(A significant discovery)
When searching for a district to plunder, Quinn Tanner failed to consider the obvious. Home to thirty thousand souls, Park Extension was a quarter-mile wide by three-quarters of a mile long. The community’s poor were hemmed in on every side. The southern border terminated at railway tracks and a protective fence. An underpass served as the sole entry-and-exit point. Tracks and fences demarcated the eastern boundary, penetrated only by a pair of underpasses. A footbridge over the tracks to the Major League baseball field provided access to pedestrians, as did subversive cutouts in the railway fence. A dozen lanes of traffic, submerged and elevated in a labyrinth of veers and circles, made escape north trepidatious by car, suicidal on foot. Boulevard de l’Acadie’s six lanes, a chain-link fence, and a stout hedge made the western limit nearly impenetrable. People were permitted to walk through two gates in the western frontier, while cars and trucks had to rumble down to busy Jean Talon to enter or exit the opposing territories. Park-Exers called the fence their Berlin Wall and took note that they lived on its east side.
On a walk, Quinn stopped, stared, and damn near kicked herself in the shin. As a child, she’d accompanied her mother selling tins of cashews for a Christmas charity on both sides of the fence. In Park Ex, the poor bought their nuts. Over the fence, the wealthy shooed them off their stoops as if they were contaminated rabble.
She’d witnessed her mother’s humiliation.
Ever since, Quinn ignored everything on the western side of the fence.
But now? She was a thief. She’d been taught to never swipe anything on her own turf. Why not cross an enemy line? A significant discovery.
She scouted the affluent neighborhood. Found various targets. Cased them. Selected one. Executed a dry run. Trained her new boyfriend. And finally the time came to put him to the test.
‘Meet me in the park tonight, Deets.’
‘What park?’ he asked.
Boys. Were they all such morons?
‘Ball,’ she reminded him.
She could feel him tensing up.
‘Show up at ten or so,’ Quinn directed.
‘I know, park a few blocks away.’
‘When we leave—’
‘People will think we’re going to your place.’
‘And remember, Deets—’
‘I know, gas up.’
‘Good boy.’
Quinn maintained a weather eye. The forecast predicted clear skies and cool air. Perfect. The moon would come up bright, ideal for scrounging around in the dark.
The husband of the lady she targeted worked at night. In the skinny phone book for the Town of Mount Royal, the prefix ‘Dr’ preceded the name at this address. A hospital guy, maybe. Worked the late shift. Home alone, his wife turned off the air-conditioning before she went to bed when the night air cooled, opening windows on the top floor. Quinn could not enter by the second story; yet with a boost she could slip in through an open window onto a staircase between the floors.
No one played ball at Ball Park. The playground was intended for small fry, with swings and teeter-totters, sandboxes, merry-go-rounds, and monkey bars. A ten-foot iron fence prevented kids from running into traffic. The grounds spanned the short distance between Bloomfield and Avenue de l’Épée, and a third of the greater distance between Jarry and Ball Avenue – hence the park’s name.
At night, the park transformed into a hangout for older teens and twenty-somethings. Dietmar and Quinn talked to friends there, then departed at midnight on foot. They bundled into Dietmar’s car and headed to the rich man’s land.
She could tell that he was nervous.
‘Take it easy, Trucker. Drive slow.’
He obeyed.
A drive-by. The woman of the house typically parked her car in the garage, next to a small boat. When he was home, the husband’s vehicle remained conspicuous in the driveway, displaced by the boat. The absent spouse at night was Quinn’s main reason to choose this house and, as hoped, his car was not in sight.
Deets parked adjacent to the hedge and fence that bordered Boulevard l’Acadie. Folks often parked there to walk through a gate to a hardware store or to the convenience store on the other side. The car blended in.
Deets helped her out. He was to be her ladder.
They walked arm-in-arm. Part of their disguise, Quinn said.
They kissed. ‘Is this part of the disguise?’ he asked.
‘Anybody behind me? You look. On the streets? In a yard?’
She held him in her arms while he studied the lay of the land over her shoulder.
‘Nope.’
His instinct was to creep into the yard.
‘Are you trying to look like a thief? Look like you live here, you moron.’
‘I asked you before. Stop calling me a moron.’
‘Then straighten up.’
A slight stoop persisted.
Under the staircase window, Deets stuck his head between Quinn’s legs and lifted her onto his shoulders. Balancing herself with her palms against the wall, she eased herself up until she stood on his shoulders. They had practiced the maneuver. From that height, she took a box cutter out of her hip pocket and cut two slits in the screen. One on each side. Low down. She reached in and pulled the latches on each edge of the screen and it plopped out. She passed the screen down to Deets, who, wobbling with her on his shoulders, took it in his right hand and dropped it on the ground. Quinn pulled herself up and, half-in, half-out of the window, kicked her feet like a swimmer as she squirmed inside.
In.
She stuck her head out.
‘Get lost,’ she whispered to Deets.
He wasn’t supposed to get lost, only go back to his car and wait. He obeyed.
Good boy.
Quinn got to work.
Something wasn’t right.
She anticipated the hollow silence inside the home. The hum of a fridge like a locomotive barreling through her left ear, the ticking of a desk clock like a carpenter hammering her forehead. A scintillating electricity coursed through her bones. She was never so aware of a home’s scent as when she was robbing the place – here, a combination of fresh and stale cigarette smoke – yet she stopped. She strained to interpret auditory clues.
She went back up the stairs, further this time, where danger might reside, where the lady of the house was sleeping. Except, she confirmed, the woman was not sleeping. Nor was she alone. Her husband must be back without the car. Either that, or … Quinn stifled an exclamation. The lady of the house is no lady! Not tonight! No way of knowing for sure, but Quinn decided that the husband must be elsewhere, looking after heart attacks and stab wounds. The identity of the man in bed with his wife – that was another matter.
A thief uncovers intimacies in the lives of others.
Positive that the woman was not alone, that she overheard the murmurings of a pair entwined, Quinn left them to their fury and crept downstairs.
She needed to exercise greater caution. They were occupied and her soft footfalls should go undetected on the deep plush carpet. So soft, she wished she could take it home. Still, they were awake.
The dining room cutlery was stainless, not silver. No reason to bother. No purse or wallet had been left in plain view. A side drawer offered a few bills, which she pocketed. She turned a doorknob and entered a home office. A masculine atmosphere. Street lamps, none direct, gave her sufficient light to nip a golden pen. There were three watches, which had weight and size, and possessed a luster. Again, that golden allure. She loved men who loved watches. Who would keep three if they were clunkers? Ezra would pay fair black-market value for them or advise her to scrap them.
A photograph showed the lady of the house with her husband in marital bliss. Their hands resting on a knife to cut their wedding cake. Not quite a May–December union, but close. Well, well. If other pictures on display were recent, then the woman upstairs was in her late-twenties. Already tarting around. Quinn mentally scolded her, then accidentally knocked a small wooden vase containing pens off the desk. No soft carpet here. The contents clattered on the wood floor.
Quinn snapped up the rolling vase and in three quick moves halted the runaway pens. She gently placed the vase back on the desk then looked for somewhere to hide. Curtains hanging to the floor on either side of the window, and on one side behind a chair, were her best option.
In the aftermath of her racket she could tell that everyone in the house was still, straining to hear whatever might be gleaned from silence.
The bedroom door opened aloft. A woman’s voice. ‘Is somebody there?’ Perhaps waiting to hear if her husband would respond. She became more direct. ‘Honey? That you?’ Quinn tiptoed to the office door and closed it as before, then tiptoed back and snugged herself in behind the chair and curtain.
She tried not to breathe.
The heaviness of the steps on the staircase indicated that the man in the tryst was coming down. She heard him wander around. He turned on a light, which she detected through the curtain and under the crack of the office door.
The door opened.
The overhead light flicked on.
Quinn shut her eyes, as though that made her invisible.
The man came into the room. Only a few steps.
Quinn opened her eyes.
He was naked, lumpy where it counted, and his silhouette revealed that he carried a pistol. Christ!
She prayed that no floorboard under her squeaked. She heard footsteps. They were coming nearer, she thought. But the man flicked off the light and shut the door on his way out.
He, too, wanted everything to be exactly as it had been before.
Quinn tried not to gasp, or gulp for air.
The man opened a door to the outside. Is he mad? He’s not dressed! Then he went back upstairs. He must have dressed up there because he came down again and the woman returned with him. ‘Babes, we got another hour. Two, if you want.’
He didn’t want.
She implored him to stay. ‘Don’t go. I’m crazy about you, babes.’
The man left the house. Quinn believed that she heard his footsteps outside. The window beside her was closed and locked, although she could open it. She could escape that way.
She waited instead.
Lights in the house went off.
The woman returned upstairs. Quinn imagined a slump to her shoulders.
She stirred, stood up, stretched. In discomfort from her lengthy crouch.
She hadn’t procured much for her trouble. She did a quick scan of the shelves behind the man’s desk chair. Photographs. Not interested. A small case. Inside, a collection of rings. A couple with tiny diamonds, others with semi-precious stones. Ezra had taught her, ‘Semi-precious means precious to me and you.’ The trip was suddenly worthwhile. She dropped the items into the zippered sack she carried with her. She opened drawers. Brochures. Catalogues. The man’s a clotheshorse. Files. Assorted junk. A nail clipper. Toothbrushes. Jesus. Extra combs. Three calculators. Moron can’t add. Nothing of interest. In a shallow drawer, although she was being slow and careful, something rolled from the back to the front. A baseball. She held it up. She could always use another baseball. This one appeared to be in good shape. The scrawl of a signature. Might be interesting. Impossible to decipher in the dim light. Quinn slipped the ball into her jacket pocket.
She opened the office door. Listened.
She quelled a momentary panic thinking that the lover might only have pretended to leave. Was he waiting for her to emerge? Pistol in hand? She tiptoed out.
Halfway up the stairs, she slipped out the open window there. She dangled outside with one hand on the sill, the other clutching her loot bag, then shoved herself outward with a knee and let herself drop. She toppled over.
Dusting herself off, she checked herself out, then walked off the property.
She felt a familiar twinge: joy and also the sadness that came with a job being over.
Boulevard l’Acadie was busy. Not a problem. Drivers whizzing by would not notice her through the hedge. She spotted Deets’s car. She strode more quickly than usual despite trying to keep her pace casual, and Quinn slid onto the passenger seat.
‘OK, Trucker boy, let’s fly!’
Cars rushed past them on the other side of the l’Acadie fence. Headlights and taillights shining through the hedge. Other light was scant, although her eyes were accustomed to the dark. Deets didn’t budge. She noticed the mysterious dark patch across his chest that pooled below his belly and fell off his right hip.
That was blood. All over him. Blood.
She stared then at his face, as though to insist on an explanation.
Deets was dead.
He was sitting there dead.
Deets.
She whispered his name. ‘Deets?’
Then forgot herself a moment, yelled, ‘Deets!’ Shook him by his near shoulder.
He was not moving.
A mass of blood on his chest. He’d been a fountain.
Quinn sat in shock. Staring through the dark. Then leapt out of the car.
She felt wetness on her hands.
She didn’t know what to do. How to react.
She slammed her door hard. Then opened it and slammed it again, hard.
The window was open to the summer air and she put her head through. She said, ‘Deets.’ Very softly. ‘Oh, my God, Deets.’
She had an odd, weird, out-of-nowhere sense that she was never going to steal again. Whether that thought was ludicrous or true, another impulse immediately took over. She unzipped her collapsible sack. Stuck it inside the car window, emptied the contents on the passenger seat, and dropped the bag. Then figured she’d better get out of there. Her brain fired conflicting commands and ultimatums. A half-block south, the Jarry Street gate led onto l’Acadie. A thousand people would see her walk through it, maybe a million. But what if ten people watched her cross the street, or just one, who after the news of the murder broke reported her? What then? A young blond woman was observed crossing the road at the time of the murder. She was the blond girlfriend, seen with the victim that evening.
Better if she didn’t cross the road.
Car lights at a distance shone on her. Immediately, she ducked behind Deets’s car, then wedged herself into the prickly hedge. The vehicle was on Selwood Road, the street she was on. She waited for it to pass but instead it turned onto the block where she’d been, then into the driveway of the house she robbed. The husband! She’d escaped in the nick of time. Not only her. The lover hadn’t left himself much time, either.
She extricated herself from the bushes.
Home cried out to her.
She’d go north, towards Boulevard Métropolitain. A shopping mall abutted the expressway. She’d climb a fence then wait for a chance to cross back into her own community undetected.
Only after she had successfully returned to Park Extension did she notice that she was still carrying the baseball in one pocket, the money she’d stolen in the other. Under a streetlight, she checked out the ball. An heirloom. The ball had not been signed by any of the current Expos, as she hoped, yet it amazed her. Her dad would go nuts over it. A former player for the Montreal Royals – the minor league Triple-A club that had been in town in her dad’s day – had inscribed his name.
Jackie Robinson.
She was not throwing it away.
Quinn was tempted to call the cops. She wouldn’t identify herself in telling them where to find Deets. But she could do nothing for him and he’d be found come daylight, if not sooner. Better not to let anyone hear a girl’s voice. From that moment forward, she would pretend she knew nothing.
Deets!
She wanted to go straight to bed and weep, and that’s what she did.