Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery) (14 page)

“Don’t matter where you are,” said Billy, “
everybody
responds to an armoured car robbery. It’s the kind of stuff cops live for.”

“Terrific.”

“Hey, let’s go in with both eyes open.”

They drove past the liquor store. It was set well back from the street on the far side of the parking lot. The shopping market and 7-Eleven were right where Billy had said they’d be. Billy drove to the far end of the block, turned left on Arbutus and drove another block and made another left. Now they were heading east on Tenth Avenue. They bounced over a set of railroad tracks and Billy made another left, into the parking lot. They cruised slowly past the liquor store. There was a lot of foot traffic, people coming out carrying cases of beer and brown paper bags full of wine or maybe hard liquor, vodka, rum. You name it.

Billy was right, the place had four cash registers and they were all clicking away, making music.

“Check out the redhead at the end,” said Billy. “You ever see jeans that tight? She farts, she’s gonna spray denim all over the block.”

Garret laughed, some of his tension easing. There was a shaggy-looking black guy banging away on a guitar outside the liquor store’s double glass doors. Garret craned his neck to see how much money he had in his hat. He patted himself down, frowned. “Got a smoke?”

“All out.” Billy waited until a dark gray Camaro got out of his way and then slid into a parking slot. He turned off the engine and climbed out of the car.

“Where you going?” Garret opened his door but didn’t get out of the car.

“Thought you wanted some cigarettes.” Billy started across Maple to the 7-Eleven.

Garret trailed along behind. “Yeah, but I’m broke.”

Billy kept walking. “What happened to the money we got for last week’s radios, for Chrissake?”

“I spent some of it, gave the rest to my mother.”

“What the hell for?”

“Because she needs it.”

Billy reached for the 7-Eleven door, but didn’t open it, forcing Garret to break stride. “And now your wallet’s flapping in the wind. Real smart.” He pushed open the door, and, as he went inside, turned and looked back across the street at the bright plate-glass windows of the liquor store. He thought about the cute clerk in the skin-tight jeans, how her big green eyes would widen in amazement if she knew what they’d been talking about, what he was about to do.

The 7-Eleven was crowded, people buying gas, kids loaded down with six-packs of Coke or Pepsi, more kinds of junk food than you could even think about. A video game at the back was making puffy explosive sounds. Billy and Garret wandered down the aisle, past banks of a million different kinds and flavours of chewing gum and candy bars.

The video game was called
Rambo
. The kid playing the game dropped a quarter. An animated helicopter thundered onscreen, hovered and dropped a soldier wearing green jungle fatigues and a red headband. He was armed with a knife about three inches long, and an automatic rifle. The chopper thundered off-screen. The soldier started towards the forest and was immediately attacked.

The kid started hitting a red button, punching it with his thumb. Rambo’s automatic rifle erupted, and the slaughter began.

Billy went over to the rank of glass-doored coolers that lined two walls of the store. He swung open a door and grabbed a Coke.

“Want one?”

Garret shook his head. They headed back towards the cash register. Billy slammed the can of Coke down on the counter. The clerk, a short, fat kid wearing an ugly 7-Eleven jacket that was about two sizes too small for him, gave him a hard look.

Billy said, “What kind of smokes you want, Garret?”

“Players Filter.”

“You heard him,” said Billy.

The clerk reached up and fumbled in an overhead rack. His armpits were stained with sweat. He dropped the pack of cigarettes on the counter next to the Coke and turned to the cash register.

Billy, his voice low, said, “Don’t bother to ring it up.”

The clerk paused, staring at him.

Billy unzipped his jacket, let him get a quick peek at the Python.

“Your treat, right?”

The clerk swallowed. He nodded his head up and down very slowly, and then said, “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

“One more thing,” said Billy. “Since we’re such good friends, think you could loan us a few bucks?”

The clerk hit the cash register. The drawer popped open.

“Just the folding money. Might as well put it in a bag, along with the Coke and smokes.”

The clerk shut the cash drawer, reached for a plastic bag. Billy kept his hand on the gun as the clerk stuffed everything into the bag, handed it across the counter.

Billy turned to Garret. “Take it, dummy.”

Garret grabbed the bag.

“Thank you,” said Billy.

“Have a nice day,” said the clerk, and then realized what he’d said, and flushed red.

Garret followed Billy as he walked slowly around the back of the building. Billy took the money and Coke and smokes out of the bag and threw the bag away.

Garret said, “Whyn’t you tell me you were gonna rob the place?”

“Didn’t plan to do it.”

They came out at the front of the building, but on the opposite side from the entrance, by the self-serve gas pumps. Garret followed Billy as he ambled slowly past the pumps to the sidewalk. Inside the 7-Eleven, a crowd of customers surrounded the clerk, who was waving his arms in the air. At the pumps, a man in a tweed overcoat finished filling his Volvo and racked the hose and started towards the store. He paused when he saw what was going on inside, then spun on his heel and got in his car and drove away.

“See that?”

“Yeah.”

Billy poked him in the ribs. “A goddamn full tank of premium. Guy probably made more than us.”

There were sirens in the distance, but Billy didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry. The traffic cleared and they crossed Maple and strolled across the parking lot. Nobody in the area of the liquor store seemed to know an armed robbery had just gone down on the other side of the street. They climbed into the Pinto. Billy popped open his Coke and tossed Garret the pack of cigarettes. “Light me one.”

Garret fumbled for his matches. Billy got the Pinto started and drove slowly out of the lot.

There were three patrol cars parked at an angle in front of the 7-Eleven, roof lights flashing red and blue. Another patrol car bounced over the curb, skidded to a stop by the pumps.

Billy chugged some Coke, burped loudly. He took the roll of bills out of his pocket and counted it twice. A hundred and twenty-seven dollars. He said, “See how fuckin’
easy
it is, Garret?”

When they were out of sight of the 7-Eleven, Billy vigorously shook his can of Coke, sprayed the interior of the car with sticky brown foam. When Garret finally stopped yelling, Billy said, “Next time, it’s gonna be champagne. I
guarantee
it!”

Chapter 15

Every cop has at least one snitch — somebody with an ear to the cesspool who’s willing to trade information for money.

Willows’ favourite was a guy named Bobby Chow. Once upon a time Bobby had been a high profile drug lawyer, but he’d made a serious mistake — sold his services for a kilo of cocaine in lieu of cash. When the case went to court, Bobby lost. And his client, looking to settle the score and maybe knock a few years off his sentence, had sold Bobby down the river.

Suddenly Bobby Chow had almost ten thousand a month in overhead, and zero income. He’d bought himself a good lawyer, but the lawyer hadn’t been good enough. Bobby had been disbarred, naturally, but during the pre-sentencing hearing had given up a few names. Downtown guys. He wasn’t the only lawyer who worked the barter system, and by then he was sweating a river, ready to spill every bean in his pot.

Willows had been working the drug squad when Bobby had fallen; he’d been instrumental in seeing that he was on parole forever but didn’t do any hard time.

So, although Bobby had lost his licence to practise, and all of his three-piece friends, he still had Jack Willows.

And Willows still owned Bobby.

He kept Bobby’s telephone number filed away in his memory instead of the Rolodex, where anybody could look it up. He grabbed the phone, began to dial.

Parker, hovering, said, “Coffee?”

Willows nodded, not looking up.

The phone rang eleven times. When Bobby finally answered, his voice was thick and congested, as if he’d been in the middle of drinking a cup of sand. “Jack, it’s you. What a treat.
Qué pasa
?” Bobby sniffed into the phone. Sinus problems. Willows doubted he had a cold.

“In the mood for lunch, Bobby?”

“Haven’t had breakfast yet, tell you the truth. But then, I rarely do. How about the Hotel Vancouver?”

Willows said, “I’m on a limited budget. You want to spend my money on a ten-dollar sandwich, it’s fine with me.”

“Maybe that ain’t such a hot idea after all,” said Bobby quickly. He coughed into the telephone. “How about Cassidy’s? You know it?”

“By reputation,” said Willows. The place was a beer joint, live bands and strippers.

“Never been there?”

“Not lately.”

“I was just looking at the ad in the paper. Happens to be Well Endowed week, should be a real eye-opener.”

“When can you be there, Bobby?”

There was a pause. “Uh, I dunno. What time is it now?”

“Quarter to twelve.”

“Couple hours, say around two?”

Willows didn’t say anything, let the pressure build.

Bobby said, “I gotta take a bath, dig up a clean pair of socks, maybe iron a shirt…”

“Two o’clock, Bobby. Want to write it down?”

Bobby giggled. “Yeah, sure. Got a pen?”

Willows hung up. Bobby had a never-ending problem with his cash flow. If he was straight enough to make it, he’d be there. Willows flipped open his notebook and jotted down the date and time and location of the meeting, using Bobby’s first name only.

Parker had been talking with Farley Spears down at the far end of the squad room. Spears said something and Parker laughed and then made her way back to Willows’ desk carrying two styrofoam cups of coffee.

Willows accepted a cup. “Thanks. Farley in a good mood, is he?”

“Told me the one about the hooker and the chicken farmer,” said Parker. The joke had been doing the rounds at 312 Main for weeks, but because Spears had put in so much sick time, he’d only heard it that morning.

“Why’d you laugh? You didn’t think it was funny the first time you heard it.”

“If I hadn’t laughed, he would’ve thought I didn’t get it, and told it all over again, but slowly.” Parker sipped from her cup. “Get in touch with Bobby?”

Willows nodded.

“Set up a meet?”

“I hope so.”

“When?”

“This afternoon, two o’clock.”

“Where?”

“Joint called Cassidy’s. You ever heard of it?”

“Well Endowed week. They should run a shuttle. End of shift, the place is full of cops.” Parker almost added that some of them were even married, but held her tongue.

Willows said, “Been in touch with Asian Crimes?”

“They’re doing what they can. But they’re kind of vague about exactly what that amounts to.”

“You going to talk to Mrs Lee again?”

“In about an hour. Want some lunch?”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll hold off until I see my snitch.”

Parker hesitated, and then nodded and said, “Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”

For his date with Bobby Chow, Willows changed into a pair of black Reeboks, faded Levis and a black leather bomber jacket. He signed an unmarked car out of the pool and drove across town to Cassidy’s. There was a parking lot behind the building, and an automatic ticket machine. Willows dropped a dollar’s worth of quarters, tossed the ticket on the dashboard and locked the car. As he walked across the asphalt towards the back door of the bar, he could hear the percussive thump of drums, heavy and very loud.

He went up a short flight of concrete steps. There was a small landing by the door. A puddle of congealed vomit drooled down the cement wall.

Willows yanked open the door. The noise grabbed him by the lapels and tried to shove him back outside. The door banged shut behind him. He smelled stale beer and fresh sweat. The bar was horseshoe-shaped, with a raised platform for strippers in the middle. Mirror balls and multi-coloured strips of neon light pulsed through the haze of smoke and music. A naked woman, her pubic hair dyed in bands of red and blue and green, snapped her fingers as she wandered aimlessly around the stage. A drunk in jeans and a T-shirt waved his beer at Willows and said, “You the taxi?” Willows ignored him. He couldn’t see Bobby Chow anywhere.

The drunk lurched to his feet. “Hey, I’m
talkin'
to you, fella! You the taxi, or what?”

“Taxi’s on its way,” said Willows. To his left there was a kind of amphitheatre, rows of long narrow tables and stools arranged in a half-circle facing a raised stage.

Gynaecology Row, a cop had called it. Willows moved off to his right, towards a row of high-backed booths.

The stripper was rolling languidly around on a white shag rug cut in the shape of a polar bear skin. Someone threw a handful of coins that glittered silver in the light.

Bobby Chow was slumped in the booth farthest from the roar of the music. His dark blue pinstripe suit was freshly pressed. His button-down shirt looked brand new and his bright red tie was nothing but silk. Willows picked up his drink, sniffed. A single malt.

“Nice place, Bobby.”

Bobby reached out and snagged a passing waiter. He drained his glass and thumped it down on the tray. “The same, better make it a double. And gimme a cheeseburger double bacon, side of fries and extra ketchup. Something for you, Jack?”

“A draft.”

Bobby grinned. “Drinking on duty, shame on you.”

“Am I on duty, Bobby?”

Bobby’s grin faded. “What d’you mean?”

“You here to talk business, or just soak up a free lunch?”

“Don’t gimme a hard time, Jack. Please. I thought we were buddies.” Bobby leaned back, closed his eyes. “Things haven’t been going all that wonderful, lately, it’s a fact.”

Willows ran his fingers across the glossy black surface of the table. Some kind of composite. Hard as rock. He’d known Bobby a long time, since before the fall. Bobby looked too good to be true — better than he had any right to be. He was a little on the thin side but his eyes were clear and he was freshly shaved and if Willows was any judge of haircuts, Bobby had dropped a fifty. And there was something else — the diamond Bobby used to wear in his left ear but had been a long time gone was back again and bigger than ever.

“You look pretty good, Bobby, for somebody who feels so bad.”

Bobby opened his eyes. “Things are pickin’ up, kind of. In a way. I’m working again.”

The waiter dropped Bobby’s Scotch and Willows’ pint of draft on the table. Bobby drained half his glass, licked his lips and gave Willows a twisted grin.

Willows waited. Bobby’s problem — or one of them, anyway — had always been that he didn’t need two people to hold a conversation. His loose mouth had ended up costing him a fat six-figure income and his membership in the bar. A man like Bobby, Willows doubted he’d changed all that much. Or ever would. Bobby said, “This is just between you and me, Jack.”

“Sure,” said Willows, wondering how many times Bobby had used that phrase.

“I’m doing legal work for a guy sells lottery tickets by mail. Grosses about five million a month. No lie. Millions. Got a couple of computer geniuses working for him, you know the type. Idiot savants. Some kind of software deal. Mailing lists. He’s got customers all over the States. They choose their own numbers, as many numbers as they want. He buys the tickets and they pay in advance, in American currency. That’s fifteen percent pure cream right there. Also, he charges them a fee for doing all the footwork. The computers keep track of the numbers. Some dope actually picks a winner, we send him a certified check.”

“How long you had the job?”

“Couple of months, somewhere in there.”

“Had any winners?”

“Sure, lots of ’em.”

“Anything big?”

“First one I know about was last week. Some guy in Seattle. Don’t get me wrong, it was nothing huge.”

“How much?”

Bobby’s glass was empty. He glanced around, looking for the waiter. “He hit five numbers out of six. Pay-out was a hundred and fifteen thousand dollars, somewhere in there.”

“And you sent the guy a check, just like that. No problem.”

“Right, right.” There was a long, slow drum roll from the stage. Bobby sat up straight so he could get a better look.

Willows said, “That’s your end, the paperwork?”

“More or less.”

“I guess it can take quite a while, sometimes, to get that paperwork done?”

Bobby rubbed his hands together, grinned. He was at the point where he’d talked enough to satisfy that inner need that kept grinding away at him, and now he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. But he never would.

Willows said, “So what happens, you tread water until you’re sure the ticket-holder doesn’t know he’s a winner, then forget about it?”

Bobby smiled. “No way, Jack. The bowl’s so full of milk, nobody needs to squeeze the teat any harder.”

The waiter arrived with the food and another round of drinks. Bobby said, “I like a man who thinks ahead.” He peeled a pair of crisp new twenties from a roll thick enough to choke a whore, dropped the money on the tray. Bobby had slurred his words a little, and his eyes had taken on a slightly glassy look. Willows sipped at his pint, making it last. Bobby used his teeth to rip open a foil packet of ketchup. There was another drum roll from the stage, but this time he didn’t bother to look up.

“So where’ve you been the past couple of months, Jack? I hear from you, then I don’t hear from you. Naturally I wonder what’s going on.”

“Just the usual, Bobby.”

“Crime, huh. It’s a growing commodity. How’s the wife and kids?”

“Fine, just fine.”

“You got a boy and a girl, right? One of each. The boy, he’s what, about twelve?”

“Somewhere in there.”

Bobby nodded, picked a sliver of bacon off the table and popped it in his mouth. He kept his head down as he chewed. “Kids still in school?”

Willows nodded.

“Your wife, she okay?”

Willows said, “Let’s not talk about my family, Bobby. Since you don’t have one, it doesn’t seem fair.”

On the stage, the stripper lay down on the mock polar bear rug and turned herself into a pretzel.

Willows said, “Hear about the body that turned up in the Sun Yat-Sen Gardens a few days ago?”

“Guy drowned, or was it froze to death? Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, and take a look at the famous human popsicle.”

Willows drank some more beer, just a taste.

“Or should I be thinking about somebody else?” said Bobby.

“No, you’ve got the right one. Kenny Lee. But he didn’t drown, and he didn’t freeze to death.”

“No shit, a scoop.”

“He was snatched, Bobby.”

“Yeah?”

“His family got a ransom note. But on the telephone, the one call he was allowed to make, Lee told them not to pay.”

“Advice they gladly followed, no doubt.”

Willows gave him a look.

Bobby said, “The Chinese Benevolent Society put up a reward, yes?”

“Ten thousand,” said Willows. “I hear they’re going to bump it to fifteen at the end of the week.”

“Big pile of money.”

“Heard anything, Bobby?”

Bobby nervously stroked his diamond. “Just ’cause I’m Chinese, it doesn’t mean I got inside info on everybody who gets bumped off in Chinatown.”