Lethal Rage (6 page)

“Damn right. And I intend to prove it as soon as we get home.”

“But dessert first.”

“Dessert, then sex,” he confirmed, pulling out of the parking lot.

“How about we get something to go and have dessert with sex?” Karen asked, toying with the buttons on her blouse.

“I knew there was a reason I married you.” He grinned at her and stomped on the gas.

“Fucking bloody seat.” Sy muttered expletives as he threw his shoulders back against the driver's car seat, which refused to budge from its upright position. “How the hell does anyone drive like this? My chest is over my fucking knees.”

“Are you using the seat lever?”

Sy glared at Jack. “Yes, I'm using the seat lever. Smartass.” He pushed once more and the seat back smacked into the Plexiglas partition behind the front seats. The headrest was missing and Sy smacked his skull on the glass. “Fuck!” He sat up and glared at his partner again. “One word, smartass, and you're riding in the trunk.”

“Far be it from me to laugh at my partner's misfortune.” Jack swivelled the dashboard computer so he could see the screen and began logging them on. He couldn't help snickering.

“Smartass,” Sy repeated. It seemed to be his new word for the day. “At least the fucking seat's working now.” He fiddled with it some more, then started up the car and cranked the air conditioning on.

It was another hot day and the humidity had crept back up after the weekend. Jack and Sy were on the first day of evening shift and the air felt like an old rag doused with hot water.

“Mason grabbed me after parade for a quick talk.” Sy was fiddling with the seat as he drove.

“Mason?”

“Rick Mason. Fucking seat. The Major Crime boss. Got you, you little son of a whore.” The gears beneath the seat gave a final, mortally wounded whir before falling still. Sy wiggled his ass and sighed contentedly. “Finally.”

“Mason?” Jack prodded.

“Oh, right. Remember that dealer you grabbed last week? The one with the Black?” Sy cruised through the parking lot and pulled out onto Regent Street.

“Yeah, I remember him. Karen laughed her ass off when I told her about how he took off on me the second time.”

It was Sy's turn to snicker. “Good girl.”

“But I won't tell you what she did with the beer bottle after that.”

Sy glanced at Jack, his eyebrows peaked in curiosity. “I have got to meet this wife of yours. Well, Mason —”

“5106, in your area. 279 George Street. See the complainant in room 3. He was assaulted earlier by the tenant in room 2. Suspect still on scene. Time, 1721.”

Sy turned onto Shuter Street, then eased to a stop for the red light at Parliament. While they waited for the light to change, they wrote down the call in their memo books.

“So, Mason told me the dealer was more than willing to co-operate once he talked with the MCU boys.” The light changed and Sy accelerated through the intersection.

“What, um, incentive did they use?”

Sy laughed. “Despite what you may have heard about us 51 coppers, we don't get confessions using phone books or pepper spray. Instead of Show Causing him, they cut him loose on a Form Ten.”

“Isn't trafficking an automatic Show Cause? I thought it was a reverse-onus charge.”

“Yup, it is.” Sy nodded. “But Mason cleared it with the booking sergeant. So instead of spending the night in jail and heading to court in the morning, the dealer got cut loose with a shitload of conditions, one of them being he's not allowed in the division. So, if we see him again, we can pinch him for that.”

“I take it they got some useful information from him?”

“Yup. They've been working on it and they're doing a search warrant day after tomorrow.”

“We invited?” Jack asked hopefully.

“Damn straight we are.”

“Excellent!” Jack was ecstatic.

Sy grinned, catching his exuberance. “It's a thank-you for the pinch. Also, they like to have some uniforms along with them so if the shit hits the fan the assholes can't say they didn't know it was the police.”

“Oh, great,” Jack moaned sarcastically. “They want to use us as targets to draw the gunfire.”

“Something like that. We start at two on Saturday.”

“Cool. Meet for a workout first?”

“Sure, but not legs, in case we — I mean you — have to chase someone.”

Sy cut up Pembroke Street, then drove along Dundas to George and up the one-way southbound street. It seemed Sy didn't pay much attention to one-way arrows. An odd collection of buildings lined George Street. The west side was heavy with residential buildings. New apartment buildings occupied the south end of the street and old homes the north. Between them was the back entrance to the youth courts and detention centre.

On the east side was the Schoolhouse, a little-known exclusive men's hostel with strict rules and small occupancy numbers. It catered to a better-behaved, more sober class of homeless men. Next to the Schoolhouse was Seaton House, the Schoolhouse's behemoth of a cousin and Toronto's largest shelter for men, which took up almost half the block. The four-storey institutional building offered clean beds, warm showers, food and counselling. Despite the best intentions of the staff, many homeless men were afraid to sleep there because of the shelter's human predators.

South of Seaton House was their destination, a brief line of townhouses sandwiched between a run-down apartment building and Filmore's, the strip club at the corner of George and Dundas streets. 279 was the last unit in the line and the decrepit townhouse appeared to sag in the heat, an old and forgotten relative waiting to die.

Sy and Jack mounted the cracked concrete steps and entered a dim hallway that seemed even hotter than outside. The warped floorboards under the threadbare carpet creaked beneath their boots. Sy pointed at the second door in the hall and Jack nodded. According to the radio call, room 2 belonged to the suspect. Jack eyed the door as he passed. There was no peephole and the door was firmly shut. If the suspect was expecting the police, he wasn't keeping an eye out for them. At least not from his room. Sy and Jack moved on to room 3, and Sy rapped on the door.

“If you're lookin' for Phil, I'm out here.”

A stooped figure stood silhouetted in the door at the end of the hall, backlit by early evening sun. To Jack, he was nothing more than a solid shadow, but his raspy voice and broken-down posture suggested he was too old to be their suspect. The back door led out onto a fair-sized deck a few steps above a small yard of dead grass and dried mud. Mismatched lawn chairs and ashtrays heaped beyond capacity with old butts crowded the deck space. Phil, their victim, shuffled over to one of the chairs and slowly, carefully lowered himself into it. Jack put Phil's age somewhere between seventy and ancient. Knuckles swollen with arthritis gripped the armrest of his chair.

Jack had started sweating the moment he had stepped out of the air-conditioned car, yet Phil was wearing a long-sleeved denim shirt and jeans. There wasn't much to him. His breastbone and collarbones were visible in the open neck of his shirt and his jeans hung limply on stick-thin thighs.

Why would someone want to beat on an old guy like him?
But Jack could see that someone surely had. The dark skin under Phil's left eye was swollen and scraped. Jack was looking forward to meeting this someone.

Sy dragged over a chair and eased down as though not sure its old webbing would take his weight. It protested but held.

Jack stood so he could watch the back door.

“That's a nasty bump you got there, Phil,” Sy commented as he flipped open his memo book. “You want to tell us who did that to you so we can go and arrest his chickenshit ass?”

“Damn right I wanna tell you.” Phil might have been old enough to be called ancient, but his voice, cigarette rasp or not, still had some strength to it. “Damn bastard in room 2 did this to me, not more'n half an hour ago.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Damn right I do. Jake Carlsberg, like the beer.”

“Easy enough. How old is Jake? Any idea, Phil?”

Phil laughed, or coughed, Jack wasn't sure which.

“Younger'n me, that's damn sure. Otherwise, I'da smacked the little shitter right back. He's 'bout this feller's age.” Phil pointed a crooked finger at Jack. “You laughin' at me, young feller?” he asked, daring Jack to answer yes.

“No, sir,” Jack replied, not hiding his grin. “I just admire your attitude. But why did this guy hit you?”

“Says he don't like niggers. Right to my face, he says that! Damn little shitter. If I was ten years younger, I'da smacked him good.” Phil worked a rumpled cigarette pack from his shirt pocket. Jack felt sorry for him, watching him concentrate on making his gnarled fingers slide a cigarette out of the pack. Once he had it wedged firmly between his fingers and the pack safely in the pocket, Phil asked, “You fellers mind if'n I smoke?”

“Not at all, Phil; it's your home. Let me get that for you.” Sy produced a lighter and held the flame out for Phil's cigarette.

Phil leaned forward to meet the flame and Jack wasn't sure which creaked more: his back or the chair. The cigarette tip danced erratically around the flame until Phil steadied it with a second hand. After several weak drags, the tip began glowing to his satisfaction and he eased back in the chair gratefully.

Sy was patient through the cigarette-lighting ordeal. When Phil blew out a pitifully small plume of blue smoke, sighing contentedly, Sy continued with his questions. As he took down Phil's particulars, Jack used his radio. “5106 for a check on a male.”

“
5106
, go ahead.”

“Surname, Carlsberg, like the beer. Given, Jake. No date of birth, so run him between twenty-five and thirty-five. 10-4?”

“10-4. Stand by.”

Jack listened to the dispatcher hand out a couple of calls to other units. Then he heard,
“5106, I have your return. Is the party nearby?”

“Negative, dispatch. We haven't gone to talk to him yet.”

“Carlsberg, Jacob. DOB '68-07-12. On file for mental instability, violence and suicidal tendencies. Accused: assault times two, awaiting disposition. 53 Division case. 10-4?”

“Got it, dispatch. Any conditions to go with the assault charges?”

“Must reside 35 Thorncliffe Park Drive; not to possess or consume alcohol. That's it.”

“Thanks, dispatch. Could we also have a SOCO attend here for victim photos?”

“Is there a SOCO on the air in
51
?”
she voiced out.

They waited, then, “5103, I'm just clearing the station. Who needs a SOCO?”

As the dispatcher began to give 5103 details, Jack replaced his radio and turned to Sy and Phil. “Looks like our boy just moved into the division. We can add a fail to comply to the assault.”

“The more the merrier.”

“What's soccer got to do with that little shitter?” Phil asked, squinting at Jack.

“Soccer? Oh, SOCO.
Saw-koe.
Scenes of crime officer,” Jack explained. “An officer's going to come by and take some photos of that lump under your eye.”

“You fellers did'n say nothin' 'bout me posin' for no pictures.” Phil tapped ash from his cigarette into one of the heaped trays. “Shee-it. And I did'n shave or brush my hair or nothin'.” He ran a hand over his bald scalp and laughed. Or coughed. Or maybe both.

“Don't worry about that, Phil, you're beautiful as you are. Now,” Sy began, his pen poised over his memo book, “while we're waiting for the soccer, I'm going to take your statement. After that, my partner and I will go drag this Carlsberg coward off to jail. How's that sound?”

“Sounds mighty good t'me.”

Jack listened with half an ear while Sy jotted the old man's words in his book. According to Phil, Carlsberg had moved in a few weeks earlier and enjoyed terrorizing the other tenants, especially the man he called “the nigger.” Jack hated that word and wished he could solidify it and shove it down the throat of anyone who used it, especially against someone as defenceless as Phil. Jack was looking forward to meeting Carlsberg. Maybe the piece of shit would decide to fight.

“So, I was havin' a smoke out here with Bear when that little shitter — don't write that, it don't sound too good — when Carlsberg comes up t'me and says, ‘I've got something for you, nigger.' Then he up and smacks me.”

“Who's Bear? A friend of yours?” Sy asked.

“Friend? 'Course he's my friend. Best friend I've got.” Phil looked around the deck, perplexed. “Now where'd that little bugger get to? Bear?” He cocked his head and aimed a shout at the yard. “Bear! C'mere, Bear!”

There were shuffling and clicking noises at the back of the deck and a grey-haired and arthritic little dog hobbled into view, then shuffled over to Phil, his nails clicking on the wood of the deck. His legs may have been well past their prime, but his stubby tail beat enthusiastically as Phil reached down to scratch him tenderly behind the ears.

“This here's Bear, my best friend. He's been with me nigh on fourteen years.” A tear glistened in Phil's eye as he introduced his cherished companion.

“Nice to meet you, Bear.” Sy reached out, but the dog shied away.

“He's a little timid 'round new folks,” Phil explained.

“Me, too,” Sy said. “Let's finish up this statement.”

While Sy wrote, Jack squatted and softly coaxed Bear out from under Phil's chair. The little guy — he had to be no more than fifteen pounds — hesitantly approached Jack's hand and gave it a tentative sniff, then nuzzled Jack's hand, asking for an ear scratch. Jack obliged gently.

Phil looked shocked. “You must be special. Bear don't normally take t'people like that.”

“I've always had a way with dogs,” Jack answered, smiling down at Bear. “Why is he trembling, though? Is there something wrong with him?”

“Oh, no. That little shitter took a kick at him. That's why he's shakin' like that.”

Sy's pen and Jack's fingers stopped simultaneously.