DAVID ENTERED SIMON’S Restaurant to find Walter already waiting, patting the vinyl cushion of the seat next to him. A rampart of junk rose behind him, stacks of newspapers buttressed by cardboard boxes full of tourist knickknacks and garage sale fodder. It ran the full perimeter of the room, pausing only—at the health inspector’s insistence, David assumed—for the length of the open kitchen, where griddles bloomed with the smell of frying eggs and bacon. Shelves had been installed a foot or two shy of the ceiling to better display the forest of ceramic statuettes and cracked picture frames and defunct toys inhabiting the restaurant’s upper quarters. Amidst the dunes of junk, enough room had been carved out for half a dozen tables—many no doubt salvaged from the same rummage sales as the stuff surrounding them.
Walter dabbed his face with a napkin and set it on his plate, where a yellow smear and a few toast crumbs comprised the sole remains of his breakfast. He burped once, contentedly, and pounded his chest with a closed fist.
“You ever heard of waiting?” David asked.
“You said you were only gonna have coffee.”
“You still wait.”
“Whatever, Miss Manners. I’m hungry, I eat. Here, top me up, eh? I saved room for another cup just for you.” Walter wiggled his coffee mug. The dregs sloshed about inside, black as tar. David took the cup over to the coffeemaker and filled it along with a fresh mug for himself. He’d found the self-serve process uncomfortable on his first visit, but Walter had dragged him here enough times that he’d gotten used to it.
David brought over the coffees and slid in next to Walter. He shook a sugar packet and poured the contents into his mug.
“When’s your guy supposed to get here?”
David checked the time on his phone. “Should be here in a minute or two.”
“Unless he bugs out on us.”
“Yeah.” David added some cream to his coffee and stirred it until it took on a mahogany hue.
“You think he will?”
“Depends on how smart he is, I guess.”
Walter tugged at his moustache. “You’re opening up a real can of worms when you turn around and nail him.”
“He gives me what I want, we won’t have to go there.”
“You’re not seriously thinking of dropping him as a suspect, are you?”
“Way I see it, there’s a good chance the whole thing can play as self-defence.”
“He shot two guys.”
“What do you think they were gonna do to him? Clean his room? A decent DA could spin it without my help. He gives me the Ballaro killer, least I can do is nudge it along a little.”
Walter pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Dave, the guy’s a monster. Do you know some of the heinous shit he’s done? I don’t care if Santino and Perone were scumbags. If we have a chance to nail McCulloch, we should fucking well nail him.”
“It’s a weak case, Walter. I spun some shit about DNA evidence, but who knows how that’ll pan out? The lab’s backed up for months, and the place was a sty. Probably got thirty different hair samples from the mattress alone. We bring him in on Santino and Perone, we’re back at square one. And if he walks, it’ll all be for nothing.”
“So you ride him ‘til he’s sore and then bust his ass. What’s the big deal?”
“It’d make a liar out of me.”
“You’re homicide police, Davey. Lyin’ to perps is half the fucking job.”
David thumbed through the newspaper topping a nearby stack, its pages stiff and yellowing. “This is different.”
Walter held up his hands. “Whatever. It’s your call, chief. I just hope you know what you’re dealin’ with, is all.”
“Neither of us has any idea what we’re dealing with, Walt. That’s kind of the point.”
The bell above the door jangled. Derek scanned the restaurant, his face wrinkled with bemused apprehension. He took a seat opposite David and Walter, while his eyes kept wandering among the labyrinthine shelves and junk-packed crannies.
“What the hell kind of place is this?” he asked.
Walter snorted derisively. “You mean to tell me you’ve never been to Simon’s? For shame. The place is a goddamn Niagara Falls institution.”
“For what? Hoarders?”
Walter slumped back in his seat. A puff of musty air escaped through cracks in the vinyl upholstery. “Davey, educate this savage, would you?”
“You wanted discreet, right? I doubt any of your gangland buddies will be wandering in here.”
“Whatever, man. Let’s get this over with.” Derek draped his arms over the chair and let his limbs hang limp. It was a childish gesture, expressing a boredom so powerful it unhinged your joints. David had seen his son do the exact same thing while awaiting a slow meal or silently admonishing his parents for spending forty-five minutes debating over paint samples. The connection troubled him in a way he found hard to define.
“How’s it going?” David asked. “You staying safe?”
Derek snorted an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, safe as houses. It’s only a crime lord who owns half the city wants me dead, what’s to worry about?”
“Don’t tell me a guy like you doesn’t know how to take care of himself.”
“Sure I do. Why you think I went to Toronto?”
“Cause you’re too stupid to go somewhere less predictable?” suggested Walter.
“Seriously, though,” said David. “If you need some sort of protection . . . ”
Derek snorted. “Sure, why not? ‘Hey, Butcher, Tyrone, you guys off Eddie Ballaro? Oh, don’t mind the officers, they’re my escort.’ Please, man. You might as well paint a target on my ass.”
“I was thinking something a little more subtle.”
“You could give me my piece back.”
“Nice try.”
Derek crossed his arms. His legs stretched and folded under the table, groping in vain for a comfortable position. He rubbed his neck with one hand and glanced out the window, sinking lower in his seat.
A waitress came over to their table, her grey hair pulled back in a loose bun. “Can I get you boys anything?”
“I’m fine with my coffee, thanks,” said David.
Derek either missed this cue or chose to ignore it. “Yeah, I’ll take a black coffee and two eggs, over-easy with bacon and toast. Oh, and some hash browns.”
“Separate bills,” David added as the waitress left.
Derek raised his hands, palms up, in a what-the-hell gesture. “You’re not even pickin’ up my fuckin’ tab?”
“We go Dutch for now,” David said. “See where this takes us.”
“Sure,” added Walter. “We don’t want you to feel pressured to go all the way.”
David wiped his face with a napkin and set it on the table, masking a subtle calming gesture to Walter. Easy. “Let’s get this over with, shall we? It’s been a week. What have you found for us?”
“I’ve been doin’ like you asked me to, hittin’ up the bikers at the south end and the street gangs out in St. Catharines. Talked to half the dealers in the damn city, chatted ‘em up real casual. Dealers hear shit, got people in and out at all hours, most of ‘em too fucked up to keep their mouths shut.”
“You score anything?”
“What’s this, entrapment? I’m not about to run your errands to get brought up on a few grams of coke.”
“We’re homicide police, Derek. I don’t care if you mainline MDMA into your eyeballs. I just want to make sure you’re being cautious.”
“Please, man. Let me take care of myself. I made some deals so no one gets suspicious. They just think it’s a little more junky chitchat while the guy in the back cuts in more baking soda. Believe me, I got no interest in bein’ found.”
“Glad to hear it. So you’ve made the rounds. Anything odd pop out at you?”
Derek shrugged. “I can tell you some of the regulars haven’t been turning up lately.”
“Got names?”
Derek rattled off a few. “Riffraff, mostly, but these guys come and go all the time. Could be a bunch of ‘em got a Labour Ready gig up in the woods or went west to the tar sands. Could be they got nailed in a narco sweep, though I guess you’d know about that.”
“So you don’t got a line on any of these names, we could maybe look into ‘em?”
“Look, man, this shit ain’t easy. We’re not talkin’ about a bunch of forwarding address kinda guys, ok? You asked I tell you what I see, so I’m telling you what I saw. Take it or leave it.”
David jotted down a few notes. “Is there anything else you can think of? Anything you find a little strange or suspicious?”
Derek drummed his fingers on the table. “I dunno, man, I . . . hey, okay. Lucky Luke’s supposedly comin’ back to town.”
“Lucky Luke?” David looked at Walter for assistance, who only shrugged.
Derek rolled his eyes. “I thought you guys were supposed to know the streets.”
“I know a name if it’s worth half a shit,” countered Walter. “Who’s this Lucky Luke?”
“Lucky Luke Volchyin. He ran a bit of a racket for a couple years, out down Highway 20. Girls, weed, numbers. Started nibblin’ on the edges of Ballaro territory.”
“And got his balls handed to him in a pack lunch?” ventured Walter
“Nah, man, they call him Lucky Luke for a reason. Guy was fuckin’ untouchable. Any time Ballaro tried to send a message, guy wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Got him pretty pissed off.”
“So what’d he do about it?”
Derek probed his tongue along the pocket between gum and cheek. “Nothin’, man. I dunno. Guy just took off.”
“He took off?”
“Yeah. Couple months ago.” Derek fidgeted with his paper placemat, tapping the corners until the bottom edge lined up with the table just so.
“And Ballaro let that be?”
Derek shrugged. “Problem solved, right?”
“But if he’s back, that could ruffle some feathers, am I right?”
“I dunno, man. Maybe. Maybe buddy’s smartened up. Look, are we done here?”
“We’re getting there. You told me you haven’t seen much. What’ve you been hearing?”
“Nothing.”
David took a pointed sip of his coffee. “Eight guys in a mob house got turned to hamburger. You can’t tell me no one’s talking about it.”
“Everyone’s talkin’ about it, that’s the problem. Haven’t you been readin’ the papers? You can’t fuckin’ move for all the pet theories and speculatin’ horseshit out there. Every two-bit slinger and hustler knows a guy who knows a guy who arranged the hit. Got people sayin’ it was Russians, Asians, Iranians. Heard one guy talkin’ about how it was coyotes, someone slippin’ ‘em PCP. Another guy thinks it was a trained tiger out of the circus, same one performs with the lady some nights at Mints. You got your serial killers, your government cover-ups. Who the fuck you want to’ve done it? I can find you a guy’ll tell you that’s how it went down.”
“What about people actually taking credit? Anyone you believe?”
“That’s just it. Everyone says they know who did it, but when it comes to names, they get all vague. Usually a few wannabe tough guys’ll act all mysterious about that stuff, try and build a rep for themselves without givin’ anything away, but I’m not hearin’ any of that. I think what happened in that house, it’s too heinous to cop to.”
“Sorry, I don’t buy it,” said David. “When it comes to human misery, there’s no such thing as ‘too heinous.’ Whoever did it’s gonna talk, and word is gonna spread. These are your people, Derek. Network with them.”
“Man, what d’you think I’ve been doing this week? You’ve got me wading through a sea of bullshit, lookin’ for one little nugget of corn. What do you expect?”
Walter shook his head. “First it’s horseshit, now you’re tellin’ me bullshit? Better keep your stories straight, kid. That stuff won’t play well in court.”
“Please, man, I’ll suck your dick if this case ever legit gets to court. It ain’t gonna happen.”
“I dunno, now that I’m good and motivated . . . ” Walter gave a lascivious bump-and-grind in his seat.
Derek turned to David. “Y’know, I should’ve pulled my piece when you came up to me in the Penny. Getting’ gunned down by cops in a dive bar’d still be a million times better than lunch with this asshole.”
David raised his coffee cup in a salute. “There, my friend, I can agree with you.”