Fall Down Easy Read online

  “Made us wonder if we saw what we saw, or just shared a dream.”

  The man who’d taken Willows’ money snapped his index finger against the bill. “Now we know, eh.”

  “You gonna get him out?”

  Willows nodded.

  “Watch out for the rats, they’re big as raccoons.”

  The city sent a dump truck and a backhoe, four men with shovels. The backhoe did most of the work. It began to rain. Bradley watched for a while and then went home. The men, once Willows had taken their names, disappeared into the gathering darkness. Parker stood beneath a black umbrella while Willows paced back and forth in the wet.

  It was just past five when the backhoe uncovered Wendell. The operator carefully lowered his bucket and then swung it sideways, clearing a path to the body.

  Parker shook the rain from her umbrella. Her face was pale.

  Willows said, “Stay here, Claire. Back me up. If the rats get out of control, start shooting.”

  Parker gave him a wan smile. There were times Jack acted like a chauvinist, and she didn’t mind at all.

  Wendell was lying on his side. Willows slipped on a pair of clear plastic gloves, rolled Wendell over on his back. The clothes were right, but making a positive ID wasn’t going to be easy. He stepped back, away from the body.

  A uniformed cop standing next to the backhoe said, “Hey, listen to this!”

  Willows turned, slightly alarmed.

  The cop was cranking up the volume of his walkie. He caught Willows’ eye. “We got a shots fired at the Bank of Montreal at Kingsgate Mall.” His radio crackled. His eyes widened. He said, “There’s been a shoot-out. One down for sure, maybe more.”

  The Mall was on Broadway, a block off Main and no more than two or three minutes away. Parker folded her umbrella and ran towards the Caprice.

  Willows tore off the rubber gloves as he picked his way through the garbage.

  The backhoe operator lit a cigarette, leaned back in his seat. He had no idea where all the cops were going, and he didn’t much care. He was making double overtime.

  Wendell could wait, and so could he.

  Five

  Greg blinked, got the world back in focus, and saw he was horizontal dancing with the bank manager and that the guy wasn’t too happy about it. Greg caught a solid gold cufflink in the eye, yelped. Teeth snapped at him out of a face the colour of a raw T-bone. The manager wriggled around on the floor as if he was having a seizure, but he was giving Greg the hug of his life, and he wouldn’t let go.

  Greg hadn’t kept an accurate count of the number of times he’d pulled on the cop. Eleven, or maybe twelve. Somewhere in there. That left two or three rounds in the Browning, plus the clip in his back pocket. So, no problemo, he could burn one on the banker and still have plenty to spare. And since he’d done a cop and was looking at a mandatory quarter-century, zero chance of parole, he didn’t exactly have a whole lot to lose.

  He leaned over and buried the Browning’s front sight in the banker’s silvery hair and turned his head away, averting his gaze, knowing something messy was about to happen that he didn’t want to have to remember to forget.

  As he squeezed the trigger, Greg found himself being stared down by the twins, who’d been rendered mute by the adults’ inappropriately childlike behaviour but were nevertheless extremely interested in the proceedings.

  My, what big eyes those babies had.

  Greg brought his arm up, hammered the banker with the barrel of the gun. The banker went limp.

  Greg climbed to his feet. He leered at the twins and said, “Big man’s go nap-nap.”

  He glanced at his watch as he pushed through the door and stumbled on to the sidewalk. 5:06:47. The taxi in front of Bino’s was just pulling away from the curb. Greg waved, but either the cabby didn’t see him or was too pissed off to stop. A pair of blue and whites raced down Broadway, roof lights sparkling. No sirens. The cars were a full block away but Greg could hear the low moan of the motors.

  The light was green. Greg trotted across the street. A Black Top pulled up right in front of him. The driver was an old fella, paunchy and bald. The windshield wipers slapped at the glass. Greg realized it had begun to rain.

  Greg yanked open the rear door, climbed in. The driver’s eyes filled the rearview mirror. “You the guy who called a cab?”

  Greg said, “No, a Lear jet. But I learned a long time ago that the world we live in is full of second choices.”

  The driver pulled away from the curb, hit the meter. “Sorry to keep you waiting. The car was supposed to pick you up got rear-ended.”

  Greg said, “And that’s something else I learned real early in life — watch your ass or somebody’ll kick it.”

  The cabby cursed, stabbed at the brakes. Greg slid forward on his seat, reached out to brace himself. The driver’d stopped because he’d seen the pair of cop cars bearing down on them.

  The lead car’s turnsignal flashed as he turned into the Mall’s parking lot, kept flashing as the car went up on its two offside wheels and then dropped, the screech of tortured rubber louder than any siren, all four tires smoking. The second car had pulled into the far lane, shot past.

  The cabby said, “Jeez, he ain’t gonna make it!”

  The blue and white clipped a hydro pole, did a nose down three-sixty and drove straight into a silver BMW, vanished in a cloud of burnt rubber.

  The cabby said, “Jeez, if only I had a camcorder.”

  Greg said, “If we don’t get out of here pretty quick, you might as well kiss your shift goodbye.”

  “What’ya mean?”

  “Witness reports — paperwork.”

  The second blue and white had screamed to a stop in the middle of the intersection at Broadway and Main. The siren wailed. The backup lights flashed.

  The cabby said, “But … What if somebody’s hurt?”

  A humanitarian. What next. Greg shoved a fresh clip in the Browning, racked the slide. He said, “Even worse, what if that somebody happens to be you?”

  The brown Taurus was exactly where it was supposed to be. Greg had the cabby drive up to the next level and made him park so he was blocking a blue Chevy Nova and a black Saab.

  Greg said, “You’re gonna have to spend some time in the trunk, okay?” He indicated the Nova and Saab with a sweep of his arm. “But sooner or later one of the people that owns these cars will want out. What’s your name?”

  “Max.”

  “They start kicking the tires, Max, that’s your cue to yell ‘help’.”

  Max stared at his hands gripping the steering wheel.

  Greg said, “I’m gonna leave your headlights on, and the trunk key in the lock. Ten, fifteen minutes, that’s all I need.” Max said, “Listen, I gotta take a leak, or I’m gonna explode.”

  “Okay, fine. Go ahead.”

  Max stared at him, unsure as to whether he was being told it was okay to relieve himself or perfectly all right to destroy his bladder.

  Greg said, “Your choice, is what I’m saying.”

  Max had to suck in his belly to get out from behind the wheel. He went over to a concrete pillar and turned his back on Greg, unzipped. Greg popped open the trunk and waited, stood there by the taxi trying not to listen to the splash of urine on concrete.

  Max zipped up, lit a cigarette and crawled awkwardly into the trunk.

  Greg said, “Get rid of the cigarette, Max, or you’re gonna asphyxiate yourself to death.” He smiled. Good boxer talk.

  Max took one last drag and butted the cigarette. It was pretty cramped in there. Greg said, “You wanna take out the spare tire, make some more room?”

  “Somebody’d steal it, and I’d have to pay.”

  Greg said, “That reminds me … ” He held out his hand, snapped his fingers. Max gave him a look he’d been practising all his life, a sour look of resignation and despair. He reached deep in his pants pocket and handed over his bankroll.

  Greg slammed shut the trunk.

  He ha
d a list of rules that he’d worked out during the course of his career. One of the first rules he’d decided on was that he stayed away from his apartment for a day or two after every heist. If everything went the way it was supposed to, he’d stay with the victim of his latest robbery, consoling her.

  Hilary lived in a pink and blue highrise topped off with what looked like a giant beanie. Greg dumped the Taurus three blocks away, in a no-parking zone in a lane.

  He’d already lost the raincoat, cauliflower ears, broken nose and scar, the wig. The bulletproof Kevlar vest was too valuable and hard to come by to ditch, and he was still wearing it, under his shirt. The sidewalks were damp but it had stopped raining.

  He checked his watch. Quarter to six. What time Hilary got out of there depended on how stupid the bank squad detectives were, but Greg doubted she’d make it home much before eight.

  He wasn’t hungry but maybe some food would settle his stomach and, anyway, he’d found that the best way to kill time was in restaurants. He walked down the street until he came to a Greek place he and Hilary’d eaten at two or three times, went inside and was given a two-seater by a window. The waitress remembered him, asked where his girlfriend was. Greg shrugged, smiled ambiguously, asked what was good and lightly touched her several times as they went through the menu.

  He ordered the rack of lamb, a beer, and a tossed green salad. He took his time eating. During the meal, the waitress dropped by the table several times, smiling and friendly. He had a gelato for dessert, coffee.

  By the time he got out of there it was pushing seven-thirty.

  By the time he walked to Hilary’s apartment, it was quarter to eight.

  The highrise had a security system. Greg pushed her buzzer, gave it a couple of quick jolts. No answer. He couldn’t say he was surprised. The cops’d order Chinese or pizza, everybody’d sit around eating off paper plates. Depending on the number of witnesses, it could take all night to get the preliminary statements.

  Greg’d known Hilary almost six months, but the last time he’d mentioned it she still hadn’t quite been ready to give him a key. So he’d waited until her back was turned and then helped himself to the spare she kept in a little jar on top of the gas fireplace’s faux marble mantle.

  The key was to her apartment, though, not the front door. Greg pushed buttons until some unsuspecting fool buzzed him in, took the elevator up to the eighth floor, unlocked the door to Hilary’s apartment, stepped inside and eased it shut. The apartment was tiny; a cramped one-bedroom unit with a kitchen the size of a small pork chop and a bathroom so compact every time Greg looked in the mirror he was amazed that the two of him had managed to squeeze in at once.

  Hilary’d left every single light on — the apartment was ablaze with light but perfectly silent. Greg had a weird kind of dislocated Twilight Zone feeling that something was terribly wrong but he didn’t know what. Then the fridge clicked on, and the reassuringly mundane sound brought him back to earth, wiped away the fear.

  Nerves, that’s all. Just nerves. He stripped off his jacket as he made his way into the kitchen and saw that the Browning, which he’d forgotten about, was jammed in the waistband of his pants. The weapon was cocked and ready to fire. He hadn’t noticed and if he’d happened to bump up against the kitchen counter, he could’ve shot off his personality.

  Greg slipped the Browning out of his pants, eased the hammer down. The pockets of his windbreaker were stuffed with bank and cabby cash. He rolled the jacket around the weapon and laid it down on the counter next to the sink.

  He checked his watch. 7:53. He found vodka in the cabinet over the fridge. Ice in a blue plastic tray in the freezer.

  He poured himself a stiff one, added a single ice cube and wandered into the living room and looked out the window at the stuff on the balcony — Hilary’s mountain bike, the summer tires for her Toyota, a couple of webbed aluminium deck chairs and some potted plants that looked more or less dead. The balcony was on the north side of the building and was in perpetual and everlasting shade. About the only thing that would grow there was moss. Or maybe a crop of mushrooms.

  Greg sat down in one of the chairs, lit a cigarette. The jet of flame from his disposable lighter carried him back to the bank. He saw the spurt of fire erupt from the Browning’s muzzle, the puta cop take a round in the chest. Then another, and another.

  Now Greg knew how many times he’d hit him, visualized the action more clearly as he sat there on the balcony than he had when it’d happened. Three pops. And the murder weapon was right there in the kitchen, waiting to tie him to a 25-year lease at a maximum-security prison. He had to get rid of the gun, for sure.

  Greg took another hit of vodka. The cop was already on his way down when the Browning ejected the first spent cartridge. His body sagged, the disc of silver spun like a miniature Frisbee, hit the terrazzo. The second round smacked into him.

  The badge, the badge!

  Greg yanked the black leather case out of his pants pocket, flipped it open. His fingernail scraped the tiny splash of blood away from the gold shield. There was a plasticized ID card in a slim compartment opposite the badge. Greg winkled it out. Garcia Lorca Mendez, in full face and left profile. Policia. Cuidad de Colón. The dude was packing heat, you could see the shiny brown leather of his shoulder strap under his sports jacket. Greg frowned. Colón — what was that, some kind of dumb joke. He noticed the accent and squinted as he took a closer look at the badge, turned it in his hand towards the splash of light from the apartment.

  Detective was spelled wrong. Where did the badge come from, a cereal box?

  Suddenly it all came into focus, and Greg felt an overwhelming surge of relief. The guy wasn’t a cop after all. Or, if he was a cop, he was an export model, many thousands of miles out of his jurisdiction.

  Greg tried to think of countries he knew where the language was Spanish. Mexico. What else. Costa Rica. Cuba. He flicked his cigarette butt over the balcony railing, took a hit of vodka and lit another cigarette. Bolivia — he remembered that from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Peru. Colombia. Greg started thinking about drugs. He had to admit he liked to snort a little, now and then.

  So exactly what was a cop from Colombia doing in the downtown branch of a very large Canadian bank?

  Catering to a retirement party?

  Greg swallowed some vodka. He’d registered the look in the man’s eyes, seen the death grip he had on the briefcase. He’d acted on instinct, and he’d been right. A cop would make a perfect burro. But he hadn’t carried a briefcase full of high-grade dope in for a deposit.

  That left only one possibility — the dead cop was laundering money. What a business. One minute you were looking at a quarter-century of hard time, another beat of the clock and you were a fucking millionaire.

  Or were you?

  Greg glanced down, first to the left and then to the right. He must’ve left the briefcase by the door. No, wait a sec, that wasn’t possible because he’d shut the door and walked straight into the apartment. So it was in the kitchen. The briefcase was in the kitchen. Or was it? Although he clearly remembered wrapping the gun in his jacket and laying the jacket down on the counter, he didn’t remember the briefcase, where he’d put it.

  Greg stood up, turned towards the sliding glass door. There was a guy, tall, with broad shoulders and a really good tan, striding across the carpet towards him. Greg almost put his hands up, then noticed that the guy wasn’t wearing anything except a pair of light brown slacks, and that Hilary, naked, was leaning against the bedroom door.

  Greg stood up, shoved the badge case in his pocket and snatched at the slider. The guy beat him by a nose, almost took Greg’s hands off, he shut the door so hard.

  Greg stared at the guy through the glass and the guy stared right back at him, waiting. Greg picked up the biggest of the potted plants and cocked his arm as if to toss it through the door. The guy backed up five or six feet, got set. Greg put the pot back where it belonged. He sat down. The cigarette da
ngling from his mouth had burned down to the filter. He dropped the butt in the lowball glass and lit up a new one, mimed offering the pack to Hilary’s extra-curricular sweetheart. He was stunned, and he hoped it didn’t show.

  The stud gave him a suspicious look, turned and said something to Hilary that Greg couldn’t hear. He peered through the glass at Greg and then turned and walked into the bedroom. Hilary turned her rump on Greg and followed the stud into the bedroom. What the hell was going on? Hilary was supposed to be in shock, all broken up by the day’s trauma. She was supposed to fall into his arms, weeping and needy. The idea was that Greg was there when the chips were down. Strong, supportive. And then he’d dump her.

  That’s the way it had always worked before, the way it was supposed to work.

  Otherwise, what was the point?

  Greg made a snap decision that if either of them shut the bedroom door, he’d kick in the slider and go for the Browning.

  Nobody shut the door, and the stud was only gone a minute or maybe two. When he came back out he was fully dressed, wearing shiny brown shoes, brown socks, the same brown slacks, a white shirt, maroon tie, and a brown vest over a double-breasted dark brown jacket with lots and lots of shiny brass buttons.

  Greg watched him approach, stayed put.

  The guy unlocked the door and cracked it open an inch or two. He said, “You going to make trouble?”

  Greg said no, certainly not.

  “I’m warning you, I’ve got a black belt in karate.”

  Greg said, “Yeah, and I got a pair of red suspenders from Sears, so little girls think I’m a fireman.”

  The stud hesitated, and then gave Greg a really nice smile. He pushed the slider all the way open and stepped aside. Greg walked into the living room, pushed the door shut behind him. The stud said, “How long have you known Hilary?”

  “About six months.”

  “That long, huh. How’d you meet her?”

  Greg, taking a chance, said, “Well, there was this lineup, see. And when I finally got to the end of it, there she was.” The guy laughed. Greg sat down on the sofa. Hilary came out of the bedroom. She was wearing a silk robe Greg’d given her, that clung in all the right places. She’d put on some lipstick, but hadn’t bothered to comb her hair. That wild, untamed look. Delicious. Greg craned his neck but couldn’t see the briefcase. It had to be behind the counter.