City of Crime

by Warren Court

  Then Marco the shark came by and took a bite out of my leg, and now I’m slowly bleeding to death while he circles.

  I finish up the quickest walk-through I’ve ever done, give her a quick spiel and leave the sales material and the estimate. I tell her to call me after she gets her other quotes, not caring that she might call the office and complain. Just another nail in my coffin. A smaller nail than the accusation that I’m watching child porn at the work computer, but a nail nonetheless.

  Back in my car, I’m about to pull away when my phone rings. It’s Laura.

  “Hey.”

  “Are we still on?”

  “Yeah, for sure. The wine bar down the street?”

  “No, got a better idea. There’s a pub near me, my local. I have to go home anyway, drop my car off. It’s called the Knight and Armour.”

  “I know it.”

  “See you there about five-ish?”

  “Yeah, sounds good.”

  “Ta-ta, dahlink.”

  “Yes, darling, see you later,” I say. How bold of me. I call up my evening appointment, on a Friday no less, and cancel it. I tell the person who answers the call I won’t be out there until next week and will call them.

  I beat Laura to the pub by an hour and I start drinking. Heavily. I order a Manhattan. The young girl behind the bar, used to pulling pints and shots, looks at me perplexed, so I tell her how I want it made. Two ounces of Maker’s Mark, a half-ounce of sweet vermouth, half-ounce of dry vermouth. Angosta bitters and two maraschino cherries. My father drinks these. Tastes so

  good I order another and another.

  TEN

  “Wow. You look like you’ve got quite the head start,” Laura says from behind me when she shows up. She plops her purse down on a stool next to me.

  “Yeah. Bad day.”

  “I bet. What did that policeman want with you?”

  “Detective. You wouldn’t believe it. And how did you know he was a cop?”

  “Man-child Ricky told me. I asked who he was and he was so distracted he told me. Usually he would have just ignored me or given me one of those none-of-your-business looks he has.”

  “I know that look well.”

  “So what did the detective want?”

  I think for a split second that maybe I shouldn’t go into it. Then I think, “No, I want my story out there.” Laura will help spread it around the office.

  “Some bastard in the office is using my computer to get up to no good. Ricky Boy thinks it’s me.”

  “Does the cop?”

  “He was noncommittal. Asked me a bunch of questions. Now he’s going to try and trap me in a lie.”

  “Will he succeed?”

  “No, of course not. I didn’t do what Rick thinks I did. I’m clean.”

  “Good to hear. I saw those moves from Midi go through. The two down to California. Quite a haul – full packing and unpacking, the lot.”

  “Midi is a computer software company out of Brantford. Some tech giant down in the States bought the lot of them and they’re moving all the big brains down there.”

  “Brain drain they call it.”

  “Yeah. My brain feels drained right now.”

  “Not surprised. How many of those have you had?” She points at my drink.

  “I don’t know. Two or three.”

  “I’ll have a double to catch up, then.” She nods at the bartender who’s hovering nearby.

  I like the fact she’s getting sloshed right alongside me. Booze, that great enabler of fornication, has always been my ally. Though, in all honesty, she’s sending signals so strong I don’t think it would have taken much. But this is better; not that pretentious wine-and-dinner bull-crap. Straight to hard liquor, thrown back with abandon. Then clothes torn off, uglies bumped and the deed is done.

  We stay at the bar for hours. The after-work crowd comes and goes. Laura knows a few of the regulars and goes over to talk to a table or two on her way back from the washroom. I stay at my stool, staring down into my fourth Manhattan.

  We order a few appetizers. Just enough to put a layer down for more booze. Having firmly established a base with the Manhattans, I switch to draft beer, much to Laura’s disdain. She keeps at the hard stuff, replacing Manhattan’s with double vodka and sodas with lime.

  “I’m watching my figure,” she says, slurring her words. I make a big show of looking her up and down.

  “Looks just fine to me.”

  She laughs and puts her hand on my thigh and squeezes. “You’re too kind.”

  We watch a repeat of a premier soccer league match. I could care less, but Laura’s rooting for one of the teams and she hasn’t seen how this one turned out. “Come on!” she screams at the top of her lungs for a near goal.

  I get up to go to the bathroom and have to hold onto the bar rail to keep from falling over. Laura grabs my arm. No way should I be driving now. I have thrown my lot in, cast my die, slipped my anchor. I will be either spending the night at Laura’s or in the backseat of my car.

  When I get back from the loo, she says, “This is getting expensive. Why don’t we have one more back at my place?”

  “Sure.”

  “Blimey, you are sloshed. Are you going to be any good to me at all?” she says.

  I know what she means but feign ignorance, and we ask for the bill. Thankfully, the bartender splits it in two and we both cash out. I’ve spent ninety-six dollars on booze and half the appetizers. We collect our coats and stumble out. It’s two blocks to Laura’s.

  “I like living next to a pub,” she says. “Makes me think of home. Pub on every corner back there. You have your local across the street and then three or more favourites in the area where you can pop in and know people. Miss that. People are so cold here. Unless you’re with a group, you’re on your own.”

  “You seem to know a lot of people.” We both kind of fall into each other and she slips her hand through my arm and hugs me closer. We keep walking.

  “Yes, but I’ve been going there a long time.”

  Her house is a quaint bungalow with a single-car garage. There’s bric-a-brac from England on the walls. Plates with castles and manor houses and the royal carriage on them. A calendar with Big Ben and a bulldog on it hangs in the front entranceway.

  I try to undo my shoes and start to fall against the wall but put my hand out in time. When I right myself get Laura hugs me and we kiss. We stand there for a while snogging, as they say. Then she pulls away and goes into the kitchen. I head for the living room and crash out on a La-Z-Boy. Then it hits me that, except for the absence of a second story on this house, the layout is exactly the same as Gillian Lent’s. But where Gillian’s is washed-out and neutral, giving no hint to personality, Laura’s is full of hers. Pictures on an antique radio of her and family members. Too many to count from where I am. Pictures on the wall. The furniture is upholstered in warm colours, and the chairs have a lived-in look. The coffee table has nicks.

  I hear a kettle hissing and she comes out with some cold pizza and a teapot and two cups. I comment on how nice everything is. How homey. She thanks me. On one wall is a quilt or blanket made of coarse hair; it’s light grey around the edges with brown hair woven in to form the image of a tree.

  “My sister sent that to me from New Zealand. It’s Alpaca,” she says.

  She’s sitting on the couch like Mrs. Lent used to do and is commenting on something else on the other side of the room when I move to her. She’s on me in a flash. Not angry and lustful like Lent, just more than willing to get the inevitable and longed-for moving along.

  ELEVEN

  I wake up to the sound of water running. Laura is in her ensuite bathroom and I can see shadows move on the wall as she showers. I try to rise from the bed and a wave of pain rolls into my brain and pushes me back down. I remember the drinks in the bar and the tea she served me when we got to her place. At the time, it seemed to settle my stomach a little and clear my head and prepare me for the encounter to follow, but I
’m still battling a wicked hangover.

  And what an encounter it was. Better than my wildest dreams. I am not only hung over; I am exhausted, having slept very little. I should go jump in the shower with her. But before I can move, the shower stops and I can see parts of her as she dries herself off: a calf, a thigh, a buttock.

  “You up?” she asks from the bathroom.

  “Barely,” I croak. “My head feels like a steam engine.”

  “Can’t hold your liquor, huh, Stanley?” she says.

  “Not as well I used to.”

  “We all get old.” She comes out, towel tied around under her arms, her hair slick and black. She looks amazing. She poses, hand on her hip. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re a ten and then some.”

  She pulls the towel off and poses again. “And now?”

  We have our fourth and final go at it, rolling around on the mattress, which quickly becomes damp from her wet hair. After we finish and separate, the clock radio at her bedside comes on, just in time for the morning news.

  A 45-year-old woman has been found dead in her home in Burlington. Foul play is suspected. Gillian Lent, of Fintona Avenue, has lived in the city for the past ten years. Police are saying there was no sign of forced entry and are looking to anyone who might lead them to the suspect or suspects in her death.

  “Oh dear,” Laura says. “Don’t expect that kind of thing here in Burlington, do you?”

  “It’s generally a safe community.”

  “Probably a jealous husband or something.” Then the news switches to sports and weather. I roll over and look at her.

  “If I still smoked, I’ll be having one now,” she says.

  “Don’t start up again. I hate cigarettes.”

  “Me too, dahlink.”

  “Come on, we have to get to work.”

  “It’s Saturday, Stan.”

  “Oh, thank god.” I crash back onto the bed.

  “Uh-uh,” she says and pokes me. “I have to get going. I’m heading to Kingston this afternoon. You need to shove off, sailor.”

  After I’m finished dressing and ready to go, I say, “What about Monday?”

  “What about it?”

  “Work? Us? I’m not exactly the poster boy for success at Henderson Moving.”

  “I know.”

  “You do? What do you know?”

  “I see the numbers every week. I don’t care. The job is not for everyone, and I don’t really want to get into anything heavy with someone I see every day.”

  “So we’re going to get into something heavy, are we?”

  She laughs. “I generally shag all the salesman who are about to be laid off. As a form of severance.”

  “You’re awfully good at it.”

  “Maturity, my dahlink. Brings skill.”

  We kiss and I leave.

  Instead of going home, I swing over to Fintona. I can’t help myself. I park in front of the house I visited yesterday. I have no appointment with the owner and normally I would have just phoned him to check on the estimate and whether he wanted to go with us, but I would have waited until Monday to do that.

  But nevertheless, here I am, on Fintona. Scene of the crime. There are three police cars in front of Gillian Lent’s house. There’s yellow tape around the property and a gathering of uniforms in the driveway. There’s also an unmarked cop car there, one I’m familiar with. Detective Marco’s.

  Across the street are news vans from Hamilton and Toronto and a crowd of onlookers, neighbours. I see the old lady with the dog. She’s talking to a reporter.

  I get out of my car and, with clipboard in hand, walk up to the house I’m in front of. The owner emerges from the garage.

  “Hell of a thing,” I say to him. We shake hands.

  “It is.”

  “I was in the area and just wanted to follow up on your move. I had no idea this is where that murder happened.”

  “They found her yesterday.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Not really. Just enough to wave to if we passed each other walking.”

  “How’d they find her?”

  “I heard that a gas meter reader found her back gate locked and knocked on the door. Peered in the window and saw her.”

  Gas meter readers; shifty bunch, I think. “It’s a tragedy. I bet the police will be canvassing the area.”

  “Yeah, they started last night at eleven p.m. They were here all day yesterday going door to door. Finally got around to talking to us.”

  I nod and feign interest, but I’m really looking at the woman with the dog. She’s been summoned over to the cops and now she’s talking to Detective Marco.

  “I don’t want to seem insensitive. Just wanted to stop in and check on your move.”

  “You better go ahead and register that truck for us.”

  “Yeah, will do. I’ll give you a call Monday to confirm it,” I say. We shake hands again and I leave. I do a three-point turn in his driveway and leave, heading away from the Lent house and Marco. I watch him in my mirror; he doesn’t look in my direction. The woman is still talking to him. Giving him my description?

  I call Midi from my car and go through the automated phone tree to Gillian Lent’s line. Her recorded greeting sends a shiver down my spine. It’s as if she is speaking directly to me.

  “Hi, this is Gillian Lent. I’m away from my desk at the moment. Kindly leave your name and number and a brief message and I’ll get back to you. Thank you.” Oh, and I like to be hit while I’m in bed with a complete stranger.

  “Hi, Gillian, it’s Stan Rogers from Henderson Moving and Storage. It was nice meeting you yesterday. Two things: I have booked the truck for your move from Burlington to Brantford on the date you wanted. I’ll give you a call a couple of days before just to check on everything, make sure you’re ready to go. If you need any boxes or packing tape, let me know and I can run them out to you no problem.

  “And I just wanted to follow up with you on the corporate moves that I’ve booked for your firm. The two relocations down to California. They’re in the system and I have updated estimates that include vehicle shipping and customs clearing. We should get together and go over the timetable for these moves to ensure they go smoothly.”

  I give my number and say I will call her back and end the call. The cops must know who she worked for by now. Marco will be going out there at some point, I hope. Right now, they’re busy poring over the house looking for clues. I just pray they go upstairs, check out her closet. Take notice of Waltz’s shirt. Then when Marco is out in Brantford, he’ll see Waltz with the same type of shirt, same distinctive logo on the breast pocket, and bam! A prime suspect will be created.

  I spend the rest of the weekend in my apartment. I put some hydrocortisone cream on the scratches; I want them gone now. It might work; couple of days they’ll be gone for good.

  I resist the urge to call Laura. I’ll let her be. She said she would be gone all weekend and I believe her.

  TWELVE

  I get in to work at 9:13. We have the Monday sales meeting every other week so it’s okay if I’m a bit late. I drop my stuff off and head down to dispatch. Mike is not in his office. I see him in the rumpus room having a coffee and talking to two of the warehouse guys. The rumpus room is a lounge that the movers have set up with discarded furniture, stuff that people put into storage and then couldn’t pay for. It’s a crazy collection of mismatched leather couches and chairs and nicked coffee tables. There’s a TV stand in the corner with a TV that’s turned on only for an important baseball or hockey game and kept off anytime old man Henderson is in the building. It’s on now and I see Gillian Lent’s face on the screen.

  Instead of going into the rumpus room, I head to the book in the hall. I realized that I never put Lent’s move down in it. Thankfully, the day she wanted is free and clear, so I write in her name, address and estimate weight and destination. I don’t know what I would have done if all of our trucks had been booked
that day. Then I flip to the date for the other move I booked, the one for Lent’s neighbour on Fintona. It’s a local move, and the estimated weight is ten thousand pounds. I make a mental note to call him and confirm.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Mike coming over, coffee in hand. He’s a nice guy, an old “moving hand,” and tough like a taxi dispatcher. He doesn’t take guff off anyone, especially a rookie salesman slowly circling the bowl. He glances down at the second move I’ve just recorded.

  “Any surprises on this one, pal?” Mike says, and he sips his coffee.

  “No,” I say, thinking back to the surprise I got last night from Laura.

  “No four-wheelers in the basement?”

  I laugh. “No, Mike, no four-wheelers.” On this one move I booked last spring, the owner of the home, for some reason he never fully explained, had a brand-new four-wheeler in the basement. A machine that probably weighed seven hundred pounds. The owner was insistent that he would take care of it, would get it up the stairs and outside for the movers when they showed up. I wrote it down on the estimate and had him initial it. I told him that if our guys had to get it out of the basement it would take hours and he would be charged for that. ‘No problem, no problem,’ he’d said. I booked the move and even wrote down on the dispatch book “Owner will move 4-wheeler.”

  Our guys show up. The four-wheeler is still in the basement. All three of them spent the entire morning getting it up the stairs. One of the guys got hurt when it slid back and caught his hand between the bike and the wall. He had to go on sick leave after he completed the move.

  A quick eight-hour move had turned into a sixteen-hour ordeal. The owner called me and freaked out at the charge. I told him he’d agreed to get that thing up the stairs. He didn’t remember the conversation. I said he’d initialled that detail on the estimate, of which he had a copy. He said he didn’t have it and was I calling him a liar? I was very close to doing just that, but I apologized for the confusion and hung up.

  Mike was plenty steamed after that move. He didn’t care about all the extra money we’d made. He’d lost one of his key guys for a big move coming up that weekend and wanted to know how I could have been so stupid as to not inform him about the four-wheeler. There was no point in showing him the estimate, he told me. I should have told him personally. Kevin schooled me on that after I came up to the sales floor to escape Mike’s tirade.