by Trevor Clark
“What are you guys doing here?” she demanded.
“Who’s this roommate? I’m asking you again, girl,” Tyrone said, looking at her. He had a faint smirk so she’d know he was being mellow and not get pissed, but he wasn’t prepared to be ignored in front of his boys. His hair was in corn rows and he had a diamond stud in his left ear lobe, a couple of gold chains around his neck. Classier than when he was wearing that clock-on-a-rope thing like Flavor Flav. Even with the gap between his front teeth, he figured his good looks made him God’s Gift.
“And I told you—a roommate’s a roommate. A guy who moved in here to help pay the rent. I hardly see him; he works nights.” Marva pulled her housecoat tighter. “It’s almost three in the morning. What are you doing with those guns? Are you stoned or something?”
Tyrone went back to looking at the TV, then picked up a framed photo of her in hot pants and put it back down. “We’re going to make you a proposition. We want to bring some stuff over for you to keep, awright? Some merchandise nobody’s going to be looking for here. We gonna cut you in, so you be happy too.” It wasn’t a question. Being a natural-born hustler, he always adapted his way of talking to the situation. When he was explaining their fight to the police, it came off like he was a high school graduate and she was a crack whore. Everybody was a potential mark he had to con or intimidate.
“What—drugs?”
“Maybe some of that. I know you not stupid enough to do that shit, so I can trust you around it. Also, maybe some other things like car radios, CD players, DVDs, computer parts, shit like that.”
“A few guns too,” Ice said behind her.
Tyrone frowned at him. “Well, we see how this goes first. This roommate and that punk-ass boyfriend of yours—they both boning you, or what?”
Marva stepped clear of them. “What?”
“You doin’ the wild thing,” Rasheed explained. He aimedhis gun at the TV and pretended to spray the screen.
“I don’t give a fuck,” Tyrone clarified, cool and reasonable. “What I want to know is, you can hide shit and trust them to stay out of it?”
“My roommate doesn’t know what I do,” she said, “but my boyfriend’s still around, and he’ll be pissed off if he finds you guys here. He’s not going to like you keeping anything here, either. You know he’s got a gun too.”
“That don’t mean shit.” Tyrone put a hand to the side of his head, checking the weaves while he thought about it, then put his face up to Marva’s. “We gonna stick to the plan, and if you know what’s good, bitch, you gonna help us out, if’n you don’t want your boyfriend dead. I don’t care if he’s got a fuckin’ bazooka; he won’t know what’s gonna come down, when it’s gonna come down. And you might get capped too if everybody’s emotional, you know what I’m saying?” He stepped back. “You be cool, and we be good to you, awright? You’ll make some cash, and we’ll take care of you. And you won’t have to worry about anybody’s ass getting shot. All you gotta do is make sure you’re alone when we come back, and mind some stuff for us. Keep him and the fuckin’ roommate out of it.”
She stood there with her arms folded, not saying anything.
“We might be back, or I’ll call you when we’re ready. Be cool.”
Tyrone jerked his head. Rasheed got off the sofa, and the three of them took their time walking out the door.
22
Rowe took Lake Shore Boulevard east past Parliament and turned right on Cherry, which ran south to the tip of the jutting shoreline. It was a wide street, nearly deserted at that hour, with low buildings and industrial yards. They drove over a bridge and passed a hydroelectric facility with huge tanks behind a fence warning of guard dogs. Then an isolated restaurant. East down Commissioners a towering smokestack was visible near Carlaw, its lights blinking against a dark sky and grey clouds. Maybe the same chimney that he’d noticed from the bridge over the ravine up on St. Clair.
Despite the current crisis, Patricia remained in the back of his mind. Increasingly, she’d been quietly arguing with almost everything he said, but seemed strangely quiet after he’d administered what would have been the fatal blow to any other relationship. She’d still got in the last word there too, when he faked a hint of regret in her bathroom to circumvent a possible rape charge, and had been told again with what might have been condescension that he apologized too much. At least now he had a better idea of what she expected, anyway.
They passed a vast wholesale supermarket called Knob Hill Farms, and then the grounds of The Docks, a nightclub and entertainment complex to the west on Polson. Lofton asked him if he’d ever been inside. Rowe glanced past the fenced-in netting that contained what looked like a driving range, to the buildings on the edge of the harbour. He said no.
“Says they’ve got a swimming pool and golf.”
“I’ve never golfed in my life.”
“I’m a good golfer,” Lofton said, looking out the window.
“Fuck off.” Rowe glanced at him. “When have you ever golfed?”
“I used to golf all the fuckin’ time in L.A.”
The Firebird rumbled over a drawbridge. On their left, a small building near the edge of the canal housed boats under repair. To the right was Lake Ontario, where anchored freighters, tugboats and other ships were dimly visible in the harbour between Centre Island and the downtown waterfront. Beyond the docked ferries lights shone from the windows of office buildings in a skyline made distinct by the CN Tower and the SkyDome arena, which was bathed in a mauve glow.
They drove by a towing yard and office trailer, where a sign was posted on a double fence topped by barbed wire to keep out intruders. After that, a self-storage warehouse, equipment rentals, and a street to the east that seemingly led to another huge smokestack. Straight ahead, past some small buildings that might have been change houses or snack concessions, the beach was nothing but darkness.
Lofton’s face appeared in an orange glow as he flicked his lighter. Exhaling, he asked if this was the place. Rowe said it was.
“You just want to dump them in there?”
“It’s wilder past the trees to the right, where there’s more weeds and shit. Over there they might not get found right away.”
“There are probably bodies in there already.”
Above the road a sign said Clarke Beach. They drove slowly into the dirt parking lot. When Rowe turned to the right, his heart lurched as the Firebird’s headlights swept across a white police cruiser parked by the side. “Fucking hell—”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
Rowe felt short of breath as he made an unhurried U-turn and glanced in the rearview mirror as the cop car disappeared into darkness, half-expecting to see the panel of lights, or hear a siren whoop. Carefully, he stepped on the accelerator as they drove back out onto Cherry Street, wondering if he should boot it for the Gardiner Expressway.
Lofton looked back. “Good choice.”
“Maybe he’s busy with a hooker.”
As they crossed the small bridge, Rowe slowed down enough to take the Ruger from his coat and wipe it off with his shirt. He was putting it into the glove compartment with the barrel in the crook of his hand when Lofton shouted, and he swerved back from the curb. The knife, which he’d already wiped, was wrapped up in his other pocket. As he glanced in the mirror again he saw the squad car emerge from the parking lot behind them. “Christ.”
With the cigarette in his mouth, Lofton looked out the back window and adjusted the blanket on the corpse. “Go faster.”
“He’s not pulling us over,” Rowe said, checking the mirror. “I don’t want to look like I’m trying to outrun him.” The cruiser was gaining ground.
“Faster. Fucking step on it!”
“He’s not after us,” Rowe said, “but wipe off the Glock.” He inadvertently crossed the meridian as he looked back at the blanket, and was up to 60 KPH when they
heard the siren. The cruiser was behind him with its lights flashing. He slowed to turn right on Commissioners, uncertain whether to make a break for it, and kept his speed steady.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Lofton shouted.
“There isn’t enough traffic. We wouldn’t be able to lose him.”
“Fuck!”
Rowe sped up, then lost his nerve and put on his turn signal. He couldn’t concentrate. “There aren’t any warrants,” he said, trying to talk above Lofton, “and I’m not going to blow over. It’s just a traffic thing. He’s already got the fucking plate number.”
Lofton put his cigarette in the ashtray and opened the glove compartment.
Rowe saw the officer get out of the cruiser in his rearview mirror. The police radio was audible as the red and whites revolved in the empty street. “Put that away,” he said, grabbing Lofton’s arm as he was checking the Ruger’s cylinder for bullets.
They struggled over the revolver and broke apart as the cop approached, shouting, “Driver—step out of the car slowly with your hands in the air!” He was standing to the rear of the car with his gun drawn. “Driver first! Step out of the car slowly!”
Rowe sat there trying to evaluate the situation, but could see that everything was finished.
“Driver! Open your door and put both arms out where I can see them, then step out of the car slowly! Do it now!”
Lofton eased the short barrel over the edge of his seat while the policeman was shouting. Rowe suddenly shifted gears and tried to floor it as Lofton fired at the cop through the rear window, in a near-simultaneous discharge with the officer’s gun. The Firebird jumped the curb, bounced, and finally came to a stop when Lofton managed to throw it into park, hitting the dashboard.
The cop was down. Rowe was draped over the wheel. Lofton’s ears were ringing as he flicked on the interior bulb and pulled his friend back by the shoulder, to see that he’d been shot in the head. His expression was empty, and the windshield was a mosaic of blood and matter from the exit wound.
Lofton was trembling as he turned the handle. He started to walk over to the officer lying on the street, but climbed back into the passenger side and cleaned the inside of the door with his T-shirt and jacket sleeve, then the dashboard and gear shift. After that he checked himself for blood spatter, and picked up the Ruger and wiped it before putting it back on the seat. Now would probably be the time to distance himself from it. A skin follicle or something on the trigger could place him at the scene, but they didn’t have his DNA as they did his prints. He couldn’t remember holding the Glock.
He listened to the police frequency as wind blew down the empty road. The cop might have radioed for backup. He hurriedly wiped off the outer door handle and the edge of the roof, pondering the guns. They could still lead the police to O’Hara in theory, who’d sell him out, but he also had Marva’s people to worry about.
Lofton pocketed the Ruger. He then went over and picked up the officer’s Glock. Feeling its heft, he tried to find the safety before shoving it into his jacket. The cop, who had been shot in the chest, wasn’t wearing a vest and was now unconscious if he was even alive. It didn’t make much difference either way; if he hadn’t radioed in the fact that he’d pulled over two individuals, the detectives were going to piece it together.
He collected the other Glock from the car, took a final look at Rowe, and began a tentative, stiff-legged jog in the direction of the smokestack to avoid traffic. The area was not only desolate but exposed, however: a long barren straightaway with nowhere to hide, and no access to a bus or a cab. He turned and went back towards Cherry. His leg bothered him, but it wasn’t far to Lake Shore Boulevard and the Gardiner overpass; from there it was only a few blocks to the all-night King streetcar.
Lofton was sweating. He slowed to a laboured walk with a stitch in his side, looking away as an SUV drove past. It stopped ahead to make a left at the lights, the driver evidently unaware of the situation behind them on Commissioners.
When he was almost at the intersection, a cruiser suddenly rounded the corner in a wide turn, lights flashing, no siren. It was too late to hide, but they didn’t seem to have noticed him. He watched the car over his shoulder as it sped down the road, braked, and hung an abrupt left. He started a limping run again. All the buildings on Cherry north of the expressway would more than likely be closed; he’d have a better chance surfacing in a more populated area, and found a bicycle path that was partially concealed behind bushes along the south side of the Lake Shore between a chain-link fence and grown-over railway tracks.
Making his way further west, he heard sirens. There was a terrain of broken concrete and gravel hills behind a cement manufacturer. Billboards stood along the north side close to the Gardiner, where bright signs on top of the old Gooderham Distilleries for Kahlua and Canadian Club reminded him that he needed a fucking drink. An unmarked car with a temporary light on its roof raced by on the far side of the foliage.
Traffic was light. Lofton waited behind a pillar by the guardrail at the bottom of Parliament for a solitary driver to stop for the signal. He heard another siren which might have been that of an ambulance, and was about to try to make it to King when a woman slowed to a stop in the westbound lane. He started running across the street with a gun drawn, but as soon as she saw him her Mazda lurched forward and then raced away.
Lofton put the Glock in his jacket and ran over to Parliament as two more cars pulled up, and another turned onto Lake Shore. The street ahead was nearly empty. There were sirens in the distance, one of which was getting louder as he walked under a railway trestle and up the east sidewalk close to the wall, nearly out of breath, looking for an alley. He stepped into the doorway of a rust proofing centre and watched a cruiser speed across an intersection a couple of blocks north, towards Cherry.
Walking past a construction site and auto dealership, Lofton saw an approaching car and ducked into a tiny park. It wasn’t a cop. He ran to the middle of the road with his left hand up, aiming the Ruger at the driver. It still had two bullets. As the BMW came to a stop, he rushed over and gestured for the driver to get out. The man looked Italian, about fifty. He fumbled with his seat belt and opened the door.
“Hurry up!” Lofton shouted, looking around.
“What? What are you doing?”
Lofton grabbed him by the coat collar and tried to haul him out. When the driver was standing up, Lofton moved him around so that his own back was to the car, his gun pressed to the man’s chest. He hesitated, and then fired. The driver made a half-strangled noise as he collapsed backwards onto the asphalt and lay writhing for a few seconds. Lofton watched him grow still and was about to feel for a pulse or shoot him again when he saw another car coming down the street behind him. He climbed behind the wheel, shifted gears, and started driving. He watched the vehicle in the mirror stop by the body, but rather than getting out, the driver suddenly accelerated.
Lofton barely slowed at the red light, and might have burned rubber if not for the BMW’s grip on the road as he sped west on Lake Shore. The car behind him was an eight-cylinder boat, a Buick or something. They passed traffic going the opposite direction in the underpass. Lofton took the centre lane and shifted down, holding the wheel with his left hand, and tried to twist around, leaning out the window for a wild shot, but it was too difficult. The car’s handling didn’t allow for much give with the steering. He put the Ruger on the seat beside him and picked up one of the Glocks, turning the other direction to fire a volley of rounds through the rear window, which blew out much of the glass. The driver lost control and swerved into an abutment. Lofton heard the crash under the expressway as he shifted from third up to fourth again, and saw two other vehicles pull over. Now maybe there were no witnesses except the woman who got away.
As he passed Yonge Street he changed lanes and got onto the Gardiner ramp. With the rear window gone he didn’t want to chance driving all th
e way home, and decided to head back to Marva’s. Ditch the car as soon as he got off the Dunn Avenue exit, and walk over to Spencer.
It was 3:25. Adjusting the rearview mirror, he saw blood smeared on the side of his sweaty face and in his hair. As he reached for a cigarette he realized that he hadn’t cleaned out the Firebird’s ashtray. Even if they tried to match his DNA, however—and they would, Rowe having been the one to bail him out of jail—he wouldn’t need to deny having been in his car.
Lofton turned on the radio, passing billboards, lights and an industrial landscape north of the railway tracks below. He was going to have to tell O’Hara what was going on, since he and Rowe worked together and the police were bound to question him as well. He’d swing by the house to brief him, or take him out altogether and tie up one big fucking loose end.
He turned off and continued along Adelaide—a spare, less-travelled route between old factories and warehouses on the edge of the garment district—then up to Queen. Shabby looking bookstores, textile outlets, coin laundries and furniture stores were interspaced with pastel-coloured restaurants and the odd gallery.
Driving along Euclid, Lofton was dismayed to see flashing lights on the road ahead, and realized that squad cars were parked near O’Hara’s place. He turned into a driveway. There was a tremor in his leg as he backed out again, trying to keep it together.
23
Lofton was piecing it together as he drove past the old Palace Tavern on King. A neighbour might have heard O’Hara’s shots and later called police after seeing them carrying out what looked like bodies. Such suspicions wouldn’t have justified a warrant, however, and it was possible that the cops would have needed to persuade him to invite them inside if they had less than probable cause. But he wouldn’t have been that stupid. Not that a few hours would make much difference if they really wanted to investigate.
