Willows and Parker Box Set

by Laurence Gough

  The ash on Tracy Peel’s cigarette was an inch long. It fell to the carpet.

  “If you know of any trouble that Oscar was in, a drug deal, somebody he ...”

  “Oscar wasn’t involved in drugs.”

  “Somebody he owed money ... Another woman.”

  “And he was a good husband. Hardly ever went out, was happy to stay home and be with the baby.”

  “Then why won’t you help us?” Parker said.

  “Because I’m scared what happened to Oscar could happen to me.”

  “Did somebody threaten you?”

  “Walt threatened me.”

  Parker sat down on the sofa. She risked putting an arm around the girl’s shoulders. She could smell hair spray, perfume, deodorant, nail polish, stale beer. She said, “Who’s Walt?”

  “My case worker. He’s with MHR. Warned me he had his eye on me. Said all I had to do was make one little mistake and he’d seize Rebecca.”

  Willows glanced around the tiny apartment, at the dirt and grime, unwashed dishes, overflowing ashtrays, the plastic bags of garbage stacked against the wall by the door. MHR was the Ministry of Human Resources. He sniffed the air, wondered where the diaper basket was and how long it’d been since the widow Peel had been to the laundromat.

  “If you think of anything ...” said Parker. She gave Tracy Peel her card.

  The door wasn’t quite slammed shut. The deadbolt thudded home, they heard the rattle of the chain. Parker started up the short flight of concrete steps to ground level, but Willows loitered, waiting for the blare of the television. “ ... bachelor number one, it says here that you’re an aspiring actor, and that you’d like to get involved in the production end of ...”

  The baby started crying again.

  “What d’you think?” said Parker when they were back in the car.

  “Notice how hot it was in there?”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “She was wearing a sweater. The sleeves rolled down. You heard the baby crying. Saw the way she handled her cigarette ...”

  “You think she was wired?”

  “That’s what it looked like to me.”

  “Up there,” said Parker, “and not quite ready to come down.”

  “Prime time junkie heaven.”

  Parker rolled down her window. “Oscar was a dealer.”

  “That’s right, he was.” Willows started the car and fastened his seatbelt.

  “Is that why you didn’t push her to come down to the morgue, because she was high?”

  “No rush,” Willows said. “They can fine-tune him after the autopsy, make him a little more presentable.”

  “You think she already knew about him, that he’d been killed?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me, the way she reacted.”

  Parker had a sudden, horrifying thought. “What about the baby, Rebecca?”

  “If Tracy’s an addict, and she’s breast feeding her, then the kid’s an addict too.”

  “A baby junkie.”

  “I wonder who’s dealing to her mother,” Parker said.

  “Maybe Walt can tell us.”

  “Just what I was thinking.”

  “Sure you were,” said Willows. He grinned. “But I said it first.”

  *

  Pat Nash waited until he heard the door slam shut, counted to ten and then cranked the TV back up. Hard to believe the way the three guys sitting up there on the stools were making fools of themselves. The broad didn’t sound too bad, had a nice sexy voice. But if they could see what she looked like, they’d trample all over each other trying to get out of the studio.

  Or maybe not. Maybe they were the kind of guys who were willing to eat cold leftover shit to get on TV, a shot at a free trip to Burbank, wherever the hell that was.

  Tracy came into the room. Pat smiled at her. She looked so cute, holding the babe. It really turned him on, motherhood.

  “What’d they say?” he asked her.

  “Wanted to know who killed Oscar. Wanted me to solve the fucking case for them.”

  “What’d you tell ’em?”

  “Nothing, not a fuckin’ word.”

  Nash stretched out on the bed. “She’s gonna pick bachelor number one,” he said, “and believe me, the guy is the world’s biggest dink.”

  “Maybe that’s what she’s after.”

  “Hey,” Nash said, “don’t talk dirty.”

  The baby had gone to sleep. Tracy put her in the crib, pulled the little blanket over her body. “Think they know anything?”

  “What day it is, maybe.”

  “There were two of them, detectives. A man and a woman.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The woman was real pretty. She was wearing a dark blue suit, and she had jet black hair, glossy and clean looking, like a raven’s wing.”

  “I’ve always kind of liked blondes,” said Pat Nash. He patted the bed. “Get your ass over here.”

  “The way you sweet talk me, it’s irresistible.”

  Nash struggled to a sitting position. He drew up his knees and pushed himself backward, leaned against the wall. “We’re both nervous. A couple more days, it’ll be over.”

  “How much money did that guy Frank say we’re gonna get? What’d he say our share was gonna be?”

  “Twenty percent of a million. Two hundred grand.”

  “Can you trust him?”

  “More than he can trust me.”

  Tracy looked down at the sleeping baby. “It’s a lot of money.”

  “Not enough, baby.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  Nash reached out and grabbed her by the arm and pulled her on to the bed. He reached into the pocket of her ratty burgundy cardigan for her cigarettes, lit up.

  “Frank wants me to do Gary. I figure, why the hell not do both of them, while I’m at it? Take all the money. The whole million. Frank did Oscar, right? Shot him in cold blood.”

  Tracy Peel leaned in on Nash and rested her hand, fingers splayed, on his chest.

  Nash said, “Pow! Pow! Sweet dreams, Frankie.”

  “Gimme a kiss,” said Tracy. She could feel Nash’s chest hair, crinkly and stiff, beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. Oscar had been almost hairless. Even on his legs and under his armpits, there was hardly enough to notice. It was the one and only thing she hadn’t liked about him.

  Her mouth on Pat Nash’s, she wondered when the cops would come back, drag her off to the morgue to make her look at whatever was left of the only man she’d ever loved.

  21

  The telephone burbled, a soft, disinterested, happy sound — like a baby full of warm milk.

  Gary kept watching the game.

  Lazy bastard.

  Frank pushed himself up off the rug and ambled over to the bar. He picked up the phone and said, “Yeah, who is it?” He held the phone pressed up against his ear, frowned but didn’t say anything.

  Frank and Gary and the juicer were watching a ball game on TV, the New York Yankees and Oakland Athletics. Somebody scored, an Athletic, but Gary didn’t notice who it was because his eyes had glazed over. Bottom of the seventh inning and Billy Martin, who was the Yankees’ manager at the time, still hadn’t kicked dirt on any of the umpires. Christ, what was the game coming to.

  The TV broke to a commercial. A blonde girl wearing a slinky black evening dress and diamond earrings tried to sell them a Ford. Or maybe it was a Chevrolet. Frank still hadn’t said a goddamn word. Gary drank some beer. Snapped his fingers and lifted his eyebrows, gave Frank a look that said — Hey, what’s up?

  Frank paid no attention to Gary, he still hadn’t said anything. He was nodding his head as if the guy on the other end could see him and it was important that he seem to be cooperating.

  “Who the fuck is it, Frank?” Gary’s patience, what there was of it, had been exhausted in the space of about thirty seconds.

  Frank cupped his hand over the receiver. “Guy says he found something valuable that he figures you must’ve lo
st. Won’t say what it is. Says he found it last weekend, washed up on the beach in a plastic bag. Wants to know if there’s a reward.”

  Gary poked Samantha in the ribs. She gave him a look and he gave her that same look right back and said, “Take a hike, sweetie.”

  “Where to, Gary?”

  “Try the kitchen.”

  “What’m I supposed to do in the kitchen?”

  “Clean the oven, baby.” Gary gave her a nice smile. “With your tongue.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m leaving.” Samantha stood up. “You don’t have to be such a grouch, that’s all.”

  “Hey, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Gary rolled up his subscription copy of Time and whacked her on the ass, like she was a puppy that had made the mistake of baring its puppy teeth. He watched her skitter across the room and out the door. Sad to say, but it was getting to the point where the girl had just about worn out her welcome.

  Frank hung up. He glanced at Gary, shrugged.

  “Lemme guess,” Gary said. “Marcel Marceau?”

  “Huh?” said Frank.

  “What I’m asking, who the hell was it?”

  “He didn’t give me a name, Gary. Just said what I already told you, we lost something and he’s got it. And how much is it worth to us to get it back.”

  “You recognize the voice? Was it that sneaky little punk Randy DesMoines?”

  “I don’t know who it was. Not Randall, though. Guy said he wants to set up a meet.”

  “That’d be nice.”

  “The Varsity Grill, of all places.”

  “What, that place over on Tenth Avenue, we get the takeout Chinese, Special Won-Ton?”

  Frank looked at his watch. “You’re supposed to be there in ten minutes.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  “Just you, Gary.”

  Gary Silk chewed his lower lip. “What’s the nearest cross street?”

  “Trimble.”

  “Okay, I’ll drop you at Trimble a couple blocks below Tenth. You can trot the rest of the way, it’ll take you maybe two or three minutes. When you get there, sit down as close to us as possible.”

  “What if there’s no empty booths? That’s a popular restaurant, Gary.”

  “Then stand and wait, okay? Just like you’re an ordinary customer.”

  “I don’t like Chinese food, you know that.”

  “Jesus Christ!” yelled Gary.

  “Just kidding,” said Frank, wounded.

  In the garage, Frank got even with Gary by pretending he couldn’t find the keys to the Caddy. Gary made nasty metallic clicking sounds with his tongue. Frank put a stop to that by dropping his .44 calibre Magnum Research Desert Eagle on Gary’s foot. The gun looked big enough to shoot dinosaurs, and the weight of it sent Gary hopping and shrieking across the oil-stained cement like a demented little gap-toothed one-legged bunny.

  “You big dope!” screamed Gary.

  “Sorry,” said Frank.

  Frank pulled the Caddy over at Eighth and Trimble, across the street from the park. There was a church on the corner, but if God was home he didn’t have any lights on. Frank opened the car door and slid out from behind the wheel, stepped on to the street.

  “Wanna borrow my gun, Gary?”

  Gary said, “Hey, what kind of guy you think I am? The service is that bad, I’ll eat someplace else.” He slammed the door shut and took off, the Caddy rocketing through the intersection.

  “Is that a no?” said Frank. He started walking. The Caddy’s brake lights flared as Gary turned left on Tenth Avenue.

  When Frank walked into the restaurant, he saw Gary right away. Or rather, he saw the back of Gary’s head, the mousse or gel or whatever it was he used making his hair look slick and kind of slimy under the lights. Gary was in a two-seater near the back of the restaurant, down by the soft-drink cooler. All the other booths in the place were occupied. Frank sat down at the counter. A waiter ambled past and he ordered a cup of coffee and a donut.

  “No donuts. All gone! You like a cookie, great big cookie?”

  “Just coffee,” said Frank. He’d seen the waiter somewhere before, not in the restaurant. He recognized him, but couldn’t place him. Was the guy a cop? The way he carried himself, Frank didn’t think so.

  He was about ten feet away from Gary’s booth. Gary was digging into a bowl of Special Won-Ton. Using a fork. The restaurant was noisy, and Frank couldn’t quite make out what was being said. Gary’s dinner companion, obviously the guy who made the phone call, seemed to be doing most of the talking.

  Frank slurped his coffee and turned casually towards them. The guy sitting opposite Gary was in his late forties, dressed in a tan sports jacket, slacks. He could’ve been a cop, businessman, lowlife drug dealer. Helicopter pilot. Off-duty priest. Christ, anything. He looked up and caught Frank’s eye. Frank turned his attention to the television suspended above the last booth along the far wall. Bottom of the ninth and it was the Yankees over Oakland, seven to six. Frank glanced back at the guy in the suit. The guy was staring at him. Frank got busy with his coffee. There’d been something in the guy’s eyes — he knew what Frank was up to and plainly didn’t give a shit. Had it all figured out, it seemed.

  “You like the coffee?” It was the waiter. Frank remembered where he’d seen him. Or at least someone who looked like him — the guy who played Jack Lord’s buddy on that old TV series, Hawaii Five-O.

  “Coffee’s fine,” Frank said.

  “Want more cream?”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “You don’t like the coffee, I don’t charge you. Not one penny. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Frank.

  The waiter bunched up his eyebrows and glanced over Frank’s shoulder. Frank spun around on his stool to look behind him. Gary was moving towards him, brushing past the soft-drink machine, his hands in his pockets and a toothpick in his mouth. Frank craned his neck to check out the booth. It was empty.

  “Where the fuck is he?” Frank said.

  Gary said, “Don’t worry about it, your face’ll go all wrinkly.” He handed Frank a brown paper bag that weighed about half a pound.

  “What’s this?”

  “Possession with intent. For a first offense, about five years in the slammer.”

  “Or half a pound of baking soda.”

  “Maybe,” said Gary, “but I don’t think so. I mean, what would be the point?”

  Frank dropped a dollar on the counter. They started towards the door.

  “We should’ve bagged him,” said Frank. “Gone to bed happy.”

  “Or got shot in the knee like Randall DesMoines.” Gary waited for Frank to open the door for him, stepped out on to the sidewalk.

  “He had a gun?”

  “An automatic. A twenty-two. Gave me a little poke in the belly when I sat down. Kept it pointed at me the whole time we talked.”

  “He got the twenty kilos?”

  “Found it washed up on the beach in West Van. Wants five hundred grand. He’s coming to the house tomorrow night, to do the exchange.”

  Frank’s broad face registered disbelief. “He agreed to come to us?”

  “You betcha.”

  “All by himself? And trust you to be a sweet guy and hand over the cash?”

  “He’s got a friend,” said Gary. “Also, a tape of the little talk we just had in the restaurant. We try to screw him, he isn’t out of the house two minutes after he walks inside, his pal phones the cops. Tells them what went down. Gives them the tape.” Gary shrugged. It was about as philosophical as he ever got. “He’s a fuckin’ businessman, Frank. His price is too low to haggle over, and he knows it. Anyhow, I figure the town’s so dry I can jack up my price, absorb the loss.”

  “Good thinking,” said Frank. “So you’re actually gonna do the deal?”

  “I’ve dropped half a mil in a weekend at Vegas,” Gary said. “The guy’s being reasonable. Just this once, I’m gonna do things the easy way.”

  “Half a mil,” said F
rank. His shoulders slumped. He’d figured at least twice that much. On the other hand, looking on the bright side, a low number was all the more reason not to do a split with Nash.

  “What would you’ve done?” said Gary.

  “Told him five hundred grand wasn’t even close, he should’ve asked for a whole lot more.”

  Gary laughed and slapped Frank on the back so hard it made him break stride. They walked down Tenth Avenue to the car. Frank made a U-turn and took them home, to the house on Drummond Drive.

  They found Samantha in the kitchen, standing at the counter dropping Florida oranges into an automatic press, pouring the juice into a highball glass full of chunk ice, mixing Tom Collinses just about as fast as she could knock them down.

  “Make it three,” said Gary. He bent over her and brushed her hair back and bit her on the neck hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

  “Hey, what’d I do to you?”

  “Everything either one of us could think of,” said Gary. He slid his hand down the front of her sweater, winked at Frank. Frank looked away. Samantha kept dropping oranges into the machine. Gary held on for a few seconds, long enough to make his point, and then withdrew his hand from her sweater and wandered over to the fridge. “I hardly touched my Won-Ton. Should’ve got ’em to wrap it for me. Put it in one of them wax boxes with the wire handles. Want something to eat, Frank? A burger, maybe? With bacon and cheese, fried onions?”

  “It’s too late at night, it’ll make me dream.”

  “So?”

  “Give me indigestion, Gary.”

  “Bullshit.” Gary tossed Frank a two-pound package of raw hamburger. “Get cooking, kiddo.” He went over to Samantha and tousled her hair, making a mess of it. “Wanna burger, sweets?”

  “No thanks, Gary.”

  Gary made a hissing sound, like air leaking out of a slow snake on a fast road. “Make it three, Frank.”

  Frank was crouched down in front of the oak kitchen cabinets to the right of the sink, scrambling around like a goddamn maid, trying to find a frying pan. He nodded but didn’t say anything, not trusting his voice. And he kept his face averted so Gary couldn’t see the look in his eyes.

  Because if Gary saw what he was thinking, he’d head straight for the door. Frank didn’t want to have to play tag. Gary was too fast, because of all those miles he jogged. Anyhow, the time wasn’t right. Tomorrow night, Frank’d take care of Nash and whoever else happened to be around. Grab the heroin and money, and then hit Gary. Catch him flat-footed. Do him painful, but do him quick.