Barking Dogs - A Mitch Helwig Book Page 2

  Mitch wouldn’t know how to change the routine. He didn’t want to change the routine. The routine had become narcotic, somehow even more so since Mario had been killed.

  The caterwauling of a Jamaican trio assaulted him from the skimmer’s Blaupunkt—the latest hypo-hit, pumped to its Number One post via the New York media.

  And ya love me

  And ya love me in the night

  And in the mornin’

  In the mornin’ with all yer might

  So let’s get blitzed

  Yeah, blitzed...

  

  Blitzed, my ass, thought Mitch. A wail of ecstatic anguish and tribal lust was accompanied by the beat, the beat, the beat...

  He flipped the station to something more befitting his maturing tastes. As a soapy song from the mid-eighties slithered in, he settled back more comfortably.

  Pulling into Station 52 on Dundas Street, Mitch reflected that being a Toronto cop was not what it used to be—either as a job, or for him personally. It had changed fundamentally since he had taken the Solo Option the union had negotiated in the spring.

  He didn’t want another partner. Not after what he’d gone through when Mario had been killed. Too hard, he thought. Much too hard.

  Christ. Mitch was even little Tony’s godfather.

  And they still hadn’t caught the punks who’d done it.

  Bastards.

  Blitzed, my ass. Get blitzed yourself, asshole.

  I’ve got a Barking Dog now. No more fucking around.

  None.

  

  It was a week before he had a chance to use it the way he wanted. But he knew his time would come. He was patient.

  Idling the skimmer down the lane servicing the stores on the north side of Danforth, he caught it in his peripheral vision: the swing of a beam of light across a glazed window. He cut the engine, deactivated the window, listened.

  Nothing.

  Adrenaline flushed through his system; his nocturnal vision sharpened.

  The skimmer door swung up. He waited in the darkness, breath held.

  It was there again. Then gone.

  He drew his gun, caressed the trigger.

  Sliding silently out of his vehicle, he approached the rear door of the store where he had seen the beam.

  There it was again. He tensed.

  The door had been expertly jimmied. He pushed it open, slowly, carefully, like he was moving a sleeping baby, and peered in.

  As Mitch watched from the darkness, the guy rifled the cash drawer and stuffed his pockets with cigarettes and pocket lighters and trinkets and junk that wasn’t fit to steal. Some poor old Greek, he thought, was losing the guts of his variety store to this punk. Look at him.

  Rage filled him as he watched.

  “Freeze!”

  The punk froze.

  “Hands on your head! Now!”

  In slow motion, the thief complied, his back still to Mitch. Mitch had his gun pointed stiffly at him as he stepped from the shadows. The punk’s flashlight was sitting on the counter, still turned on, providing surreal illumination to the scene.

  “Lace those fingers together and don’t move a muscle!”

  Mitch stepped within a meter of him, holstered the gun, and withdrew his Defender. He placed the electric billy on the guy’s shoulder, sliding its cool, hard surface along his neck, letting him know it was there. Letting him think about it.

  “If you even twitch, even think about twitching, I’ll bolt you so hard your brains won’t unscramble for weeks.”

  “Hey, man, easy. I’m easy.”

  At arm’s length, Mitch frisked him from the ankles up. He had the usual boot-knife—twenty-four centimeters, double-edged. Mitch pocketed it. In his left hip pocket, Mitch found a commando knuckle-knife: .440 stainless steel, fourteen centimeters closed, matte black handle with black Teflon-coated blade. He could slit your throat or knock your teeth out. Options. Nice. Jesus, thought Mitch, and I’m only halfway up this guy...

  Under the punk’s left arm, Mitch found the concealable shoulder holster. But what he found in it was the topper.

  Mitch turned it over in his hand reverently, his brain spinning. A laser gun. A goddamned laser gun! The guy was a walking arsenal. Christ.

  Angry, Mitch hefted it, weighed it. A Bausch & Lomb, imported. Lighter than a flashlight—burn a hole in you neater than a pin. And a creep like this has it, while we continue to be issued the police special: the same Smith & Wesson .38 that we’ve had for the last twenty-five years!

  In his mind’s eye, he saw his own antiquated weapon, the bluing worn away. Budget, they were always told. Same reason why the force couldn’t spare the manpower to have everyone doubled up at all times—why they’d accepted the Solo Option.

  Mario had been blown away by a guy with a .45 Magnum—after he’d been worked over with a sap glove.

  Bastards, he thought. His hand began to shake as he simmered with pent-up fury.

  Hitching the Defender back into his belt, Mitch stepped back. He leveled the laser at the punk.

  “Turn around...very, very slowly.”

  He was hard, slight, sinewy. His mouth was a thin pencil line. About twenty-five years old. Old enough to know better.

  Mitch reached unassumingly into a pocket under his bulky jacket and withdrew the Barking Dog. Holding it unobtrusively at his side, his palm facing the now wary intruder, he felt all his muscles tense, from calves to shoulders. “Did you ever kill anyone with this?” Mitch asked abruptly, indicating the exotic laser in his hand—the laser still leveled menacingly. The punk’s eyes narrowed.

  “No,” he said.

  A piercing cold shot through the wire attached to Mitch’s side: ice formed by boldness, insolence, and injustice. A glacier of terror, outrage, the crystal-cold of space. The coldness of death. Of truth.

  “You fucker, you,” Mitch said. When he slowly, deliberately, began to squeeze the trigger, the punk’s eyes widened in comprehension of what was going to happen.

  Mitch squeezed the plastic trigger. Again. A needle of light. Twice through the heart. No sound.

  His mouth and eyes frozen open, the punk slid to the floor, a handful of Bic lighters spilling from his jacket pocket onto the hard linoleum with a brittle clattering.

  Fucker, Mitch thought.

  

  At 9 p.m. Mitch called home from a V-booth. Barbie’s face blossomed on the screen.

  “Daddy! Hi!”

  “Hi, sweetheart, how are you?”

  “Fine. Our class went to the circus at the Gardens today, Daddy. They shot a man out of a cannon!”

  Jesus, thought Mitch, smiling. The circus. Probably the same guy who got shot out of the cannon thirty years ago when I was there with my class. Some things never change. Thank goodness.

  “What else did they have there?”

  “Oh, you know, lots of stuff. Elephants, acrobats, Cracker Jacks, the usual junk. But this guy actually got shot out of a cannon! How do they do it?”

  He chuckled at her excitement. “I guess they use a big bullet.”

  “Daddy...”

  “Don’t know, beautiful. I can see we’ll have to talk about it, though. You’ll have to tell me all about it. Mommy there?”

  “She went out right after dinner. Mrs. Chan’s staying with me till she gets back.”

  “Oh?” Mitch was perturbed. Elaine wasn’t home much in the evenings lately when he called. “Where’d she go?”

  “To Jan’s. Mommy said she phoned her at work and asked her to come over this evening—to talk, she said.”

  “O.K. Let me speak to Mrs. Chan, O.K., dear? Bye-bye. Love you.”

  Barbie waved and moved out of the picture. Their elderly Chinese neighbor sat in her place.

  “Hello, Mrs. Chan. How are you?”

  “Fine, Mr. Helwig. Yourself?”

  “Good, good...What time did Elaine say she’d be back?”

  “She said early—by eleven.”

  “Fine. Thanks
for coming over, Mrs. Chan.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Helwig. Barbie and I get along just fine. Don’t worry.”

  “I never worry when you’re there. Say good night to Barbie for me—and take care of yourself.”

  “Not to worry. I will.”

  The screen went blank.

  She’s out again, Mitch thought. Third night this week. And always at Jan’s. Spends too much time there since Jan’s marriage collapsed.

  At Jan’s?...

  Sliding his hands into his pockets on his way back to his skimmer, he was delivered from his reverie by the cool, contoured shape of the laser gun there.

  It was, he knew, virtually impossible to catch him. Especially with an unregistered weapon. Armed with it and his Barking Dog, the world began to emerge in clear, vivid images.

  

  When Mitch checked out of the station at ten, the Bausch & Lomb laser was packed securely inside the shirt in his duffle bag. This goes with me, he thought. I’ll find a safe place for it. Anyplace I pick is a better place than under that punk’s arm.

  “’Night, Mitch.”

  “’Night, Charlie.”

  “See ya, Mitch.”

  “Yeah. You, too.”

  “Oh, Mitch?”

  “Yeah?” He turned to see who had called him. It was Captain Karoulis.

  “How have you been getting along—Solo?”

  Mitch made a tight line with his mouth and nodded. “O.K., Captain. O.K.”

  “Good. You’re not sorry you’ve opted for it, are you?”

  “No. You don’t replace a partner so easy, you know. I want to go alone for a while.”

  “Mario was the best.”

  They were both silent. There was nothing to say.

  “Anyway, just asking.” He put his hand on Mitch’s shoulder.

  Mitch stared into his superior officer’s concerned gray eyes. “Can I ask you something, Captain?”

  “Sure. Anything.”

  “You did recommend me for promotion last month, didn’t you? I mean, with your recommendation, and my record, and my grades on the exams, I’ve got a pretty good shot at it, don’t I?”

  They stared at one another.

  “Mitch, I gave you the highest recommendation I could think of. Said you were exceptional leadership material. You’ve got a very, very good shot at it.”

  Mitch was prepared for it—even expected it. But the lance of insincerity was still stunningly chilling as it gored his side.

  The captain’s hand squeezed his shoulder with false assurance. Mitch’s eyes dropped.

  “But you know,” the captain continued, “the competition’s tough. Real tough.” He shook his head, looked away. “So, promotion or not, we’ll still think of you as the best!” He looked once more straight into Mitch’s eyes and smiled. “Don’t think about it, Mitch. It’s you we want, not your rank. That stuff doesn’t matter.”

  Only mild tingles now, Mitch noted. Small icicles, dripping in the spring thaw.

  He shrugged. “And Mario? His wife’ll get all the insurance? And the plaque from the mayor?”

  “Yes, Mitch. There’s nothing to worry about there. Nothing.” His eyes softened.

  There was no frigid signal accompanying this. At least, thought Mitch, that much is true. At least there’s some decency left somewhere—for the dead.

  It was probably, Mitch realized, the only reason he didn’t kill Karoulis right then and there.

  4

  Four years ago, Mitch Helwig had been assigned a new partner. The man was shorter than he was and stockier, his handshake strong and warm. And everything about him was Italian—from his bushy moustache, curly black hair, and gleaming white teeth to the indefinable, mischievous zest. But it was the sparkle in the dark eyes that captivated him, and that captivated nearly everyone else he encountered.

  Mitch, who was by nature fairly reserved, liked him immediately and considered himself lucky to have drawn him as a partner.

  “How ya doin’, rookie?” Mario Ciracella had said.

  “It’s a dog’s life, ain’t it?” Mitch replied.

  The other man beamed, a light coming into his eyes. “Which reminds me,” he said. “How do Italian dogs get bumps on their heads?”

  Mitch smiled, waiting, still gripping the man’s hand. In spite of himself, he began to chuckle.

  “From chasing parked cars,” he said, slapping Mitch’s right shoulder with his right hand. “C’mon. Let’s go arrest a few extortionist jaywalkers or somethin’.”

  Mitch was still chuckling as they headed to the garage.

  “Helwig, eh? What kind of name is that? Kraut?”

  “My grandfather was German.”

  “Yeah? I think my grandfather was Mafioso. Either that or a priest. Defrocked.”

  “You’re not sure, eh?”

  “Who can be sure about these things? I mean, I wasn’t there. Were you?”

  “No, I guess I wasn’t.”

  “See what I mean? Jesus, we take a lot of things on faith. Right?”

  Mitch smiled. “Let me guess. Second-generation Italian-Canadian.”

  “It’s that obvious?”

  “The holy water’s barely dry behind your ears, Mario.”

  Mario nodded. “My father wanted me to work with him and my brother in the construction firm. They both think I’m nuts. I think they’re right.”

  “Ah, but do they get to wear nice clothes like these?” Mitch said, indicating the baggy pants and leaden jacket.

  Mario laughed, turned, and leaned on the cruiser. The skimmers were still novel and expensive enough to be reserved for more senior officers. “I think I must’ve watched too much TV as a kid. Let’s hope it’s as interesting as at least the dullest of those shows. Remember ‘Adam-12’?”

  “You’re watching too much Retro. Whatever happened to Martin Milner?”

  “I think he and Jack Webb had a shoot-out and plugged one another. They’re both stuffed and mounted beside Trigger in the Roy Rogers Museum.” Mario’s eyes were sparkling. He liked Mitch, too. This should be fun, he thought. Nice that he’s got a sense of humor. ‘Cause we’re sure as hell gonna spend a lot of fuckin’ dull days sipping coffee and mannin’ speed traps. If only we should be as lucky as to have in a whole day what Martin Milner managed to squeeze into a half-hour.

  “Maybe we’ll end up in the Roy Rogers Museum, too.”

  “Which reminds me,” Mario said. “How do you know when you’re growing old?”

  “When you join a health club and don’t go?”

  “Nah.” Mario smiled. “When a fortune teller offers to read your face.”

  They got into the car for their first day together.

  5

  “Mitch?”

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Can I see you for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “In my office would be better.”

  Mitch shrugged. “Sure.” He followed Karoulis into the office and waited while Karoulis shut the door behind them.

  Mitch waited for the captain to begin.

  “Everything go O.K. on your shift last night?”

  “No problems, Captain. I’m getting used to the skimmer. I like it.”

  “Good.” He pursed his lips, frowned. “Danforth, from Broadview to Woodbine, was part of your run last night, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A body turned up this morning.”

  Mitch showed no reaction. Karoulis continued. “A Mr. Tsarianos opened his variety store this morning and found a man dead in his shop. You would have passed by his place last night on your rounds. See or hear anything?”

  “Not a thing. What was the guy doing there?”

  “Robbing the place, apparently. There was break and entry at the rear, and some minor contents and cash were found on and around the body.”

  “Sorry, Captain. Didn’t notice a thing. Maybe if I’d been on foot patrol I’d’ve spotted some sign of entry. But at night, in the skim
mer...” He managed a helpless expression.

  “I know, I know. The last thing we want is one of our men alone, on foot patrol in a back alley. That’s what the skimmers are for. I just wanted to check.”

  “What’d the guy do—die of a heart attack?”

  “No. He was shot.”

  “And nobody reported anything? Nobody heard it?”

  “It was a laser that got him.”

  “Jesus.”

  “But we don’t have it. They play hell with ballistics reports, you know.”

  Mitch smiled wryly. “Yeah.”

  “Those goddamned things are gonna be the death of us. Be nice if, just for once, a scientist devised something that could help us!”

  Mitch nodded sympathetically. Against his chest, he felt the comforting weight and presence of his Barking Dog. “I know what you mean, Captain.”

  “Right now, it appears he was killed by an accomplice. That’s all we have right now.”

  “Who was the guy?”

  “Small-time hood. Record as long as your arm. He’s no loss. Even his parents didn’t seem too upset when notified. You know?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “O.K., Mitch, that’s all. Just wanted to see if there was anything you could add to the picture. Keep your eyes open.”

  “Will do, Captain.” He turned and walked out the door, closing it after him.

  Behind him, Karoulis tilted his head at an inquisitive angle, stroking his neck, deep in thought. Then, since that was leading nowhere except to bizarre concerns about Mitch Helwig, commingled with the understanding that it was all—lasers, dope peddlers, skimmers, the commissioner’s office, Ciracella’s murder, street gangs, the new technology—getting away from him, slowly and surely, he thought fondly, as he always did at times like this, of his impending retirement, of a return trip to Greece. He remembered an island he had visited with his parents as a kid, remembered the sea a serene blue-green, and the winds warm, and the sky clear and sunny. For a moment he was lost again, lost between wanting to be a kid again, wanting to see his mother who had died eleven years ago, and wanting a drink.