But now, suddenly, without warning, he was losing what little hair he had Left. His GP nervously referred him to a specialist, who told him a transplant was his only hope. Bradley paled, and for good reason, because the only decent-sized patches of hair he had left were under his armpits and smack dab in his pubic region.

  Bradley leaned back in his chair. Oak creaked under the weight of his body. He folded his arms across his chest, and contemplated his future. Eddy Orwell and the rest of his crew were already referring to him as Inspector Picard behind his back. Soon they’d start wearing sunglasses to shield their eyes from the glare of his naked scalp, casually ask him technical questions about the likelihood of an eclipse, and so on, endlessly.

  Speaking of Orwell, where was he? Bradley shot the cuff of his crisp white uniform shirt and squinted at his analog-style Timex.

  Now that he was older, it took his eyes time to adjust to changes in distance. As the numbers on his watch swam slowly into focus, a scarred and callused fist rattled his door. He sat up straight.

  “Come in!”

  Orwell stepped into the room with Bobby Dundas close behind him. Bradley noticed that Orwell was dressing better now that he and Dundas were partners. No more black-shirt-and-orange-tie combos, thank God. The black leather porkpie hat Judith had given him the previous Christmas seemed to have permanently disappeared, together with his collection of Popsicle-coloured double-breasted suits, and patent leather shoes. Bradley preferred the old Orwell, though he wasn’t sure why.

  Bradley leaned down and scratched his ankle. He made a mental note never to wear a new pair of wool socks without washing them first. He pushed a large white envelope across his desk. Morgue photos of Nicholas Partridge. “Canvass the east side of Granville from The Bay to the bridge, and back again. On foot.”

  Orwell picked up the envelope. He tried to put it in his jacket pocket, but it wouldn’t fit.

  Bobby pinched a speck of lint off the sleeve of his coat, scrutinized it for a long moment and let it drop. “Both of us?” he said.

  “Yeah, both of you, on both your feet.” Orwell and Bobby had solved the BMW-full-of-bodies case — mainly because one of the killers’ mothers had turned him in. Bobby acted as if he expected to be rewarded with a paid holiday. Fat chance. The chair creaked. “Talk to the street kids. Show ’em the pics of Nick, try to get a lead on the girl, Chantal.” He pointed a finger at each of them in turn. “Be polite. No strong-arm stuff.”

  “We’ll give it our best shot,” said Bobby. He was the only cop Bradley knew who could speak clearly while sneering.

  Bradley said, “Has Chantal got any brothers or sisters of other relatives in the city? Close friends, another boyfriend? Where does she like to hang out …?” He flicked his hand in a gesture of terse dismissal.

  Bobby lurched towards Bradley’s pebbled-glass door. He was red-faced and angry. He believed that the canvass was a complete waste of time, because most of the street punks were dealers and the rest of them were junkies and dope fiends. He and Orwell would get zero co-operation, and that was being optimistic. He knew it and Bradley knew it — everybody but Orwell was in on the joke.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, Orwell parked their beige unmarked Ford in an alley behind a multi-tiered parking lot. They worked their way down Granville as far as Robson Street, home of the city’s first covert police-surveillance camera.

  Orwell broke stride. A few kids loitered nearby, but he ignored them in favour of a Wendy’s fast-food restaurant. “Hey, Bobby, want a bite to eat?”

  “What’ve you got in mind?”

  Eddy jerked a muscular thumb towards the restaurant. “How’s a couple cheeseburgers, side of fries and a Diet Coke sound to you?”

  “Like terminal indigestion.” Bobby patted his perfect slab of a stomach. “Go ahead, enjoy. I’m not hungry.”

  Orwell swung wide the restaurant’s glass door. “You sure?”

  Bobby wrinkled his nose as a blast of air heated by a deep fryer smacked him in the face.

  “Don’t want a coffee, or …?”

  “Beat it, Eddy.”

  Bobby crossed the sidewalk, stopping just short of the curb. He turned his greedy eye on the women walking by, trying to guess which among them were wearing thong panties, and so on. His fetid brain was in turmoil but his face was a perfect blank, giving away none of his vile carnal thoughts, because he’d been in kindergarten when he’d first learned the value of keeping his sluggish cesspool of a mind to himself.

  He lit a cigarette, his third of the day. If you told him that smoking was a disgusting, self-destructive habit, he’d agree with everything you said and mean every word of it. But a few months ago a girl he’d thought he could trust had given him herpes and he was still feeling a lot of anger and tension. Okay, not anger, rage. So far, comforted by the fact that time wounds all heels, he’d managed to resist a nearly irresistible urge to empty his Glock into her gorgeous but treacherous body.

  He’d promised himself that, as soon as he calmed down, he was going to give up the evil weed. In the meantime, whenever he saw someone smoking, he couldn’t help wondering if they suffered from the same disease.

  He glanced behind him, into the restaurant. Orwell was waiting patiently in line, studying the illuminated menu board. Large fries or small? It would probably be the most important decision of his day. Bobby hoped he’d eat his meal inside, because he was sick to his soul of watching Eddy wipe gobs of special sauce or whatever off his bloated face. And if he walked out of there playing kissy-face with another one of those goddam plastic toys, Bobby was going to pop him one, or suffer a creeping tremble-fit.

  Bobby tired of looking at women he would never in a million devolving reincarnations get his hands on. He turned his attention to the street kids and their lame circus of stale delights. Like most cops, he was familiar with all the stats relating to broken homes, abusive parents, the toxic stew of violence and despair that drove ordinary kids to risk the streets, but he had no sympathy for any of them because of how they wasted the days that conspired to make up their lives. Hell, how could anybody in his right mind hope to earn a living out of a foam cup? Worse, the damn kids had no respect for the authority of the law. Losers, every last one of them. Bobby stared hard at a kid perched on a metal garbage can. You’d think he owned the damn thing.

  Orwell’s broad back pressed against the glass door, which then swung open, and he pivoted onto the street, a massive hamburger in one hand, a large milkshake in the other. Bobby smiled. What fun it would be to wait until Orwell had a mouthful of milkshake and then give him a swift kick in the nuts. The hilarity meter would go right off the scale.

  Orwell said, “Want a bite?”

  Bobby sighed heavily. Orwell’s breath smelled faintly of fresh-turned soil.

  “Is that a no?” Orwell patted his jacket pocket. “I got fries, and extra ketchup.”

  “When was the last time you saw a mirror, Eddy? You look like the Michelin Man with a water-retention problem.”

  “’Scuse me?”

  “When did Judith leave you?”

  “I dunno …”

  “A couple of hundred pounds ago,” said Bobby. He brought up his fists, jabbed Orwell twice in the belly.

  “Cut it out!”

  “Why, did it hurt?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “Course not, not with all that padding. You got the body of a haystack. If I tossed you off the roof of a ten-storey building, you’d hit the pavement and all you’d do is bounce.”

  Orwell shoved a fistful of french fries into his mouth, licked a gob of ketchup from his fingers.

  Bobby started walking down the street. Orwell trailed along, a few cautious steps behind. Bobby was an in-your-face-type guy. When he was mad, he had a voice like the feature soloist in a frog choir. Bobby picked up the pace. Orwell took turns huffing and puffing. It wasn’t easy to walk fast while you were chowing down, especially if you wore a size-48 belt.

  They approached the refurbished Orpheum Theatre. The sidewalk in front of it had been a favourite location for street musicians, until the city buried them in bylaws and fines. Now you needed an expensive, next-to-unobtainable permit from City Hall before you dared to publicly amuse people. The only form of artistic expression that was countenanced was begging. Parker had said it was like the Middle Ages, but with less compassion.

  Orwell homed in on a trio of kids sitting on rolled-up sleeping bags. Crouching, he showed them Nicholas Partridge’s morgue photo. “Anybody recognize him?”

  A kid whose skinny, dirt-smeared face was adorned with a dozen silver rings of various sizes glanced at the picture and then said, “What flavour is your milkshake?”

  “Chocolate.”

  “Can I have it, please?”

  “Well, it’s about, uh, a third gone.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Orwell handed over the milkshake. The kid threw away the plastic top and straw. His throat moved as he gulped down the shake.

  Orwell showed the picture around again. “C’mon, help me out. Anybody recognize him?”

  A girl with mauve hair said, “What’s his name?”

  “Nick,” said Orwell.

  “Is he dead? He looks dead. He’s dead, isn’t he? What happened to him?”

  Bobby loomed over her. “We shot him to death for refusing to answer questions. Did you know him?”

  “Not really. I mean, he was around. We might’ve smoked a jay or two together, but I never fucked him or anything.”

  Bobby smiled. “You’d remember, would you?”

  “Depends. Can I have a cigarette?”

  “No, but you can stand downwind when I exhale.”

  Half the piss-poor beggars on Granville were the genuine article, but the other half wore expensive leather jackets and Doc Martens, and had driven downtown in Mommy’s Volvo, looking for drug money, cheap thrills, a kick in the face, anything that was marginally more exciting than watching TV. Bobby had no respect for them: they were leeches, poseurs.

  Orwell said, “We’re looking for Nick’s girlfriend, Chantal.”

  “You want the rest of that burger?”

  Orwell tossed his double cheese with bacon to the third kid, who reached down inside his sleeping bag and pulled out a small, sleepy black dog. The dog sniffed the burger and woke up fast.

  The girl said, “How come Nick had to die before anybody cared about him?”

  “Nobody cares about him now,” said Bobby. “If somebody told you otherwise, they lied.”

  The kids stared insolently at him. He resisted the urge to kick in some teeth. He hadn’t been surprised when the dog came crawling out of the sleeping bag. A lot of these kids had dogs. The fucking bleeding-heart liberals thought it was real cute that these homeless kids were willing to take on the responsibility of a pet. But were the dogs properly licensed? Had they had their rabies shots, or any of that? No way. Bobby knew damn well that the only reason any of these kids owned a pet was as a last-resort source of cheap protein.

  The two detectives continued south along Granville towards the bridge.

  Bobby said, “Got a dog, Eddy?”

  “I had one, but it ran away.”

  “Just like Judith, huh? Tell me something, which one of them was first out the gate?”

  Eddy wondered why Homer had partnered him with Bobby Dundas. Was he being punished for some heinous crime he was unaware of?

  Bobby said, “I had a dog when I was a kid.”

  “Yeah?”

  “A little white one. I got it for my birthday. Its name was Jackie, after Jackie Gleason. I had him for about six weeks, and then one day I came home from school and he was gone.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Bobby shrugged. “How should I know?”

  “You never asked?”

  “What would be the point? My dad would’ve just lied to me, like always.”

  Orwell waited until a bus roared by, then said, “You never got another dog?”

  “Too much trouble. You come home, looking to grab a beer and fall down in front of the TV, the goddam dog’s in your face. Who needs it? I had a girlfriend who had a dog, but …”

  Orwell glanced diagonally back across the street, towards the McDonald’s. Lots of people preferred Wendy’s, but McDonald’s had always been his favourite. Don’t ask him why. He looked for Dan Oikawa and Farley Spears, but couldn’t see either of them. Maybe they were inside, grabbing a quick bite to eat. He was short half a burger and most of a milkshake, and he was so hungry it hurt. He said, “I’m going into McDonald’s for a sec, I gotta use the can.”

  “Bullshit, you’re gonna get something to eat.”

  Orwell was too famished to argue.

  Chapter 25

  The McDonald’s at Granville and Robson has a seating capacity of less than a hundred. Because of the nature of the location, the washrooms are sometimes locked. Orwell pushed the restaurant’s glass door open and strode directly to the counter, snapped his pudgy fingers and demanded the key to the washroom.

  The counter girl, who was about half as tall as Orwell, and a fifth as wide, told him the key was for customers only.

  Orwell said, “I’m a regular customer.”

  A scruffy-looking pensioner standing in the lineup said, “If you’re regular, how come you’re in such a big rush to use the john?”

  The girl smiled, and turned her attention to another customer. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m not a regular at this outlet,” said Orwell.

  “Cheeseburger and a small coffee,” said the man.

  “Cream in your coffee?”

  Orwell said, “Look, I’m kind of in a hurry …” Waterfalls of pop streamed gurgling into waxed cups. Orwell had always been the suggestive type. He pressed his thighs together. Losing patience, he said, “Okay, gimme a cheeseburger.”

  “You’ll have to wait your turn, sir.”

  Orwell shifted his weight from foot to foot. Fuck it, all they could do was fire him. He badged her. “I’m a police officer. Gimme the damn key!”

  She was back in a moment, beaming. “I’m sorry, somebody’s already using the washroom.”

  “Which is where?”

  She pointed towards the rear of the restaurant. Orwell spun on his heel and hurried towards a narrow, open corridor. The door was locked. He pounded on it with his heavy fist, then both fists.

  From the other side of the door, a heavy voice yelled, “Fuck off, asshole!”

  Orwell was suddenly sundered by a lightning-bolt of déjà vu. He’d played out this exact scene hundreds of times before, in his own home, pleading with Judith to unlock the door and let him in, oh please please please.

  He stepped back, and gave the door a swift kick. “Police officer, open up, or you’re busted!” Behind him, the door to the women’s washroom swung open. Orwell was still trying to decide whether he should take advantage when the door swung shut. Bobby was right, he did have the reflexes of a sloth. He reared back to give the men’s-room door another kick. It opened before he could deliver the blow. He found himself standing face to face with Dan Oikawa. Though he was a good six inches shorter than Orwell, Oikawa managed to look down at him. He stepped aside. “Come on in, before you wet yourself.”

  Orwell was mystified. Oikawa had always been so scrupulously polite. His Japanese background, presumably. Orwell sidled around him and stepped up to the urinal. He unzipped. Like they said, point and shoot. It was so easy, unless you made the mistake of thinking about it. He zipped up and went over to the sink. Behind him, the door to the washroom’s lone stall swung open and Farley Spears stepped out.

  Spears looked like a six-foot-tall, one-hundred-and-eighty-pound definition of a trapped rat. Orwell was startled and taken aback by the look of shame and humiliation and anger on his lined face. Then he saw the smear of white powder on Spears’s upper lip, and the feverish look in his watery eyes.

  “Jeez, you’re a fuckin’ dope addict!”

  Oikawa stepped between Orwell and Spears. “Eddy, what’s the matter with …?”

  Orwell pushed him away. Harder than he meant to. Oikawa’s feet skidded on the wet tile floor. His arms windmilled like a demented air-traffic controller’s, and he lost his balance and fell. Orwell snatched at him, but he was too fat and too slow. Oikawa’s close-shaven head bounced off a sink, and then the tiled floor. He bounced once, and was still. Oikawa must have bitten his tongue, because his teeth were glazed with red.

  “Danny!” shouted Spears. He turned on Orwell. “You killed him, you prick!”

  “It was an accident!” Orwell knelt and placed his ear to Oikawa’s mouth. Nothing stirred. He lifted an eyelid. The orb that stared blindly up at him was nothing but white. He knew he should get down there and apply mouth-to-mouth, but Oikawa was bleeding, and … He loosened Oikawa’s tie and rested his hands on Oikawa’s muscular chest. Danny had told him a long time ago that he was related to David Suzuki, the internationally famous environmentalist and do-gooder. What if it was true? Orwell pushed down on Oikawa’s chest. Behind him, Spears capered and moaned. Orwell pushed harder. He shouted, “Farley, get a goddam ambulance!”

  No response. Orwell glanced up. Spears sat cross-legged on the floor, the muzzle of his Glock buried in his mouth. Not a pretty sight. Orwell lurched sideways. He snatched at the gun with his left hand, while simultaneously delivering a vicious roundhouse right to Spears’ temple. The pistol clattered on the floor. Spears sagged backwards, victim of a knockout punch. The sound of his skull smacking against the tiles reminded Orwell of the time a Domino’s pizza slipped out of the box and landed gooey-side down on the kitchen floor. Man, Judith had just about ripped his head off. He stood up. In the space of less than ten seconds, he’d eliminated one-quarter of the city’s homicide squad, and given the rest of the unit plenty to keep them occupied. Somebody was pounding on the door. He opened it a crack.

  “What?”

  “I’m the manager. What’s going on in there?” The guy was in his early twenties, with all the charisma and force of personality of a cardboard cutout.

 

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