Couldn’t help seeing the Mercedes. What’s she look like?”
“The fold-out pages of Playboy . But sexier.”
“That’s a great description, Jack. You oughta be a cop.”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
“Or a lecher.”
Willows moved a little further away from the fire. Too much heat.
“What’re you going to do when she sells the house?”
“Move out.”
“Sure, but where?”
“I don’t know. With my half of the money, I could buy a condo in False Creek.”
“Very trendy.”
“Or try for a mortgage, buy a house on the East Side. Something with a couple of extra bedrooms, in case the kids drop by.”
“In the summer, is that what you’re thinking?”
“Yeah, I guess so. They get a week off at Easter. Maybe they could fly out then.”
Parker reached out and squeezed Willows’ hand. He didn’t respond.
Next time, she’d bring at least two bottles of wine. And a box of fire-logs. And maybe she should dye her hair blonde, too, while she was at it.
“What’s so goddamn funny?” said Willows.
“Me,” said Parker.
Chapter 3
A cab rounded the corner at the far end of the block, accelerated up the street. Billy straight-armed Garret off the sidewalk and into the gutter. Garret windmilled his arms to keep his balance. The cabby jumped on the brakes, swerved towards them, took a quick look and hit the gas.
“What the fuck’s wrong with him ?” complained Garret.
“Figured we were muggers.”
“Asshole.”
“Yeah, but he could’ve been right.”
“These boots are killing me.”
“Everybody loves a whiner.”
They’d met at midnight, both of them on time for once, a couple of blocks from the spoon with the lonely waitress. There was supposed to be a party, but neither one of them was too sure exactly where it was. They’d chased some music down a couple of streets, slipped into a Japan-town warehouse converted into expensive condos and crashed a cocktail party full of weird people; fat guys with beards, anorexic women dressed all in black. A guy with no chin wanted to know was he a model? Billy asked him if there was some place they could talk quietly. The guy led him into a bedroom. Billy kicked him in his beach-ball belly, the stainless-steel capped toe of his cowboy boot sinking deep. He said, “How’s that for model behaviour, limp-wrist?” On their way out, Garret grabbed a full bottle of Johnny Walker red from the bar. Nobody seemed to notice anything, or maybe they were into more sophisticated drugs and just didn’t care.
Back on the street, they wandered around drinking the Scotch until they found a controlled intersection that was busy, but not too busy. They kept out of the wind in the doorway of a building on the corner, passed the time smoking Billy’s menthol cigarettes and watching the traffic, nipping at the bottle. The lights blinked red and green and yellow and red. Pretty soon a third of the bottle was gone. Billy was seventeen and Garret a year older. They knew their beer but neither of them had had a great deal of experience with hard liquor. The lights went red and green and yellow again, the colours blurred, bleeding into the night.
Garret said, “I think I’m pissed.”
“Ghost parties,” said Billy. “I hate ’em.”
On the eleventh red, a cream-colored station wagon with an old man behind the wheel screeched to a stop half into the crosswalk.
“Okay,” said Billy.
They bolted from the doorway, boots thudding on the concrete and then the shiny black asphalt. Garret yanked at the passenger side door. It was locked. The old man turned towards them, his face blank. Garret switched to the rear door. Locked. Billy ran around behind the car, reached for the driver’s door handle.
The old guy finally woke up. He gunned it and the wagon shot across the intersection, leaving them standing there in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
“Asshole!” shouted Garret.
Billy sucked his thumb as he trotted back to the shelter of the doorway, shoulders
“The fold-out pages of Playboy . But sexier.”
“That’s a great description, Jack. You oughta be a cop.”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
“Or a lecher.”
Willows moved a little further away from the fire. Too much heat.
“What’re you going to do when she sells the house?”
“Move out.”
“Sure, but where?”
“I don’t know. With my half of the money, I could buy a condo in False Creek.”
“Very trendy.”
“Or try for a mortgage, buy a house on the East Side. Something with a couple of extra bedrooms, in case the kids drop by.”
“In the summer, is that what you’re thinking?”
“Yeah, I guess so. They get a week off at Easter. Maybe they could fly out then.”
Parker reached out and squeezed Willows’ hand. He didn’t respond.
Next time, she’d bring at least two bottles of wine. And a box of fire-logs. And maybe she should dye her hair blonde, too, while she was at it.
“What’s so goddamn funny?” said Willows.
“Me,” said Parker.
Chapter 3
A cab rounded the corner at the far end of the block, accelerated up the street. Billy straight-armed Garret off the sidewalk and into the gutter. Garret windmilled his arms to keep his balance. The cabby jumped on the brakes, swerved towards them, took a quick look and hit the gas.
“What the fuck’s wrong with him ?” complained Garret.
“Figured we were muggers.”
“Asshole.”
“Yeah, but he could’ve been right.”
“These boots are killing me.”
“Everybody loves a whiner.”
They’d met at midnight, both of them on time for once, a couple of blocks from the spoon with the lonely waitress. There was supposed to be a party, but neither one of them was too sure exactly where it was. They’d chased some music down a couple of streets, slipped into a Japan-town warehouse converted into expensive condos and crashed a cocktail party full of weird people; fat guys with beards, anorexic women dressed all in black. A guy with no chin wanted to know was he a model? Billy asked him if there was some place they could talk quietly. The guy led him into a bedroom. Billy kicked him in his beach-ball belly, the stainless-steel capped toe of his cowboy boot sinking deep. He said, “How’s that for model behaviour, limp-wrist?” On their way out, Garret grabbed a full bottle of Johnny Walker red from the bar. Nobody seemed to notice anything, or maybe they were into more sophisticated drugs and just didn’t care.
Back on the street, they wandered around drinking the Scotch until they found a controlled intersection that was busy, but not too busy. They kept out of the wind in the doorway of a building on the corner, passed the time smoking Billy’s menthol cigarettes and watching the traffic, nipping at the bottle. The lights blinked red and green and yellow and red. Pretty soon a third of the bottle was gone. Billy was seventeen and Garret a year older. They knew their beer but neither of them had had a great deal of experience with hard liquor. The lights went red and green and yellow again, the colours blurred, bleeding into the night.
Garret said, “I think I’m pissed.”
“Ghost parties,” said Billy. “I hate ’em.”
On the eleventh red, a cream-colored station wagon with an old man behind the wheel screeched to a stop half into the crosswalk.
“Okay,” said Billy.
They bolted from the doorway, boots thudding on the concrete and then the shiny black asphalt. Garret yanked at the passenger side door. It was locked. The old man turned towards them, his face blank. Garret switched to the rear door. Locked. Billy ran around behind the car, reached for the driver’s door handle.
The old guy finally woke up. He gunned it and the wagon shot across the intersection, leaving them standing there in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
“Asshole!” shouted Garret.
Billy sucked his thumb as he trotted back to the shelter of the doorway, shoulders
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