Extensions (17 page)

“You're old enough now to join us, Jane,” says Roland, interrupting her plans, “unless Mr. Louis Strong has you too busy washing his clothes.”

Seeing that her mother is not going to answer for her this time, Jane replies, “There are too many decorations to be made for our beautiful tree.” She sees a downward turn to the corners of Roland's mouth, imperceptible to the others.

“Maybe next time,” he says, following Tommy out the door.

“Maybe,” says Jane, without looking up from the holly.

A COP'S LIFE isn't all donuts and coffee, as some people seem to think. I've seen as many dead bodies as a nurse, watched more women strip than a peeping Tom, and been called more names than an umpire. I've also heard more tales of woe than a priest, but with fewer confessions, and I'm about as popular with my clientele as a dentist, but without his income. Today was one of the days I had to rely on a sense of humour to get through. Luckily, Sukhi was with me to aid and abet the giggles.

Our first call was an O.D. at 7
AM
. The victim, Henry Lavoie, Caucasian male, was lying soaking wet and naked in the middle of his apartment's living room. The guests at the all-night party were his friends, all transvestites and also all soaking wet from having tried to revive him in the shower with their clothes on. Said clothes being negligees and nightgowns. When I started to take their statements, one 6'4" guy in a garter belt and stockings wrapped himself around me and declared, “You're the only cop I've ever met I can stand.”

He was dripping on me like a dog and I shook him off just as the ambulance arrived. At that moment, Henry woke up, not in the least surprised to find himself wet and naked in a room full of strangers. While the paramedics got him onto a stretcher, my tall friend pulled a pair of hot pink spandex capri pants over his wet stockings, threw a shawl around his shoulders and volunteered to go with Henry in the ambulance. On the way out, he hugged me again as he grabbed a blow dryer from a table, promising to fix himself up at the hospital. Too late for another short guy in a woman's sheer wrapper, who shouted after him: “Leave that dryer, Nicki. How am I going to get ready for visiting hours?”

The most remarkable part of this scene was that it was no longer remarkable. In fact, Sukhi and I both agreed this file was less sordid than the domestic we attended yesterday where a man had tied his wife to the sofa and made her watch him have sex with a prostitute. A disgustingly fat, greasy, toothless drunk no one should have to have sex with, paid or not. Humiliation was usually the starting point in domestic calls, quickly accompanied by blows and screams. The transvestites, on the other hand, were not humiliating one another, and there was no violence besides what the heroin and cocaine were doing to their systems.

I was in one of my moods where I didn't think it was right to be discussing the price of gas over coffee so soon after dealing with these socalled misfits. But then Sukhi said, “How's your history class going?” and I was immediately aware of my own misfit status. If I could think of one more detail of ridicule — like the tampon in Henry's purse — I could stall this conversation, but all I could manage was “Okay.”

“Okay? You like it, hate it, what?”

“My dad helped me with the term paper.”

“You have the right to remain silent.”

“He practically wrote the whole thing.”

“Anything you say won't be used against you. I was only wondering because Amara is thinking of taking some courses in the winter to finish her B.Sc. I told her I'd ask you how you like your instructor.”

Sure. Amara would pull off 90s in whatever she took. Immigrants' children have all the luck with their parents making every decision for them. Easy for her to write her own essays when her father hardly knows the language. “My professor is great. Brings the material to life, if not me. Your wife will do brilliantly, as she always does.”

Sukhi set his coffee cup down, put his hands on his seated hips, pushed his head into the back of the booth, and said: “What's up? You've been talking about taking courses for years and now you're sabotaging yourself. Why? Still caught up in the Ray business? Your mother? Work?”

I shook my head. “No, no, maybe. I don't know. As for the job, you know my doubts.”

He resumed drinking his coffee, secure now, like a good cop, that he had me talking. And thinking. When we sat down, I was feeling queasy about tonight's history class. Not so much about what Barnwell would give Dad for his effort — that should be respectable — but he was to announce the topics for our final paper, and I would have to put myself through the shame of it all over again. What caught me off guard in the midst of this dread, however, was a warm wave of anticipation about the last of Jane Owens' letters waiting for me at home. She was doing this more often, passing through my thoughts like an old familiar song. As if we had once shared something intimate. But I had yet to discover what my great-grandmother was transmitting.

I had forgotten what we were talking about when Sukhi said, “I have bad days too.”

“Bad days aren't years of wondering about your real calling. I worry when I stop thinking of these weirdoes as weirdoes, and worry just as much when I don't. Maybe I'm not sure of the difference between right and wrong, and that should be a must for cops and preachers. Only lawyers can get away with arguing either side.”

“You add a human element to the job, whether or not it's deserved.”

Accepting praise from someone always guaranteed to give it to me seemed a bit pathetic. Would I be this open with Nancy Grace?

“Ever think about transferring to another section?” Sukhi asked.

“Sure. Aren't we all sick of domestics? I think I'd like Serious Crimes.”

“You? Someone as non-violent as you wants the gory cases?”

“Why not? We'd come in after the fact. I like asking questions.”

“You're definitely good with witnesses. Look how Nicki couldn't tear himself away from you on that last call.”

“What about you?”

“Same. I'd hate to break up the team of Ahluwalia and Dryvynsydes. It's hard to badmouth names like ours.”

It sounded like a good idea, but I probably would never exert myself to apply. I downed the rest of my coffee and stood up to leave. Sukhi followed and we went through the motions of getting out our wallets until the waitress waved us away. At least we left tips.

My belt and all its accessories felt heavier than usual today. I straightened my shoulders to take the pressure off my back before getting into the passenger seat. Sukhi slid behind the wheel and I cleared us for calls. B
&
E in progress in Deer Lake area. Sukhi wheeled out of Denny's parking lot and was at the address before we could start the siren. It was your standard mushroom-coloured, two-storey, 2,500-square foot attempt at grandeur in a colony of almost-identical houses, all ten feet apart. A young man in an old sweatshirt and windpants beckoned us from the garage next door and we pulled into his driveway. He whispered excitedly to Sukhi, glancing at me as if I were a ride-along so keen I had borrowed a costume for the occasion.

“I called. They're still in there. Came out of the old van parked in the back lane. Got in through the patio door on the deck.”

“Sure they're not tradesmen?”

“They're kids. With a crowbar.”

“Stick around,” Sukhi said. “We'll need a statement later.” He had already flattened himself against the east side of the house, edging around toward the back. I followed, but not without a dismissive look at our witness: bead necklace, diamond stud in one ear, small hoop in another, a costume that was his way of declaring he didn't really belong in this neighbourhood when in fact, he simply hadn't shown any aptitude to leave it yet.

From the deck we could hear sounds of large objects being moved carelessly inside. Glass smashed. The patio door had been jimmied, and Sukhi drew his gun as he stepped quietly inside to the eating area. I pressed against the wall on the deck next to the open door and put my hand on my holster. Drawing my firearm always gave me a sick feeling, and this was no exception. I felt as if I were back on the basketball court, doing my best to stay occupied so I wouldn't have to catch the ball.

“Police,” Sukhi called out, advancing through the arch to the living room. He didn't have to say “Drop it” because they did — a
TV
set, by the sound of the thud. With Sukhi in possible danger, the gun felt more comfortable in my hand. My feet were poised to run to the front of the house where any good thief would make his exit if he knew cops were at the back, but I could not set them in motion and leave my partner on his own.

Sukhi lunged toward the open passage with both hands outstretched on his gun. Two teenagers rushed through: the first eluded him, but he tackled the second and forced him to the floor. I yelled “Stop” at the first and chased him across the back lawn to where their van was parked in the lane. He ignored me and kept running.

“Stop or I'll shoot!” I called again, hoping he would drop to his knees without noticing I was aiming at his tires instead of him. He did stop. But it was to turn around at the door of the vehicle and face me with a gun of his own. He looked like a little boy with a Christmas toy, scared rather than menacing. “Drop it,” I said, when a stab of fire hit my foot and I fell over.

With my ear to the ground, I heard another shot. My shooter fell and we lay together almost head to head for a few seconds before Sukhi reached us. He had not shot him, but the bullet whizzing past his head had caused him to collapse in fright and drop the gun. Thief Number One, handcuffed to the rail of the deck, looked on, ashen-faced and terrified. Faster than a magician, Sukhi cuffed hair-gelled, well-groomed Number Two, and locked him to the other end of the deck, at the same time calling for back-up and an ambulance. He then slid to where I was.

“You okay?”

I nodded as efficiently as I could with my cheek on the grass. My shoulder must have twisted in the fall and was throbbing. My boot was oozing blood, Sukhi said, and he tried to loosen the laces. He stopped short of pulling it off lest he cause further damage, and because of the yelps any movement provoked from me. When the paramedics arrived, he was holding my hand, his face as close to pale as I had ever seen it. At the same time, Rudder and Emile screeched into the back lane and Sukhi nodded in the direction of the prisoners. From my worm's-eye view, I could see tears on the face of my shooter and his accomplice as they were escorted into the P.C. I had a split-second twinge of sympathy, knowing what they would get in the back seat of the cruiser would be far from consolation.

The paramedics were the same ones who had picked up Henry at the transvestite party this morning. I noted the special consideration I was getting as they gave me a sedative; then again, Henry had not been in any pain. As soon as they began cutting away my size 10 boot with an instrument I couldn't imagine, all gratitude gave way to a flash of red heat, followed by white light, then darkness.

I awoke in the Vancouver General Hospital to find Dad sitting on a chair next to me. As consciousness seeped in, I became aware of a huge white slab of plaster rising from the end of the bed. I must have forgotten how long both my foot and my body were, because this came as a surprise.

“They brought you to Vancouver instead of Burnaby because of a specialist here,” Dad said quietly. “Your ankle took quite a hit.”

“Yeah?”

“The surgeons were working on it for two hours. We can be thankful you were wearing boots or you might not have a foot left.” I could see Dad's hand shaking and I stretched mine across the sheet to clasp it. “Sukhwinder, Emile, Jake, and Dave have all been by to see how you were doing. Sukhwinder feels terrible that he didn't spot the young man's gun.” Dad considered it presumptuous to use nicknames he had not given himself.

A glance around the room told me they had left their calling cards in beautiful flower arrangements. The only card close enough to read, however, was attached to a bushy azalea plant and was signed, “Smooth recovery. Ray.” How quickly word got around in the halls of justice. I knew he wouldn't have the nerve to deliver them himself.

The crime scene was also coming back to me. I couldn't get beyond the scared face of the kid with the gun and his tears later. “Sukhi shouldn't feel bad. He was busy taking care of the other guy. I did see the gun. I was the one who should have shot, or disarmed him somehow.”