Shutterbug

by Laurence Gough

  Galt was quicker than he looked. Quicker by far, Willows judged, than Woody could ever hope to be.

  Panicked, Galt bolted blindly down the courthouse steps and across the crowded sidewalk. He hit a parking meter hard enough to bend the steel post, and spun away at an unlikely angle. Willows snatched at him and missed. Galt ran full tilt through and over the dense one-way crawl of traffic on Thurlow. He was still accelerating when he reached the sidewalk on the far side of the street, and was unlucky enough to reach his maximum speed in the same instant he crashed headlong into the self-serve restaurant’s plate-glass window.

  The window turned white, and then collapsed, like the last gasp of a dying waterfall. Galt had vanished. Tables were overturned, and chairs, and the people that had been sitting in them. Everybody in the restaurant had been served a three-course meal of dazed and bewildered, but nobody seemed seriously hurt. Willows pushed against the outgoing flow of the mob to get in through the door. He followed a blood trail across the soup-’n’-salad-strewn floor, past the open cash register and an open-mouthed clerk, frozen in the moment of offering change to a customer who was busily picking steamy-hot lasagna off his suit. The spoor led him over a stainless-steel counter and down a narrow hallway, where it disappeared beneath the door to the ladies’ washroom.

  Willows glanced behind him, down the hallway. There was a lot of yelling and screaming going on back there. No uniforms, but there were always cops hanging around the courthouse, waiting to testify in various criminal trials.

  He clipped his badge to his trenchcoat lapel, and hit the door with his fist. ‘Bryan, it’s Jack. Come on out of there, Bryan!’

  He might have heard a muffled reply, but he wasn’t sure, because of all the wailing and howling from the restaurant. Not to mention the sirens racing towards him from at least two directions.

  He was in no hurry to kick in the door, not in his lightweight courtroom brogues, not when his Glock was locked away in the gun safe in the trunk of his car.

  He got set, turned the knob. The door wasn’t locked. He pushed it open, and risked a quick look inside.

  There was only one cubicle. Bryan Galt sat on the toilet, tending to his wounds. His hair was sprinkled with fragments of glass. His face and left leg were swathed in layer upon layer of red-tinted toilet paper.

  Willows said, ‘You’re under arrest, Bryan.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Break and enter?’

  ‘Very goddamn funny.’

  Galt snuck a hand under the shredded remains of his suede jacket, and Willows tensed, but all Galt wanted was a cigarette. His hands were shaking, and he was a little careless with the lighter. Several small fires broke out in the toilet paper on his face, but died of their own accord, as Willows lurched forward to slap them silly.

  Galt unclasped the Rolex. ‘How about you keep the watch, and I stroll outta here?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  Galt spread his legs and dropped the Rolex into the toilet bowl. ‘Okay, how about I pull the chain on this solid gold baby, and tell you to get stuffed,’cause suddenly you ain’t got any evidence?’ Willows smiled.

  Galt reached down between his legs, fished around for a moment and came up with the watch. His sleeve was wet to his elbow. He gave the Rolex a brisk shake. ‘Okay tough guy, let’s try this one on for size. How about I roll over on Teddy, and you sweet-talk those dinks down at the prosecutor’s office into making allowances for my weak and avaricious nature?’

  Willows heard boots pounding down the hallway. Uniformed cops, a brace of paramedics.

  ‘Sounds like an idea to me,’ said Willows. He borrowed a pair of latex gloves from the paramedics, handcuffs from one of the cops. He cuffed Galt, patted him down, and was rewarded with a 9mm Baby Desert Eagle he found tucked in the waistband of Galt’s baggy, rust-coloured corduroy pants. Galt burst into tears. He swore up and down that he hadn’t used the pistol in the Chinatown robbery, that he’d never shot anybody in his life. He said the only reason he was carrying the gun was because he feared for his life.

  ‘Somebody out to get you?’ said the taller of the paramedics.

  Galt held out his cuffed hands. ‘What’s it look like to you, moron?’

  The paramedic smiled grimly. He said, ‘We’re going to take the long way around to St. Paul’s. You’re probably going to bleed to death before we get there, but don’t worry about it, because nobody’s going to miss an obnoxious little twerp like you, Woody.’

  Chapter 3

  Lewis wore a black double-breasted Hugo Boss suit over a crisp white linen shirt, maroon silk tie by Leone, no overcoat. He carried a black umbrella with a hardwood handle and matching tip, capped in solid brass that had been filed to a sharp point. A shopping bag from an exclusive Robson Street boutique dangled nonchalantly from his left hand.

  He’d bought the suit second-hand at a consignment store on Fourth Avenue, and it hung a little too loosely on him, but to the casual observer Lewis looked like a prosperous young executive making the very best of his hectic lunchtime schedule.

  The shopping bag contained a used shirt bought for a dollar from the Salvation Army, and a red Gortex jacket Lewis had lifted from a Chinatown coatrack.

  Lewis’s umbrella was, like Lewis himself, extremely snugly wrapped. He intended to use the umbrella as a rapier, if he found himself in a tight corner.

  Full of that special sub-species of arrogance that only youth and money can buy, Lewis angled sharply across the harried, compact flow of Granville Street pedestrians, pushed open Birks Jewellers’ heavy glass door and went inside.

  A lovely young woman smiled demurely at Lewis from behind her sparkling glass counter.

  Lewis blessed her with a terse nod, and continued on his way to the watch department. He explained to an equally lovely and faultlessly attentive female salesperson, a honey-toned blonde in a black sheath dress, that he was in the market for a birthday present for his fiancée.

  He said he was prepared to spend between five and six thousand dollars.

  The blonde asked him if he had a particular brand in mind.

  Lewis said no. What he wanted was… He fished around in his mind for a suitable catchphrase, and came up empty.

  The salesperson mentioned in a casual sort of way that her name was Amanda. She suggested he do a little browsing. If something in the display cases caught his eye, she’d be happy to give him a closer look.

  Fine, said Lewis, and snuck a quick peek at the ripoff TAGHuer he’d bought off the hirsute wrist of a Yonge Street sidewalk vendor, shortly before fleeing Toronto. The watch was authentic in every detail, except that neither of the stubby buttons on either side of the bezel actually did anything; you could push them all day long, and all they’d do was wear out. Aside from these minor imperfections, the watch was a flawless masterpiece.

  The time was seventeen minutes past twelve. Lewis relaxed a notch or two; he still had plenty of time before the lunch-hour crowds trotted back into their skyscraper cubicles, to toil and digest.

  Amanda gave him a few minutes and then drifted in for the kill. Was he thinking gold, or silver? Clasp-type metal strap, or leather?

  Lewis was thinking gold, or at least gold highlight. He thought his fiancée would prefer a metal strap. But he wasn’t interested in any of that bulky, twelve-button aviator-style product. Sue was a fine-boned girl, delicate as, uh…

  Bone china? suggested Amanda, with a sly little smile. Was she flirting with him? Lewis decided yes.

  She suggested a Rolex Lady Datejust in stainless steel with gold trim. The Datejust was a classic, and came in men’s and ladies’ models that were identical except for size. The men’s being larger. Amanda coyly suggested that, when Lewis’s birthday came up, it might be a nice thing if his fiancée bought him a Rolex.

  Lewis smiled, and said he thought that was an absolutely fine idea.

  A squiggly little cord, also in basic black, encircled Amanda’s pale, blue-veined wrist. Dangling from the end of the c
ord was a small brass key. She used the key to unlock the shatterproof Lexan display case, slid aside the Lexan door and delicately plucked a Datejust from its bed of lint-free black velvet.

  Amanda placed a smaller black-velvet display pad on the counter. With a quaint little flourish, she placed the watch on the velvet. Lewis stared down at it. The Rolex’s crystal had a built-in magnifying bubble that allowed the owner to easily read the month and date, should she so desire. The sweep second hand proceeded around the nifty little dial in a clockwise direction and in an orderly fashion.

  What more could any sane person demand of a watch?

  Well, for starters, how about a cheapo Timex with twin analog and digital readouts, accurate to l/100th of a second; a night-light powerful enough to run a freight train; alarm functions for daily, monthly, and annual use; the capability to store five hundred messages of up to fifteen alphanumeric characters each; a chronograph with a fifty-lap capacity; five appointment alarms (ideal for busy terrorists); plus the ability to download information from any IBM computer, or clone. Not to mention water resistance to twenty thousand leagues and a three-year battery life; the whole package wrapped up in a virtually indestructible graphite case, for about eighty bucks, retail.

  But the Rolex was nothing less than… a Rolex. It was made of precious metals, in Switzerland, by conscientious human beings. The Rolex had a certain cachet. It said, ‘Here I am. I’ve arrived, and I’m worth noticing!’

  The Datejust was priced way over Lewis’s maximum. But what the hell, it wasn’t as if he intended to purchase the damn thing.

  He tested Amanda with pertinent questions regarding accuracy of time, number of jewels, eighteen-carat screw-down bezels, warranties, band adjustments, depreciation, insurance against loss, and areas of flexibility regarding the holy bottom line.

  Amanda patiently explained that Birks accepted trade-ins, but that this Rolex - Lewis admired the cultured way she rolled the word ‘Rolex’ around on her tongue, as if it was a particularly succulent oyster - would be full price.

  If Lewis cared to wait until the pre-Christmas sales of early December…

  Four months, and it was already twenty-three minutes past twelve, if the Rolex was running straight and true, which meant he was down to his last thirty-seven minutes, max.

  No, he did not care to wait until December. His fiancées birthday was next Tuesday.

  Finally, with a certain studied reluctance, Lewis picked up the watch and nestled it into the palm of his hand. The precious metals were cool to the touch, and glittered seductively under the lights. Lewis observed that the watch had a certain heft, a solid weight to it, that was somehow exactly right.

  Amanda demurely concurred. She leaned across the counter. Her flaxen hair fell across her peaches’n’cream face, and she brushed it back behind her ear with a practised gesture. Lewis felt compelled to admire the way her dress clung to her body. My, but she was cute.

  She caught him looking, and didn’t seem to mind. Probably she was on commission. He asked if he could borrow her battery-powered calculator, so he could run through the numbers one last time.

  Amanda discreetly checked Lewis’s math as his longish fingers tap-danced across the calculator’s buttons. Her sharp eye took note of his ruby ring, the high quality of the gold setting and the cut and weight and fine colour of the stone. She noticed also his professionally manicured fingernails, fifty-dollar haircut, and the Hugo Boss suit, his slim but muscular body.

  His eyes had certainly bugged out of his head when she’d leaned across the counter, showing him a little cleavage. She wondered, in an offhand, noncommittal sort of way, what he was like in bed and whether he was truly Rolex-serious about his girlfriend, or fiancée, or whatever he called her. Fiancée. Such an old-fashioned, deadly ardent word.

  Lewis laid the watch reverently down on the rectangle of black velvet. He said, ‘I’ll take it.’

  Amanda blessed his decision with her very nicest smile. She kept smiling as he slipped his eelskin billfold from the breast pocket of his suit. He flipped open the billfold, and winkled out a gold Royal Bank Visa card.

  Amanda accepted the card. Their fingers touched, bumpety-bump, and she did a little thing with the corners of her mouth that somehow contrived to indicate barely controlled lust.

  In the moment that Amanda accepted Lewis’s credit card, a woman pushed into the store waving a five-dollar bill and loudly demanding change for the bus.

  A sales associate at the counter nearest the door broke off his conversation with a customer to reluctantly but firmly inform the woman that, if she required change, she’d find a bank just down the street and around the corner.

  The woman ignored him. She caught Amanda’s eye, and honed in on her, waving her five-dollar bill like a battle flag.

  ‘Can you help me, please? If I miss my bus, I’m going to be late for a job interview, and… ‘

  Amanda tuned her out.

  The flyaway, bleached-to-death hair, the purple eyeliner, enormous false eyelashes, clown rouge, black lipstick, cheap plastic raincoat and too-short tartan skirt, the bulky Doc Martens… It was all too much. Too, too much by far. This creature was not a Birks customer, and she never would be. Not in a zillion years.

  Lewis picked up the Rolex, turned it so he could more easily read the time. He said, ‘Look, I have an appointment. Do you think we could speed things up a bit… ‘

  The woman said, ‘Could I just please have some quarters!’

  Amanda wanted her out of there. Christ, the stupid little bitch was going to queer the fucking sale! She smiled sweetly at Lewis, snatched the soggy five-dollar bill out of the woman’s hand and unlocked and popped open the cash register.

  It took her only a few seconds to count out five dollars’ worth of change. By then, Lewis and the Rolex Datejust were gone. But for the stolen, and useless, credit card and stolen umbrella that he’d left behind, he might never have existed.

  Amanda hit the alarm. The bitch’s raincoat billowed like a spinnaker as she scurried towards the exit.

  Lewis strolled casually out the door, made a sharp left, and bolted. He ran as fast as he could until he heard a shout behind him. Slowing to a brisk walk, he put on his bright red Gortex jacket, and pulled up the hood. He was pumped, floating along on a riptide of adrenalin, his heart crashing against his chest, his vision slightly blurred, a certain tightness in his joints. He bobbed and weaved through the lunchtime crowd, then joined a crowd of jaywalkers cutting across Granville. He walked briskly up Granville for about a quarter of a block and crossed the street again, cutting so close behind a passing bus that the turbulence ruffled his lightly gelled hair.

  He ducked into the mall, hurried down a narrow corridor, through a doorway, and down two flights of grey-painted concrete steps to the mail’s vast subterranean parking lot. He was sweating. Everybody was looking at him, or so it seemed. He was dying for a cigarette.

  So, why not light up?

  No time, no time.

  The cops would be there by now. In numbers, because the 911 call had originated from Birks, and there were always lots of cops on Granville. Liz would be surrounded by them, all of them yelling at her, knowing she was part of the scam. But what could they prove? Nothing. Frustrated, they’d drag her down to 312 Main, plunk her ass on a hard wooden chair for a couple of hours, and then let her go…

  Lewis had lost his Econoline. Where was his van? Parked exactly where he’d left it, by that big concrete post. He got out his cigarettes and lighter, lit up. The Rolex lay snug in his pants pocket, but where were his keys? He patted himself down, found the keys, and hurried around to the driver’s side of the van, unlocked and opened the door.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Lewis spun around. The woman standing close behind him looked a little like the Birks salesgirl, Amanda. But this was an Amanda five years down all the wrong roads.

  The woman said, ‘I know who you are.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She had a great body, though she w
as definitely a little hard around the eyes. She was approximately his age, midtwenties, which meant, from his point of view, that she was way too old for him. He couldn’t place her, but that was no major surprise, given the amount of time he spent at the clubs, the sheer number of women he met. A sudden jolt of fear zigzagged through his pounding heart. Christ, she was a store detective! Or was she?

  He said, ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’

  She smiled, but fleetingly. ‘My name’s April. I’ve been watching you, the past few weeks. You and a few other guys just like you, but not so handsome.’

  What was that supposed to mean?

  She said, ‘I saw you take that portable computer. Tuesday, wasn’t it? The guy was sitting on a bench, drinking an Orange Julius.’ She saw something twitch in Lewis’s eye, and laughed. ‘There you go, now you remember, don’t you?’

  Lewis’s hand curled into a fist. He drew back his arm. Not that he felt very good about punching a woman. But he knew with a terrible, gut-wrenching certainty that he’d feel a lot worse if he didn’t.

  April hit him in the face with a protracted burst of pepper spray from a family-size can. She spun him around, shoved him towards the Econoline’s open door, kicked him in his cute little Hugo Boss ass and yelled at him to keep moving, don’t mess with her. Lewis, gagging and choking, crying so hard the tears threatened to wash his face away, unwisely offered up a feeble resistance.

  April zapped him with the taser.

  Very few people acquire a taste for raw electricity, and Lewis was no exception. Yelping and screeching, he scuttled over the bucket seat and into the back of the van. Now that she finally had her quarry where she wanted him, April no longer required that he be mobile, or even conscious.

  She hit him with the Taser again. Lewis’s pretty blue eyes bugged out of his head. His lightly gelled hair stood on end. His mouth gaped open. His arms shot out. His legs buckled, and he dropped like a shot duck.

  April put her foot down on his cigarette, rolled him over on his stomach and secured his ankles and then his wrists with nylon tiedowns. She joined the two sets of nylon cuffs together with a third pair. Now the only way that Lewis could go anywhere, in the unlikely event he regained consciousness in the next half hour or so, was to throw himself out of the speeding van and bounce along the road on his knees and chin.