“Pugs,” said Freddy. “It’s the third round, neither of ’em’s been hit yet. Care to make a small wager?”
Willows said, “The fight’s on tape. It happened last night, in Atlantic City. The black guy knocks out the white guy in the middle of the sixth.”
“Yeah?”
“It was in this morning’s paper, Freddy.”
Freddy was clearly amazed. He said, “I gotta get myself a subscription. No wonder I been losing so much dough!”
Willows helped himself to a bowl of shelled peanuts. He started towards the back of the bar.
Freddy said, “Hey, wait a minute. Whaddya say we make it a small bet?”
Willows slid into a booth near the emergency exit. He unbuttoned his jacket and sat there with his back to the wall, watching Freddy polish glasses. A couple of guys in ski jackets came in and sat down at the bar where they could watch the TV. Both men ordered Beck’s out of the bottle at five dollars a pop. Freddy started talking about the fight, pointing at the TV and shaking his head. One of the jackets said something. His buddy laughed a little too loudly, punched him hard on the shoulder.
Freddy popped the cash register, slapped a twenty down on the bar. The jacket covered the twenty with one of his own. Freddy gave Willows a conspiratorial wink.
The door swung open and Parker walked in. Willows knocked back the last of his Scotch. Freddy pointed at Willows, and Parker said something that made him smile. She started towards the rear of the bar. The sports fans swivelled on their stools as she walked by, then turned their attention back to the fight.
Parker slid into the booth, shrugged out of her coat. “Sorry I’m late. The roads are a mess. How do all those idiots ever get a driver’s license?”
Willows smiled. “Talk to a traffic cop — he’ll tell you that a lot of them don’t.”
Freddy arrived with Parker’s ginger ale, a fresh bowl of peanuts and another Cutty for Willows. He said, “I got the ski bunnies down for twenty. We’re into the fourth round. The white guy gets hit hard enough to wake him up. He’s looking so good they want to double their bet. What am I gonna say? People want to throw money at me, I’ll catch it.”
Willows hadn’t appreciated the wink, Freddy trying to involve him in his dumb-ass scam. He said, “If your liquor licence is only worth forty dollars to you, go ahead and sell it.”
“Excuse me?”
“The guy near the door works for the liquor control board. His name’s…” Willows frowned. He snapped his fingers, trying to remember.
Freddy laughed nervously. “You’re pulling my leg, am I right?”
“Why don’t you go take a hike, and see if you walk with a limp.”
Freddy gave Willows an irritated look. He snatched the empty peanut bowl off the table and hustled back to the bar.
Parker said, “What was all that about?”
Willows told her. Then, without preamble, he said, “Sheila isn’t coming back, Claire. Even if she did, it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference. She and I are finished. We’re through.”
Parker nodded carefully. She sipped at her ginger ale.
Willows sank half his Cutty. “I’d have invited you over for dinner, but I’m a little worried about Sean — I don’t know what kind of mess is waiting for me at home.” He hesitated, and then said, “But I was thinking, maybe we could do something a little later on…”
“What kind of something?” said Parker.
“Everything,” said Willows, and leaned across the table and kissed her on the mouth.
Chapter 26
After he left Susan’s apartment Chris made a beeline for a liquor store, bought a bottle of Johnny Walker Red. By the time Robyn arrived home from work he had a pretty good idea what the Scotch tasted like, and had managed to convince himself he’d brained the Mohawk guy strictly in self-defence.
Robyn sat there at the table, her generous portion of tuna casserole losing its gloss as Chris told her most but not quite all of the weird stuff that had happened in Susan’s apartment. He watched Robyn very closely as he selectively described the surprising turn of events that had occurred. By the time he’d come to the end of his tale of rainbow contraceptives and spilled champagne, he believed he had convinced her the Mohawk guy’s fate was inevitable.
Which was almost as good as desirable, hopefully.
Robyn turned her attention to the casserole. She chewed voraciously. Her eyes widened.
Chris said, “Something wrong?”
Robyn spat the food back on to her plate, snatched up her glass of Chilean white and put her mouth through the rinse cycle as she pushed away from the table and marched over to the sink. She spat again, vigorously, and patted herself down with a paper napkin.
Chris said, “Something is wrong, isn’t it?”
She gave him a thoroughly disgusted look, putting her whole face into it. “What’s wrong with you?” She stabbed a finger at the casserole. “Tuna?”
“It’s politically correct tuna. Read the label! They catch it with special nets, that aren’t dangerous to dolphins.”
“You expect me to swallow that?”
“It says so right on the can!”
“Show me!” Robyn tore a chunk off the end of a loaf of French bread, chewed angrily.
As far as Chris was concerned France’s nuclear policy was, at the very least, debatable. Just look at the way they’d pushed those Greenpeacers around! But Robyn hadn’t stopped drinking French wines or eating French bread, had she?
Sighing theatrically, Chris dropped to his knees in front of the sink. He yanked open the cupboard door and started rooting through the garbage. He was supposed to have removed the can’s paper label, then washed the can and crushed it and put it in the city-provided ‘blue box’ to be recycled into a motorcycle. But what was the point? The collection process was a sham and everybody from the mayor on down knew it. Ninety per cent of the city’s recyclable garbage ended up in the municipal dump.
He found the damned tin, wiped it clean of coffee grounds and placed it on the table. While Robyn perused the label, Chris picked up her plate and put it in the microwave, punched in ninety seconds on high.
Robyn said, “You’re supposed to recycle, Chris. Be good to the planet, and the planet will be good to you.”
“I recycled the Mohawk guy — isn’t that enough for one day?”
Robyn lowered her wine glass. She gave him a very serious look. “You said you knocked him out. Now you’re telling me you killed him?”
Chris went over to the kitchen counter and poured himself another shot of Johnny Walker. “He’ll be okay. I never whacked a guy with a champagne bottle before. It’s kind of hard to judge the weight. But like I said, he’ll survive.”
“And you talked to the woman — Susan?”
“Yeah, Susan. Susie. Sue, for short.” He knocked back the Scotch, looked darkly up at the ceiling through the bottom of the glass.
“And… what? You told her you wanted twenty-five thousand dollars to keep your mouth shut.”
“Well, that’s not exactly how I put it. I believe ‘Exercise discretion’ was the phrase I used.”
“And she hung up.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You should’ve phoned her right back. Kept up the pressure.”
Chris shrugged.
Robyn nibbled at the bread, sipped at her glass of politically correct Chilean vino.
Chris said, “It’s hard work, burgling. Prowling around in a strange apartment. Knowing you don’t belong there. Never knowing what you’re going to find around the next corner. You’d be surprised how tiring it is. By the time Susie slammed the phone in my face I was so worn out that my only ambition was to take a nice long nap.”
“You had enough energy to bash the maintenance man, though, didn’t you?”
“He was replacing burnt-out lightbulbs in the hall,” said Chris, “and then I put out his lights.” He tried a light-hearted chuckle, to let Robyn know he was just kidding, and
made a sound like a length of barbed wire being dragged through a rusty pipe.
Robyn gave him a motherly look. Jeez. He turned his back on her, and was pouring another drink when his fickle and wilful imagination suddenly transported him back into the bathroom in Susan’s apartment. The shower door thundered back on its rollers and there was the Mohawk guy, staring down at him as he lay curled up in the bathtub like a cowardly fish out of water. The ceiling fan grinding away overhead, spot lights blinding him. The Mohawk guy rubbed his chin and then dipped a grimy hand into the back pocket of his coveralls, came up with a foot-long screwdriver.
Chris scrambled sideways. The screwdriver’s blade chipped enamel from the tub. He swung from the hip and the champagne bottle caught Mr Mohawk flush on the ear. The screwdriver clattered in the tub. Chris lashed out again. The champagne bottle ricocheted off Mr Mohawk’s skull and hit the shower door, which exploded in a burst of frosted glass. Blood splashed red as ketchup across the tiled wall as Mr Mohawk collapsed in a heap. Where had the screwdriver gone? Blood poured from Mr Mohawk’s battered ear, and there was lots more blood leaking from a hole in Mr Mohawk that Chris couldn’t see. Mr Mohawk made gurgling noises. Blood trickled merrily down the drain.
Mr Mohawk had a look in his eye that plainly said he’d never make that mistake again…
Chris turned on the shower, adjusted the taps until the temperature was just right. At the time, he had no idea why he’d done it. But later it had all made sense, kind of…
The microwave beeped. Chris yanked open the door, scorched his thumb and index finger on the plate. The tuna steamed delicately.
Cursing, he pulled on a bright yellow oven mitt decorated with tiny red steaks, picked up the plate and put it down in front of Robyn.
She scooped up a forkful of casserole. She said, “You’re sure he’s going to be okay?”
“Pretty sure.” Chris turned on the cold water tap, held his wounded fingers under the stream.
“I hope you didn’t hit him too hard, Chris.”
“Yeah, me too. But don’t worry about it. He’ll be fine.”
But, just in case Mr Mohawk had cashed in his chips, Chris had used a pink and blue striped bath towel to wipe down the apartment. The way he saw it, if the cops ever did find a body, there was a good chance they’d assume Mr Mohawk had surreptitiously gained entry to the apartment with his master key, helped himself to a little too much bubbly and, inebriated, accosted Susan in the shower.
She’d slapped him down, naturally. Who wouldn’t? He’d gone after her with the screwdriver…
It sure sounded good to Chris. But what if Susan went back to her apartment? What if she called the cops? Would she risk drawing their attention to one murder and perhaps becoming implicated in another? Chris told himself the answer was no.
But who could tell, really. And if he had killed Mr Mohawk, well, what did he have to lose by knocking Susan off? Now, wasn’t that a horrible thought.
Robyn said, “Did you make a salad?”
Chris shook his head, no. He couldn’t help noticing that she seemed to be having a little trouble keeping him in focus.
He had drifted away on a sea of murderous thoughts, and he saw that while he had been gone Robyn had hardly touched her tuna casserole but had managed to drain the wine bottle.
He went over to the closet and grabbed his leather jacket.
“You leaving me again?” said Robyn. No doubt about it, she was a little on the tipsy side. Or, a somewhat less charitable way to put it, drunk.
Chris said he was going out to make a call.
“Why don’t you use the phone in the bedroom?”
“I don’t think that would be wise, Robyn.”
“How come?”
“Because, depending on how things turn out, we might not want the cops to be able to trace the call.”
“I’m going with you.”
Chris said, “Maybe you better not.” But she was already moving towards him, smiling.
She pressed up against him as she reached for her coat. “Gimme a kiss, big fella.”
Chris put his arms around her. She played with his jacket, rubbed up against him as she worked the zippers. He kissed her all the way down the hall, continued to kiss her while they waited for the elevator. He kept on kissing her as they descended to ground level and made their way through the lobby and outside, into the cold, cold world.
There was a payphone a couple of blocks away, near a Shopper’s Drug Mart. Robyn wanted to hang on to his ear but Chris told her she’d make him nervous so she went into the store to browse around, maybe read a magazine. He dropped a quarter, dialled. Susan picked up on the first ring, which Chris thought was promising.
He said, “Susan?”
“Yes?”
Chris said, “Is that you?”
“Who else would it be?”
A black kid in an oversized Chicago Bulls jacket and impossibly baggy jeans sauntered by. Chris said, “You know who this is, don’t you?”
The kid’s head snapped around. His baseball cap was on backwards, as were his pants, so it was a mildly weird effect.
Susan said, “Yes, of course.” She sounded very calm.
Chris said, “So…”
“Well, I don’t have a great deal of choice, do I?”
“That’s the way I see it. How long’s it going to take?”
“To get the money?”
Chris, tired of dicking around, said, “Yeah, that’s right. How long’s it gonna take you to get the money?”
“I already have it.”
Chris said, “Huh?” Recovering, he added, “All of it?”
“Every last penny.”
Her voice sounded a little different. Not much, but a little. Deeper, somehow. Chris mentioned it.
Susan said, “I’ve been crying.”
The kid in the Bulls jacket cruised past again, like a deconstructed shark moving in for the kill. He flipped a quarter high into the crisp neon-zapped air, caught it behind his back and gave Chris a triumphant look.
Distracted, Chris asked Susan if she had a pen and a piece of paper, then told her what he wanted her to do — put the cash in a brown paper bag and get on the SkyTrain at the Royal Centre station, and then…
Susan broke in, told him if he wanted his filthy money he was going to have to meet her at the east end of Trout Lake.
Chris said, “Hey, wait a minute…”
The kid in the jacket had moved in unannounced, was standing almost within reach, rocking from side to side on a pair of monster Nikes that must’ve added at least two inches to his height. But even without them, he was pushing six foot six.
The coin whirled high into the air, vanished in a huge black fist.
Susan, talking fast in that tear-stained voice of hers, told Chris she wouldn’t do it any other way — that she was going to be all alone, and was afraid he might overpower her, take the money and kill her. All the odds were in his favour, but this way she’d feel she at least had a chance. Was he afraid of her?
Chris said no.
The kid had put on a pair of oil-on-water wraparound sunglasses.
Susan told him to look for a litter bin down by the shore; a big green metal drum chained to a wooden post. She’d meet him there at one a.m. Sharp.
Chris said okay.
She asked him how she’d know who he was. Chris told her he looked a lot like Tom Cruise, except he had whiter teeth, a nicer smile.
It sounded to him then as if she burst into tears.
Chris hung up, moved away from the phone. The black kid swooped, sprayed the receiver with disinfectant from a pressurized can.
Robyn was at the cosmetics counter, sampling a new shade of frosted pink lipstick. She asked Chris what he thought.
“Nice.”
“Nice?” She made a face. “It’s supposed to be sexy. Or you could say decadent, or hot. Anything but nice. God, what an utterly limp word.” She paused. “You talked to her?”
“Everything�
�s all set.”
“It is?”
“It’ll all be over by a few minutes past one.”
Robyn said, “Mr Quick.”
Chris smiled. “That’s what they call me and that’s who I am.” He’d already decided not to tell Robyn that he’d caved in under pressure, agreed to meet Susan at the lake of her choice.
But come to think of it, he wasn’t at all sure he’d be able to find Trout Lake. Maybe it’d be a good idea not to search too hard. Maybe he should take a pass on the one o’clock meeting, take some time to think things over.
But then, what about Mr Mohawk?
If Mr Mohawk was dead, he was looking at arrest, a trial — the whole law-and-order shtick, and who could say what the consequences might be. He couldn’t see himself doing time. He’d been a little worried about the kid in the Bulls jacket. Imagine what it’d be like bunking down with a maximum-security prison full of genuine convicts.
On the other hand, the twenty-five grand would last a long time, in Mexico. Even if it turned out that Mr Mohawk was a little bruised but otherwise okay, wouldn’t it still be a good idea to blow town?
Naturally Robyn wanted to be there when he picked up the money.
Chris said no, he had to go alone. Why? Because they couldn’t risk spooking Susan.
She tried another shade of pink. “Like this one?”
“Hot,” said Chris.
“It should be. It’s called Frosty Pink Hot Melt, by Luscious Lips. You really like it?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Want to go home and try it out?”
Chris had scheduled a very serious meeting. He knew he should arrive early, check out the terrain. But Robyn was standing there, hip-cocked, giving him a mischievous grin, challenging him.
He said, “Tell you what. Why don’t we go back to the apartment and find out just how quick Mr Quick can be…”
He left the apartment at eleven-thirty, studied a map of the city as the Subaru’s engine warmed. Trout Lake was about four miles east and maybe twenty minutes or half an hour’s drive away. Chris scrubbed at the frosty windshield with a gloved hand, trying to clear the thin layer of iced-up condensation. He’d been meaning to buy a plastic scraper all week, but somehow hadn’t gotten around to it.
Killers Page 25
