Fall Down Easy

by Laurence Gough

“In the morning,” Willows agreed.

  The elevator doors slid open. They stepped inside. Parker said, “You don’t mind driving me home, I hope.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Willows punched the button for the lobby. The doors slid shut. Down they went. Parker was leaning against the wall of the elevator, her eyes shut, ready to fall asleep in her shoes. Their descent was swift, and when they reached street level, the ride stopped with such abruptness that if Willows hadn’t reached out to steady her, she might have fallen.

  Parker did fall asleep during the drive back to her apartment, but awoke when Willows pulled up against the curb and turned off the engine.

  There was an awkward silence as she unbuckled her seat-belt, got herself organized. Willows was busily weighing the risks and rewards of inviting himself up for a drink when Parker said, “See you tomorrow, Jack,” and got out of the car and slammed shut the door.

  Willows drove home, parked on the street. He sat in the unmarked car for a moment, listening to the quiet tick of the cooling engine. The mornings could be bad, but the nights were always a whole lot worse. It was so disheartening, returning to a house you knew would be dark and empty.

  Maybe he should get himself a dog. A small one, that didn’t chew the furniture or bark or need to be taken for walks.

  He made sure the car was locked, strolled across the lawn towards the house. The motion sensor turned on the front porch light. That day’s edition of The Courier was spread out all over the steps. He scooped up the flimsy pages of newsprint as he made his way towards the door.

  The phone started ringing as he let himself in. He picked up. Parker said, “You were hoping I’d invite you in for a drink, weren’t you?”

  “Well, at least I’m always welcome here at home.”

  “Take a rain check?”

  “Let it pour, let it pour, let it pour … ”

  “Night, Jack.”

  “Good night, Claire.” Willows disconnected, checked his pockets to make sure he hadn’t left his keys in the door. He went into the kitchen, turned on the overhead light and rounded up a clean lowball glass, ice from the fridge. He hauled a bottle of Cutty Sark down off the shelf, poured himself a generous double, screwed the cap back on the bottle and put it away. The refrigerator hummed.

  He picked up the glass and immediately put it back down on the counter.

  The refrigerator paused for breath. He was still wearing his jacket, hadn’t bothered to take it off. Now, why was that?

  He knelt and retrieved a stainless steel thermos from a bottom cupboard, and left the house.

  There was a mini-mall at the corner of Broadway and Maple that contained the usual suspects — cheap haircuts, video rentals, takeout pizza, forty-three flavours of icecream and a Mac’s twenty-four-hour convenience store. Willows went into the store and filled his thermos with hot black coffee, paid for the coffee and a couple of candy bars and a small-size submarine sandwich heated to melting point in a microwave.

  It was a straight run down Maple to Ogden. The street was empty except for two or three parked cars.

  The wide wrought-iron driveway gates in front of Martin Ross’s house were shut but the garage doors were wide open. A strip fluorescent ceiling light shone down on a pair of mountain bikes, a jumble of ski equipment, a bright red lawn mower and Martin Ross’s shiny dark blue Chrysler Imperial.

  No Samurai, though. Willows drove slowly down to the end of the block, around the corner and up the lane behind the house. Still no Samurai. He continued down the lane until he hit Chestnut, made a left turn. The outsized mushroom shape of the HR MacMillan Planetarium was off to his right, the huge stylized brushed aluminium crab that reared up on its hind legs in the pond in front of the building artfully lit by submerged lights.

  Straight ahead, the road dropped gently down towards the water, ended in a half-acre parking lot that serviced the Maritime Museum and the neglected A-frame building of cedar shakes and plate glass that housed the historic RCMP vessel the St Roch.

  Willows turned on his brights and slowly cruised the length of the parking lot. A sixties-era Ford Mustang with vanity plates and steamed-up windows was parked in the far corner of the lot, facing towards the water and towering wall of light that was the West End. The only other vehicle in the lot was a battered parks board van with the city crest painted on the door.

  Willows parked as far away from the Mustang as he could manage without compromising his view of Ross’s house. He turned off his engine and immediately became aware of a loud, percussive thumping coming from the Mustang’s stereo. He adjusted his rearview mirror so he could keep an eye on the car. If it was just some kid who couldn’t afford a motel, fine. But if the Mustang’s occupants were drinking, it wouldn’t hurt to have a little advance notice if they decided to drop by and say hello.

  He unwrapped his sub, poured his first cup of coffee, added a dollop of cream.

  On the far side of the parking lot, the white-painted hull of the St Roch was caught in a nest of shadows and light. Years ago, he and Sheila had toured the ship with the children. The sloping wooden deck was cluttered with boxes of cargo, and the crew had been bundled up against the elements in leather and furs. There was a team of sled dogs, the frozen corpse of a sea-lion that would be devoured by men and animals alike during the course of the voyage. He remembered Annie remarking that if ghosts really did exist, the ship was exactly the sort of place they’d hang out.

  Willows ate half his sandwich, bundled what was left in the tinfoil wrapper. He screwed the stainless steel cup back on the thermos.

  Despite the coffee, the food had made him drowsy. He rolled his window down a few inches, and as he was doing this, a low-slung black Camaro cruised silently into the parking lot, the driver killing his lights as he slowed for a speed bump.

  Willows slouched lower in his seat. He rolled his window all the way down, zipped his jacket against the damp sea air.

  The Camaro drove diagonally across the parking lot, brake lights flashing as it came to a stop beside the Mustang. The Mustang’s passenger-side door swung open, and the thump of the bass was suddenly much louder, and then almost gone, a whisper to hide more whispering. A man with his hair in a ponytail got out of the car and leaned against the flank of the Camaro. A match flared. The Camaro’s driver opened his door and leaned forward, pressing against the steering wheel so the guy from the Mustang could get into the backseat.

  The Mustang’s driver fired up his engine. The brake lights pulsed red as the driver, tapped the brake pedal in time to the music.

  The Camaro seemed to be filled with fireflies. There had to be at least six people in the car, and they were all smoking, waving their cigarettes in the air. Several minutes died in vain. Willows poured himself a little more coffee, drank it black.

  Off to his right, he heard the slap of approaching feet on pavement. A group of four women dressed in Lycra and sweats trotted out of the lightly treed area around the planetarium. The group turned and headed towards the water, jogged silently across a patch of grass and then put their backs to the parking lot as they followed the limestone path that ran parallel to the narrow body of water leading towards the Burrard Street Bridge and False Creek.

  Willows watched as the women were quickly swallowed by the darkness. The crunch of running shoes on packed gravel faded, and died.

  Somebody in the Camaro flicked a cigarette butt out the window. Light flared as a fresh cigarette was lit.

  At the far end of Ogden, a long, long block away, a car turned the corner, its headlights washing across the trunks of the maple trees in the small park that led to Kitsilano Beach.

  Willows reached for his binoculars, brought the car into focus.

  It was Samantha Ross’s Samurai, all right. She was alone in the car. Willows continued to adjust the focal length of the binoculars as she sped down the street and pulled into the driveway in front of the house. He saw her lean forward in her seat, point at the gates, which swung open as if by
magic.

  Samantha Ross drove her Samurai into the garage. The door swung down and the gates swung shut. A few moments later, a light came on inside the house, in the kitchen. The kitchen light went out, and then the hall light came on and the stained-glass panels on either side of the front door lit up. Samantha was going upstairs. Now she was in the bathroom, a brighter light shining through a rectangle of frosted glass. Steam rolled from a vent hidden beneath the overhang of the roof.

  She was taking a shower.

  Another light came on, this time at the far end of the house, upstairs front, where there’d be a terrific view of the harbour. The master bedroom. Now Martin Ross was standing in the window, his hands on his hips, looking down at the street. The binoculars seemed to pull him right up against the windshield — Ross was so close and so clear that Willows could easily make out the repeated pattern of sailing ships on his pyjamas.

  Willows scanned the rest of the house, the roofline and grounds. Nothing.

  The bathroom light was extinguished. A moment later Martin Ross turned from the window. He was smiling. His hair was silver in the light.

  He was, Willows was sure of it, starting to unbutton his pyjamas as he turned away from the window.

  Willows considered getting out of the car and taking a stroll through the park. But did he really want to know what was going on in there?

  Maybe not, but he wasn’t quite ready to call it a night, either. He decided to stay put until the house was dark again, and then go home.

  There was a sudden burst of mirthless, high-pitched laughter from the Mustang.

  A dark-coloured car turned the corner at the far end of Ogden. The driver swung wide, turned on his brights as he angled towards the parked cars on the far side of the road.

  Willows tensed. The car was a late model four-door Pontiac, black or maybe dark blue. It looked as if the driver was trying to make sure that the parked cars were empty. Was he checking to make sure that there wasn’t a stake-out at the Ross house?

  The car cruised slowly down the street, headlights flooding the interiors of the parked cars in a harsh white glare.

  Willows had to constantly adjust the binoculars as the car moved towards him. The driver was a white male. He was wearing a dark brown or black broad-brimmed hat, glasses, a scarf. He had a moustache, full beard. His nose was large, larger than life.

  Willows widened the field of view. The Pontiac was streaked with mud. The streetlights gave everything a yellowish tinge. He still wasn’t sure of the car’s colour. The front licence plate had been bent under the bumper and was unreadable. Willows squinted against the light as the driver made a U-turn and drove slowly back down the block.

  There was more mud on the rear end of the car, and the licence plate light was dead. It was impossible to tell if the plate was local or out-of-province.

  Willows scanned the car from front to rear, looking for a bumper sticker, cracked glass, a dent or scratch, anything that would help identify the vehicle.

  Nothing.

  Brake lights flashed as the Pontiac stopped on the far side of the street from the Ross house, in the shade of a clump of maples about fifty feet down the road from the house.

  The car’s lights died. The driver got out and stood quietly beside the car. He was wearing tight black jeans and a bulky leather jacket. Fine-tuning the binoculars, Willows clearly saw the orange swoosh on the sides of his Nike running shoes.

  The driver’s posture was that of a man who was listening, tense, ready to bolt. Willows zoomed in on his face. There wasn’t much to see, other than a lot of hair, the nose. The hat’s wide brim cast the man’s face in shadow. His features were further hidden by the scarf wrapped around his neck. There was nothing remarkable about his jacket or pants.

  Willows concentrated on the Nikes. Black, with an orange swoosh. Peering through the binoculars, Willows leaned forward, blindly checked to make sure the key was in the ignition.

  His quarry turned and reached inside the Pontiac. The plume of exhaust from the tailpipe faded away. The man shut the car’s door and walked slowly across the street, angling towards Ross’s house. Willows watched him stroll across the boulevard and pause in the shadow of one of the brick gateposts that flanked the driveway.

  The light in the upstairs bedroom was still on. He saw a shadow move across the white-painted ceiling.

  The prowler was there and then he wasn’t. Willows realized he’d jumped the fence.

  He reached for the ignition key.

  Behind him, someone screamed. A split second later there was a sound like corn popping, the dull metallic thud of bullets hitting sheet metal and then the heavy boom of a sawed-off shotgun.

  Coffee sprayed across the dashboard as Willows shoved his door open, grabbed his five-cell flashlight, snatched his 38 Special from its clamshell holster and bailed out.

  The shred-the-night roar of a weapon on full auto was followed by a waterfall of glass hitting the asphalt, more screams of fear and rage, a rapid-fire exchange of pistol shots, an overlapping burst of automatic weapon fire and a final shotgun blast, more screaming, silence.

  Willows crouched low as he. trotted across the parking lot, his right arm fully extended, finger on the trigger. But what was there to shoot at? The gunfire had deafened him and the dazzling fireworks display of muzzle blasts had destroyed his night vision.

  In the distance, a dog began to bark, and on the far side of the harbour, over on Beach Avenue, lights flashed red and white and blue. He saw two and then three police cars on the far side of the Burrard Bridge, weaving in and out of traffic as they sped towards the scene of the gunfire. Willows waited until his night vision returned, then held the flashlight away from his body and switched it on.

  A white froth of glass, dozens of spent casings and fragments of metal sparkled in the beam of light. A thin trickle of smoke leaked from the Ford’s shattered rear window.

  Willows inched closer, his body turned sideways to present the smallest target.

  He swept the beam across the interior of the Ford and then swiftly across to the Camaro.

  There were three people in the Mustang — two men and a woman, all of them Caucasian. A small fire had started in the backseat where the upholstery had been shredded by gunfire.

  There were five Vietnamese men in the Camaro. They were dressed like waiters, their white shirts and black pants spattered with blood.

  A blue and white took the corner at the far end of Ogden with its siren wailing, headlights jabbing at the night. A second car was right behind the first. Both cars swung sharply left and tore across the grass. Three more vehicles raced down Maple into the parking lot. Another car pulled out of the alley at the near end of Ogden.

  Willows holstered his unfired weapon. He raised his hands high above his head and shone the flashlight beam directly on his detective’s shield.

  Turning, he saw that the Ross house was dark and that the Pontiac had vanished.

  Twenty

  Greg, as he made his U-turn on Ogden, saw the three cars in the Maritime Museum parking lot and felt a rush of adrenalin. Two of the cars were facing the water; the third was parked in shadow and was angled towards the street. As he spun the wheel, Greg tried to work out if the driver of the third car had a clear view of the Ross house. He decided it was unlikely. Parked. Eyeballed the neighbourhood until he felt confident that he was unobserved, then eased out of the Pontiac and walked briskly across the street.

  There was a light on upstairs. He could hear music, but it was very faint and he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

  He jumped a low brick wall and moved quickly towards the garage. First he’d check Ross’s car, see if the Chrysler held any guilty secrets. Then maybe he’d do a little breaking and a little entering. The house first, then the occupants.

  He was nosing around inside Ross’s Chrysler when the shooting started. He sprinted back across the street to the Pontiac. As he started the car’s engine he had a quick glimpse of Samantha Ross s
tanding naked by the bedroom window. He’d hardly registered her image when the bedroom light was extinguished. He had no idea whether she’d seen him. By the time the sawed-off fired the last round in the brief but deadly exchange of shots, Greg was long gone.

  He was idling at the corner of Cypress and Cornwall, waiting for the light to change, when the first blue and white screamed past, the cop behind the wheel all eyes and jaw. If the guy was a little tense, who could blame him? He’d have been warned that multiple shots had been fired, the perps were on full auto. He’d be wishing he had his vest on, praying he wasn’t first on the scene, regretting that he hadn’t emptied his bladder after his last coffee break, worrying about whether he’d ever see his wife and kids again.

  The traffic light changed from red to green. Greg started to let out the clutch, saw more blue and whites racing towards him, coming off the bridge at full bore. He had an idea they wouldn’t pay much attention to the traffic light and he was mostly right — two of the cars laid a cloud of burnt rubber on the intersection as they took the comer at maximum speed, sliding past Greg in a controlled four-wheel drift that brought the second car within inches of his rear bumper. The third car smoked the intersection doing a hundred, easy. Another blue and white raced down the slope from Fourth Avenue, headlights jumping crazily as it ricocheted from pothole to pothole.

  Greg had no place to go, so that’s where he went. He yanked on the wheel and stomped on the gas, scooted into a mini-mall’s lot and parked in front of an icecream parlour, turned off the engine and lights and leaned back and thought hard.

  Forty-seven flavours. Okay, here we go. Vanilla. Black cherry. Maple Walnut. Chocolate. What if they set up roadblocks? He sailed his hat out the car window, tossed the scarf, ripped off the false moustache and the bushy prospector’s beard, yanked a pink blob of latex off his nose.

  A motorcycle cop cruised past, looked right through him.

  There was a Ruger Blackhawk under the front seat and a Davis P-32 semi-auto with a black Teflon finish tucked away in the Pontiac’s glove compartment. Greg had picked up both guns during his B&E days and had never had a chance to fire either of them. He waited until the nearest blue and white that he could see was two or three blocks down Cornwall, then grabbed the guns, jumped out of the car and retrieved the hat and scarf, stuffed his disguise and the weapons deep down into a garbage can. He screwed in the lightbulb over the rear licence plate, wiped the mud from the plate and climbed back into the Pontiac, turned on his lights and pulled out of the parking lot.