Lemay said nothing, reaching down into the footwell for a newspaper. He flipped down the visors. Bouchard watched with concern as Lemay attached two sheets of the Sentinel to the visors with two large spring clips, part of the collection of dashboard debris. There was now something resembling privacy. Lemay adjusted the screens before he spoke. “I’ll bet that old fuck Friday can read lips.” He tapped at the paper playfully, though not hard enough to tear it. “See this, old man? Bet you can’t read through this!”
Bouchard gave Lemay the look that usually accompanies the realization that you’re sitting next to Crazy. He looked straight ahead at the newspaper before he spoke, shaking his head slightly. “He’s not a fucking ninja, numbnuts. He’s just a low-rent shooter who kept the get-caught to a dull roar. You’re talking like he’s the Matrix Oracle grandmother or something.”
But Lemay wouldn’t drop his convictions. “It’d be a good skill to have. You could find out where somebody was going before you whacked them, so you wouldn’t have to follow so close.” The Two Pauls continued to eat their breakfast, Bouchard doing his best to contain his displeasure at how stupid the newspaper drapes must have looked to the rest of the parking lot, and to Friday. He decided to distract himself with work. “It’s not just Friday,” said Bouchard. “Somebody else is gunning hard for this bitch. I wouldn’t even know where to start with blowing up a building.”
“You’d blow yourself up first,” said Lemay, his mouth full. “Fuck, I’d probably blow my hands off helping you.” Lemay chuckled for a moment, losing some egg and biscuit in the process. He cycled through his messages, looking for anything that could be a tell. Frustrated, he threw the phone on the dashboard, almost dislodging his newspaper screen. “This is fucking bullshit,” said Lemay. “Somebody deluxe came in for this shit. The dead roomie and now this dildo shop bitch. We’re fucked before we get started. We should just say fuck it at this point.”
Bouchard chewed slowly on his hash brown, half-wondering if Friday could see through the newspaper blind. “They don’t need out-of-town for this,” said Bouchard. “That bitch is hiding, but she ain’t that hidden. She’s going to get seen, and somebody is going to tip it. When they do, we do the job, get some cake, and get some new CDs. I’m getting tired of singing the same old shit, anyway.”
Lemay nodded in full-mouth agreement. He swallowed just enough to speak. “We should keep an eye on Friday. He’s got a good nose, good leads, might have to take him out too, as a bonus. He’s gotta be up for retirement.” Lemay pushed the newspaper open to check on Friday. The rusty Parisienne was gone.
~
David Worschuk parked in the least-travelled section of the Winnipeg Sentinel parking lot. He did his best with the dashboard coke bump, using his press card and a plastic clipboard to form the lines. Most of the Sentinel editorial team had carried on the long history of twenty-six-ounce days. Worschuk had started sampling the cocaine that he had been entrusted to smuggle during his chain-link days at Milner Ridge. He felt that he had reached something resembling moderation, only needing a bump during big stories, when he was trying to get the jump on the other news outlets. He tilted the rear-view mirror, brushing his nose clean of the powder. He exited the Sentinel Cavalier slowly, wondering when the next twinge of pain from his earlier falls would present itself.
The newsroom was deserted, with most of the day staff covering the aftermath of the explosion. Worschuk grabbed an empty desk and started flipping through one of his notebooks, recently exhausted of free space. Thankfully, the notebook that Sawatski had tossed up to the smouldering roof at The Other Woman was fresh; Worschuk had finished this one while interviewing Wilson. The cocaine wasn’t doing its usual job of arranging the puzzle pieces of chicken scratch. He dragged the mouse next to the computer, waking the screen. What’s the common thread? Worschuk punched in his login and password for the Sentinel archives. He leaned back in his chair, holding his notebook aloft, twisting it left and right in hopes that something would jump off the page. He leaned forward, staring at the search window’s flashing cursor.
He started with variations of Claire Hebert’s name, finding only minor mentions of prostitution and drug arrests from her junior days on the low track. Basic elements, like prostitution and Heaven’s Rejects, were returning too many hits. He pulled a pair of earbud headphones from his pocket and plugged them into his phone. He watched the video taken at the Other Woman explosion. Worschuk felt himself getting slightly nauseous from the jittery movements of the playback. He wondered how many readers of the Sentinel were also getting sick from his work.
There wasn’t a lot to see. Worschuk had started filming while on the move, with the first initial strides showing more of his feet than the aftermath of the explosion. As the camera steadied, Worschuk had decided on a shaky pan of the entire scene. The front of The Other Woman had been obliterated, shielded by smoke. Flames were visible within the business, with no sign of survivors ready to emerge. Worschuk watched as his pan pointed out towards the street. He had focused in on debris, bits of brick, glass, and the damage they inflicted. He saw the windows blown out across the street, the drapes flowing outwards in the wind. Then he’d filmed the cars: the Cavalier, the Civic, and the white Econoline. The van looked familiar, as though he had just seen the image of it. He stopped the video, and returned to the archival search for prostitution. He squinted at the screen, clicking on something white and wheeled. It was the van from the scene of the explosion, with the same mission name. The accompanying story spoke of the problems of male teen prostitution in the downtown core. Pastor Tommy Bosco of The Guiding Light Mission spoke of the efforts they were making to get them off the street. Worschuk saw the common thread: prostitution. A pastor who dealt in saving prostitutes, parked across the street from the business of a former prostitute, and a city-wide search for a prostitute. “Good things always come in threes,” he said, as he pushed himself from the desk and headed for the door.
~
David Worschuk wasn’t the only one who noticed the Econoline. Ernie Friday had made a note of his estranged son’s van as he scanned his mirrors before the explosion. There was little in the area to attract Tommy; it was too far north on Main to encounter those in need of the Guiding Light rescue. Most of the other businesses on the block were vacant. He had heard the rumours about escape options for cons on the run, though he never gave it much thought. He was finding too many of them with his gun.
Is Tommy part of the escape route? Ernie had a hard time going there. Of all people, Tommy should have known better. You only needed to get caught once.
Ernie had taken a moment behind the Winnipeg Transit garage to compose himself while attending to another coughing fit peppered with blood on an A&W napkin. He played out the events of the last hour. The explosion had changed everything, regardless of the cause. Police presence would escalate around anything that was remotely related. Ernie figured that most of Robbery-Homicide would be leaning hard on HR associates, who would quickly develop multiple cases of laryngitis. He had a hard time believing that Tommy would lift a finger for Claire Hebert, unless it was five of them, balled into a fist. She may have not pulled the trigger on his grandson, but she helped load the bullets. Ernie wasn’t worried about the Two Pauls, or any of the other figures who could be in play. Ernie was worried about Tommy. When he’d had his epiphany, Tommy had shed all allegiance to what his father had stood for, including his name. That was when there seemed to be little point in maintaining their relationship. Giving safe haven to Claire Hebert would be the new normal for Tommy Bosco. It was a normal that was asking for death, or at least tempting it with a pointed stick. Ernie wondered if he could do both: kill Claire and reconcile with his son. He lubricated the thought with a swig from his flask.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Freddie the Ford wasn’t happy. The cold winter snap, coupled with diminished octane from the one real gas tank attached to his frame, had developed into a sputt
ering cough as the F-150 crested the steep incline of the Arlington Bridge. Tommy knew the drill, coasting in neutral, prodding the gas pedal ever so slightly in an effort to keep the idle speed in the low 700s. He could rev higher once he reached the south slope of the bridge, hoping that the treatment would result in some magical road-going tune-up. As the pair descended the slope, it became apparent that the old Ford needed more warm-up time.
Tommy pulled up to the curb, across from the Canadian Science Centre for Human and Animal Health. The name sounded a lot better than what was housed inside. The Centre’s most notable tenant was the National Microbiology Laboratory, where the petri dishes were full of killer viruses with media-friendly names like Ebola and H1N1. If it were any other city in Canada, the not-in-my-backyard placard-waving would have reached a fever pitch. Winnipeg was simply grateful that anyone would spend a dime within its perimeter — plus there were only six months of the year where it was comfortable enough outside to protest.
Tommy kept prodding the throttle, hopeful that Freddie’s idle speed would at least settle into the mid-500s. As he monitored the cheap tachometer bolted to the dashboard, he glanced up at the Centre. There was a public driveway to the facility, which looped around the rear of the building to a public parking area and the general reception entrance. There were more cameras than people these days, though Tommy figured that there was a sizable team paying attention to the flickering screens. There was a robust security gate and a fenced compound for deliveries. Tommy remembered the layout from dropping off Jeremy for a field trip with his biology class.
As he studied the glossy veneer of the lab, he noticed a vehicle exiting the driveway. It was a white Ford Transit Connect, a small European van that had been gaining in popularity with local trades. It carried the Winnipeg city crest on the front doors, as well as an amber light bar on its roof. Along the sides were vinyl lettering, identifying the van as a twenty-four-hour emergency unit for the water and waste department. Probably the best-paying plumbing gig you could get, thought Tommy as he watched the van head north on Arlington. He turned back to the tachometer briefly, tapping it twice to ensure it was actually working. When he turned back to the lab, he saw another Ford Transit, identical to the last one he had seen. He watched it wait for clearance in traffic, eventually heading south. If this had been the last van to exit with similar markings, Tommy would have easily passed it off as a deluxe plumbing issue. He smiled as he thought of a level-four plumbing issue, assurance that the water for hand-washing was piping hot at the lab. That’s what he would have thought, if seven more identical vans had not exited the premises in the next ninety seconds. The water — what does this have to do with the water? Tommy wasn’t sure if van ten was the last unit. He figured it was worth a tail. Freddie was finally warm enough to assist.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Cindy watched the kitchen clock at The Guiding Light. Tommy was taking too long, or at least that’s what the cheap clock seemed to be saying. She kept an eye on the stairwell to the room where Claire was hiding while she played out the worst-case scenarios as she scrubbed the industrial stew pots. The first play was the least dramatic, a visit from someone in Vice or Robbery-Homicide, asking about Claire — had anyone seen her — and leaving a business card and the “if-you-see-her” speech. She had handled enough of those to deliver the response in a waking coma. The next scenario grew darker: a mystery man of cold features, cold eyes, cold ideals. He entered, no, glided into the entrance. He looked at Cindy briefly, and then looked upstairs with an all-knowing vision that exceeded the fantasy of the superhero X-ray. He pulled a vintage Colt .45 with pearl handles from his waistband, ascending quickly and silently until the explosion from the six-shooter. The steps of his descent were heavy, booming through the structure of the entire building, growing louder, harsher. She looked up in time to see the stranger and the Colt levelled at her forehead. The flash from the barrel had the intense white light of a nuclear blast. She felt the dream bullet impact as strongly as a real slug. She dropped the stew pot as she was shocked back to reality.
Cindy reached down to collect the stew pot. As she ascended, she saw a stranger in the front entrance. He wasn’t a cop — Cindy could spot them all too easy — though he was inquisitive. He looked around far too much, like he was searching for something, or someone. He walked as though he was in pain, something recent. Eventually, his eyes found hers. Cindy crossed her arms, and set her cordial dial to minimal. “Can I help you with something?” She looked at the stained jacket of slush and grit, deciding to assume the worst. “We’re not taking any new clients today.”
~
David Worschuk looked down at the mess he had become over the last few hours. “Oh, this,” he said, as he did his best to brush off some of the debris. “It’s been a bit of a busy day.” He reached into one of his front pockets, producing his business card. He explained the contents of the card as he handed it to her. “David ‘Downtown’ Worschuk, from the Sentinel. I write the Downtown 24/7 column.” Worschuk had hoped for some level of recognition from her. She continued to study him and the card, still wondering if the two fit. She handed the card back to Worschuk. “The guy you want to talk to is Pastor Bosco. He handles all of the media stuff.”
Time to turn up the charm. Worschuk took back the card, deciding to use it to punctuate his enquiry. “Actually, I was hoping to talk to the front-line people at your mission, like you. Get a feel for what it’s like to help those who society has turned their back on. You know, giving back to the community.” Worschuk’s card danced along with the conversation, the way a rubber ball bounces across song lyrics on a television screen from the seventies.
The woman stood firm. “That sounds all fine and good, Mister Downtown, but this still has to go through Pastor Bosco.”
Level one, thought Worschuk. She knows who I am. Good, bad, or indifferent, she knows I’m kind of a big deal. MISTER Downtown! Fucking awesome!
The woman turned to the kitchen, pointing out the daily mess that occurred after every meal at the mission. “Plus, you’ve kinda caught me at a bad time, unless you feel like scrubbing some of these pots while you’re taking notes.”
Worschuk knew he surprised her when he removed his coat and headed towards the sink. “How’s about I wash, and you dry?”
“Whatever,” said the woman, grabbing a fresh dishtowel. “You can wash. My fingers are shrivelled like raisins.”
Level two, thought Worschuk. The establishment of rapport. Worschuk had done the odd charity stint in soup kitchens, usually when someone like Kyle Morgan of the Sentinel had decreed it a community-outreach requirement for his staff. The oversized scrub brush and the wall-mounted spray head made easy work of the pots and pans. The woman continued to dry and stack the dishes on the shelves.
“So I was wondering, uh, I’m sorry,” said Worschuk, “I didn’t get your —”
“It’s Cindy,” she said. “Cindy Smyth. Smyth with a Y, no E on the end.” The woman may have given her name, but she had yet to provide any warmth in her demeanour.
Level three. I got a name. Keep going.
Worschuk did his best to keep his internal level achievements to himself, though he knew he was breaking down walls, which always made him a little giddy. “So, tell me, Cindy, Cindy Smyth with a Y and no E on the end. How long have you worked —”
“Volunteered.”
“Sorry. Volunteered at the —”
“A few years.”
“Right, a few years. And what do —”
“Everything and anything.”
“I see. So, cleaning, cooking, help —”
“And washing the sheets and stacking the Bibles and making the coffee and breaking up the fights and mopping up the shit. Whatever needs getting done, I make sure it gets done.”
Level four. She’s venting for the first time in a while. Keep going.
Worschuk decided to start getting more in
tricate with his questioning. “Cindy, tell me about your, as you put it, clients.” That’s right, Davey — clients. Make sure she knows you’ve been listening. Make sure that she thinks you give a rat’s ass about these shitbags. “Where do they come from? What are their stories?”
Cindy thought about it for a moment. Worschuk thought she seemed hesitant, but when she began talking, he saw she had something original to say. “They’re the ones who fall through the cracks. They’ve been falling through the cracks their whole lives, you know? They come from shit, they’ve only known shit, so they think, they believe that all they’re worth is a shit life. We try to give them a place, a time in their life that isn’t complete shit. They may get out of the shit, or they may go right back into it, maybe even worse than they had it before.”
Worschuk realized that Cindy was staring at him. He had stopped washing the dishes, hanging on her every word.
“We’re an island,” said Cindy. “The Guiding Light is an island in a sea of shit.”
Level five. She wants the world to know. She thinks I can help. Perfect.
Worschuk took a moment, making sure that Cindy noticed. If she believed that he was sincere, that his actions were noble, then he might have a chance at a lead on Claire Hebert.
Worschuk did his best to attempt a newfound fervour in his scrubbing. He wanted to look more interested in the task than the question he was about to ask. Don’t look at her when you ask. Make it sound natural, not a big production.
“I’ll bet you get quite a mix in here,” said Worschuk.
“It can get pretty interesting,” said Cindy. She was moving throughout the kitchen now, stacking the dried items in their places. She seemed grateful for the help of a stranger. “Tweakers, junkies, dudes who put on wigs and, well, you know the rest.”
Clean Sweep Page 15
