by Brent Pilkey
“I must say, Jack, what I learned about your new precinct was far from encouraging. It has an extremely high crime rate and an equally high number of complaints lodged against the officers.” George sipped his wine, looking satisfied. “It seems you’ll be surrounded by criminals wherever you turn.”
“Well, first of all, Mr. Hawthorn —” Hawthorn never insisted Jack call him by his given name and there was no way Jack was going to call him Doctor Hawthorn “— it isn’t a precinct, it’s a division. Precinct is an American term.”
Hawthorn’s lips twitched ever so slightly on his wineglass. He hated to be corrected. Score one for Jack. A small one, but Jack had learned to enjoy any victory, however small, against his father-in-law.
“And, yes, there are a fair number of complaints against officers.”
“I imagine,” Hawthorn slid in, not giving Jack a chance to elaborate, “that is an indication of the quality of officers in the . . . division.” There was a pause. “Present company excluded, of course.”
Jack didn’t miss the jab and neither did Karen. “Dad, that wasn’t nice.”
Hawthorn gave his daughter a disarming smile. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Jack knows I didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t you, Jack?”
“Of course.” Jack met Hawthorn’s eyes over the rim of his coffee cup.
Two natural enemies eyeing one another over disputed territory. In this case, Hawthorn’s daughter and Jack’s wife. When it had become apparent that their relationship was progressing beyond casual dating, Karen’s parents had started playing Let’s Bash the Boyfriend. Karen had defended Jack, but she hadn’t confronted her father head-on. Jack sometimes thought her choice of career and husband were unconscious acts of defiance.
Jack knew he would never be accepted by his in-laws and really didn’t give a flying fuck. But he did care about Karen and how the game, the constant slams, affected her. Nothing about him was right or good enough for the Hawthorns’ daughter: his job, his education — he had gone to university but hadn’t graduated — his upbringing, his taste in clothes and music, and his house. Karen had paid half of the down payment and was paying half of the mortgage, but to George and Evelyn it was Jack’s house, probably because it was in a middle-class commuter community.
Jack always told Karen not to worry about it, that he could endure their petty snipes. He could gain a small measure of revenge by doing their prim and polite daughter on the back deck, where neighbours might see, or in the bathroom when they were forced to attend one of the Hawthorns’ snooty parties.
For now, all he had to do was endure the game and hope no one ordered dessert.
“There’s a saying down in 51: if you don’t get complaints, then you’re not doing your job. Since so many of the criminals down there are repeat offenders, a lot of them lodge complaints when they’re arrested so they can use the complaint as a bargaining chip later on in court.”
“I can see how that might explain some of the complaints,” Hawthorn admitted. There was another deliberate pause. “But not all of them.”
“What I don’t understand,” Evelyn said, “is why you would want to go to work there. From what George told me, it sounds perfectly horrible.” Her perfectly painted lips puckered in distaste.
Jack nodded. “It can be. But it can also be very interesting and educational. I’m learning a lot.” It was his turn for a deliberate pause. “I’m surprised you’re not familiar with the area, Mrs. Hawthorn. A lot of the people you fight for live there.”
Evelyn smiled and twirled her wineglass between perfectly manicured fingers. “I don’t get out of the office too much these days, Jack. The government is determined to drown our efforts in paperwork.”
“What I’m worried about is Jack’s safety,” Karen put in, taking his hand. “He hardly ever mentioned guns or knives in 32 and now he runs into them almost every day.”
Hawthorn wasn’t worrying about Jack’s safety. “Learning? What could you possibly be learning there? As I understand it, the policing is relatively straightforward. The drug trafficking is out in the open, so you simply go and arrest the . . . perps, is it? Or is that another American term?”
“It is. We say suspects.” Jack took a sip of coffee and again hoped no one ordered dessert.
“So what are you learning in such a . . . challenge-free environment?”
Challenge-free? Jack almost gagged on his coffee. “I’m learning to be a cop,” he said, almost snapping.
Karen squeezed his hand and he forced his anger down for her. Hawthorn gazed at him calmly, a small, sly smile playing across his lips. He knew Jack had almost lost his temper and he wanted Jack to know it.
“If I want to get into a squad like Holdup or Drugs, I need the street-level experience 51 can give me.”
“But I thought being a police officer was only a temporary occupation until you finished your degree and found a bet . . . new job.”
“No, Mrs. Hawthorn, that was never the plan. I don’t want a different job and I can’t honestly imagine a better job either.” Just a slight emphasis to let her know he had caught her slip and what he thought of it.
No one wanted dessert, thankfully, and when the bill came Jack reached for it, but Hawthorn beat him to it. “It’s on me, Jack.” He plunked down his credit card without looking at the bill. “Evie and I chose the restaurant and I know this isn’t exactly your normal dining experience. It would be unrealistic of me to expect you to pay for the meal.” His smile was as smug as it was gracious.
Along with his professor’s salary, Hawthorn banked a nice amount from his lectures and book sales. Add in that he came from a family of old money and Jack could never even hope to compete with Hawthorn’s credit limit.
“Thank you, sir. It certainly was an . . . experience.”
Hawthorn waved away Jack’s gratitude. “Don’t mention it, Jack.”
Especially now that I already have. Jack hid his grimace behind his coffee cup. It was their wedding all over again. He and Karen had planned a nice, intimate ceremony with close friends and family. Then Hawthorn had opened his chequebook. Jack wanted to tell his future father-in-law where he could shove his money, but he saw the longing in Karen’s eyes. She denied it, but Jack knew he could never give her the fairy-tale wedding she really wanted. So, with a flourish of a pen, Karen’s parents seized control of the wedding and two hundred additional guests, a horse-drawn carriage, a string quartet and an eleven-course dinner later Jack was indebted to his father-in-law. To be fair, Hawthorn rarely mentioned the cost. Just when there were people around to hear.
The humidity had finally broken and after the stuffiness of the restaurant the warm night air was a relief. Everyone said their goodbyes — strained on Jack’s part, condescending on Hawthorn’s — and then Jack and Karen started the long walk to the car. She hugged his arm as he loosened his tie and popped the top button on his shirt. Who in hell enjoys wearing a suit and tie to dinner?
“Thank you, Jack. I know these dinners are hard for you.”
“When we have kids, I’m going to teach the babies to splash food on him. Accidentally, of course.”
He felt her shake her head against his shoulder. “I don’t understand why he picks on you so much. I thought he would stop when we got married.”
“Face it, hon. Your dad doesn’t like me and he doesn’t like his only daughter being married to a cop. I’m sure he wanted you to marry the son of one of his colleagues. Probably still does.”
She giggled. “Or someone I met at a political rally.”
“Rally sounds too radical for your father. Maybe a political convention or a lecture.”
“That’s where he and Mom met.”
Jack had heard a glorified and detailed version of the story at his wedding reception, when Hawthorn had given a half-hour toast. Hawthorn, the ambitious doctoral student, and Evelyn, the freshly graduated social crusader, had met and fallen instantly in love at a political demonstration on the hills of the nation’s capital.<
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“Love and political upheaval. Who could ask for a more romantic beginning?”
“Oh? And our meeting was more romantic?”
They had reached the car and Karen leaned against the passenger door. She took Jack by the hips and pulled him close.
“What’s wrong with meeting at the gym?” He leaned in to kiss her nose. “Okay, so we weren’t expressing social ideologies, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t impressed by your . . .”
“My what?” she asked with a smile.
“Your discipline and dedication to a healthy lifestyle.”
“Really?”
“Well, that and the way your ass looked in Spandex.”
“Speaking of my ass, I think it’s wasting away. I don’t know about you, but I’m still hungry.”
“What my lady wants, my lady gets,” Jack declared, opening the door for her.
Before he could close the door, she snagged his tie and pulled his head level with hers. The kiss she gave him made the night air cool by comparison. “Thank you, Jack, for putting up with my parents.”
“I’m used to it.” He freed his tie and darted around the car. “Besides,” he added as he dropped into the driver’s seat, “whenever you speak up for me, your mom starts quoting scripture.”
“And you’re such a naughty sinner.”
“Damn right. And I intend to prove it as soon as we get home.”
“But dessert first.”
“Dessert, then sex,” he confirmed, pulling out of the parking lot.
“How about we get something to go and have dessert with sex?” Karen asked, toying with the buttons on her blouse.
“I knew there was a reason I married you.” He grinned at her and stomped on the gas.
Thursday, 17 August
1717 hours
“Fucking bloody seat.” Sy muttered expletives as he threw his shoulders back against the driver’s car seat, which refused to budge from its upright position. “How the hell does anyone drive like this? My chest is over my fucking knees.”
“Are you using the seat lever?”
Sy glared at Jack. “Yes, I’m using the seat lever. Smartass.” He pushed once more and the seat back smacked into the Plexiglas partition behind the front seats. The headrest was missing and Sy smacked his skull on the glass. “Fuck!” He sat up and glared at his partner again. “One word, smartass, and you’re riding in the trunk.”
“Far be it from me to laugh at my partner’s misfortune.” Jack swivelled the dashboard computer so he could see the screen and began logging them on. He couldn’t help snickering.
“Smartass,” Sy repeated. It seemed to be his new word for the day. “At least the fucking seat’s working now.” He fiddled with it some more, then started up the car and cranked the air conditioning on.
It was another hot day and the humidity had crept back up after the weekend. Jack and Sy were on the first day of evening shift and the air felt like an old rag doused with hot water.
“Mason grabbed me after parade for a quick talk.” Sy was fiddling with the seat as he drove.
“Mason?”
“Rick Mason. Fucking seat. The Major Crime boss. Got you, you little son of a whore.” The gears beneath the seat gave a final, mortally wounded whir before falling still. Sy wiggled his ass and sighed contentedly. “Finally.”
“Mason?” Jack prodded.
“Oh, right. Remember that dealer you grabbed last week? The one with the Black?” Sy cruised through the parking lot and pulled out onto Regent Street.
“Yeah, I remember him. Karen laughed her ass off when I told her about how he took off on me the second time.”
It was Sy’s turn to snicker. “Good girl.”
“But I won’t tell you what she did with the beer bottle after that.”
Sy glanced at Jack, his eyebrows peaked in curiosity. “I have got to meet this wife of yours. Well, Mason —”
“5106, in your area. 279 George Street. See the complainant in room 3. He was assaulted earlier by the tenant in room 2. Suspect still on scene. Time, 1721.”
Sy turned onto Shuter Street, then eased to a stop for the red light at Parliament. While they waited for the light to change, they wrote down the call in their memo books.
“So, Mason told me the dealer was more than willing to co-operate once he talked with the MCU boys.” The light changed and Sy accelerated through the intersection.
“What, um, incentive did they use?”
Sy laughed. “Despite what you may have heard about us 51 coppers, we don’t get confessions using phone books or pepper spray. Instead of Show Causing him, they cut him loose on a Form Ten.”
“Isn’t trafficking an automatic Show Cause? I thought it was a reverse-onus charge.”
“Yup, it is.” Sy nodded. “But Mason cleared it with the booking sergeant. So instead of spending the night in jail and heading to court in the morning, the dealer got cut loose with a shitload of conditions, one of them being he’s not allowed in the division. So, if we see him again, we can pinch him for that.”
“I take it they got some useful information from him?”
“Yup. They’ve been working on it and they’re doing a search warrant day after tomorrow.”
“We invited?” Jack asked hopefully.
“Damn straight we are.”
“Excellent!” Jack was ecstatic.
Sy grinned, catching his exuberance. “It’s a thank-you for the pinch. Also, they like to have some uniforms along with them so if the shit hits the fan the assholes can’t say they didn’t know it was the police.”
“Oh, great,” Jack moaned sarcastically. “They want to use us as targets to draw the gunfire.”
“Something like that. We start at two on Saturday.”
“Cool. Meet for a workout first?”
“Sure, but not legs, in case we — I mean you — have to chase someone.”
Sy cut up Pembroke Street, then drove along Dundas to George and up the one-way southbound street. It seemed Sy didn’t pay much attention to one-way arrows. An odd collection of buildings lined George Street. The west side was heavy with residential buildings. New apartment buildings occupied the south end of the street and old homes the north. Between them was the back entrance to the youth courts and detention centre.
On the east side was the Schoolhouse, a little-known exclusive men’s hostel with strict rules and small occupancy numbers. It catered to a better-behaved, more sober class of homeless men. Next to the Schoolhouse was Seaton House, the Schoolhouse’s behemoth of a cousin and Toronto’s largest shelter for men, which took up almost half the block. The four-storey institutional building offered clean beds, warm showers, food and counselling. Despite the best intentions of the staff, many homeless men were afraid to sleep there because of the shelter’s human predators.
South of Seaton House was their destination, a brief line of townhouses sandwiched between a run-down apartment building and Filmore’s, the strip club at the corner of George and Dundas streets. 279 was the last unit in the line and the decrepit townhouse appeared to sag in the heat, an old and forgotten relative waiting to die.
Sy and Jack mounted the cracked concrete steps and entered a dim hallway that seemed even hotter than outside. The warped floorboards under the threadbare carpet creaked beneath their boots. Sy pointed at the second door in the hall and Jack nodded. According to the radio call, room 2 belonged to the suspect. Jack eyed the door as he passed. There was no peephole and the door was firmly shut. If the suspect was expecting the police, he wasn’t keeping an eye out for them. At least not from his room. Sy and Jack moved on to room 3, and Sy rapped on the door.
“If you’re lookin’ for Phil, I’m out here.”
A stooped figure stood silhouetted in the door at the end of the hall, backlit by early evening sun. To Jack, he was nothing more than a solid shadow, but his raspy voice and broken-down posture suggested he was too old to be their suspect. The back door led out onto a fair-sized deck a few steps a
bove a small yard of dead grass and dried mud. Mismatched lawn chairs and ashtrays heaped beyond capacity with old butts crowded the deck space. Phil, their victim, shuffled over to one of the chairs and slowly, carefully lowered himself into it. Jack put Phil’s age somewhere between seventy and ancient. Knuckles swollen with arthritis gripped the armrest of his chair.
Jack had started sweating the moment he had stepped out of the air-conditioned car, yet Phil was wearing a long-sleeved denim shirt and jeans. There wasn’t much to him. His breastbone and collarbones were visible in the open neck of his shirt and his jeans hung limply on stick-thin thighs.
Why would someone want to beat on an old guy like him? But Jack could see that someone surely had. The dark skin under Phil’s left eye was swollen and scraped. Jack was looking forward to meeting this someone.
Sy dragged over a chair and eased down as though not sure its old webbing would take his weight. It protested but held.
Jack stood so he could watch the back door.
“That’s a nasty bump you got there, Phil,” Sy commented as he flipped open his memo book. “You want to tell us who did that to you so we can go and arrest his chickenshit ass?”
“Damn right I wanna tell you.” Phil might have been old enough to be called ancient, but his voice, cigarette rasp or not, still had some strength to it. “Damn bastard in room 2 did this to me, not more’n half an hour ago.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Damn right I do. Jake Carlsberg, like the beer.”
“Easy enough. How old is Jake? Any idea, Phil?”
Phil laughed, or coughed, Jack wasn’t sure which.
“Younger’n me, that’s damn sure. Otherwise, I’da smacked the little shitter right back. He’s ’bout this feller’s age.” Phil pointed a crooked finger at Jack. “You laughin’ at me, young feller?” he asked, daring Jack to answer yes.
“No, sir,” Jack replied, not hiding his grin. “I just admire your attitude. But why did this guy hit you?”
