Clean Sweep

by Michael J. Clark

  “Not the way I count ’em”

  “That’s not proper.”

  “To who?” Red pointed at the bags within. “Do you think they give a shit?”

  The Tire Winder got up to explain. “It’s like the floors in a building. First floor, first body. Second floor, second body, third —”

  “What about the other side?” said Red. He was smiling at his newfound ability to outsmart Tire Winder. “So, you’re saying we got two first bodies, two second bodies —”

  “That side is four-five-six.”

  “What building starts on the fourth floor?

  “One with a parkade of course.” Tire Winder gestured to Ernie, expecting at least a shrug of agreement. Ernie wasn’t interested.

  “I’ll let you ladies figure this out on your own time,” said Ernie. “Right now, I need to see the suicide.” He opened the top corner of his jacket, revealing two fifties poking out of his shirt pocket.

  “I don’t know about that. It was made to look like, but definitely was not, a suicide.”

  “Like you know,” said Red. He looked at Ernie as he thumbed at Tire Winder. “He watches that fuckin’ CSI shit like its porn — thinks he’s the M-E.”

  Ernie whacked the fender of the Oldsmobile with the tire iron, hard, making sure not to break the turn signal lens while still achieving immediate attention. “The suicide. Which one is it?” The Ferrymen pointed at the bag of interest.

  “Bag one,” said Red, pointing to the top left.

  “Bag three,” said Tire Winder, pointing to the same location. Ernie rolled his eyes, motioning to the bag with the tire iron. He handed Red the fifties while Tire Winder pulled open the bag, wincing slightly at the summertime stench of decomposition. Ernie didn’t look at the face; he lifted up the head by the dead man’s hair. He smiled, setting the head down with an action resembling respect. He reached into his other shirt pocket, producing a pager. “Takes double As,” said Friday. “Cheapest at Costco.” He walked back to the Oldsmobile. As he opened the door, he stopped and looked at the Ferrymen. “Make sure you keep it on.”

  As Ernie pulled away, the Ferrymen decided they needed to know. Red lifted the head and smiled.

  “What’s it say?” asked Tire Winder. Red lifted the head a little higher to show him the tattoo.

  Tire Winder smirked. “Born to Lose,” he said. “No shit.”

  ~

  The Ferrymen’s pager had been used about eight times since the tire change. Red fumbled in his pocket with the new vibration as Tire Winder readied the gurney. They knew the drill. Once the body was loaded, the Ferrymen would take the long way back to the city morgue in the basement of the Health Sciences Centre. Higgins Avenue was close enough to the crime scene to keep the time impact to a minimum, in case anyone was keeping track. Next to the CPR yards, the street surface changed from bumpy to potholed, which kept traffic flow to the bare minimum. It was about as discreet a spot as one could hope for in broad daylight.

  It took about fifteen minutes until the Ferrymen emerged with the body. Ernie watched the load-up in his rear-view. For some reason, he hoped it was Claire Hebert. The money was good, a lot better than he had seen for some time, but the years were getting harder. The last check-up hadn’t gone well, with Ernie off the charts for bad cholesterol, plus the hips, and his heart. There was even a slight shadow on his right lung, found during a chest X-ray. It was time. He hoped that some new young buck had done the deed, which would start to diminish the invitations. He had enough saved up to join the snowbird set, maybe a nice mobile home in Mesa, Arizona, with a carport. It might only be for a couple of years. At least they would be peaceful, he thought, as he pulled away from the curb.

  The Ferrymen got to Higgins Avenue first, with Ernie tardy by about ninety seconds. Red stayed in the van while Tire Winder took care of the fifties and the reveal. Ernie studied the naked corpse from suite 723. It wasn’t Claire Hebert, at least that much was certain. Even with the onset of rigor, it was easy to see that the girl was of Asian descent, with dyed blonde hair and a teardrop tattoo below her left eye, the kind applied with whatever is handy in juvenile corrections. Ernie checked for working-girl cues. Her arms were pockmarked with needle tracks, both recent and vintage. It looked like the classic overdose, almost too classic at a time like this. This was some serious punishment for simply sharing a sock drawer with somebody on a hit list, Ernie thought.

  He returned the blanket to the corpse. He had seen a tattoo above her left breast: Cherie. He bade her safe travels. He knew no one else would.

  Ernie was about to give Tire Winder a goodbye nod when he heard approaching wheels spin on ice. He turned around in time to see the Two Pauls slide to a stop. Bouchard drove an old Ford Ranger parts-delivery truck, still sporting the aftermarket parts cage instead of a pickup box. The Ranger cab was a tight fit for Lemay, though he still managed to exit the truck with the speed of a man half his size. He smiled at Ernie. “Hey, old man. I figured you were in to Cold Ethels.”

  Ernie glared at Lemay while Bouchard stayed by the driver’s side fender. Ernie could tell by the bulge in Bouchard’s yard jacket that he had at least a 9mm automatic in his right pocket. “What’s this?” said Ernie, pointing at the gun bulge in Bouchard’s pocket. “I thought you guys were the Wholesale Hitters.”

  Bouchard looked at his pocket, feigning surprise. “Oh, that? I’m just happy to see you, Friday. Thank God it’s Friday.” Bouchard moved up to the passenger fender. “If you’re looking for fresh meat, you should try Cantor’s on Wednesdays.”

  “Fucking heebs,” said Lemay. “Miller’s on St. Mary’s kicks ass.”

  “Tastes like ass,” said Bouchard.

  “Tastes like your Mom.”

  “Watch it, shitbag.”

  “Hey, watch this,” said Lemay, flipping Bouchard the finger.

  Ernie was starting to wonder if they had remembered what they had come for. “It’s not her,” he said.

  “Not who?” said Lemay. “Whoever could you mean?”

  “Whomever,” said Tire Winder. “I’m pretty sure it’s whomever.”

  Lemay shot Tire Winder a look that read you’re not supposed to talk, ever.

  “Or whoever,” Tire Winder said. “Whatever works.”

  Lemay opened his coat, revealing a snub-nosed .357 stuffed in his ample waistband. He looked at his gun, then at Tire Winder, then gave an obvious nod to the van door. Tire Winder complied. Lemay threw back the blanket, revealing Cherie’s breasts. He grabbed one for a cursory check. “Fake, just as I suspected,” said Lemay. He rocked her head to the side, not really knowing what he was looking for.

  “What are you doing?” said Bouchard, his impatience growing. “I can tell from here it’s not her.”

  Lemay ignored him. “Could be a clever disguise, you know, maybe even one of those movie masks that peel off.” Lemay looked for some sort of break in the skin to confirm his theory. He pulled at some of the neck skin. Nothing budged. “Looks like original, numbers matching, except for the tits.”

  Bouchard rolled his eyes. “It’s not a ’67 Camaro, dipshit. It’s a dead hooker, and it ain’t the right one, so let’s get the fuck outta here.” He looked over at Ernie, flashing a fake smile. “If you need some help on this, old man, just let us know. I’ll cut you in for twenty percent if the lead works out.”

  Ernie kept his cool, as much as he would have preferred not to. He wanted to unload a Deluxe Vise Grip on Bouchard’s neck for his insolence, though now that they were packing, it simply wasn’t worth the extra hole that Lemay would undoubtedly provide, even if it took three shots to get there.

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” said Ernie as he fumbled for his lighter. “Happy hunting.”

  Lemay smirked as he turned to enter the truck. The stereo was loud enough to hear outside the cab. The song was “Sister Christian” by Night Ranger. Their heads bo
bbed calmly as the lyrics approached.

  “Motoring!” sang the Pauls. “What’s your price for flight?” Bouchard revved the tired engine and popped the clutch, spitting up snow and sand as the pair spun away in song. Ernie and Tire Winder watched in silence.

  “Who are those guys?” Tire Winder asked when they were out of sight.

  “Ass-clowns,” said Ernie. “Ass-clowns with guns.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Claire Hebert wasn’t doing so well. The initial sweats of withdrawal in the back room of The Other Woman had reached a fever pitch as she rocked in the fetal position on the fold-out couch in Tommy’s office. Cindy had been keeping an eye on her while Tommy attended to a surprise visit by the food inspection branch. Claire wasn’t swearing as much anymore, preferring the sound of her sustained moans as she shivered beneath the blankets. The briefcase and the ledger were open on the computer desk in front of Cindy. She chewed on an apple as she tried to make sense of the encoding, punching random sequences of the information into Google. Nothing lined up. Some portions came back as parts numbers, for everything from replacement fenders to washing machine motors. Others identified telephone numbers in non-volatile places, like Des Moines, Iowa. The glare from the monitor was starting to take its toll when Tommy walked in with a warning letter from the food inspector. Cindy looked perplexed. “I thought you paid him off,” she said.

  “I did,” said Tommy. “This is a lightweight, so it looks like he’s doing his job and not getting greased.” He handed her the notice, with checkmarks on a leaking fridge seal, a soiled ceiling tile, and an out-of-date fire extinguisher. Cindy opened the drawer with the blank fire extinguisher inspection tags and adjusted the date to her liking on the adjacent rubber stamp. “Sorry Bosco,” said Cindy. “I thought I had done this one.”

  Tommy looked over at the tossing and turning of his former lover. “Is she doing any better? We should get rolling no later than eight tonight.”

  Cindy glanced over at her for a moment. “Well, she’s down to calling me a cunt only three times per hour. Two hours ago it was around thirteen.”

  “Now, that’s what I call a Supercunt,” said Tommy as he headed for the relative comfort of the bottom bunk. He rubbed his eyes as Cindy typed. “Any headway on the code system?”

  “Nothing yet,” said Cindy as she maintained eye contact with the flickering screen. “Someone actually put some effort into this one. The sequences are the same, but it doesn’t bring anything up. I’ve reversed the digits, dropped things that looked like a shield against identifying what it is. No one is supposed to figure this one out.”

  Claire bolted upright, as much as anyone bolts upright during the various stages of detoxification. Her makeup had run, and was approaching that of a Stephen King clown. Her hair was a matted mess. She looked nothing like her price. “I feel like the floor of the men’s room at the bus station.”

  Cindy turned to assess the remark. “Looks like it was a long, lost decade of weekends,” said Cindy. Claire turned to her, her left eye half open. It was feeble, but she was still able to flip Cindy an obvious finger.

  Tommy grabbed a bottle of water from the half-used twenty-four pack under the bed. “Drink up, buttercup,” said Tommy, holding the bottle out to Claire. She winced at the thought of liquid. Tommy insisted. “You’re still detoxing, and you’ve got to flush that shit out before we travel.” Claire relented, fumbling with the cap like an octogenarian. She took small sips, concerned that too much swig would bring yet another thunderous vomit. She was only batting about .250 for hitting the wastebasket placed by her head. She held the bottle to her forehead. Even the coolness of the room-temperature bottle was enough to release a soothing sigh. The sigh was interrupted by Claire’s own spotty memory. She looked at Tommy with eyes glazed, but wide. “Has anyone come looking for me?”

  Tommy smiled and grabbed a nearby chair to sit closer, though not close enough for projectile vomit to reach him. “You’re safe, Bear. Nobody knows you’re here except for Jasmine and us.” Cindy worked the computer, though her glances towards Tommy and Claire were increasing. Perhaps she was simply guarding her territory, even though the territory had never been truly defined.

  Tommy started to rummage through what little contents remained in the briefcase. Cindy knew Claire’s off-grid situation was going to be a problem for getting her out of town with relative ease. The Brady Road Package that Tommy assembled would usually contain some remnants of identification to help with the presumed confirmation of death from the police service. The computer and printing equipment at the Light was as ancient as the floorboards. Fakes were getting harder to duplicate, especially with holograms and security elements. Cindy had tried to make a few, using the free computers at the Millennium Library to do her research, keeping the Guiding Light computer clean from criminal activity searches. She quickly realized she was out of her league, with most of her attempts bordering on scrapbooking. While adept at their work, the local forgers were a little too chatty with other criminals. The right slip to the wrong person could bring everything to the doorstep of The Light by dusk, or sooner. Cindy knew that it was a safe bet that the top three had already been given an underworld all-points bulletin.

  Tommy suddenly stopped the search, looked at Claire, and smiled. “You still got a thing for monograms?”

  Claire smirked and proceeded to remove her bra from within her sweater. She tossed the custom-made unit at him. Tommy looked at the straps. The Claire-Bear handle had been embroidered in gold, with Claire on the left strap and Bear on the right. “It’s on my panties, too,” said Claire-Bear. She looked over at Cindy. “I guess I can swap them out for some of your granny gitch.”

  Cindy didn’t look over at Claire, nor did her gaze waver from her computer monitor. She was still able to flash a proper middle finger at Claire’s good eye.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  David Worschuk rolled up in front of the Black Stallion on Corydon Avenue in his equally black Escalade. The Little Italy location had been open for about six months, though weak reviews had kept it from being a force amongst the Italian eateries. The restaurant may have been quiet, but the lounge was well attended, already half full twenty minutes after opening. The bartender gave Worschuk the classic I-Know-You nod. Worschuk returned it in kind.

  “Just coffee, Phil,” said Worschuk as he scanned the room for his party. Phil grabbed the carafe and poured, offering no eyebrows as to why the order was just coffee without the usual shot of Jack Daniel’s. Worschuk tossed a toonie into the tip mug as he headed towards the back of the L-shaped space.

  There were six booths at the rear of the lounge, insulated to a slight degree from the bank of video lottery terminals. Pub-style partitions kept the conversations cozy. The first booth was occupied, with three area residents speaking in boisterous Italian about the global story spread in the morning Sentinel. The next four were empty, with menus strategically placed in the hopes that customers might be filling them. The last booth had company: a heavy-set man in his late fifties, still sporting a full head of brown hair. He had the look of an ex-cop with few visits to the police association gym that was free for retirees. He was more intent on adding pepper to his pea soup than acknowledging Worschuk’s bumpy slide into the booth. He stirred the bowl with one of the hard breadsticks provided.

  “You might want to get a bowl from the top of the pot,” said the man. “You’re bound to get some of the burnt bits from the bottom by the end of the lunch hour.”

  Worschuk took a swig of his coffee and removed a cellophane-wrapped breadstick from the community bowl. “Maybe I’ll just dip into yours,” said Worschuk, as he made a play for the green goodness.

  The man looked at him hard, with a glare that was three degrees right of Don’t Even Think About It. It stopped Worschuk cold. The man took a few initial slurps of soup before speaking again. “So, it’s a hooker you’re looking for, is it?”


  “You know it is, Wilson.” Wilson looked at Worschuk with even more disgust. He had hung on to a tidy collection of photocopied files from his days in Vice. Worschuk would tap Wilson for information when the need arose. He was meticulous in his recall of events, especially details from crime scenes. He had never learned to turn it off, even after seven years of pension. He would usually grab a couple of Bordens for the requests. Using his name would usually require a third as a penalty.

  “I’m sorry Wilson, I just —” Worschuk realized he had just broken the Wilson Law twice. “Can I get your lunch?” As if on cue, the waitress approached the table. Wilson smiled at her.

  “What’s the best thing you have today that isn’t on special?”

  The waitress seemed puzzled at first, until she saw Worschuk. Figuring it was his treat, she suggested the rib-eye. “Medium-rare,” said Wilson. “And two fingers of Johnny Walker Blue, neat.” The waitress finished her shorthand and gave Wilson a regular customer smile on her way to the kitchen. Wilson looked at Worschuk with a superior grin. “You want to throw a dessert in there too while you’re at it, Downtown?”

  Worschuk took a few seconds to compose himself, reminding his mouth of the non-name policy. “Do you have anything on her?” He slid the two hundred-dollar bills to Wilson. Worschuk was more than hopeful for a return on his investment. His enquiry to Portage Correctional had been met by deaf ears and a quick hang-up. He was still trying to recall what he had written about them for the quick disconnect.

  Wilson smiled, stowing the bills in his shirt pocket. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small coiled notebook with a dog-eared finish. It had been in use for some time, as his notations for Claire Hebert were at the end of his page run. “Miss Claire Marie Hebert, aka Claire-Bear. In the system for prostitution, bawdy house, career hooker. Last known on her was 411 Cumberland, apartment 723, off-grid. I heard they pulled a body out of there this morning.”