City of Crime

by Warren Court

  “He’ll live. They’re giving him the dose.”

  “Ewww. That’s bad news. He’s going to be out for a while.”

  “Yeah, two weeks.”

  The dose was a super-strong set of antibiotics designed to kill any infectious disease, including HIV, before it could spread in the blood system and take hold of its host. Problem was its side effects were severe: nausea and vomiting for the first couple of days. Dizzy spells. It had only been in use for a year or two and there was no solid evidence it worked, but since its inception not a single officer had come down with hepatitis or anything else. The cops swore by it. I would be getting a different partner for the night shift for a while; Daryl would be driving a desk.

  We spent another two hours looking for the guy who’d sliced Daryl, but had no luck. Detectives started canvasing the area, pulling in any druggie or drunk they could find and showing them the sweater. But it was a bust. We’d have to get him another time.

  I left the scene at 4 am and went back up to the hospital to give Daryl a ride home. Gloria was nowhere to be seen. Too bad. Daryl was already throwing up from the dose and we had to pull over to the side of the road twice to let him heave.

  I dropped him off and went back to the station, where I wrote my account of what had happened in minute detail. That took me to seven in the morning, the end of my shift. Normally my eyes would be slamming shut from fatigue, but I was wide awake. Writing that account of what had happened on the top of Jackson Square had re-stoked my rage and my desire to find that scumbag and make him pay.

  Chapter 23

  “I’ve never dated a cop,” Gloria said as I walked her to my car. It was our first date and I was nervous.

  “I’ve never dated a doctor.”

  “Hospital administrator. Not a doctor.”

  “Did you ever want to become one?”

  “What little girl doesn’t? Well, vet, actually. I did pre-med at university but switched to business. What about you? Did you ever want to do anything other than being a cop?”

  “I wanted to drive a dump truck when I was a kid.”

  Gloria laughed. She put her hand to her mouth to stop herself. She looked good. A skirt that rode up about halfway up her thigh when she sat in my car. A nice white blouse. Gold earrings. Her hair was different now, not the tight bun of the hospital administrator but down and flowing around her ears. Blonde highlights on a light brown mane. She smelled wonderful too. Normally a woman’s perfume makes me queasy if it’s too candy-sweet. Hers was enticing. I very much wanted to get closer to its origin.

  “Where we headed?” she asked.

  I took her up on the mountain to Vertelli’s. Intimate Italian, candles on the table, Sinatra on the speakers. I always took my first dates here. Last girl I’d brought here was the receptionist to my chiropractor. She’d looked thin under the white hospital coat she wore but when she came out with me, I could tell she was anorexic. It sickened me. She ordered the penne and only ate about twelve noodles.

  In contrast, Gloria had a voracious appetite and it really turned me on. We had a table in the back and the place was packed, which I liked. Everyone was having a great time. There was a birthday party at the front, and the whole restaurant joined in on “Happy Birthday.”

  Over the din of the restaurant I managed to learn a bit more about Gloria. She had grown up nearby, in Ancaster. Her father was a professor, her mother a writer. Gloria tilted her head down in an affectionate move every time she told me something private about herself. It was sweet. She never delved into my education, though. I was a little embarrassed at my meagre college diploma. I hadn’t even framed it; it was at the back of my sock drawer, tied up in a little red ribbon.

  After dinner I took her downtown to the pier to look at the harbour.

  “I’m going to get a boat one day,” I said.

  “Sailboat? Lot of work; big bucks. My uncle has one.”

  “No. Motor cruiser, I think. Something with a cabin down below. Twin inboards.”

  A cool breeze came in across the harbour. The summer was winding down and she shivered. I took my sport coat off and put it around her shoulders. Her hand touched mine as she pulled it around her and then in a flash, she was in my arms, thrusting her tongue into my mouth.

  When we came up for air I laughed, and she joined in.

  “What?” she said.

  “Nothing. I’m just happy that happened.”

  She turned her back to me and snuggled in close. We watched a lake freighter come in under the bridge, the lights of the bobbing tug waiting for it patiently.

  “If I get a boat, you could be the first mate.”

  “Co-captain,” she said quickly. I hugged her tighter and realized she had not rejected my remark, just modified it. She seemed to fit in my arms naturally. I smelled the shampoo in her hair but, like the perfume, couldn’t place it.

  We stood like that for an hour until it got really chilly. I took her back to her apartment glowing with anticipation of being allowed in.

  “No,” she said. “Too soon. Don’t want to ruin this.”

  I agreed that, yeah, it probably would, but in my mind I knew it wouldn’t. I wanted to see her again and again and again. I told her I’d call her in a couple of days, make plans for the following weekend, and saw her through her building’s front door.

  Chapter 24

  Next day I’m driving around in my cruiser car, doing a patrol and all I can think of is Gloria. I even swung by St. Joe’s hospital a couple of times, hoping to find her outside. I imagined myself swinging in to the emergency hospital parking lot and chatting her up. Making up some excuse to be there, then confessing that it was her I’d come to see. I had one more day until I could call her again, that stupid game we all play.

  On a break between radio calls I pulled into a Tim Hortons and dialled her number. It rang and rang. Of course. She was at work.

  I got an answering machine. It was good to hear her voice. Two seconds to decide to leave a message or hang up.

  “Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to see what you’re doing this weekend. I get off shift Thursday. Thought maybe we could go out again, maybe catch a flick. Call me at home.”

  I left my number and hung up. I felt like I was in high school again. My radio came to life.

  “Car two four, this is dispatch.”

  “Dispatch, go ahead. Over.”

  “Sergeant Coolie wants you down at Cannon and Ottawa. Pronto.”

  “Got it.”

  I saw a cop car outside an antiques store on Ottawa. Sergeant Coolie, my shift sergeant, was outside of it with another copper, talking to a sketchy-looking dude. My heart raced for a second—was this the punk who cut Daryl? Daryl, who was still off sick with the dose and wasn’t expected to be back on until next week. He’d have a week of desk duties, and then he and I would be thumping heads again as usual.

  No, it wasn’t the guy; I could tell as soon I got closer. He was sketchy, though. I pulled up nose to nose with Coolie’s car on the wrong side of the street and got out.

  “Hey, Sergeant.”

  “Jack. Someone I want you to meet. Robert Garigue, this is Officer Crouch.”

  I looked the guy up and down. He was sketchy, like I said, a street hustler for sure. In the game. Had that faraway stare that’s always on the lookout for cops even when one is standing in front of him talking real nice-like.

  “Hey,” I said. I didn’t extend my hand and Garigue didn’t make a move. We both knew the score.

  “Tell him what you said,” Coolie said.

  “The guy you’re looking for. The guy who cut that cop with knife. I know who he is.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “Who is it?”

  “His name is Danny Terrance. Danny T. We used to call him that but not after he got hooked on smack. Now he’s just called Trashy.”

  “Yeah, he looked like trash. Where does he hang out?”

  “He gets around, but mostly he gets it on downtown. Jackson Square, where your boy got
it—that’s his local. Scores there. Deals there.”

  Somehow, the way this Garigue guy said “your boy got it” really made me mad, but I kept it under control and bit my tongue.

  “Downtown is a big area. Where does he hole up when he’s not scoring?”

  “Has an old lady. She’s works Emerald Street.”

  Emerald Street was hooker central in Hamilton. First apartment I had looked down on Emerald Street and a couple of working girls lived in my building. I’d run into them in the elevators heading down to work the stroll.

  “What’s her name, his old lady?”

  “Cheryl,” he said. “I don’t have a last name.”

  “How do you know Trashy?” I asked.

  “Hey, man.” He raised his shoulders in a shrug. “I just do.”

  “All right. Thanks, Robert,” Coolie said.

  “No problem, Sergeant Coolie,” Robert said, but he didn’t move. I could see he was hesitating to leave.

  “I don’t have any on me,” Coolie said. “Will have to catch you next time.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Hold on,” I said.

  I pulled my bundle of notes out of my pocket and peeled off two twenties.

  “Forty,” Garigue said.

  Coolie sighed and said, “You’ll get the rest next time I see you.”

  “Sure thing.” Robert walked away down the street, turned a corner and was gone.

  “What are you doing, Rook?” Coolie said. I was four years on the job now but any time I made a stupid mistake he called me that.

  “What?” I said.

  “We got a fund for these guys. If we set something up, we bring some money for them. This guy flagged me down. He had the info, wanted to give it to us. If that’s the case, he has to wait for the payoff. We never, ever dip into our own funds for these scumbags.”

  “Live and learn,” I said.

  Coolie smiled. “I guess I know where you’re going to be tonight after you get off shift.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll pick you up; we’ll work the ladies together.”

  “This is my thing,” I said. “Daryl’s my partner.”

  “And he’s on my shift, asshole. I want payback as much as you do.”

  Chapter 25

  I paced my apartment, waiting for Sergeant Coolie, but he never showed. By ten I was raring to go. I had a couple of rum and Cokes and chased it with a couple of beers. I needed some pot to mellow me out, but I had none. Besides, I was paranoid of the other cops smelling it on me. I knew it could come out of your pores days later. Plus, there was talk the department was starting random drug tests.

  I grabbed my jacket and headed out. I didn’t have a gun; a constable has no right to take his weapon home. It was in a locker back at the station. I had my collapsible baton; we had only been issued them a month ago and I was still slowly getting the hang of how to extend it and retract it. The collapsible replaced the huge inflexible tonfa-style nightsticks, the ones those cops had used to beat Rodney King.

  Despite its compactness, the new baton was deadly. I had used mine on a guy a week before and damn near broke his arm. He came at us with a broken bottle. I smashed his wrist and he dropped it, and then I came back at him quick across the face and broke his teeth. I remember seeing them on the ground and thought how white they looked. They had looked dirty and brown and decayed in his mouth just a second before, but the insides of them were white.

  It was a short drive over to Emerald. I parked two blocks away, got out and headed to a Tim Hortons at the corner of Emerald and Main. Tim Whores, we called it. I grabbed a coffee. There were two ladies of the evening loaded on something getting into it in the corner of the coffee shop. Even though I was off duty, I was still supposed to get involved, break it up. I let them go at it until two college-age kids broke it up and pushed the two apart.

  One left, screaming “Fuck you!” over her shoulder.

  The other one screamed back, “Fuck you too, Cheryl.”

  Cheryl. That was quick. I went outside, dumped my half a coffee in a garbage bin and followed Cheryl for a block.

  She was really drunk. She hiked her skirt up and nearly tumbled off her high heels. A car cruised slowly down Emerald and paused. She tottered over and leaned in the window. Fifty feet behind her I paused and looked in the darkened window of a women’s clothing store.

  The car Cheryl was talking to jerked away from the curb and she kicked at the door. Her shoe flew off and fell in the street, and she spun around and collapsed on the sidewalk. I went and grabbed the shoe.

  “Here you go,” I said, and she grabbed the shoe off me.

  “What do you want?”

  “To help you up,” I said, and extended my hand.

  She laughed and put her arm out. I felt the rough holes of needle marks on her arm and shuddered and pulled her up quickly. So quickly her head snapped back and she fell on me like she was fainting. I felt a hand go inside my jacket and I pushed her back.

  “None of that, now,” I said.

  “None of what?” she said. I knew she hadn’t pinched anything; I had nothing in there to pinch. I had fifty in the front pocket of my jeans, though, in case I had to pay her for info. My badge, tucked in its own wallet, was in the other pocket and the baton was in its holster on my belt.

  “What’s your name?” I said. I felt embarrassed, using lame pickup lines on an Emerald Street hooker.

  “Cheryl,” she said. “What’s yours?” she said, and I caught a whiff of cheap whiskey.

  “Derek,” I said.

  “Well, Derek, why don’t we go somewhere? You want a date?”

  “Sure, but where can we go?”

  “You got a car?”

  “Nope, took a bus.”

  “You took a bus. How are you going to afford a girl like me?”

  “I’m saving every penny for you.”

  “Well, it’s fifty bucks for half— Wait a minute. You a cop?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Fifty for what?”

  “Half and half. Hundred for the whole shebang.”

  “Sounds great. What about down here?” I pointed to the laneway next to the clothing store.

  “My favourite spot. Real romantic,” she said.

  I felt like Jack the Ripper leading Cheryl down this alley. About ten feet in, she turned around and had a knife in her hand.

  “Okay, creep. The money—let’s have it,” she said.

  She’d screwed it up; she had her back to the alley. I had mine to the street. In her inebriated state I could just dash away. I kicked and caught the knife flush, and it flew over her head and clattered on the asphalt. She swung at me, open handed; she had incredibly long nails. I ducked and she spun right around. I grabbed her and threw her up against the wall.

  “Stupid bitch,” I said. “I just wanted to talk.” I pulled my badge and shoved it in her face. I pushed her hard up against the building, heard her face smack it. She howled.

  “Keep it down.” I relaxed my grip and stepped back. “You be cool now,” I said. I had my baton in my hand but didn’t flick it out.

  She turned around, facing me, and put her hand to her mouth. “What do you want?”

  “Just wanna know where your boyfriend is. Where he hangs out.”

  “What boyfriend? I got lots of boyfriends.”

  “Danny Terrance,” I said. “Trashy.”

  “Why do you want him?” She suddenly looked a lot younger to me. I guessed she was around eighteen.

  “How old are you?”

  “None of your business.”

  I grabbed her purse away from her and went through it. There were syringes and condoms. A bit of makeup. No ID.

  “What are you doing out here? You should be at home.”

  “What are you, a social worker or a cop? Oh, I know—you want a freebee. This your beat now, pig?”

  I resisted the urged to sock her in the gut. “I want to know where Trashy is. We have to talk to him. He’s a witness in
a murder,” I said. “He’s not in trouble, I swear. There’s even a reward. You could get part of it.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “I haven’t seen him in days. He doesn’t answer his beeper half the time.”

  “What’s his beeper number?”