“Mini,” he managed to say as he went rolling across the floor like tumbleweed. “Mini was here just now.”
I could hardly wait. The drug bust had been all over the morning papers and Mini would not be pleased. “And what great words of wisdom came from the mouth of Mini Chin?”
Jackie sat up. “She swapped him!” he said excitedly. “She swapped Weynolds on the nose. She swapped him on the ears. She beat him up. Totawee.”
“Poor dumb bugger. What did Reynolds do?”
“He cwied. He cwied like a baby. He just curled up like a fat green worm and let her hit.”
“That’s too bad.”
“No it’s not. Weynolds’ mean.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“There’s more.” Again he tumbled across the floor. “She kicked him! Hard. A wot. And then she kicked his karaoke box. She stomped on it and bwoke it to pieces. Isn’t that funny?”
“Not exactly, Jackie. He loved that thing. He was always singing along.”
Jackie howled. “That’s what’s so funny, Amster! He should have been stealing the dwugs!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
THERE WAS A TEASER MOVING in from the mountains and a threat of rain; fitting, given my assignment for the day. At the hospital I again checked in on my girl, who hadn’t moved much.
“How are the dogs? You wanted to know.” Well, Tina and I didn’t have much in common and I had to say something. “The dogs are fine. They’re still on a ranch in Alberta. They’re eating cattle now instead of pedestrians.”
She moved a little.
“Hannibal and Lecter are likely lying in a grassy ditch right now, waiting to chase cars down dusty country roads. That’s what ranch dogs do for fun, in case you didn’t know.”
She moved again which I took as a positive sign. I therefore whistled my way along to chat up the two guards parked outside Jack’s door. They seemed only too happy to be going elsewhere. The older fellow with the bushy red mustache barked, “He’s all yours, son. And good luck with that.” They couldn’t stop laughing.
But Jack was grouchy. His first order of the day was for me to raise the top on my convertible and to can the music. He had never liked jazz. I decided not to tell him that he was listening to Queen.
“Damn nice of you, Hamster,” he muttered. “To give your old Dad a ride home from the slammer. And leaving a handy trail of bread crumbs for the Cleaver to follow.” He looked pale, like someone who hadn’t seen the sun in a very long while, which he hadn’t. He’d also lost weight and the pants he’d worn on the day of his arrest now hung in folds on his lap.
“I’ve arranged security, Jack. Twenty-four seven. You’ll have two of them with you at all times.”
“Oh, that’s great,” he said sarcastically. “What about my family? They’ll not be safe on the streets. Why didn’t you think of them before you ruffled Richard’s feathers?”
“It isn’t your family that Richard wants. It’s Willy. Ask Tony if they’ll be safe. He’ll tell you that it’s not Richard’s style to go after family. He has some scruples.” I laughed a guilty laugh because nothing was actually funny.
“Ha. Ha. There’s always a first time. He could blow us all away.”
“I doubt it. Tony is respected in the organization and Richard will be tempered by that. You may even have safe passage but we don’t want to be stupid about it either. Richard wants Willy and he wants to force my hand. Who knows what he’ll do next?”
We drove through the causeway, greeted by the fresh scent of forest-floor flora, and at the top of the Lions Gate Bridge Jack got teary. Home. He was going home to that monstrous structure on the edge of a cliff, the party place that would soon come alive again with swarms of people milling about. Home. Jack wiped his wet face with his sleeve.
We sat for a while in the driveway at 33 Terrace Place.
“I’m not a very good criminal, Hamster. I couldn’t even stay in jail.”
“I can always take you back.”
He shuddered. “That’s exactly what I’d expect from you, you ingrate. You, who I’ve raised from a pup and treated like a son. And what do you do? You betray me. You stole from me. You stole from your very own dad.”
“I had a good teacher don’t forget. He wouldn’t have expected any less of me.”
Jack shut up.
I decided against telling him that what he meant mostly to me now was a lot of trouble, since I’d had to sneak back into Pearson, bribe Franco again, and repack the heroin before tipping off the cops. Besides, if I knocked out Hulk and his dogs (not a rock band) one more time I’d be going off to jail. Post Mortem? Poor dead Leo was now taking the heroin rap, his greatest accomplishment while still on earth. And I wasn’t going to speculate about what he was doing on the other side. I just hoped they were serving ham sandwiches where Leo had gone. On white with loads of butter.
Tony was waiting in the doorway. He looked slick in a gold silk smoking jacket over black trousers above kid leather slippers with tassels near the toes. For special effects he carried a cane capped by a gold lion’s head.
“Sharp-dressed Tony!” Jack boomed. He crushed his old friend in a bear hug. “Where’s the welcome whiskey?”
Tony started to sob. “I can’t believe it’s you, Jackie! I can’t believe you’re home.”
“Me either. I had better service in jail.” He turned to me. “Get me a whisky, will you, Hamster? A big one. I damn well deserve a good drink.”
Soon Jack and Tony were sitting together on a living room sofa, bantering and cuffing like two bear cubs frolicking among palm trees, animal print chairs, and Moroccan treasures. Old home week. It didn’t get better than that. Baskets of summer flowers began to arrive, each one with a yellow ribbon. Their boy was home.
Jack downplayed the fuss. “Did somebody die? Was it me?”
I carried in a huge bouquet of gladiolus. “This one’s from the church. Apparently they’ve been missing you over the past forty years.”
His eyes twinkled. “I doubt it. I always pocketed the white envelopes when the plate passed by.”
The town was buzzing with Jack out on bail and Leo’s murder yet to be solved. Around five o’clock the doorbell announced my replacements - two strapping bodyguards packing assault rifles. In the living room I asked Tony for a minute with Jack, and although he gave me the ‘Tony look’ he complied. I perched on the arm of a chair.
“I’m not happy with you Jack.”
He scratched his chin.
“I’m not going to rehash recent events because I think we’re both had enough. But because of your behavior, you and I are now the target of serious criminals. Drug lords. Murderers. And we have to fear for our lives.”
Not even a wisecrack.
“And you know what else, Jack? I’ve done something I’m not exactly proud of myself. Something below me. And until I get things straight in my head I’m going to bail for a while. My replacement is on the front veranda. Two big boys with artillery. They’ll take good care of you.”
With that I strode from the room and out of Jack’s life.
Chapter Twenty-Five
SO, NOW YOU’RE THINKING THAT I’m a hard ass and you’re likely right. But never assume that exiting Jack was a cake. I’d kill for the guy. Jack was my champion and hero, the man I longed to be. But what I failed to understand in my hero-worshipping stupor was how a guy like Jack could land me smack in the middle of the mob. The Asian mob to be exact. A.k.a. the Triad.
Alright, then. Thumbing through the office mail was about as exciting as my day was going to get. I plucked a pair of scissors from my tin desk drawer to cut up a credit card that some desperate bank had sent me for no apparent reason. With a credit limit of eighteen thousand dollars it might be worth keeping, though, given that I was basically out of work. I bought a lot of toys in my mind before cutting the card into confetti.
After watering Robert the Plant I returned to my chair, raised my feet to the top of my desk, and nodded of
f without guilt. I had no clients and no prospects. I was free as a bird. And I found myself dreaming about a flock of birds that didn’t seem to like me. They were red birds, some swooping at me, and others landing on my shoulders pecking at my face. The dirty little bastards were after my eyes, viciously and relentlessly, and I was frantically swatting them away. I hated birds and apparently birds, for no apparent reason, hated me. I awoke to the sound of someone clearing a throat.
He was wearing a lot of money. Tailor made threads above Bruno Magli loafers and a diamond encrusted Rolex worth half a million bucks. I could smell his offshore bank account and it didn’t stink. I motioned to a chair across from the desk and he took it without thought. He ploughed his manicured fingernails through his salt-and-pepper hair.
“James McGoogle,” he said. “We have an appointment.”
I looked at him with something approaching skepticism, since I couldn’t remember this appointment. But then again, I couldn’t remember much. “Hampton,” I replied. “Charles Hampton. PI.”
He smiled. I guessed he’d read it on the door. He had the guarded smile of a man you likely shouldn’t cross but if you did cross him you’d better have an exit plan in place. To Mars, for instance.
“It’s about my wife,” he started. “I think she’s cheating on me and if she is I want to catch her at it. I want to end the charade.”
“What makes you think this?”
“Well, not from her, that’s for sure. She won’t own up to it but it’s a gut feeling I have. She’s changed a lot lately. She’s just not the woman I married. I’d really like to be wrong.”
“I don’t do divorce cases, James. Never have and never will.”
He drew a brown envelope from the briefcase perched on his lap and threw it on my desk. “It’s not a divorce case. Not yet, at least. All I ask of you is to bring me proof that she’s cheating if she is. I don’t need pictures. I just need to know a time and a place. I can take it from there”
“Why don’t you just end the marriage if you’re so sure?”
“I knew you were going to ask me that.” His carefully-waxed eyebrows came together in the center of his frown as his small brown eyes squinted thoughtfully. “Firstly, I’m in love with her. I cherish the ground she walks on. And secondly, I’d like to be wrong. I’d like to be wrong more than anything in the world. You have no idea how happy I’d be if told that I’m delusional.”
I withdrew a photo from the brown envelope. She was a doll, alright. Early thirties with long dark hair, dark eyes, and a body built for cherishing. She was a keeper, a woman to fight for, absolutely. “When is she doing this cheating?” I found myself asking, instead of saying ‘not interested in your case’. There was something compelling about James McGoogle. And even more compelling about the beautiful Lana.
“During the day. She goes out almost every day. She has her charities. And her luncheons. She usually returns home before six. We have dinner together every night. And we attend parties. Functions. We play tennis. That part of our life would seem normal to our friends, since they haven’t noticed the changes I have.” Back came the frown. “It’s just the weekdays I want to know about. And I hope to hell I’m wrong.” He extracted a check from his case and signed it with a gold-plated pen. “Name your price, Hampton. And don’t be noble about it either.”
At twelve forty-five p.m. I pulled up to a Shaugnessey mansion and waited in the shade of a freshly clipped cedar hedge. It was like coming out of the Gobi Desert on a scorching summer day. I didn’t get me. I was driving around in oppressive heat with the top of my convertible down and the air conditioner on. My feet were cold, my head was hot, and I was hungry enough to eat road kill. At five minutes past one the luscious brunette backed her Mercedes out of the garage and headed for downtown Vancouver. If she was wearing the straw hat for camouflage purposes she needn’t have bothered. She was Lana McGoogle, for certain. A beauty.
I followed Lana to the Hotel Vancouver where I parked my car in a loading zone and followed her inside. She floated through the lobby in a white dress with little cap sleeves and a narrow red belt at the waist. Heads turned like corkscrews as she removed her hat and shook her long dark hair. She was a stunner. I followed her to the seventh floor, watched her go into a room, then hopped the elevator back to the lobby. After sinking into the comfort of a stuffed leather chair I retrieved my iPhone, asked the operator for room 707, and you’ll never guess who answered.
“Moonlighting Overcoat?” I laughed out loud.
“Who is this?” Marco demanded.
“An enemy. Someone who will crush your balls.”
“Charlie?”
“The same.”
“What do you want?”
“Your hide. And I’ll have it. Not that I’ll personally have to do the dirty work. There’s a husband out there who doesn’t appreciate your encroaching on his property. And this husband may be inclined to off you.”
Silence.
“And if he lets you live he’s going to name you as correspondent in a legal matter. Not that it’s necessary but he’s going to do it just for fun.”
After taking some time to clear his throat Marco condescended. “Well, that won’t hurt me. But it may hurt an innocent woman. Is that what you want?”
“Innocent?”
“Of course! She’s meeting me here today to discuss a divorce.”
I laughed until my teeth hurt. “I’m sure her husband will buy that. She is going to get a divorce, however, although not by her own choosing. What’s the matter, Marco? Lost your office? Things must be really bad if you’re succumbing to divorce cases. I hope you don’t lose your overcoats.”
Marco Midolo hung up.
I called back and stupid Marco answered.
“One more thing, Overcoat. Just for the record, Jack didn’t fire you. I did. I forged his signature.” I ended my call with a very smug smile on my face. But it didn’t last long. I believe my next phone call to be about the lowest point in my lengthy, and often distinguished, career.
“Bad news,” I told the person on the other end of the line.
“I figured.”
I reached into my shirt pocket and tore up the check.
I needed a break. Maybe even a woman, should providence prevail, and since Pamela in Pink had agreed to meet me at Opus Bar the word now running through my head was SCORE! Yaletown, a former warehouse district, was now as trendy and upscale as the collector cars parked on the streets. After I parked my own aging Beemer I window-shopped my way along the sidewalk, even passing a men’s clothing store where a glassy-eyed manikin stared back at me. Yikes! It was a Marco Midolo double and guess what? He was wearing an overcoat. I whistled my way down the block, not easy since I can’t whistle. I also harbor a deep hatred for annoying whistlers in general. Marco and I weren’t finished yet, by the way. Not by a long shot. But that’s another story.
So, I entered the Opus Bar prepared to move with the eclectic, my being savvy and such, to nibble on O Bites while ordering a clever drink, a double whiskey to be sipped through an elegant straw. After a second clever drink I grew happier, more optimistic, and nicer in general, not that I wanted to get married I just wanted to get laid. On that note I happened to notice the shimmering screens and iridescent lighting I was paying for so I opted to cut back on drinks - quality singles that had a way of disappearing like shots. Damn. I was turning cranky so I looked around to pick a fight but didn’t have the heart to punch a guy sporting a fresh manicure and plucked eyebrows. And new glasses.
Finally, Pamela wiggled her tight black dress into the joint. She pushed through the maze of salivating idiots like she’d danced that waltz before, tossing her mustard-colored mane. She was the kind of girl that called to a guy’s libido, if you know what I mean. Rapunzel, I was thinking, lay down your golden loins.
She flashed a smile of bonded teeth and big fake lashes. And as she slid onto the chair across from me I found myself drooling over her other precious purchases. Two of
them, to be exact. Beauties. Hell, I didn’t care if they were real or not, they were calling my name. But before I could make my move on Pamela, Pamela put the make on me.
“You’re gorgeous.” She giggled. “And sexy. All the nurses are ga ga over you. Even a few doctors.”
“I like doctors and nurses.”
“Right answer.”
We were laughing the mating laugh, no doubt about it. Soon we’d be thumping like the black-footed albatross.
Pamela was just warming up. “But I said to myself, Pamela.”
Oh, oh. A little word-slurring, perhaps?
“I said, Pamela. He’ll probably be the worst fuck you ever had. Good-looking guys don’t have to work in bed. He’ll likely just lay on top of you with too much body weight, like his elbows have been injured in a skateboard accident, then ejaculate on entry. Pouf. All for nothing.” She almost fell off her chair laughing.
So, maybe she was a little drunk. So what? I just kept thinking about the albatross thumping. It had been a long time since I’d thumped. “I accept all compliments. Keep them flowing. But just so you know I never ejaculate. I think it’s rude.”
She hiccupped. “I’m a bit drunk I’m afraid. I met some friends at Bar None and drank a lot of wine.” She chased her chocolate martini with her finger. “This is dessert.”
“Mind if I lick that?”
Pamela licked her own finger sensuously. “I can’t resist dark-haired men with blue eyes. I wish I could but I can’t. They’re my weakness. Especially the ones that don’t ejaculate.”
Trying to look cool and not horny I belted back a shot. She was squinting at me in a scrutinizing way. Ok. Here it came. The excuse. So much for getting laid without a lot of work.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Alec Baldwin? Like, when he was in The Marrying Man?”
”No. You would be the first,” I lied. “But just so you know I’m a lot better looking than Alec Baldwin.”
Jack in a Box Page 11
