Clean Sweep

by Michael J. Clark

  Spence leaned in. “What magician?”

  “A magician,” said Worschuk. “A real, live Doug Fucking Henning, except this one doesn’t make rabbits disappear, he makes people go poof.”

  “People?” said Sawatski. “What kind of people?”

  “Bad people,” said Worschuk. “People you’re looking for or the other guys are looking for. More than a dozen of them last year alone, right under your nose. You know them better as the ones at Brady Road.” Worschuk leaned in for effect. “Did you know they never found a body or even a piece of a body in there?”

  Sawatski listened closely to Worschuk’s tale. There was an element of truth to what he was saying. Brady Road had been treated as the scene of a homicide investigation before, though the last few years had been particularly busy. Sawatski had even bought a new pair of rubber boots that weren’t as slippery as his old ones after falling twice in the slick garbage. They did find personal effects, clothes, even a few pieces of dental work, but not a single chunk of meat. Then it hit him: “Bosco’s the magician!”

  “Yeah, that Guiding Light guy!” said Worschuk. “That Christmas light fake fire thing was fucking genius!”

  “Yeah, well, he’s in the wind,” said Spence. “How the fuck are we going to find him?”

  As the three discussed their dilemma in the back of the van, the arrival of a certain light-blue Ford F-150 was a well-kept secret.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Tommy Bosco took a moment to admire the breasts of the boogie van’s space warriors as he opened Freddie’s driver’s side door in the 7-Eleven parking lot. Cindy and Claire exited through the passenger side. Freddie was now wearing a new set of plates, thanks to the Two Pauls and the remaining battery power in the library drills. The former assassins had parked their Ford Ranger in the small parking lot behind the library, shielding it from view, and the key to the Ranger was somewhere beneath the debris of the library-book stacks, in the pocket of either Lemay or Bouchard.

  Freddie now wore CEA 477; it was a commercial truck plate assigned to one of Bouchard’s wrecking yard employers. Tommy didn’t need any tools to remove the magnetic company signs that were stowed behind the Ranger’s bench seat, which was why Freddie the Ford now appeared to be in the gainful employ of an outfit called Home Team Auto Parts. No one had appeared to have heard the various commotions at the library, or had cared to investigate. The screws that Cindy and Tommy had removed from the stack brackets came in handy, as did the debris of the fallen stacks. The shelves on many of the stacks had broken free, looking very much like the vintage of the wood used on the former front door of the St. John’s Library. Four shelf lengths covered the door opening easily. From the street at night, it still looked as though the door was in place. The lengths were fastened to the remains of the door frame with the bracket screws, with just enough battery power left in the second drill to drive the last screw into place. Tommy checked the institutional clock that still hung over the library’s front door: 2:20 a.m. It was definitely time for a coffee.

  The ride from the library to the 7-Eleven had taken a little more than five minutes. Cindy and Claire had moved into more natural seating positions within Freddie’s cab. They had yet to see any marked police cruisers or hired hitters on their tail. Tommy figured the voice was a man of his word, though he knew this was a temporary reprieve at best. He still held out hope that he could get Claire out of the city, without the Brady Road addendum. As for him and Cindy, Tommy was wondering if they would also need to hop on the back of a blacked-out snowmobile, driven by a crazy Swedish-American wearing Russian army surplus night goggles. The night was still young.

  The 7-Eleven door warbled its over-the-top chime warning as the three entered the store, quickly followed by the stock “Hello!” from behind the counter. Tommy took a glance at the newspaper stacks at the front of the store. There weren’t any mugshots of the trio on the front page of the local papers, though he figured that the Winnipeg Sun would come up with their usual oversized representation of the wanted fugitives with their morning edition. A potential headline popped into Tommy’s head: KILLER’S LITTLE HELPERS.

  The two staffers of the 7-Eleven were busy making notations in their inventory logs, paying little attention to the new patrons as they spoke in a language that Tommy couldn’t understand. Tommy quickly poured three coffees, opting for double-double fuel without asking Cindy and Claire their preference. A digital clock over the front door signalled the time as 2:35 a.m., twenty-five minutes away from the expected call from whoever was pulling the strings. He checked the battery of the phone that had once belonged to one of his intended assassins — three bars left.

  ~

  Inside the boogie van, things were starting to calm down. “The only way we’re going to find out what’s really going on is to find Hebert and her low-rent Bonnie and Clyde before the rank and file does,” said Spence. “If Sangster is in on it, he might be planning on an accident to hush the whole thing up.”

  “And I get the exclusive, right?” Worschuk appeared to be running on genuine adrenaline now, though it could have been the remnants of the coke.

  “Yes, Dave, you get your scoop,” said Sawatski. “But how are we going to find these guys?”

  Worschuk looked straight ahead out the windshield. “I think I just did!”

  Sawatski and Spence positioned themselves for the same view as Worschuk’s. Tommy Bosco, Cindy Smyth, and Miss Claire Hebert were in the process of paying for their purchases. The staff at the 7-Eleven had yet to take a break from the last-call bar patrons, a time of night when no one seemed to care how old the rolling hot dogs under the heat lamp were.

  “Holy shit!” said Spence. “The whole gang’s in there!”

  Worschuk immediately went to take a picture, though Sawatski quickly nixed the idea with his hand on Worschuk’s throat. “Don’t be fucking stupid,” said Sawatski. “If you spook them and they run, I’ll put you in Brady myself.”

  “How do you want to do this?” said Spence. She had already drawn her service Glock.

  “Put it away,” said Sawatski. “Bosco knows who I am. I’m just going to have a little talk with him first. They don’t know who’s gunning for them yet, so any gun is a bad gun, even if it’s a good guy.” Sawatski took out his service Glock, putting it on the crushed velvet engine doghouse of the boogie van. Spence could see that he still had his backup piece on his ankle holster, a Kahr P380, which she knew he would hang on to, just in case. Sawatski opened the driver’s door of the boogie van, making sure to adjust his pant leg over the small automatic. He headed for the front door of the 7-Eleven. He would have been the first through the door, but an older gentleman with jet black hair had beat him to it, leaving his rusty Pontiac Parisienne idling in the parking lot next to the light-blue F-150. Not a great idea in the North End, thought Sawatski. That’s how a car becomes public transportation.

  ~

  Ernie Friday had been doing the dull hitman work for the past two hours, criss-crossing the grids of streets and back lanes that were south of Mountain Avenue. He knew Freddie the Ford better than anyone, and a couple of magnetic business signs on the doors would do little to hoodwink him. Ernie had passed by Tommy and his former truck on Salter Street, shortly after the escape from the St. John’s Library. Friday had toggled off the rear brake and running lights of the Parisienne, allowing him to turn around and follow Tommy at a safe distance. He made a detour south on Radford Street, then a quick blast west on College Avenue to McPhillips. The curb lane was clear, which allowed Ernie to observe Tommy, Cindy, and Claire-Bear inside the 7-Eleven as he set up his camera-jamming array. There were no cops around, just some sort of get-together going on in an old boogie van with a big fat red-haired guy and some short-haired native girl. Ernie was tired, so tired that he hadn’t felt the buzz of his pager, alerting him to stand down from the task at hand He wanted to get this done and over with.

 
~

  Sawatski pulled the door handle, which wasn’t the only thing getting pulled at that moment. The black-haired man pulled an older Beretta from his right pocket, raising it up to Claire Hebert’s chest. Instinct took over; Sawatski kicked the old man hard in the back of his right knee, causing him to fall to the right and point the Beretta upwards at a forty-five-degree angle, which ensured that no one at the counter would be hit by the stray bullet that immediately left the chamber. The older man’s mass took out the end cap potato chip display with ease, adding a fresh gushing cut to his forehead. His Beretta had slid across the floor to another woman, who picked it up without a moment’s hesitation, firing two warning shots into the ceiling. That must be Tommy’s girlfriend. Hebert had dropped to the floor, using Tommy Bosco’s legs as a shield. Bosco was still trying to pay for the coffees, though it was rather difficult as the 7-Eleven employees had run out the back door when the gun went off. Sawatski couldn’t understand their language, but he understood the universal reaction to flee, especially when it was a minimum-wage job.

  Sawatski had reached his P380 by now and had it levelled at the woman’s chest. “Winnipeg Police!” he yelled. He was going to tell her to kick the gun over to him, but he was still restraining the older man, who would probably have appreciated the return of his hardware. “Throw the weapon towards the back of the store, get down on your knees, and interlace your fingers behind your head. Do it now!”

  “You BETTER be a fucking cop!” said the woman, sending the Beretta sailing towards the Wonder Bread.

  Spence was crouched outside the store, waiting for a signal from Sawatski. She came in when the Beretta went flying, retrieving it before assuming a watchful eye at the rear of the store. “Everybody, calm the fuck down,” said Spence.

  “What’s the matter, Friday,” said Tommy, his finger hovering over which bags of peanuts he wanted at the display. “Getting a little slow in your old age?”

  Ernie Friday was sitting against the crushed stack of chips, holding a wad of pocket-found paper towel to the cut on his forehead. “At least I’ve made it to old age,” said Ernie. “The way you’re rolling, you’ll be dead before sun-up.”

  Tommy threw two five-dollar bills on the counter for the coffees and the nuts. “C’mon, Friday, what are you getting for this anyway? A couple of gees?”

  “Double rate,” said Ernie, wincing at the pain. “Oh, and I’ll need that book she came with, too.”

  “What? Her little black book?”

  Ernie glared at Tommy, the kind of glare that any father would give to an insolent son. “You always were a smartass, just like your mother.”

  “Well, Mom was smart enough to get killed by that drunk driver,” said Tommy. He smiled as he bent down to look at Ernie without fear. “Sure beats living with a piece of shit like you.”

  Sawatski watched as Ernie leaned in close. “I’m gonna wipe that smirk right off your face, Pastor . . .”

  Tommy leaned in closer. “I’d like to see you fucking try, Father . . .”

  Sawatski had had enough. “Okay, save this family reunion shit for Dr. Phil. Let’s start with you, Bosco. You’re up on harbouring, aiding and abetting, probably a fake arson, if there is such a thing, and I’m willing to bet you’ve got a tail light out on that Ford POS out there.” He turned to Cindy. “Miss Cindy Smyth. You’ve got all that, plus the firearms charge you helped yourself to just now.” Sawatski turned to look at Claire. “And as much as I’d like to pin a medal on anybody who whacks a Heaven’s Reject, I’ve got at least manslaughter pending for you, little missy.” Sawatski looked down at Ernie Friday. “And last, but certainly not least, Grampa Fonzie here gets attempted murder. And —”

  Sawatski looked up to see Worschuk filming the rundown of the charges on his backup cell phone. He hung his head and shook it. “Downtown, turn that thing off before I stick it up your fat ass!”

  Worschuk kept filming. “But you said I’d get the scoop on this!”

  Sawatski grabbed the phone from Worschuk and tossed it into the deep fryer behind the counter. “You get the scoop, dummy, not the goddamn play-by-play.” Sawatski rubbed his eyes. “Is there anything else that anyone here wants to tell me?”

  “You may want to send a car over to the St. John’s Library,” said Tommy. “I think a couple of guys might have had an unfortunate reading accident.”

  Ernie laughed at the statement; he knew it was the Two Pauls. His laugh turned into a cough, a nasty one. Tommy looked down at him in time to see the blood hit a clean section of the paper towel. He wasn’t sure if he felt anything about it. Ernie was as good as done for the attempted murder on Claire Hebert in the 7-Eleven. The jammed cameras wouldn’t be much of a defence against two cops. Still, there was a twinge of something deep behind the closed doors of their relationship. Tommy wondered if whatever it was had any chance of being found at all. Someone had to try. Tommy extended his hand to his father. “C’mon, Friday, let’s get your ass out of all that melted snow.”

  Ernie looked up at his estranged son, then his watch. “As long as I’m home by seven,” said Ernie. “Someone has to feed Chico.”

  “Who’s Chico?” said Worschuk, having switched to his notebook.

  “That’s his cat,” said Tommy as he hoisted Ernie up. “She’ll purr you to death.” Tommy checked the time on the wall: 2:58 a.m. “Hey, cop,” he said, looking at Sawatski. “I’m expecting a call in a couple of minutes.”

  “A call?” said Sawatski. “And who the fuck is calling you at three in the morning?”

  Tommy smiled. “I guess the best way to put this is it’s the guy, the guy who gave my old man the job, plus those two dead guys at the library, which was totally self-defence, plus whoever else is in on this bullshit.”

  “And what the hell does he want?”

  “A deal,” said Tommy. “An old-fashioned Winnipeg deal.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  When the clock struck three a.m., Tommy’s recently acquired cell phone started to ring. After the third ring, Sawatski nodded at Tommy to answer. Tommy hit the speakerphone button. “Good evening, Mister X, right on time, as promised.”

  “Punctuality is one of life’s many virtues,” said the voice. “I trust that you will extend me the same courtesy for our meeting this morning.”

  Tommy went to talk and then stopped just before he formed the next words. Sawatski had a strange look on his face, a look that seemed to speak of recognition of the caller.

  “Mr. Bosco, are you still there?”

  Tommy picked up where he’d left off. “Sorry, Mister X, you broke up a little there. Give me the details.”

  “Very well, Mr. Bosco. It is now 3:01 a.m., Central Standard Time. At four a.m., I expect you and your party to arrive at the Riverview Health Centre service entrance, at the rear of the complex. I trust that you are aware of the location.”

  “At the end of Morley,” said Tommy. “That’s towards the river, right?”

  “That is correct, Mr. Bosco. I expect to see you with Ms. Hebert and Ms. Smyth, as well as the ledger.”

  Tommy figured that he had to ask the “what if” question. “What if I decide to take the girls and the book and get the fuck out of Dodge?”

  There was a slight pause before the voice spoke. “Mr. Bosco, considering your proximity to Mr. Galecki, I suggest you check on his well-being for the answer to that question. I look forward to seeing you soon.” The line went dead.

  Tommy paused for a moment, realizing what the voice had just told him. Galecki’s minimal assists had signed his death warrant. He looked at Sawatski. “Okay, cop. What’s the deal? How do you know this guy?”

  ~

  Sawatski knew he had to come clean to this impromptu task force. He turned to Worschuk. “Listen up, Downtown, everything I say now is off the record. Don’t tweet it, don’t Facebook it, don’t say a fucking word about it. I’ve got a fee
ling it pales in comparison to what’s about to go do down.”

  “Lucky for you, my phone is extra crispy,” said Worschuk, as he wrote down his notes. “It’s a good thing my pen still works.”

  Spence stepped in with the baggie of coke that she had retrieved from Worschuk’s front seat. “I’m sure this blow still works, too, Downtown. Maybe I should tweet that out, too.”

  Worschuk grumpily put his pen and notebook in his pocket. “I better win an award for this shit.”

  Tommy pressed Sawatski again, and Miles explained how he knew The Voice, though that was all the information he had on the man. Claire, having detoxed enough to feel her emotions again, started to tear up when Sawatski explained how the man had confirmed that he was behind the explosion that had killed Jasmine Starr at The Other Woman. He told Tommy about Sangster and the car wearing government plates. Sawatski knew that Sangster wouldn’t be watching the District Three station forever; he had probably gone in for a cursory check to discover that Sawatski was nowhere in the building. “I’ll bet twenty bucks on Sangster as this asshole’s hired hitter.”

  “What does Sangster drive?” said Tommy.

  “An old brown Crown Vic — a detective car he bought at auction,” said Sawatski. “It’s some kind of low-rent hot rod, Mustang motor or something in it.”

  “Can we track it?”

  “If he’s got a laptop in it,” said Spence. “It won’t come up as his badge number, but it should be easy to spot on the real-time. He’s probably got a laptop with him if he’s tracking Mileage.”

  Tommy looked at Ernie Friday. “Whaddya say, Friday — a hitter taking out a hitter?”

  Ernie dabbed at his forehead, pleased to see that the cut had finally clotted. “And the attempted?”

  Sawatski chimed in on cue. “What attempted?” He reached his hand back to Spence, who handed him Friday’s Beretta. Sawatski handed the gun to Ernie. “Do you think you can do it without a bullet?”