Death On a No 8 Hook (A Willows and Parker Mystery) (3 page)

Chapter 5

The boy caught the repeating bright orange flash of the turn signal in his peripheral vision, and turned just as the Econoline pulled up to the curb beside him.

The van had come from the opposite direction he’d expected, catching him by surprise. He made his face go blank. The driver smiled and waved, beckoning him over.

The boy hesitated. He didn’t like vans. Street wisdom said stay away from them. Once you were in the back of one, nobody could see you. You were all alone. But business had been anything but brisk. He needed some cash, and he needed it badly. Taking his time, trying not to seem over-anxious, he sauntered across the sidewalk towards the gleaming vehicle.

The window on the passenger side was open. He rested his forearms on the sill and leaned inside. The first thing he saw was several gay magazines, some of them with the plastic wrappers still intact. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he took in the ridiculous red plush and the mirrored bed.

Mannie took the cigar out of his mouth. “Hi,” he said, “my name’s Opportunity and I’m in the mood for love.” He patted the seat beside him. “Hop in, big fella. Let’s talk contract.”

The boy stared at Mannie, openly assessing him. He saw a man in his forties, maybe five foot nine inches tall, about twenty pounds overweight. Flabby, with watery blue eyes and a complexion like the inside of a bagel. Hair combed sideways across his scalp in a pathetic attempt to hide his bald spot. Big nose. Small mouth. And the hands nervously clasping the steering-wheel were the hands of a woman, soft and white.

The boy opened the door and got into the van.

Mannie saw a gap and pulled out into the traffic with a squeal of burnt rubber. The boy grabbed at the dashboard to steady himself. The van accelerated. He managed to slam the door shut.

Mannie held out his hand, fingers curled to form a tight little nest cradling a single bill folded into a square box so small it was impossible to tell the bill’s denomination.

“It’s a hundred,” said Mannie.

Something about Mannie’s voice made the boy believe him. He snatched at the little square of paper much as the trout had plucked the Western Bee from the roof of Jack Willows’ mountain pool; instinctively and without conscious thought.

Mannie waved the empty aluminium tube. “Want a cigar, kid?”

The boy shook his head distractedly. His mind was wholly occupied with the money. The stiff, unyielding little box of paper was so tightly folded that he was afraid he might tear it. Lips pursed, he plucked at the crisp, accordioned edges.

At Broughton, Mannie spun the wheel sharply to the left without slowing down or signalling his turn. They cut diagonally across the intersection in front of two lanes of oncoming traffic. The van slewed, a horn blared. The lead car in the outside lane flicked its brights, washing them in light. Mannie squinted and swore and kept his foot on the gas. The rear end broke free, and there was a peculiar and very unpleasant impression of weightlessness. Then they were through the intersection and tearing up Broughton, parked cars tight on either side.

“Where you going?” the boy said. He was sitting bolt upright, radiating tension.

“Almost there,” said Mannie. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Nobody was pursuing them. He tapped the brakes and turned right, down a narrow lane.

The boy frowned. He was about to say something when, abruptly, the paper box began to fall apart, blossoming in the dim light like a time-lapse flower. It was a hundred, all right. His first three-digit trick. He laid the bill across his thigh and tried to iron the wrinkles from Robert Borden’s face with the palm of his hand.

The van bounced down the lane, headlights jabbing crazily through the night. Mannie shifted down into second gear. The nose dipped as they turned down a short, steeply pitched asphalt driveway and into the parking area beneath a stuccoed apartment block.

Light rippled on the short hood and near-vertical windscreen as they passed beneath row upon row of long fluorescent tubes. Mannie braked, and eased carefully into a slot bounded on one side by a concrete wall and on the other side by a dusty camper top on blocks. He put the van in neutral and yanked on the emergency brake. Turning towards the boy he suddenly wedged his hand between the seat and white trousers, grabbed a cheek and squeezed hard. The boy gasped and arced his back, struggling to get away. He cried out, his voice shrill.

“Hush!” warned Mannie.

The boy wriggled. “Just…tell me what you want me to do,” he said.

Mannie gave him an enquiring look. “What do you like to do?”

“Whatever you want,” the boy whispered.

Mannie had lied often enough to recognize the truth when he heard it. He realized that the Econoline had become an ersatz confessional; he a priest of the moment and the boy a penitent about to atone for a deficiency of character, flawed genes, an unfair share of bad luck. He looked at the boy, measuring the depths of his weaknesses and the vast breadths of his fears. Cigar ash spilled unnoticed down his chest, across the tie of many colours. He squeezed a little harder, kept up the pressure until there was no doubt in his mind that the boy knew who was in charge. Then he let go.

“Get in the back, kiddo.”

The boy nodded. He was crouched in the narrow gap between the bucket seats when Mannie stabbed him in the small of his back. The force of the blow and his own momentum sent him tumbling across the foot of the bed. He opened his mouth to scream. Mannie fell on top of him, knocked the wind out of him. Blood gushed from his side. He felt Mannie’s plump white fingers clawing at his scalp, pushing his face down into the silvery sheets. He tasted metal, his own sour bile.

Mannie tried to pull the knife out but it was stuck. He worked the blade up and down, savagely twisted it from side to side.

The boy wriggled and squirmed. He corkscrewed frantically across the bed. The knife came free. Blood geysered. Mannie drew back his arm so far that a seam in the bargain basement suit gave way with a strident ripping sound. He put the knife in again and hit bone, the force of impact jarring his arm all the way to the shoulder. The boy kicked out. The mirrored headboard exploded, showering them both in a storm of silvered glass.

Mannie stabbed and stabbed and stabbed again, splattering himself with tiny cutlets of flesh, digging like a frenzied archaeologist of the human soul. The air filled with a fine red mist that turned deep purple where it was touched by the fluorescents. Mannie felt himself tiring. He didn’t let up.

Finally the boy made a raspy clotted sound deep in his throat, and went limp.

Exhausted, Mannie fell back against a wall of red shag. His breathing was fast and shallow and ragged. He was hyperventilating. He felt dizzy and disoriented, as if he’d just been whacked on the gyroscope. Letting go of the knife, he closed his eyes.

When his heart had slowed to the point where he could distinguish individual beats, he wiped gore from the crystal of his watch and saw that a little over twenty minutes had passed since he’d bagged the van.

Wearily, he made his way back to the driver’s seat. There was a full box of Kleenex on the shelf under the glove compartment. The box was decorated with a variety of cartoon animals that had found a use for the product. Mannie used most of the box to scrub the blood from his hands and face. When he was finished, he pulled off his suit jacket. There was blood all down the front of his shirt, so he took that off too. Then he put the van in reverse and backed out of the parking slot.

His hands, as he drove, were slippery on the wheel. The blood was gone, but now he was sweating. Directly above him, the rows of fluorescents made a faint crackling sound, like distant laughter.

Mannie listened for a moment, and then joined in. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He laughed so loudly that he frightened himself.

And when he tried to stop laughing, he found he couldn’t.

Chapter 6

Eddy Orwell arrived at the door of Claire Parker’s apartment at eight-thirty sharp. Parker lived on the third floor of an old converted Victorian house. Orwell buzzed himself in and took the carpeted steps two and three at a time, the snubbie in its shoulder holster bouncing against his chest.

At the door, he paused to take his pulse. It had accelerated from its usual 48 beats per minute to more than 120 bpm, but Orwell was confident that the swift ascent had little or nothing to do with the increased rate. He was in great shape. It was his emotional state of mind that had sent the blood thundering through his veins. He straightened his dark blue tie, combed his brush-cut with his fingers, and knocked on Parker’s door with a fist the size of a large coconut.

Parker answered the door wearing six-inch spikes and a pleated black skirt, a white blouse with a high collar. Orwell felt the wind go out of him. In the heels, she was exactly one inch taller than he was, which didn’t do anything at all for his ego. Also, in those clothes, she looked more like a cop than a hot date. But he smiled up at her anyway, because he thought she looked terrific despite everything. He had an almost overpowering urge to take her in his arms, bury his nose in her glossy black hair, nibble at the lobe of a perfect ear, and see what happened next.

Parker saw the look in his eyes. She’d seen that look before. She knew exactly what it meant, and she knew exactly how to deal with it.

“I worked all through lunch, Eddy, and I didn’t get home until seven. I’m starving, and the thought of showing up late and finding that we lost our reservation does not make me feel all soft and warm inside.”

“No problem,” said Orwell. “First things first, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Orwell shrugged. He grinned his pirate’s grin, conscious that his large, square teeth were very white against his midsummer tan. He lounged against the wallpaper while Parker locked up. This was their third date in less than two weeks. Orwell hadn’t been offered a key, and he wasn’t quite dumb enough to ask for one.

The restaurant Orwell had chosen was located on Stanley Park’s Ferguson Point. When he’d told Parker where they were going, he thought he’d seen a flash of irritation in her chocolate-brown eyes. But he wasn’t sure, the moment had come and gone and she hadn’t said anything. So he’d let it go.

Stanley Park is a thousand acres of mostly untended vegetation. It’s shaped like an elephant’s head, is situated at the west end of the city, and is surrounded on three sides by the Pacific Ocean.

The restaurant was renowned for its fabulous view of the outer harbour, and Orwell had reserved a window table. The restaurant was, by his standards, very expensive. But he had a little surprise tucked up his sleeve, and he was willing to pay almost any price to ensure that this would be an evening the two of them would remember with warmth and affection for the rest of their lives.

Orwell didn’t argue with Parker when she suggested they take her Volkswagen, and leave his rusted Ford Fairlane at the curb. He was having problems with the automatic choke, and the car kept dying on him. He hadn’t fixed the Fairlane because he was thinking about buying a new car.

Parker drove quickly and well. They arrived at the Point with ten minutes to spare, and parked on the road several hundred feet beyond the restaurant. Orwell noticed that Parker didn’t bother to lock her door when she got out of the car. He almost mentioned the skyrocketing crime rate, but managed to restrain himself. Nothing was going to spoil the evening. He simply wouldn’t allow it to happen.

Probably because the restaurant was owned by the Parks Board, it had no bar. The Maître d’ greeted them warmly, as if they were old friends. Without delay, he led them through an archway of filigreed plaster and into the arboretum — a huge dome shaped like an upturned wine glass with the stem knocked off.

The air was warm and humid, heavy with moisture. Each of the thirty or more tables was surrounded by a miniature jungle of exotic tropical plants. The light level was very low. Somewhere off to Orwell’s left a flock of birds muttered peevishly, their voices low and insistent, vaguely troubled. Orwell knew that there really weren’t any birds. Three days earlier, when he’d cased the restaurant, he’d learned that the sound of their voices came from an endless tape.

In single file, Parker and Orwell followed the Maître d’ along a narrow winding path of crushed white stone. All around them, candles flickered uncertainly; faint yellow sparks of warmth that only seemed to emphasize the depth of the surrounding gloom. It was a weird place. Orwell was just beginning to wonder if he’d rather be somewhere else when they arrived at their table, and all his worries and uncertainties fled in a moment.

Out on the purpling water a dozen freighters rode hull-down on the ebb tide; a handful of sailboats tacked sluggishly into a fitful wind; and a deepsea tug hauled a huge pyramid of sawdust towards the curving rim of the horizon, into the heart of a fat orange sun.

“Beautiful view,” said Orwell appreciatively.

“Thank you,” said the Maître d’.

“If you like postcard art,” said Parker.

Orwell frowned. The Maître d’ busied himself arranging the menus and wine list on the cramped little table. He drew back a wicker-chair for Parker, and tried to look down her neckline when she sat down. Almost as an afterthought, he wondered if they might be interested in an apéritif.

“Champagne,” said Orwell decisively.

“Domestic, or imported, Sir?”

“French.”

“We have Charles Heidsieck, Mumm’s…”

Orwell cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Just bring us whatever’s most expensive.”

“Of course.”

“And make sure it’s real cold. Put lots of ice in the bucket.”

“Yes, certainly.”

Parker leaned towards Orwell, resting her elbows on the table. She still wasn’t sure why she was going out with Orwell. To help her forget about her brief fling with Jack Willows, probably. She’d thought Orwell safe enough, because she wasn’t really attracted to him and because she’d heard he was serious about a woman named Judith Lundstrom. Maybe that’s what the champagne was all about. Orwell was planning to drop her, let her down easy. Or was that just wishful thinking? She smiled at him and said, “What’s going on, Eddy?”

“Nothing,” said Orwell, maybe a little too loudly. “So tell me, how was work?”

“Let’s not talk shop, okay?”

“Fine, fine. Whatever you say.” Orwell held up his hands in a gesture of mock submission, displaying palms that were padded and swollen with thick callouses built up during the endless hours he’d spent pumping iron at Gold’s gym.

“And please don’t try to change the subject, either. Why the champagne?”

“No reason, really. Just a whim.”

Parker stared suspiciously at him, but didn’t say anything. Silence was often an interrogator’s most effective tool.

Orwell smiled nervously. He fiddled with his silverware, wiped his sweating hands on a thick white linen napkin that had too much starch in it. He adjusted the knot of his tie. He frowned.

Parker leaned back in her chair. High above her, the wavering lights of dozens of candles were reflected in the convex glass of the ceiling, like so many distant stars. She leaned back a little more, so that she could take in the entire tableau, and tried to work out which spark of light came from their particular table. A palm frond tickled her ear. She reached behind her and briskly detached it from the main stem.

Orwell pretended not to have noticed. Lowering his eyes, he solemnly studied the prices on the menu.

A white-coated waiter arrived with the champagne, a silver ice-bucket and a pair of tulip-shaped glasses. He put the glasses and the bucket down with a restrained flourish, stripped the foil from the neck of the bottle and deftly removed the wire cage enclosing the bulbous cork. Orwell watched him carefully, memorizing every move he made. The cork pulled free with a festive pop. The mouth of the bottle smoked like a gun. The waiter placed the cork on the table in front of Orwell, and filled his glass just a bit too full. Orwell tasted the champagne. It was so cold it made his teeth ache. He swallowed, and nodded his approval. A flurry of golden bubbles jostled upwards and committed mass suicide in a futile attempt to make him sneeze.

The waiter indicated Orwell’s menu. “Are you ready to order, Sir?”

“No, not quite.”

“I’ve never eaten here before,” said Parker. “Is there anything you recommend?”

The waiter hesitated, visibly pondering, his eyes on her face. “The pheasant’s very good this evening,” he said at last.

“Then I’ll have the pheasant,” said Parker, smiling.

The waiter cocked his head at Orwell, and the gold chains around his neck glinted in the light.

“Pheasant for two,” said Orwell. He picked up the wine list.

“We’ve found the Pouilly-Fuisse goes very well,” the waiter offered.

Orwell, studying the wine list, didn’t notice the waiter give Parker a conspiratorial wink. He found the wine right at the bottom of the list, priced at $42.50. He bit his lip, thinking hard.

“Pouilly-Fuisse it is,” said Parker.

Orwell picked up the broken palm frond. He held it over the candle flame. The frond twisted and writhed fitfully, as if trying to escape. Orwell watched it shrink, turn black from the heat. When it began to smoke he let it drop negligently to the floor.

“Is something wrong?” said Parker.

“No, of course not.”

“Nothing’s bothering you?”

“I’m fine. Perfect.”

Parker drained her glass and reached for the bottle.

“Let me get it,” said Orwell.

Parker ignored him. She gripped the heavy bottle with both hands and pulled it from the ice bucket. Water dripped on the tablecloth. She filled her glass and offered the bottle to Orwell, then plopped it back in the bucket. Water spilled over the lip of the bucket and splashed on the carpet. He watched her pick up her glass, carry the glass carefully to her lips. He noted with a sense of wonder the movement of her slim and graceful throat as she swallowed.

For the hundredth time, he told himself she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and that he could not possibly live without her.

Parker caught him looking. He blushed like a kid on his first date, the suffusion of blood turning his skin a dull red, the colour of porch paint.

By the time they’d finished their pheasant, the sun had set and the horizon was dark. Nothing remained of the bird but the backbone and a few jutting ribs, a congealing pool of blood and gravy. The champagne was long gone and they were on their second bottle of wine. Parker’s drinking had slowed down, but Orwell had picked up the slack. He was feeling very relaxed. A thick film of grease lay on his glass. He held the glass up against the unsteady light of the candle, turning it this way and that, admiring the clarity of his fingerprints. Wine trickled down his chin. He dabbed at himself with a napkin. A sliver of meat caught his attention. He winkled it free with his thumbnail, chewed, drank some more wine.

Parker smiled across the table at him. “You still hungry, Eddy?”

Orwell shook his head. “No, not really.” Just nervous as hell, that’s all.

“Want some dessert?”

“I’m too full. How about you?”

“Coffee would be nice.”

“If we can find our waiter,” said Orwell. “I think he went off shift about an hour ago. Next time we come here, let’s remember to pack a flare gun.” He picked up the bottle and tipped the last inch of wine into Parker’s glass.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“I thought it was the other way around,” said Orwell. The look on Parker’s face encouraged him to add hastily: “Hey, just kidding.” He raised his glass, and saw that it was empty, and put it back down on the table in front of him with a heavy thud.

Parker studied her watch. “It’s been a nice evening, Eddy. But I’ve had a long day, and tomorrow isn’t going to be any easier.”

“I thought you had tomorrow off,” said Orwell.

“So did I.”

“Listen, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.” Both Parker and Orwell had spoken at exactly the same moment, their voices in perfect synchronization, as if they’d been rehearsing for months. They stared warily at each other. Parker recovered first.

“Go ahead, Eddy.”

“Ladies first.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Orwell had been waiting all through the meal for the right moment to make his move. But the right moment had never seemed to come. And now, suddenly, it had been forced upon him. Covertly, he slipped his hands inside the pocket of his suit jacket. The small sterling silver box felt smooth and cold. He flipped open the lid and ran the ball of his thumb over the faceted surface of the diamond. Half a carat. Eighteen hundred and fifty bucks. What with his health club dues and a few other odds and ends, he’d pushed his Amex card right to the limit.

Parker asked him if something was wrong, and he had said no. But that was a lie. Something was terribly wrong. He’d planned to ask her to marry him as soon as the champagne was poured, but the fucking waiter had kept hanging around. Next thing he knew the food was already on the table and his mouth was too full to talk. Why he’d eaten so much, he couldn’t say, especially since he’d hardly tasted a thing. And now, suddenly, the meal was over. They were about to leave and he had blown it, had failed to summon up the courage to ask for the hand of his own true love.