat smiled at her. She looked so cute, holding the babe. It really turned him on, motherhood.

  “What’d they say?” he asked her.

  “Wanted to know who killed Oscar. Wanted me to solve the fucking case for them.”

  “What’d you tell ’em?”

  “Nothing, not a fuckin’ word.”

  Nash stretched out on the bed. “She’s gonna pick bachelor number one,” he said, “and believe me, the guy is the world’s biggest dink.”

  “Maybe that’s what she’s after.”

  “Hey,” Nash said, “don’t talk dirty.”

  The baby had gone to sleep. Tracy put her in the crib, pulled the little blanket over her body. “Think they know anything?”

  “What day it is, maybe.”

  “There were two of them, detectives. A man and a woman.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The woman was real pretty. She was wearing a dark blue suit, and she had jet black hair, glossy and clean looking, like a raven’s wing.”

  “I’ve always kind of liked blondes,” said Pat Nash. He patted the bed. “Get your ass over here.”

  “The way you sweet talk me, it’s irresistible.”

  Nash struggled to a sitting position. He drew up his knees and pushed himself backward, leaned against the wall. “We’re both nervous. A couple more days, it’ll be over.”

  “How much money did that guy Frank say we’re gonna get? What’d he say our share was gonna be?”

  “Twenty percent of a million. Two hundred grand.”

  “Can you trust him?”

  “More than he can trust me.”

  Tracy looked down at the sleeping baby. “It’s a lot of money.”

  “Not enough, baby.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  Nash reached out and grabbed her by the arm and pulled her on to the bed. He reached into the pocket of her ratty burgundy cardigan for her cigarettes, lit up.

  “Frank wants me to do Gary. I figure, why the hell not do both of them, while I’m at it? Take all the money. The whole million. Frank did Oscar, right? Shot him in cold blood.”

  Tracy Peel leaned in on Nash and rested her hand, fingers splayed, on his chest.

  Nash said, “Pow! Pow! Sweet dreams, Frankie.”

  “Gimme a kiss,” said Tracy. She could feel Nash’s chest hair, crinkly and stiff, beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. Oscar had been almost hairless. Even on his legs and under his armpits, there was hardly enough to notice. It was the one and only thing she hadn’t liked about him.

  Her mouth on Pat Nash’s, she wondered when the cops would come back, drag her off to the morgue to make her look at whatever was left of the only man she’d ever loved.

  21

  The telephone burbled, a soft, disinterested, happy sound — like a baby full of warm milk.

  Gary kept watching the game.

  Lazy bastard.

  Frank pushed himself up off the rug and ambled over to the bar. He picked up the phone and said, “Yeah, who is it?” He held the phone pressed up against his ear, frowned but didn’t say anything.

  Frank and Gary and the juicer were watching a ball game on TV, the New York Yankees and Oakland Athletics. Somebody scored, an Athletic, but Gary didn’t notice who it was because his eyes had glazed over. Bottom of the seventh inning and Billy Martin, who was the Yankees’ manager at the time, still hadn’t kicked dirt on any of the umpires. Christ, what was the game coming to.

  The TV broke to a commercial. A blonde girl wearing a slinky black evening dress and diamond earrings tried to sell them a Ford. Or maybe it was a Chevrolet. Frank still hadn’t said a goddamn word. Gary drank some beer. Snapped his fingers and lifted his eyebrows, gave Frank a look that said — Hey, what’s up?

  Frank paid no attention to Gary, he still hadn’t said anything. He was nodding his head as if the guy on the other end could see him and it was important that he seem to be cooperating.

  “Who the fuck is it, Frank?” Gary’s patience, what there was of it, had been exhausted in the space of about thirty seconds.

  Frank cupped his hand over the receiver. “Guy says he found something valuable that he figures you must’ve lost. Won’t say what it is. Says he found it last weekend, washed up on the beach in a plastic bag. Wants to know if there’s a reward.”

  Gary poked Samantha in the ribs. She gave him a look and he gave her that same look right back and said, “Take a hike, sweetie.”

  “Where to, Gary?”

  “Try the kitchen.”

  “What’m I supposed to do in the kitchen?”

  “Clean the oven, baby.” Gary gave her a nice smile. “With your tongue.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m leaving.” Samantha stood up. “You don’t have to be such a grouch, that’s all.”

  “Hey, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Gary rolled up his subscription copy of Time and whacked her on the ass, like she was a puppy that had made the mistake of baring its puppy teeth. He watched her skitter across the room and out the door. Sad to say, but it was getting to the point where the girl had just about worn out her welcome.

  Frank hung up. He glanced at Gary, shrugged.

  “Lemme guess,” Gary said. “Marcel Marceau?”

  “Huh?” said Frank.

  “What I’m asking, who the hell was it?”

  “He didn’t give me a name, Gary. Just said what I already told you, we lost something and he’s got it. And how much is it worth to us to get it back.”

  “You recognize the voice? Was it that sneaky little punk Randy DesMoines?”

  “I don’t know who it was. Not Randall, though. Guy said he wants to set up a meet.”

  “That’d be nice.”

  “The Varsity Grill, of all places.”

  “What, that place over on Tenth Avenue, we get the takeout Chinese, Special Won-Ton?”

  Frank looked at his watch. “You’re supposed to be there in ten minutes.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  “Just you, Gary.”

  Gary Silk chewed his lower lip. “What’s the nearest cross street?”

  “Trimble.”

  “Okay, I’ll drop you at Trimble a couple blocks below Tenth. You can trot the rest of the way, it’ll take you maybe two or three minutes. When you get there, sit down as close to us as possible.”

  “What if there’s no empty booths? That’s a popular restaurant, Gary.”

  “Then stand and wait, okay? Just like you’re an ordinary customer.”

  “I don’t like Chinese food, you know that.”

  “Jesus Christ!” yelled Gary.

  “Just kidding,” said Frank, wounded.

  In the garage, Frank got even with Gary by pretending he couldn’t find the keys to the Caddy. Gary made nasty metallic clicking sounds with his tongue. Frank put a stop to that by dropping his .44 calibre Magnum Research Desert Eagle on Gary’s foot. The gun looked big enough to shoot dinosaurs, and the weight of it sent Gary hopping and shrieking across the oil-stained cement like a demented little gap-toothed one-legged bunny.

  “You big dope!” screamed Gary.

  “Sorry,” said Frank.

  Frank pulled the Caddy over at Eighth and Trimble, across the street from the park. There was a church on the corner, but if God was home he didn’t have any lights on. Frank opened the car door and slid out from behind the wheel, stepped on to the street.

  “Wanna borrow my gun, Gary?”

  Gary said, “Hey, what kind of guy you think I am? The service is that bad, I’ll eat someplace else.” He slammed the door shut and took off, the Caddy rocketing through the intersection.

  “Is that a no?” said Frank. He started walking. The Caddy’s brake lights flared as Gary turned left on Tenth Avenue.

  When Frank walked into the restaurant, he saw Gary right away. Or rather, h
e saw the back of Gary’s head, the mousse or gel or whatever it was he used making his hair look slick and kind of slimy under the lights. Gary was in a two-seater near the back of the restaurant, down by the soft-drink cooler. All the other booths in the place were occupied. Frank sat down at the counter. A waiter ambled past and he ordered a cup of coffee and a donut.

  “No donuts. All gone! You like a cookie, great big cookie?”

  “Just coffee,” said Frank. He’d seen the waiter somewhere before, not in the restaurant. He recognized him, but couldn’t place him. Was the guy a cop? The way he carried himself, Frank didn’t think so.

  He was about ten feet away from Gary’s booth. Gary was digging into a bowl of Special Won-Ton. Using a fork. The restaurant was noisy, and Frank couldn’t quite make out what was being said. Gary’s dinner companion, obviously the guy who made the phone call, seemed to be doing most of the talking.

  Frank slurped his coffee and turned casually towards them. The guy sitting opposite Gary was in his late forties, dressed in a tan sports jacket, slacks. He could’ve been a cop, businessman, lowlife drug dealer. Helicopter pilot. Off-duty priest. Christ, anything. He looked up and caught Frank’s eye. Frank turned his attention to the television suspended above the last booth along the far wall. Bottom of the ninth and it was the Yankees over Oakland, seven to six. Frank glanced back at the guy in the suit. The guy was staring at him. Frank got busy with his coffee. There’d been something in the guy’s eyes — he knew what Frank was up to and plainly didn’t give a shit. Had it all figured out, it seemed.

  “You like the coffee?” It was the waiter. Frank remembered where he’d seen him. Or at least someone who looked like him — the guy who played Jack Lord’s buddy on that old TV series, Hawaii Five-O.

  “Coffee’s fine,” Frank said.

  “Want more cream?”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “You don’t like the coffee, I don’t charge you. Not one penny. Okay?”