Hot Shots (A Willows and Parker Mystery)

by Laurence Gough

  “Okay,” said Frank.

  The waiter bunched up his eyebrows and glanced over Frank’s shoulder. Frank spun around on his stool to look behind him. Gary was moving towards him, brushing past the soft-drink machine, his hands in his pockets and a toothpick in his mouth. Frank craned his neck to check out the booth. It was empty.

  “Where the fuck is he?” Frank said.

  Gary said, “Don’t worry about it, your face’ll go all wrinkly.” He handed Frank a brown paper bag that weighed about half a pound.

  “What’s this?”

  “Possession with intent. For a first offense, about five years in the slammer.”

  “Or half a pound of baking soda.”

  “Maybe,” said Gary, “but I don’t think so. I mean, what would be the point?”

  Frank dropped a dollar on the counter. They started towards the door.

  “We should’ve bagged him,” said Frank. “Gone to bed happy.”

  “Or got shot in the knee like Randall DesMoines.” Gary waited for Frank to open the door for him, stepped out on to the sidewalk.

  “He had a gun?”

  “An automatic. A twenty-two. Gave me a little poke in the belly when I sat down. Kept it pointed at me the whole time we talked.”

  “He got the twenty kilos?”

  “Found it washed up on the beach in West Van. Wants five hundred grand. He’s coming to the house tomorrow night, to do the exchange.”

  Frank’s broad face registered disbelief. “He agreed to come to us?”

  “You betcha.”

  “All by himself? And trust you to be a sweet guy and hand over the cash?”

  “He’s got a friend,” said Gary. “Also, a tape of the little talk we just had in the restaurant. We try to screw him, he isn’t out of the house two minutes after he walks inside, his pal phones the cops. Tells them what went down. Gives them the tape.” Gary shrugged. It was about as philosophical as he ever got. “He’s a fuckin’ businessman, Frank. His price is too low to haggle over, and he knows it. Anyhow, I figure the town’s so dry I can jack up my price, absorb the loss.”

  “Good thinking,” said Frank. “So you’re actually gonna do the deal?”

  “I’ve dropped half a mil in a weekend at Vegas,” Gary said. “The guy’s being reasonable. Just this once, I’m gonna do things the easy way.”

  “Half a mil,” said Frank. His shoulders slumped. He’d figured at least twice that much. On the other hand, looking on the bright side, a low number was all the more reason not to do a split with Nash.

  “What would you’ve done?” said Gary.

  “Told him five hundred grand wasn’t even close, he should’ve asked for a whole lot more.”

  Gary laughed and slapped Frank on the back so hard it made him break stride. They walked down Tenth Avenue to the car. Frank made a U-turn and took them home, to the house on Drummond Drive.

  They found Samantha in the kitchen, standing at the counter dropping Florida oranges into an automatic press, pouring the juice into a highball glass full of chunk ice, mixing Tom Collinses just about as fast as she could knock them down.

  “Make it three,” said Gary. He bent over her and brushed her hair back and bit her on the neck hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

  “Hey, what’d I do to you?”

  “Everything either one of us could think of,” said Gary. He slid his hand down the front of her sweater, winked at Frank. Frank looked away. Samantha kept dropping oranges into the machine. Gary held on for a few seconds, long enough to make his point, and then withdrew his hand from her sweater and wandered over to the fridge. “I hardly touched my Won-Ton. Should’ve got ’em to wrap it for me. Put it in one of them wax boxes with the wire handles. Want something to eat, Frank? A burger, maybe? With bacon and cheese, fried onions?”

  “It’s too late at night, it’ll make me dream.”

  “So?”

  “Give me indigestion, Gary.”

  “Bullshit.” Gary tossed Frank a two-pound package of raw hamburger. “Get cooking, kiddo.” He went over to Samantha and tousled her hair, making a mess of it. “Wanna burger, sweets?”

  “No thanks, Gary.”

  Gary made a hissing sound, like air leaking out of a slow snake on a fast road. “Make it three, Frank.”

  Frank was crouched down in front of the oak kitchen cabinets to the right of the sink, scrambling around like a goddamn maid, trying to find a frying pan. He nodded but didn’t say anything, not trusting his voice. And he kept his face averted so Gary couldn’t see the look in his eyes.

  Because if Gary saw what he was thinking, he’d head straight for the door. Frank didn’t want to have to play tag. Gary was too fast, because of all those miles he jogged. Anyhow, the time wasn’t right. Tomorrow night, Frank’d take care of Nash and whoever else happened to be around. Grab the heroin and money, and then hit Gary. Catch him flat-footed. Do him painful, but do him quick.

  Yeah, painful but quick.

  The three of them sat at the kitchen table and ate hamburgers and ripple chips and drank Samantha’s vague idea of what a Tom Collins should taste like. The meat was overcooked and there was too much gin in the drinks, but what Gary kept going on about was Samantha’s table manners.

  “Hey, baby. Slow down. What is this, a table or a fuckin’ trough? Frank.”

  “Yeah, Gary.”

  “She eats like a bird, wouldn’t you say?”

  Frank waited.

  “A fuckin’ pelican!” said Gary. His laugh was like someone slamming the lid down on a garbage can. There was chunky green hamburger gunk on his chin. He wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve. “Know what the Heimlich maneuver is, Frank? Where somebody’s choking on a big hunk of meat and you put your arms around them and give ’em a squeeze?”

  Frank shook his head. The Tom Collinses were giving him a monster headache, a real skull cruncher. He got up and went to the fridge, grabbed a Coors.

  Gary poked Samantha in the ribs, making her wince. “This the last meal of the summer? You stuff your face and then crawl under the table and hibernate till spring, that what happens?”

  Gary winked at Frank but Frank pretended not to notice, concentrated on pouring his beer. He’d seen it all before. First Gary started pounding on them with words, and then, if they didn’t take the hint, he went at them with his fists. The way Samantha was gnawing on her burger, Frank figured her for one of the smart ones.

  When Gary had finally finished eating and drinking and burping and being critical, he got down to business.

  “We’re gonna need a junkie. Somebody who knows how to appreciate a good rush.”

  “Or a chemist,” Frank said. “You think he messed around with the dope?”

  “Why would he risk it? On the other hand, why should we take the chance? Give Randall a call and tell him to send somebody over.”

  “When?” said Frank.

  “Tomorrow night.” Gary was stroking Samantha’s arm, his hand crooked like a big spider, his fingernails leaving pale streaks in her flesh. “Tell Randy I want him here at ten o’clock sharp.”

  “Maybe,” said Frank slowly, “it’d be a good idea to have Pat Nash here, too.”

  “Why?”

  Frank rubbed his chin. He said, “Nash owes you a big one. All those people around, maybe you could use him.”

  Gary thought about it. He said, “You worried about Randy, is that it?”

  “And the businessman. We don’t really know who he is, anything about him. You said he’s got a gun. Maybe he plans to use it.”

  Gary leaned back in his chair. One of the Siamese cats wandered into the kitchen. It saw Gary and hurried out. “Okay,” Gary said. “Give Nash a call, too.”

  “I’ll go have a beer somewhere,” said Frank. “Use a payphone to call Randall.”

  Gary nodded. He had his nails deep into Samantha’s arm, was getting himself all lathered up.

  Frank stood up, patted himself down. He turned his pockets inside out, frowned hi
s displeasure.

  “What?” said Gary.

  “The phone call,” said Frank. “I ain’t got any change. Can you lend me a quarter?”

  Gary leaned over and grabbed Samantha’s purse and zipped it open, rummaged around inside.

  Frank drove Gary’s Caddy down Tenth, turned right on Dunbar. At Dunbar and Thirtieth there was a neighborhood pub, a wine and cheese joint. Frank ordered a cold plate and pint of draft beer. He drank half the pint, studied the clock over the bar. Five past eleven. He glanced at his watch. Check. There was a pay phone by the door. He got Randall DesMoines’ number out of his wallet and punched buttons. He couldn’t tell if the phone was ringing or not because of the TV over the bar, plus an old couple in a corner singing mournfully in a language he’d never heard before, but was maybe Gaelic, because they were both wearing tams.

  A voice, shrill as a tin whistle, sounded in his ear. He said, “Lemme speak to Randall.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Tell him, Frank.”

  “Frank who?”

  “Frank Lloyd Wright.”

  The girl giggled. “Mr Right, huh. I knew you’d come along sooner or later.”

  Frank went back to his table and drained his pint, signalled to his waitress for a refill. When he got back to the phone, Randall was waiting for him, whining apologies.

  “Who was the bimbo?” Frank said.

  “I dunno. Just somebody wandered in. A party girl, know what I mean?”

  “No idea,” said Frank. He could hear Michael Jackson in the background, the percussive thud of drums. Randall had a weird taste in music. “Turn that shit off,” Frank said.

  The music died instantly. Randall must’ve had a remote control.

  “What’s up, Randall?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Gary wants some company.”

  “No shit,” said Randall. “You mean a real woman, all growed up? Way I heard it, he likes to cruise the juice bars and ice-cream parlors. Skim the young stuff.”

  “This is business,” said Frank. “Remember the guy in the hotel?”

  “Whenever I take my doberman for a walk. I get ahold of him, Tyson’s gonna have himself a real good time.”

  “Who?” said Frank.

  “My dog. Tyson. I named him after the boxer.”

  “What boxer? Didn’t you just say he was a doberman?”

  “I said he ...” Randall hesitated. “You pulling my leg?”

  “And you can make book it’s the only part of you I’ll ever pull.” When Frank finally stopped laughing he said, “We just spent some time with the guy who popped you. A natural-born salesman, real smooth. Gave us back some of our product. Gary wants to run a test, see if it’s tasty as it looks.”

  “I know a chemist,” said Randall. “Give him a couple twists, he’ll take care of you.”

  “Bring a woman. Gary wants to watch her shoot up, see what happens.”

  “I don’t much like that idea,” said Randall. “That girl Moira’s still fresh in my mind, know what I mean? Jeez, I’d hate to lose another one.”

  Frank waited. After about ten seconds, Randall caved in. “What time you want her there?”

  “Ten o’clock sharp.”

  “It’s already past eleven!”

  “Tomorrow night, Randall. That give you time to get organized, or should I tell Gary you can’t make it?”

  “We’ll be there,” Randall said.

  Frank disconnected. He used another of the juicer’s quarters to dial the number Pat Nash had given him. A woman answered. Frank asked for Nash. She asked him who was calling. He didn’t say anything. The phone made a clunking sound. In the background, he could hear what sounded like a baby crying. Nash came on the line. Frank told him where and when. He hung up and went back to his table. Still a nice head on his beer. He sipped. It was twenty past eleven. Gary’d be wondering where he was. Well, fuck Gary. The Caddy was a V-6 and had about as much acceleration as a wheelbarrow, but he could still make it back to Drummond Drive in under ten minutes, if he hit the lights. He got home a little late, he’d lie and say the line was busy, he had to call back.

  He tilted his head back and emptied the pint, caught the waitress’ eye. He was pretty thirsty, for a guy who did his best work when he was sober. He told himself all he was doing was trying to drown the godawful hamburger Gary had stuffed down his throat, but that wasn’t it and he knew it.

  Truth was, Gary was driving him to drink.

  Truth was, Frank could hardly wait to blow the dumb bastard right off the face of the map.

  22

  Half a ring, and then the answering machine cut in.

  “You there, Parker?” It was Sergeant Curtis, of the Marine Squad.

  It was early, a few minutes past seven. Parker was in the kitchen, waiting with dwindling patience for the last of her breakfast coffee to dribble through the filter and into the pot. She stared at the answering machine, the slowly turning cassette.

  There was a pause, and then Curtis said, “I’ve been trying to get in touch with Jack. He isn’t answering his phone.”

  The toast popped. Parker reached for the butter.

  “Reason I’m calling,” said Curtis, “Removal Services just returned Oscar Peel’s body bag. I don’t know if you were aware of this, but they always clean the bags before they give them back to us.”

  Parker poured coffee into two mugs, added cream from a black and white container in the shape of a cow.

  The machine continued to run as Curtis said, “I gave Leyton the job of stowing the bag back in the boat. He found something I think you’ll find pretty interesting.”

  Parker waited, knife in hand, over the cooling and forgotten toast.

  “Give us a call,” said Curtis, and hung up.

  *

  What Leyton had found in the bottom of the body bag was a rectangle of polished metal about three inches wide by five inches long and approximately half an inch deep. In the middle of the rectangle were two jagged, rusting stumps. There was an engraved inscription:

  3rd Place

  Men’s Singles

  1988 Inter-City Squash Championships

  “It’s the base of some kind of trophy,” Curtis said.

  “You play squash?” said Willows.

  “Not really.”

  “Know anybody who does?”

  “Nope.”

  Willows looked at Constable Leyton, who grinned and said, “I feel the need for some exercise, I walk the dog around the fire hydrant down at the end of the block.”

  “Try the daily papers,” said Parker. “The sports columnists.”

  Willows picked up the phone and started dialling. No one at either of the city’s two major dailies would admit to any knowledge of the tournament. Both papers were owned by the same company and shared the same building. Willows asked if he could gain access to the library to research back issues. He was told it was possible, but he’d be required to pay a thirty-dollar per hour fee. It was also necessary to get clearance from the Head Librarian, who was on holiday and not expected back until the end of the following week.

  Willows disconnected. He turned to Curtis. “Got a Yellow Pages?”

  Curtis slid open a drawer, handed Willows the phone book.

  Willows turned to Health Clubs. Walked his fingers down the page until he found a local club that had squash courts, dialled the number.

  “Bodyworks, may I help you?” A woman’s voice, thin and chirpy, professionally cheerful.

  “This is Detective Jack Willows, Vancouver Police. I want to talk to your squash pro.”

  “Jay?”

  There was a pause.

  “I’d like to ask him a few questions, that’s all. About a local tournament.”

  “Jay’s from back east. Toronto. He moved here just a few months ago. I really don’t think ...”

  “Tell him I’d like to talk to him, will you.”

  “He isn’t in at the moment. As a matter of fact, he isn’t due to start w
ork until four o’clock.”

  “What’s his home number?”

  “One moment, please.”

  Willows heard the shuffling of paper. The telephone clattered on the desk.

  He hung up, dialled the number of another downtown fitness club. The pro had been let go. Lack of demand. Willows explained his problem. He was given another number, and a name. He dialled and got a busy signal. Slammed the phone down.

  “We had a direct line to everywhere,” said Curtis, “just think of the time we’d save.”

  Willows tried the number again. The phone rang five times, was picked up by a kid with a lisp, who sounded about ten years old.

  “UBC Squash Courts.”

  Willows identified himself. “I’d like to speak to Rich Woodward.”

  “He isn’t here.”

  Christ. “Do you know where I can reach him?”

  “He could be in the gym. Try the weight room. Or maybe the pool.”

  “Is there a phone?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Is there a phone number for the gym or pool?”

  “Oh yeah, sure. Hang on a minute.”

  Willows was given two numbers. Rich Woodward hadn’t used the weight room. He’d just left the pool.

  “Do you know where I might be able to reach him?”

  “Probably the squash courts. Want the number?”

  A different kid answered when Willows called back. Willows identified himself and said he’d been told that Woodward was on his way over. Would the kid please tell him that Willows wanted to ask him a few questions and should be there within the hour?

  “No problem. He’s got two forty-five minute bookings. Reserved the court for an hour and a half, is what I mean. It’s a regular thing with him, six days a week. He’ll be playing until ... lemme see ... about half-past twelve. After that he’ll ...”

  Willows hung up. Parker and Curtis stared idly out the window. Willows scooped up the evidence bag, stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He started for the door.

  “Drop by some time,” Curtis said to Parker. He smiled. “We’re on duty until midnight, be glad to take you out for a tour. The harbor looks real nice by starlight.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” said Parker. Through the open doorway, she could see that Willows was already halfway to the car.