Shutterbug

by Laurence Gough

  But even then, doped to the eyeballs, so heavily drugged it was all he could do to stand upright, Lewis continued to balk. Deep inside him, something primeval, something that predated the invention of the alarm clock by several thousand years, was triggered by forces too complex and subtle to be measured.

  Lewis intuitively knew that his time was running out. He was about to die, and every cell in his body was in mute revolt.

  He gathered all his feeble strength and mumbled, ‘I’m not going anywhere… ‘

  ‘Without April?’ Wayne cunningly suggested.

  Had Lewis been holding out until Wayne agreed to let April come along for the ride? He wasn’t sure.

  Wayne said, ‘I’ll go get her.’

  He found April in the living room, bouncing a lacrosse ball off the brick fireplace, driving the dogs crazy. Her face lit up when Wayne stormed into the room.

  She said, ‘You changed your mind, didn’t you!’ He noticed she’d changed into one of her favourite outfits, a tight black sleeveless sweater and a miniskirt made out of shiny black plastic.

  ‘Nope.’

  April’s smile collapsed.

  Wayne said, ‘He won’t go without you. Just flat-out refuses.’ He shrugged massively. ‘I could kick his ass, but I don’t want him causing any trouble on the way over. I could stuff him in the trunk, but I don’t want him causing a fuss when we get there. So the easiest thing is to let him have his way.’ He smiled. ‘Let’s call it his last request. That way it won’t seem like we’re giving in to him.’

  April jumped to her feet and threw herself at Wayne, knocked him backwards an inch or two as she wrapped herself around him with all the enthusiasm of a wisteria gone berserk. She’d harassed him all day long, pleading to be allowed to go along on Lewis’s last ride. Predictably, he’d proved impervious to her flirtatious charm. Predictably, she’d turned her viper’s tongue on him, bedevilled him with all the persistence of a swarm of enraged hornets. Her stinging words raised painful welts all over his brain. But Wayne had considerably more experience dealing with vinegar than honey, and was able to ride out the storm.

  April had spiralled into a deep sulk. Wayne knew she’d get over it. Didn’t she always? Maybe in a day or two he’d plunk her cute little butt down on his Harley, take her for a fast ride up to Whistler. There was no better way to unravel your problems than to crank the throttle on a big V-twin, and scrape the pegs through fifty miles of quick twisties.

  Well, no better way that Wayne would ever know.

  April had already parked the Jag near the intended victim’s apartment. Now she fetched the Econoline. She and Wayne walked Lewis out of the house and down the driveway to it. April swung open the back door. Lewis leaned slackly against the van. He’d drifted off, or pretended to. Wayne helped him into the back of the van. Lewis’s head bounced off the rusty steel floor. He moaned softly.

  April didn’t like that very much. ‘Be careful with him!’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just… I don’t know! Show a little respect, that’s all.’

  Wayne eased shut the Econoline’s rear door, grossly exaggerating the delicacy of his movements.

  ‘What’re you doing, Wayne?’

  ‘Trying not to disturb him.’ Wayne leaned his considerable bulk against the door. The latch clicked. He stepped away from the van. ‘Lewis is gonna be dead pretty soon, April. He ain’t gonna see the sun come up, and you better get used to the idea, because I can’t have you causing me any problems, not now. You want to stay home, fine. You want to come along, okay. But only if you’re gonna be a good girl.’

  Wayne lit a Marlboro. The ugly truth was that April had earned the right to come along for the ride. When he’d told her about his ‘computer repairmen’ scheme she’d laughed so hard she’d fallen off her chair. In about two minutes, she’d come up with a far better idea. A scheme that might actually work.

  Wayne listened to the music of the frogs. Didn’t those suckers ever sleep? He wondered if it was possible to hunt down a frog that had a better voice than any other frog in the whole world, and make a buck off him. Probably not. The sky was clear. He tried to find Cassiopeia. Was that it? Maybe.

  April said, ‘I’ll be good, Wayne.’

  ‘We got a lot riding on this, baby.’

  ‘I know we do.’

  Wayne stood there in the shadows, listening to the cacophonous music of the night. When he’d had enough of his Marlboro, he flicked the butt away into the weeds. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  Rodney McGuire’s Fairview Slopes townhome was lit up like Steven Spielberg’s idea of a space ship.

  Wayne’s latex-clad finger pressed the doorbell. He and Lewis were standing to either side of the peephole. April was caught in the middle. Lewis’s gold Mylar coveralls, the bug tuxedo the police were going to find him in, glinted in the light.

  The peephole darkened as someone inside the apartment put his eye to the lens.

  April said, ‘Rod?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘It’s Holly. Do you remember me, Rod? We met at Sammy Wu’s, a couple of weeks before he was killed. I was wondering if I could come in for a minute, maybe have a drink?’

  Silence. Rod was apparently thinking it over.

  April said, ‘I’m on my own time, Rod.’ She lowered her voice a notch. ‘I’m not working, if that’s what you think.’

  Thud of withdrawn deadbolts. Rattle of chains. It was all music to Wayne’s ears.

  McGuire opened the door a crack. Wayne tackled the opportunity. The door, and McGuire, flew backwards. The door crashed against a wall, but the drug dealer, lacking hinges, was propelled down a short hallway and into the living room, where he stumbled over a heavy glass coffee table, lost his balance, and fell awkwardly.

  Wayne was all over McGuire like a giant moth on a tiny light-bulb, shushing him with flapping hands that had McGuire’s close-cropped head whipping back and forth as if he were watching a taped tennis match in fast-forward mode.

  April shut the door. She guided Lewis to the sofa, and sat him down. Glancing around, she said, ‘Nice apartment.’

  A mammoth fifty-two-inch TV was wedged into a corner. Drab, vaguely threatening creatures drifted languidly across the spacious screen. The perspective was as might be expected, given that McGuire had been playing a Nintendo video game - the business end of a double-barrelled shotgun leading the unseen player into a weeping dungeon.

  Something large huddled in a dark corner swept aside a nest of cobwebs and hurtled towards the screen. The shotgun had it covered. Ka-boom! Ka-boom! There was blood everywhere, but it was no more substantial than a pint bag full of pixels.

  McGuire was about five-six, not much over one hundred and twenty pounds. He wore a black two-piece sweat suit, a red head-band and matching wristbands, shiny new Adidas sneakers. He looked as if he’d had a hard life, until it had suddenly got a whole lot harder. He had a wizened, dried-out, kind of pinched look about him that reminded Wayne of a jockey he’d known.

  Wayne’s finger poked McGuire’s black-clad chest. He said, ‘Been out doing a little breaking and entering?’ He waved the barrel of his sawed-off pump shotgun under McGuire’s nose. ‘Be truthful, Rodney. You lie, you die.’

  ‘No, I was just out for a jog.’

  ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. I been in Vegas, caught an early flight back, got in around ten, breezed through Customs. I been staying up all night, playing the tables. My internal clock’s all messed up…’ ‘Why the dark clothes?’

  ‘I like to see people before they see me.’

  Wayne nodded. He said, ‘1 can relate to that. How far d’you run?’

  ‘Down to the bridge, and back.’

  ‘What bridge?’

  ‘Cambie.’ McGuire looked as if he was thinking about going for another run, any second now.

  Wayne said, ‘Relax, I’m not going to shoot you.’

  McGuire nodded. He was pretty cool, consideri
ng. So far, he hadn’t even glanced at Lewis. Wayne wondered about that. In his gold bug tuxedo, Lewis was kind of hard to overlook.

  He decided McGuire must have figured out what was going on, or something close to it. But if that was the case, why wasn’t he fighting for his life?

  Wayne stood up. He said, ‘You alone?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ But McGuire had hesitated for a tiny fraction of a second; just long enough for Wayne to know he was lying. McGuire sat up, rubbing his bruised shins.

  ‘The money’s in a wall safe behind the picture.’ He was pointing at a framed black-and-white photograph of Marilyn Monroe trying to hold her dress in place despite a strong wind rising up from a grate in the sidewalk.

  Wayne said, ‘Where’d they take that picture?’

  McGuire shrugged, went back to rubbing his shins. ‘How should I know? It’s just a picture, that’s all.’

  Wayne yanked the picture off the wall. He gave Marilyn a big smack on the lips.

  April said, ‘Wayne!’ Shocked and appalled, though he didn’t know why. He let the picture drop to the carpet, put his foot right through it as he turned to ask McGuire for the combination to the safe.

  McGuire said, ‘If I tell you, are you gonna let me live?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Wayne. A wasted lie, because when he pulled on the safe’s chromed handle the door swung smoothly towards him. The thing hadn’t even been locked. He peered inside. The safe was bigger than it looked. There was plenty of room for a bulky stainless-steel revolver, wads of cash, a couple of kilos of drugs. Wayne grabbed the gun, shoved it in the waistband of his pants. He held up one of the plastic bags. ‘Heroin?’

  ‘Cocaine,’ said McGuire. ‘You can leave any time. Don’t feel you got to stick around and make small talk.’

  Wayne said, ‘Get up.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’m comfortable.’

  ‘Up,’ said Wayne.

  He caught McGuire on the rise, his left hook smacking him on the temple, a hard right cross hitting him flush on the forehead. McGuire dropped, his body so limp it was as if he’d been deboned.

  April said, ‘You killed him, you moron!’

  Wayne was instantly contrite. He dropped to his knees, felt for a pulse. McGuire had a strong heart. His forehead ballooned, and turned purple, compelling evidence that he was still alive.

  April emptied the rest of the contents of the wall safe into a brown paper Safeway bag she found under the kitchen sink.

  Wayne reconnoitred the rest of the apartment. In the bathroom, a full-size cardboard cutout of Marilyn Monroe in a red dress had been stapled to the back of the door.

  Lushly romantic music played softly in the dimly lit guest bedroom. A decidedly womanly shape lay beneath the blankets. A mane of silvery-blonde hair was artistically, perhaps even seductively, spread out across the pillow.

  Wayne cocked his fist and crept slowly up to the bed. The woman lay absolutely motionless. The room, except for the silvery tinkle of a harpsichord, was absolutely silent. Wayne tapped the woman lightly on the shoulder. She failed to respond. Was she ignoring him, hoping he’d go away? Or did she assume he was McGuire, and was playing a little game? Wayne gave her a shake. Her skin felt unnaturally smooth. Her body, he realized with a shock, was room temperature, at best. He was no pathologist, and had no ambitions in that area, but he knew damn well that, when a woman’s temperature had plummeted to about thirty degrees below normal, she was certifiably deceased.

  He eased back the blankets inch by inch, until finally the naked woman was fully exposed.

  Correction, you were dead unless you’d never been alive. Wayne went over to the doorway and snapped on the ceiling light. You could say McGuire’s girlfriend was pure dynamite, if only because he’d blowed her up real good. Wayne picked her up. She was light as a feather and stiff as a board. He pinched a shapely buttock.

  In fact, McGuire had blown her up a bit too good. She was grossly overinflated, probably to the tune of about thirty pounds per square inch. It was surprising, how many men spent serious money on their girlfriends but refused to invest a few bucks in a tire gauge.

  Wayne tucked her under his arm. Hurriedly exiting the bedroom, he accidentally bounced her head violently off the doorjamb. He paused, listening intently for a telltale hiss of disapproval.

  But it was okay. Thanks to her durable fabric, she had come through the mishap completely unscathed.

  As advertised, she was quiet as a mouse.

  April did a cute double-take as Wayne came back into the living room. She said, ‘Who’s your new friend?’

  Wayne positioned the woman on the sofa next to Lewis. Her legs were tubular, and were at about a 50-degree angle, almost identical to his Harley’s V-twin. Her breasts were unlikely. McGuire, or her manufacturer, had glued a patch of silvery-blonde hair between her legs. Was it real, or some kind of synthetic? Wayne couldn’t tell. Either way, McGuire was the sickest puppy in the pound. The woman stared incuriously up at the ceiling. She appeared to be more comatose than bored. Apparently, she was content to lie there and pout.

  Wayne tilted his head. If he looked at her from a certain angle, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Marilyn Monroe.

  Jeez.

  He said, ‘Lewis, I’d like you to meet Marilyn.’

  Lewis nodded disinterestedly. Wayne helped them shake hands. He sat down next to Marilyn so she was trapped between him and Lewis. They were so close their hips were touching. He lit a cigarette. You couldn’t fault her personality. In terms of maintenance, you’d probably hardly know she was there.

  Spend a couple of bucks on a bicycle patch kit, you were all set.

  April knelt on the carpet beside McGuire, yanking his limp body this way and that as she worked the black sweatshirt over his head. She said, ‘Give me a hand with this, will you?’

  ‘In a minute.’

  Wayne hardly ever enjoyed himself, but he was enjoying himself now, sitting on the sofa with his hand on Marilyn’s robust thigh, never giving a thought to what she might be thinking. What a relief it was, to be able to just sit there, companionably, and not have to worry about making small talk.

  Wayne pushed himself off the sofa and waked over to the Nintendo game player and methodically stomped it to pieces. The TV screen was a blur of strangely hypnotic, post-apocalyptic colours. Wayne yanked on the Nintendo’s umbilical cords. Now he was watching Channel 3. The TV’s remote was lying on top of the set. He switched to Channel 55, Speedvision. Motorcycles raced around a convoluted track. A-okay! Wayne cranked up the sound until the thunder of the exhausts threatened to shake the paint off the walls.

  April helped herself to McGuire’s red headband. She pulled his sweats down around his ankles, and fiddled impatiently with his sneakers, which were double-laced. She glanced up at the TV. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of that stuff?’

  Wayne said, ‘Not really.’

  Marilyn, he noticed, never said a word. He walked back to the sofa, brushed a strand of hair away from a bright blue eye. Looking at her objectively, he had to admit that her nose was too small, and that she lacked cheekbones. Or any bones at all, actually.

  Okay, so maybe her physiognomy wasn’t exactly normal. All that mattered was that she was normal enough for him.

  April got the second sneaker off, and then the sock.

  Time for the hypo.

  Time to snap some artful Polaroids.

  Time to light the torch.

  Time, pretty soon, for Lewis to mumble his fond farewells.

  Wayne patted Marilyn’s thigh. ‘Back in a sec, honey.’

  He went into the bathroom and flushed the butt of his Marlboro down the toilet. Turning, he caught himself staring at his reflected image in a full-length mirror. Man, he looked downright creepy. He stepped closer to the silvered glass and saw that it was thickly speckled with flecks of dried toothpaste. He went over to the sink and turned on the cold water tap and wet the end of a towel and wiped down the mirror. There, that was much better, now he looked
just fine.

  He adjusted the revolver sticking out of his pants so the barrel wasn’t quite so intrusive. Lighting another cigarette, he went back into the living room.

  April toyed with her syringe. She said, ‘You shouldn’t have hit him so hard. Unconscious people aren’t much fun, Wayne. How long’s he going to be out, anyway?’ Her tone was whiny and impatient.

  Wayne ignored her. He plunked himself down next to Marilyn, casually draped an arm across her shoulder.

  Her pout was almost a smile. He could see she’d missed him, while he was gone.

  Chapter 30

  The computer told them what they already knew - that Jake owned the Humvee.

  Parker made the calls necessary to mobilize the VPD’S Emergency Response Team. Because there was very little traffic, tailing the truck wasn’t going to be easy, even with Harvey at the wheel.

  Parker broadcast the Humvee’s tag number, colour, and location, and requested help from all available unmarked units. The response was predictably enthusiastic.

  She left it to the dispatcher to sort out the mess.

  Willows charted a parallel course as the Humvee turned south on Alma. He’d assumed that Harvey had been casing the 7-Eleven during his earlier visit, and that he and the twins, sans Jake’s blessing, were going to liven up their evening with an armed robbery.

  But why the heavy weapons? What were Jake’s mobsters up to? Willows didn’t have to spend much time mulling it over. This was about all those dead addicts. The glitter twins had been sent out to even the score. Willows shared his theory with Parker, who agreed that Jake had likely sent the glitter twins out on a mission of revenge.

  Where were the ERT trucks?

  Willows was more relieved than surprised when the Humvee turned left on Broadway. He pulled into a gas station, gave Harvey a two-block lead, and then drove back onto Broadway. He tailgated an out-of-service bus, following the Humvee as it cruised slowly east on Broadway.

  Harvey made an unsignalled right turn on Arbutus, drove half a block and pulled an illegal U-turn.

  Willows had no option but to continue straight down Broadway.