Karaoke Rap

by Laurence Gough

  The crutches clattered on the carpet. Bobby said, “Everybody having a good time?”

  “We’re having an absolutely wonderful time,” said Judith. She elbowed her husband forcefully in the ribs. “Stop glaring, Eddy. It makes you look near-sighted.”

  Bobby tried to look down Parker’s dress. He said, “I heard Cappalletti got out on bail.” Bobby rested his hand lightly on Parker’s shoulder as he leaned forward to make eye contact with Willows. “There’s no justice, not in this fucking world. Right, Jack?”

  Willows nodded tersely. He hated it when Bobby said something he couldn’t find fault with. Jake had been questioned at length about his missing “associate,” the guy who’d ducked into the Stone Pony, and vanished. Was that Marty? What was in the suitcases? A change of clothes, mountain of cash? The typical TV villain always waived his right to a mouthpiece. Jake had refused to say a word except under advisement of his lawyer, who happened to be the highest-priced sleazeball in a town stuffed to the rafters with high-priced sleazeballs. The lawyer had convinced a magistrate that Jake was old and feeble and probably suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer’s. He’d argued that Jake was incapable of fleeing his home, much less the city or even the country. The gullible magistrate had granted Jake bail.

  Would Jake skip? Probably not. At first glance, conviction looked like a done deal. But Jake’s hammerhead lawyer had let slip a rumour that Harold Wismer owed Jake a lot more than the pile of newspapers and fifty grand that’d been in Joan’s suitcase. The mouth insisted that the debt could be verified via a paper trail. He swore on his mother’s urn that Joan had attempted to avoid her contractual obligations by setting Jake up for the snatch.

  But where was Harold? Was he alive, or dead? Ask Joan, advised Jake’s lawyer from the side of his mouth.

  What had happened to Harold’s girlfriend, Melanie Martel?

  Where was Melanie’s boyfriend, Marty?

  Where was Steve, the kid who was responsible for washing Jake’s stable of expensive imported automobiles?

  Good questions, but Jake wasn’t talking.

  Axel Munsch had been packing a matt-black nine-millimetre Clock loaded with military-surplus hardball rounds — not Black Talon hollowpoints — when he’d been “drilled ’n’ spilled” by the ERT sniper. The Clock had been stolen a year earlier during a break-in at the Quebec City pied-à-terre of a locally prominent separatist politician. How the weapon had fallen into Axel’s hands was just one more question he was far too dead to answer. All that mattered to Willows was that there was no obvious connection between Axel and Sean’s shooting.

  Glancing around the crowded bar, he caught the eye of a robbery-squad cop named Pat Hickler. Hickler waved him over. Willows advised Parker that he was going to go over and say hello, and Parker said she thought she’d join him. Hickler introduced them to his girlfriend, a red-haired woman named Sandra, who was a criminology student at SFU. Mel Dutton and pathologist Christy Kirkpatrick joined the group. Freddy was waylaid as he tried to slip by with a tray of drinks destined for a clutch of vice-squad cops. Kirkpatrick amused Sandra with a true story about a suicide who’d fired two shots, both of them instantly lethal, into his brain. Sandra was still trying to work out the puzzle when Orwell shouldered his way into the discussion.

  Orwell had finished writing his lyrics and was recruiting volunteers to perform his rap song.

  Sandra said, “Let’s have a look at that ...”

  All three vice-squad cops volunteered. So did Kirkpatrick, when he’d put on his glasses and read the lyrics. Orwell tried to con Parker and Willows into singing along. Willows declined, but Parker accepted.

  Orwell assembled the group into a short column, and told them to follow along, snapping their fingers and swaying, crying out “Yeah!” or repeating a line, according to the simple directions that accompanied the lyrics. The least drunk of the vice cops tried to drop out, but his buddies wouldn’t let him. Orwell had brought along a portable tape player almost as big as the largest of Joan Wismer’s tartan suitcases. He adjusted the bass and cranked up the volume.

  All conversation instantly ceased.

  Orwell slipped a black sweatband over his head. He handed identical headbands and pairs of impenetrably dark sunglasses with heavy black plastic frames to his backup singers. He put on his own sunglasses.

  The thump of the bass and the percussive thud of drums shook motes of dust and unwary insects from the ceiling.

  A vice-squad cop began to snap his fingers in time to the music. The others joined in. Spears of purple light flashed off the sunglasses. Orwell snatched a pint glass of beer off a table and drank it down in one long gulp. He tossed the empty glass into the crowd and shouted, “This’s a little tune I wrote, called ‘White Man’s Rap.’ Hope you like it, folks!”

  There was scattered applause, all of it from Judith.

  Orwell struck a pose. He thumb-jabbed his chest. His muscular body swayed and twisted. The words he’d laboured over so long and hard burst from him like chunks of white-hot metal.

  I’m just a middle-class white

  kinda average bright

  Had it totally made

  then suddenly I was afraid

  fear as sharp as a knife

  for my kids and wife

  and nice green lawn

  you cruise by in your car

  take a shot and it’s gone

  you’re somebody’s nightmare

  and I can see it

  but I ain’t gonna be it

  gonna serve and protect

  my cat named Fluff

  and every last piece

  of middle-class stuff

  that’s scattered all over my house

  and all over my yard

  if you try to take it

  I would take it hard

  so if you think

  from violence I’d shrink

  go ahead and try me

  ’cause I won’t roll over and die

  I bought a nine-mil baby

  been down on the range

  learned to shoot real straight

  at anybody strange

  so if you think

  that you so bad

  c’mon down to my ’hood

  and I’ll stitch you up good

  lemme show you my scene

  lemme make it clear

  that a middle-class white

  kinda average bright

  with a new semiauto

  in his fist

  can give yo’ life a brand-new twist

  yo’ boots and jeans and pre-stressed leather

  ain’t gonna protect you

  from my kinda weather

  so stay offa my block or

  me and my pistol’s

  gonna roll ’n’ rock

  I’ll blow out your tires

  I’ll shatter your glass

  I’ll shoot out your eyes

  I’ll puncture your ass

  There was a raucous burst of applause as Orwell took his bow. It was impossible to say if the crowd was applauding the music or the end of the music. Orwell said something to his backup group that didn’t go down well. One of the vice-squad cops took a swipe at him. Hickler grabbed the cop from behind and advised him to behave himself. Sandra shouted at Hickler that Orwell was reneging on his promise to let them keep their sunglasses.

  Orwell easily slipped a sweeping roundhouse right. He countered with a wild left hook that caught Christy Kirkpatrick flush on the chin. The elderly pathologist toppled sideways onto a table crowded with thirsty cops and full pitchers of beer. The cops fell back in sodden disarray, upsetting another table, several additional gallons of beer and a few more hornet-tempered detectives.

  Almost every cop in the bar rushed eagerly towards the growing fray.

  A cop named Lambert bent to pick up an overturned chair. His intent was deliberately misconstrued. He was knocked flat and snatched up and knocked flat again.

  An aluminum crutch thudded against a skull to
o thick to notice. A woman whooped a joyful battle-cry.

  Freddy waved to Willows and Parker as they sauntered past him on their way to the door. Willows had his arm around Parker’s narrow waist, and she was leaning into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

  Freddy couldn’t remember when they’d looked happier. He gave them a few moments to get clear, then speed-dialled 911.

  47

  Marty was a professional — a good soldier. Following Jake’s plan, he had pushed in through the Stone Pony’s front door, trotted gingerly past the glass display cases, and out through the back door. He was heartened to discover a battered dumpster exactly where Jake had said it would be. He tossed the empty tartan suitcases and Axel’s favourite black leather jacket and Steve’s mirror sunglasses into the dumpster and walked west towards the Kids Only Market at a pace a heartbeat slower than suspicious. Beneath the discarded leather jacket he’d worn a pumpkin-orange nylon wind-breaker with a Grizzlies cap stuffed in the pocket. He smoothed out the cap and put it on, scrutinized himself as he strode briskly past a plate-glass window.

  It was an excellent disguise. A minute ago he’d looked like everybody’s idea of a mobster. Now he looked like a wilfully unsuccessful geek. Passing another window, he tucked in his chin and slumped his shoulders.

  Jake had originally given the Stone Pony role to Axel. Who could blame him? Why would he choose to put Axel in a situation where it was just him and Jake and several million dollars? Marty had worked hard to convince Jake that not even Axel was moronic enough to try to scoot when he was weighed down by hundreds of pounds of money.

  Besides, where would he go? Marty reminded Jake that he’d be waiting for them at the entrance to Granville Island, and that he’d be heavily armed, and that Axel knew it.

  There had been a moment, just as they were approaching the point of no return, when Jake had locked eyes with Marty, allowed Marty to look deep into his wizened old soul.

  Marty had been shocked to realize that the old man understood full well that his number-one hood had no faith in his plan. Jake knew all of Marty’s thoughts. He knew Marty believed that Joan Wismer wasn’t playing it straight, that there was a good chance the cops were going to take them out. It was clear from the look in Jake’s rheumy eyes that he was fully aware that Marty had the best chance of getting away, if Joan had called the cops.

  Jake had smiled warmly at Marty. He’d winked at him, and waggled his cigar. It was as if he were saying goodbye.

  Marty’s intention, now that he’d deflected at least a few of the cops from Jake, was to stroll briskly towards the Kids Only Market near the entrance to the Island, and buy a toy that merited a large bag. Bag in hand, he’d stand around looking like a proud parent until the Rolls showed up. At which time he would hop aboard, all set to blow a hole in Axel.

  If the cops were in hot pursuit of the Rolls, he’d go straight to plan B, once he’d figured out what it was.

  He hadn’t walked a block when he heard a single rifleshot. The sharp crack of the shot made a flock of pigeons veer off course. The sound hit the enormous metal gridwork of the bridge and was torn to shreds and flung back, a tattered, much-diminished echo that sounded like a volley of small-calibre fire that had travelled a great distance.

  Marty’s heart lurched.

  He should never have left Jake with that dumb fuck Axel.

  Now what? He forced himself to keep walking. The second shot never came. He rounded a corner and there was the Kids Only Market.

  He took his Rolls-Royce keyring out of his pocket. He slid a single brass key off the ring. As he walked past a gold-coloured Toyota, he tossed the keyring so it skittered beneath the car.

  He hoped — he came close to praying — that Jake was okay, that it was Axel who’d caught the bullet. Either way, he and Jake were finished. He loved the old man but he wasn’t about to let himself be dragged down by love. Not when he could fall so far.

  A cab cruised past. Marty cursed and screamed, but the driver ignored him. Directly behind the cab was a white-with-blue-trim Chevrolet four-door with twin whip antennae, light bar, steel cage. The cop in the shotgun seat gave Marty a quick up-and-down. He said something to his partner.

  Marty kept walking. Not fifty feet away a woman was bent over the open trunk of an older-model BMW. The car’s engine was running. If the cops took an interest in him, he’d fire a quick five-or six-round burst through the side window and door of the patrol car, sprint for the BMW.

  The patrol car slowed and then came to a full stop, brake lights flashing a hysteria-inducing red. Marty hesitated. The cop in the shotgun seat pointed at him. Marty spun the Grizzlies cap around on his head so the bill pointed sideways. He partially unzipped his pumpkin-orange jacket. The cop’s gesture indicated he wanted Marty to step in front of the car.

  For what — so they could run him over?

  Marty was a fraction of a second away from drawing his pistol when he saw that the cops had stopped to avoid rear-ending the taxi. The taxi’s rear nearside door was open. The driver waved at Marty, urging him forward.

  Marty smiled at the cop. He pressed his forearm against his belt to stop his pistol from dropping down his pants, as he jogged light-heartedly towards the taxi. He climbed inside.

  He reached out and shut the door.

  The cabbie wore a rumpled plaid shirt with a frayed collar. He needed a shave, but it looked like it was a twice-hourly occurrence.

  He dropped the flag and spat and accelerated down the pedestrian-clogged street. Mimicking the phrase that Microsoft had made tedious, he asked Marty where in the world he wanted to go today.

  Marty dropped a crisp new fifty on the front seat. He told the cabbie he wasn’t too sure, just yet. While he was thinking about it, would the guy please head in the general direction of the financial district ...

  The cabbie wondered if he was into stockades and bondage. No, that couldn’t be right. He must have said stocks and bonds?

  Not if I can avoid it, said Marty.

  *

  The elevator doors slid open and there she was, standing in her open doorway with some guy Barry Holbrook was pretty sure he’d never seen before, in or out of the building. Barry stepped out of the elevator and gave her a big welcoming smile. He said, “Hey, Melanie. The cops’ve been looking for you.”

  Melanie said, “Yeah, I know. But don’t worry about it, because they found me.”

  Barry walked down the hallway towards her. Melanie’s new boyfriend glanced incuriously at him. Chilly eyes, broad shoulders. Barry’s hunch that Melanie had a weakness for cold-hearted fellas was reaffirmed.

  Melanie said, “Did you hear what happened to Harold?”

  Barry said, “Nope.” He tried to look even more interested than he was.

  “Me either,” said Melanie. The boyfriend started laughing. Barry hesitated a minute, before joining in. The boyfriend got Melanie’s door open. He dropped the key in his pocket and patted Melanie on the bum. Had she flinched? Barry wasn’t sure. The boyfriend followed her into the apartment and shut the door behind him. The deadbolt thudded home. The safety chain rattled.

  Barry still had the cop’s card. Didn’t he? He pulled out his wallet. There it was. Detective Jack Willows. Should he give the guy a call? He checked his watch. In the morning, maybe.

  Dean gripped Melanie’s arm. He told her to turn on the lights, all of them. He frog-marched her through the apartment.

  Marty didn’t blink his eyes when she turned on the bedroom light. He smiled at her from where he lay, on his side of the king-size bed Harold had squeezed into the little room.

  She said, “I knew you’d be here.”

  “Did you?”

  “Sort of.”

  Dean said, “Who’re you?”

  “I’m the guy who got here before you, and beat you to the punch. I’m the guy who took Harold’s mad money, and I’m the guy who hid it where you’ll never find it.”

  Dean showed Marty his Ruger.

  Marty sa
id, “What’re you thinking, that you’re gonna shoot yourself? Not a bad idea, but I’ve got a better one.”

  “Yeah?” Dean let Melanie’s throat take the weight of the Ruger’s barrel. He said, “What’s she worth to you?”

  “More than you could ever spend.”

  Melanie almost smiled.

  Dean drew back the Ruger’s hammer.

  Marty said, “You shoot her, then what? I’m next?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Marty smiled. He said, “Harold was the kind of guy who liked to hedge his bets. One egg, one basket.” He said, “I’m Marty. What’s your name?”

  Dean stared at him.

  “His name’s Dean,” said Melanie.

  “You want a piece of Harold’s egg, Dean? Or would you rather walk out of here with a pocketful of lint?” Marty sat up. Dean finally noticed the long-barrelled semiauto. No, the barrel wasn’t all that long, the gun was equipped with a silencer. Marty said, “Or are you one of those suicidal assholes would rather not walk at all?”

  Dean kept staring at him.

  Melanie said, “Dean told me he’s got a couple of kids, back on the prairies.”

  “Yeah?” Marty reached behind him to plump up his pillow. “What’re their names?”

  “Tiffany and Jodie,” said Dean.

  “A girl and a boy?”

  Dean nodded reluctantly, as if the gender of his children was vital information he preferred to keep to himself.

  “The girl pretty?”

  Dean reluctantly nodded.

  “Her mother too, I bet. What about Jodie? He as handsome as his daddy? Or are you in a position to know?”

  Dean pointed the Ruger at Marty. “Hey, don’t fuck with me! You think you can fuck with me?”

  “Not even in your dreams,” said Marty.

  Melanie said, “He hasn’t seen them for almost a year. Doesn’t pay child support, write or phone or keep in touch in any way you can think of. He says otherwise, but I don’t think he cares about them any more than if they were the neighbour’s dogs.”

  Marty stared into Melanie’s eyes, focused on her so completely that all the rest of the world fell away into the void. She stared right back at him, inviting him into her soul.