Karaoke Rap

by Laurence Gough

  Ozzie had worked for the company a solid eighteen months, nonstop, if you counted in a two-month December-January layoff. He was already a senior employee. Eighteen months was far too long to be rooted to one small patch of earth, but he could see an end to it, at last. He wasn’t quite close enough to stick his greedy hand into the rainbow and watch his palm turn all those pretty rainbow colours, but he was getting there.

  He brushed sun-bleached hair from his forehead, rolled the can of Coke across his sweaty skin. His pale green eyes were solemn.

  Dean said, “Where we workin’? Down there on Third Avenue, above the beach? That one?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “Holy shit! You shittin’ me?” Dean enthusiastically slapped the table. He was about five-ten, maybe a hundred and seventy pounds. Short brown hair, wide brown eyes. No visible scars, not much visible education. Just your basic average-built guy.

  He gnawed on the remains of his sandwich a moment or two, mulling the happy news, and then said, “Just so I know we ain’t got our wires crossed, we talkin’ about that big fake-barn-style house, got the pool out back, the twin sisters with the blonde ponytails, were wearin’ them skimpy bikinis, from a distance you couldn’t hardly tell what was bikini and what was skin ...?”

  Ozzie resisted a sudden urge to corkscrew his fist into Dean’s teeth, knock him on his unconscious ass and hope he woke up about fifty IQ points less stupid. He lit a cigarette, tossed the match on the floor. No wonder, with guys like Dean wandering around, that rich people paid a whole lot of money for towering walls of stone. The sisters were prime. Looking at it from Daddy’s point of view, it’d be worth spending almost any amount of money to keep an amoral halfwit like Dean away from them.

  He stood up, slapped stone dust from his jeans, flicked cigarette ash onto the table and blew a double lungful of unfiltered smoke at the ceiling.

  “Let’s roll, kid.”

  Dean, his face full of mashed banana, glanced at the big round-faced wall clock over the door. He chewed desperately. His throat rippled as most of the banana slid down the chute. He said, “It’s only twenty-four minutes past twelve, and we didn’t even start lunch until almost ten past.” Cogs that were slightly out of sync threw off dull sparks as he struggled with the math. He said, “We’ve got almost another quarter-hour, Ozzie.”

  Ozzie said, “Yeah, but I was thinking maybe the twins might take a dip in the pool, about now.”

  Dean’s face lit up. The mere thought of those bikini-clad girls had turned him in an instant into a ball of fire. He swung his legs over the bench seat and stumbled to his feet and headed for the door, loudly sucking the last of the fruit from the gaps between his molars.

  Ozzie revised his estimation of Dean’s intelligence down to half a wheelbarrow full of rocks.

  Absolutely hopeless.

  And, for what Ozzie had in mind, dead perfect.

  4

  The sudden influx of deeply depressed detectives had chased all the usual customer-suspects out of the bar. Hours had passed, but the bar still belonged to the cops.

  The homicide detectives, Jack Willows and Claire Parker, Farley Spears and Dan Oikawa, and Eddy Orwell and Bobby Dundas, sat huddled over sunny pitchers of beer, frothy glasses, overflowing ashtrays. Shrouded in smoke and ill will, a couple of Bobby’s ex-pals from his recent vice-squad days leaned heavily against the bar. The constables who’d cuffed Fatboy had dumped their ill-fitting uniforms in favour of ill-fitting sports jackets, and were hitting on a near-sighted criminal psychologist who, Parker couldn’t help but notice, had let down her dyed-red hair and rolled up her skirt and unfastened the top three buttons of her blouse the moment she’d left the courtroom.

  Rumour had it the shrink was sleeping with both cops and that neither of them knew about the other. Nobody really wanted to know.

  Parker sipped at her bar wine, an imported red that was far too young to have been allowed out. She glanced along the length of the smoky bar, to the lonely table where the Crown prosecutor and his team of skinny, underpaid lawyers were drowning their sorrows with bottles of Coors Light, a bowl of corn chips, separate tabs.

  Orwell said, “Look at those guys, willya? Talk about cheap.” Orwell’s hard blue eye homed in on the Crown prosecutor, an emaciated, dour-looking scarecrow of a man named Gerald Kelly. Orwell said, “I ever mention I had lunch with Kelly, about six months ago?”

  “You guys had a date?” said Spears.

  “Fuck you, Farley. No, of course not. I ran into the stupid bastard at a deli, and he begged me to sit down at his table and eat with him. There was plenty of room at the table and I didn’t have to sit too close to him, and there were no other seats available anyhow, because the joint was packed, so I reluctantly accepted his invitation.”

  “What deli was this?”

  Orwell thought about it. “I dunno, I forget. What’s the difference? Anyway, point is, I sit down, I notice he’s got a free glass of water from the dispenser sitting in front of him, but no food. Then he makes me an offer to buy a quarter-share of my sandwich.”

  “Bullshit,” said Spears.

  “No, it’s the truth. Told me I looked a little overweight. Pudgy was the word he used, the skinny little fuck.”

  “The man had a point, you got to admit,” said Bobby Dundas, who was the only cop in the joint who hadn’t loosened the knot in his tie, and knew it. He winked at Parker, who ignored him.

  “Wanted half my dill pickle and a third of my potato salad,” said Orwell. “Had it all figured out what it should cost, right down to the penny.”

  “Bullshit,” said Spears again, but less forcibly.

  “No way. It’s God’s truth, I swear.”

  “On what?” said Bobby.

  “Your fat ass, cripple.” Bobby went a little pale around the eyes, but Orwell was too far gone to worry about it. He raised his glass to his mouth and tilted back his head. His throat moved. All but an inch of beer vanished from the glass.

  Bobby said, “My what? What’d you call me, mumble-nuts?”

  Orwell flicked the remaining contents of his glass across the table. Beer splashed across Bobby’s bronze-coloured suit.

  Bobby gave himself a shake. In the calm but exasperated tone of voice you might use on a two-year-old, he said, “I wish you’d quit doing that, Eddy.”

  “Doing what?” Orwell poured himself a refill. Beer spilled over the top of his glass. He licked his fingers dry. Orwell’s longtime partner, Ralph Kearns, had quit the VPD a little over two years ago. In the interim, Orwell and Bobby had worked two dozen homicides together. It was a union made in hell. Both men had desperately had wanted a divorce by the ten-minute mark of the first case.

  Bobby Dundas was movie-star handsome, immeasurably vain, ruthlessly single. Like W. H. Auden’s shop girls, he was often dressed in all his salary. Today he was wearing a new suit, a lightweight model in pure wool Teflon. He’d made the mistake of explaining to Orwell and the other homicide cops that the cotton had been dyed and then dipped in a vat of Teflon, baked in a high-temperature oven so the Teflon formed what he called “an invisible molecular shield” around the fabric. He’d claimed that liquid spills simply beaded up and rolled off, and that semi-solids like mustard or ketchup could be wiped away with a napkin.

  Orwell had immediately begun field-testing the new miracle fabric, and he was still hard at it, abusing Bobby and the suit at every opportunity.

  Bobby, slouched regally in his chair, was flanked by shiny aluminum crutches autographed by his wimp surgeon and those unfortunate nurses and the janitorial staff on his floor who had been unable to avoid him. Injured in an automobile accident a year earlier, Bobby had suffered through a slow recovery and then celebrated overly long and fallen down a flight of stairs and snapped both ankles.

  “Getting back to Kelly,” said Dan Oikawa. “What kind of sandwich was it?”

  “Corned beef on rye would be my bet,” said Spears. “Or maybe corned beef on corn.”

  P
arker laughed and Bobby, frowning, glanced at her and wondered what was so damn funny, but decided not to ask.

  Orwell ran his hand up over the bridge of his twice-crumpled nose and across his abbreviated forehead, a lump of scar tissue that was a memento of his beloved wife, Judith, scoring a direct hit on him with a cast-iron frying pan. His blunt fingers helicoptered over his close-cropped, wheat-gold hair. Lately, trying for a youthful spiky look, he’d been using a new brand of gel. He scrutinized the lacquer-like shine on his palm for a long moment and then said, “If memory serves, it was pastrami on rye.”

  Oikawa said, “Well, I don’t blame you for being upset. That’s a sloppy sandwich, it’d be real tough cutting it even reasonably exact.”

  “You cut, I choose,” said Farley. “That’s the way we used to do it when I was a kid, with chocolate bars or whatever, but usually some kind of candy. You cut, I choose; you cut, I choose.”

  “They still do it that way,” said Bobby. “In fact, when the knife was invented, it became an even more popular method.”

  “Except, modern life, now it’s I cut you and take it all,” said Oikawa.

  “Fuck you,” said Farley, speaking directly to Bobby. Now that his buddy Ralph Kearns had resigned, slipped the VPD. noose and slow-speed sprinted for greener pastures, Farley was the oldest detective in serious crimes. The oldest homicide detective. With Kearns gone, he felt vulnerable. Like he was gonna be the next cop who got sledgehammered, and there was a great deal less than sweet bugger-all that he could do about it. Except it was going to be a lot worse for him, because Kearns had jumped but he, Detective Farley Jason Spears, was going to have to be pushed. Pushed hard. He emptied his glass, wiped his upper lip and reached for the pitcher. Orwell got there first. He lifted the pitcher and condescendingly said, “Let me get it, Farley. It’s kind of heavy.”

  Spears slumped back in his chair, exhausted.

  Orwell said, “Anyway, Kelly. In the deli. We’re sitting there, both of us munching away. He’s got half my sandwich on half my paper plate, which he sliced up with his fucking pearl-handled switchblade. He’s drinking the top half of my coffee. Slurp munch, slurp munch. Content as a whole fucking herd of cows. The knife’s lying there on the table, pointing at me. What’s he trying to do, intimidate me? I asked him, where’s his wallet? He laughs, tells me it’s in his back pocket but there’s no point pulling it out ’cause it’s got a fucking padlock on it, and he forgot the key. I can’t believe it. I’m sitting there, my mouth hanging open. Fucking stunned.”

  “So what’d you do?” said Oikawa.

  “What would you do?”

  “Shoot him,” said Bobby. “In fact, better late than never.”

  “My gun’s in the trunk of my car,” said Orwell.

  “Shoot the trunk of your car,” suggested Bobby.

  “I heard Kelly was pretty cheap,” said Oikawa.

  “Cheap?” Orwell brayed. “Listen, the guy’s so fucking tight-fisted he never learned how to masturbate.” He glared benignly at Parker. “Excuse my language, Claire. Am I drunk?”

  Parker smiled. “If you’re looking for a volunteer breathalyser, forget it.”

  Orwell pushed back his chair, stood up, weaved elliptically, got himself approximately vertical. He spread his arms wide, as if to embrace all humanity. “I’m a happily married man and I want everybody to know it!” he screamed at the ceiling. “Except you!” he shouted, clutching at but narrowly missing a fishnet-stockinged waitress as she glided by.

  Willows quietly said, “Sit down, Eddy.”

  “Okay, Jack.”

  Nearby tables shook as Orwell collapsed into his chair.

  Bobby sipped his beer. Looking at him, he was a cucumber. Inside, he was a kettle on the boil. Steamed. The pressure building. If he pursed his lips, the resultant whistle would break every pint mug in the joint. The problem wasn’t the suit. The Teflon really worked. Bobby had tested it with a smear of his own blood, when he’d cut himself shaving that morning.

  No, the suit had proved impervious to all the beer and fruit and other junk Orwell had hurled at it all afternoon. The suit still looked as sharp as the day he’d bought it. The suit salesman had virtually guaranteed that the suit would be impervious to life’s little spills. He had explained in mind-numbing detail that the wool had been given an extra twist at the factory, turning it into a “nervous fabric” that always wanted to return to its original shape. Bottom line, no wrinkles. And the pants had a bead of silicon under the crease, so they always looked sharp.

  The problem was his creamy-white silk shirt, his fifty-dollar Italian silk tie. Bobby had tried his best to protect the shirt and tie with his suit jacket, but how could he be expected to maintain a status of full alert when he was surrounded by increasingly attractive women? The shirt and tie were taking a beating. They were a mess, a ruin. He resented it. Broken ankles or not, he was only one more spill away from dancing all over Orwell’s stupid, beefy face.

  Bobby glanced around. There wasn’t a cop in the bar — with the possible exception of Claire Parker — who believed Fatboy deserved anything less than the death penalty. Gas him, fry him, stretch him or shoot him, whatever. Just put him down, put him in the ground. But, once a suspect or perp had been arrested, there was no death penalty. Sometimes, that could be a problem.

  Willows, too, was thinking about Jimmy “Fatboy” McEwen. He’d been the primary on the case, had been there for every level of appeal, right through to the Supreme Court. At one point during McEwen’s long and arduous journey he had been granted bail. Willows and Parker had learned from a snitch that McEwen was planning to flee the country, and had obtained sufficient evidence to that effect to convince a magistrate to revoke McEwen’s bail. McEwen had been arrested in his kitchen as he prepared to dismember a roast turkey with an electric carving knife. As Willows had come into the kitchen, bulled his way through the splintered remains of the back door, McEwen had spun towards him, knife in hand. He’d been standing at the kitchen counter, to the left of the sink. Detective and murderer were suddenly close enough to reach out and shake hands. Willows was the tiniest fraction of a second away from shooting the teeth right out of McEwen’s grimacing mouth when the knife clattered to the floor. Willows’ chance to do what he considered the ultimate right thing had come and gone. And now Fatboy was free as a goddamn bird.

  He drank a little beer. He was acutely aware that Parker was watching him, knew that if he made eye contact she’d signal that it was time to leave.

  And she was right. It was time to get the hell out of there, away from the drifting smoke and aimless chatter, the sometimes vicious gossip, Bobby’s mustard-proof suit.

  The thing was, he’d had too much beer and it had made him feel gassy and bloated, a little sleepy. He needed a Cutty on the rocks, just one, a double, to put an edge back on his world.

  He checked his watch. It was quarter past four. His daughter, Annie, would be home from school by now. He should let Parker take him home, ask Annie about her day, offer to help with her homework. But from now until half past six the streets would be crammed with rush-hour traffic, drivers at their snarliest. It was reason enough to delay their departure for a little while. If Parker offered to drive, and he knew she would, he’d smile and whisper in her ear that she drove him crazy.

  He drained his glass and helped himself to the pitcher squatting in the middle of the table. Orwell was talking about Judith, again. What a wonderful woman she was, such a good mother to his kids. It had been almost six years since Eddy and Judith had first parted company, and in the interim she’d kicked him out and dragged him back at regular and frequent intervals. It was one of those special relationships. They couldn’t live with or without each other. The latest split had ended when Judith had told Eddy she was six weeks’ pregnant. He’d moved back that same day. Since then, the only significant change in their relationship that Eddy had remarked upon was the new sofa and matching love seat Judith had bought from Sears.

  The
fishnet stockings drifted past.

  Bobby looked right past her, didn’t even see her.

  Willows, curious as to what had deflected Bobby’s interest, turned and glanced over his shoulder. His inspector, Homer Bradley, moved implacably through the hilarity towards their table. Willows shifted a few inches closer to Parker, giving Bradley a little more room, as he eased his arthritic body into Dan Oikawa’s recently vacated seat. Bradley acknowledged the detectives with a terse nod. He sat there, outwardly relaxed. In his late fifties and nearing mandatory retirement, Bradley was still a handsome man. His eyes were dark and calm. He had a copper’s long hard nose and bushy black eyebrows, and for as long as anybody could remember, his thinning white hair had been combed straight back in a no-compromise style.

  The table fell deathly silent. It was as if Bradley were a human vacuum cleaner, come to vacuum up every last syllable of conversation. His smile took in the assemblage. “I hope nobody objects to me stopping by for a quick one.”

  A flurry of muttered denials. Bobby Dundas’ crutches clattered as he leaned forward. His voice was a degree too warm as he said, “A pleasure to have you with us, Homer.”

  Spears caught Willows’ eye, raised an eyebrow. Willows almost smiled. Both cops were thinking along exactly the same lines — that Bobby had pretty big balls, to suck up so cravenly.

  There was more, and worse, to come.

  Bobby pushed away from the table, snatched up a single crutch, and made a production of limping over to the bar. He snagged a clean glass from the bartender and brought it back to the table, poured his superior officer a beer and put the glass down on the table within easy reach of Bradley’s right hand.