A Criminal to Remember (A Monty Haaviko Thriller) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Also by Michael Van Rooy

  Half Title Page

  Copyright © Michael Van Rooy 2010

  Dedication

  Second Half Title Page

  #1

  #2

  #3

  #4

  #5

  #6

  #7

  #8

  #9

  #10

  #11

  #12

  #13

  #14

  #15

  #16

  #17

  #18

  #19

  #20

  #21

  #22

  #23

  #24

  #25

  #26

  #27

  #28

  #29

  #30

  #31

  #32

  #33

  #34

  #35

  #36

  #37

  #38

  #39

  #40

  #41

  #42

  #43

  #44

  #45

  #46

  #47

  #48

  #49

  #50

  #51

  #52

  #53

  #54

  #55

  #56

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  An Ordinary Decent Criminal by Michael Van Rooy

  Your Friendly NeighbourhoodCriminal by Michael Van Rooy

  A Criminal to Remember

  Also by Michael Van Rooy

  An Ordinary Decent Criminal

  Your Friendly Neighbourhood Criminal

  A

  Criminal

  to Remember

  Michael Van Rooy

  A Criminal to Remember

  copyright © Michael Van Rooy 2010

  Turnstone Press

  Artspace Building

  206-100 Arthur Street

  Winnipeg, MB

  R3B 1H3 Canada

  www.RavenstoneBooks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any request to photocopy any part of this book shall be directed in writing to Access Copyright, Toronto.

  Turnstone Press gratefully acknowledges the assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Manitoba Arts Council, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, and the Province of Manitoba through the Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Book Publisher Marketing Assistance Program.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

  incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Jamis Paulson

  Interior design: Sharon Caseburg

  Van Rooy, Michael, 1968-

  A criminal to remember / Michael Van Rooy.

  To Laura, once more.

  A Criminal to Remember

  #1

  I love a fair, a festival, a circus. I was at the Red River Exhibition Fair with my wife Claire and our son Fred and our friends Elena and Alex with their son Jacob. They were a few hundred feet ahead of me, lost in the crowd, as I stopped to tie a shoelace.

  While I was on my knee I saw a pack of twenty-somethings, men and women both, about six of them all clustered around the side of the butterfly tent forty feet away. I didn’t think anything of them but then I saw a flash-lick of fire in the narrow alley between tents and heard a raucous laugh that

  grated.

  I decided to check it out. I’m very curious; it’s a failure of mine, one bred deep in the bone. It’s caused a lot of pain, mostly to me, over the years.

  I also get bored easily.

  Curiosity and boredom are a much underrated combination. I knew from experience that bad things happened when I got bored and worse things happened when I got curious. For that reason I always tried to keep busy; it was one of the few pieces of advice I remembered my father ever giving me.

  Between me and the group there was a big tent full of antique farm equipment, so I circled around into it and made my way past hay balers and grain sifters and all sorts of things I couldn’t identify. There were a few people in the place, some old men, a puzzled professor type and a guy trying to cop a feel from a recalcitrant but giggling girlfriend, but the tent was mostly empty.

  At the back of the tent, behind a steam-driven pile driver, I could hear the group outside clearly through the heavy canvas.

  “Here, let me do it.”

  There was a hissing sound, and then another voice said, “Here, use this. It always works. It’s one of those electric igniters.”

  I pulled out the pocket knife my in-laws had given to me. A little Swiss Army deal that keeps a good edge. The smallest blade made a slit in the canvas and I had a front-row seat.

  Two feet away stood six idiots. One was shaking a huge pressurized can of generic hairspray and another was trying to light it with a butane lighter.

  The woman with the hairspray said, “I’ll show those dumb fuckers to kick me out …”

  The guy beside her finally got his lighter going. “Yeah. Also, Free The Bugs!”

  Everyone laughed. They were drunk. Or stoned. Or stupid. Or all of the above. Four men and two women, all egging each other on towards true idiocy. It’s amazing how adolescence happens later and later for some people.

  I put the knife blade back into the slit and kept cutting, sliding the blade down gently.

  The three-foot gout of blue flame twitched at the old, patched canvas in front of the group and one of them whooped. At a rough guess they were ten seconds away from setting the tent aflame. Which would be a shame. I’d been through the tent earlier. It was called the Butterfly Garden and it held (or so the sign claimed) two million butterflies and moths. I’d taken the number on faith and hadn’t tried to count.

  Inside it had lived up to its name—a big space full of fluttering, crawling, eating, fucking, birthing and dying bugs. Along with the bugs there were four teenage interpreters and guides and a few dozen visitors. It would be a shame to turn the tent into a torch, not to mention what would happen to all the people and bugs. My son, Fred, had loved them—he’d been captivated into silence and awe by the gentle, lumbering flight of the moths and the tense flickering of butterflies. He could see their entire lives in front of him on one wall—birth, first flight, feeding, fucking, dying. All coloured alternately in gentle pastels and sharp colours that looked blocked out by some talented artistic hand.

  Even Claire had liked the bugs, when a moth the size of a coffee saucer landed on her breast, briefly becoming a brooch. It flew away when she laughed but her delight stayed.

  It would be a shame to destroy something that had brought my family such joy.

  I put the knife in my left hand with the one-inch blade sticking out the bottom of my fist. Just in case.

  The woman with the hairspray shook it again as I stepped out.

  “Now watch this …”

  Fair fights are fine in the movies.

  Really. I like them and I almost always want the good guy to win. But I wasn’t in a movie. I cheat. In the real world I was a bad guy—well, a retired bad guy. Which meant I cheated, as a matter of principle.

  I balled my right fist up and swung overhand down as hard as I could at the closest guy’s right
shoulder—near to his neck but away from his spine. The sound of his clavicle breaking was drowned out by his scream and the woman dropped the hairspray as the man crumpled. Lots of pain in a big bone explosively shattered but, fortunately, screams in a fair are not uncommon and no one near by seemed to notice or care.

  The others turned to face me as I windmilled my arm back again fast like I was pitching a softball. The guy beside the girl had been leaning up against a support rope with his hand above his head, which made him a good target. He was stepping towards me with his hand still on the rope as I drove my fist up under his armpit fast and felt his shoulder pop out of its socket. It was an easy shot to take because the ball and socket joint is open from below and almost wants to come apart. With a little encouragement.

  Anyhow, he started to scream too as he lurched to the side.

  By that time one of the other men had managed to find a half-assed martial arts stance. Something he’d gotten from one of those unlimited (or is it ultimate?) fighting shows. Which was cool—whatever made him feel good. Maybe he was trying to impress the women. Men do way too much of that, and it seems to lead to all sorts of idiotic behaviour: wars, mountaineering expeditions, white water rafting, even getting married. I knew all about the urge to impress because I indulged in it myself sometimes.

  Although with age it was happening slightly less.

  Basically men will go to great lengths to be remembered and to be memorable.

  I lunged with my left hand, the one with the knife, and twisted it gently at the last second to lay the very edge of the blade right across the guy’s forehead from temple to temple. It cut a trough maybe an eighth of an inch deep, skipping along irregularities in the bone, but that was more than enough.

  For a second nothing happened and then a gush of blood poured down his face, covered his eyes and filled his mouth.

  I wondered why they didn’t do shit like that in ultimate (maybe it was unlimited) fighting. I might watch it then.

  Let’s be honest; in a real fight you palm an ashtray into someone’s face, you strangle someone with their own hair or you piss on them to distract their attention. Then you hurt them as badly as you can—you do what is necessary to win. Because in a real fight, after you lose, they just keep kicking you until you are way past dead. Then they kick you some more.

  The knife wound I gave wasn’t serious … well, it wasn’t life threatening, but the guy would have other things to worry about for a while. Head wounds bleed like a bitch. They’re very, very scary. I mean, the head is where thoughts are and now blood is pouring out of it. It would keep the idiot busy as he pawed at his face and tried to wipe the blood away and see something.

  I ignored him and kept moving. Which is a good idea in a fight, always keep moving, always keep loose and flexible. Always be ready to take or deliver a quick, cheap shot as long as it will be effective.

  The two women had fled. But the last guy, the one with the lighter, had turned to face me, leaning back to kick like he was hoofing a soccer ball. Swaying a little from drugs or drink. It was still a pretty good kick, though.

  I let him kick, twisting aside and bending at the knees to let it pass. When his foot was at chest height I put my shoulder under it and jumped straight up.

  His expression was priceless as his foot went way past his head and then all expression vanished as the back of his head hit the ground from maybe eight feet up. The rest of his body landed seconds later and I took a second to heel-stomp his ribs into about a week of hospital recovery time.

  I scooped up his lighter out of curiosity and wiped the knife on the first man’s shirt as I passed.

  Then I was back in the tent with the farm machinery and walking idly towards the exit.

  By the time the rent-a-cops arrived I was hundreds of feet away and meeting up with my wife and son and friends.

  Just a normal, average, ordinary kind of guy.

  #2

  The fairground west of the city was lit up at dusk by a hundred spotlights throwing cones of brilliance into the sky like signals to the divine. And lower down in between the spotlights were ribbons of neon spelling out names and nonsense and pretty lies that I desperately wanted to believe.

  Where there were no spotlights and no neon there were shadows, deep and dark and hard edged. And those places I knew very well.

  It was the once-a-year, one-week, one-chance-for-fun Red River Exhibition carnival and the place was packed. The noise filled my ears and vibrated my bones. The clank of chains on the Ferris wheel and roller coaster, the clatter of children’s feet racing down the asphalt paths and kicking gravel, the cry of frightened babies, the bray of young men, the gasps of young women and the pleas of barkers and shills.

  My nose opened to a hundred smells, the salt slick of sweat. The sour of vomit, the sweet of spilled drink syrup. The bravado of hot dogs and the spice of cinnamon. The butter and salt of popcorn and the sickly, slightly burnt smell of sugar turned into pink thread. A whiff of cologne from a man crossing my path, something too sweet, too complex. A young woman passing me in slight rut, flushed pink by excitement or orgasm or both.

  I felt the vibration of the machinery rising up through the ground. Echoing everywhere from bone to bone, resonating my sinews.

  The look and taste of the place filled me with a kind of eager expectation …

  Elena Ramirez, Winnipeg police sergeant and friend, stood beside me and said loudly, “I LOVE the circus!”

  Her son, Jacob or Jake, two years plus a few months, looked up at her from his stroller and blew a raspberry. When she looked back down at him he smiled and raised his hands to be lifted up and out, which Elena refused to do. He was an adorable baby, golden skinned and black haired with sparkling brown eyes, and he was thoroughly and completely wicked.

  I checked my son Fred, who was in the second stroller, and he just pivoted his head back and forth to try to take everything in. His hair was blond, very fair and almost luminous in the June evening, and his brown eyes seemed to weigh everything against his curiosity. He fastened on a roller coaster that was painted with blue and yellow diamonds like a boa constrictor and he said, “Let’s go! Ya-ya. Ya! Go! Ya!” Loudly and with approval.

  I turned partway to Elena and raised my voice to be heard. “I like the circus too, but love it? C’mon. Besides, this isn’t really a circus.”

  Elena shook her head and her short dark hair swayed. “So few real circuses left. I have to be happy with what I’ve got … this is about as close to a midway as I can find. And in May there’s the Royal Canadian Circus which comes to town and has some of the elephants and the clowns. That’s almost like the big top. And every now and then the Cirque du Soleil comes to town and that’s the high wire and acrobats and the rest.”

  She smiled and showed bright white teeth. “Between the three of them I get a real circus! I just have to wait a little while to get what I want. And I believe that waiting is good for my character.”

  Beside us a merry-go-round started up. It was populated by centaurs and unicorns and flying horses and even a few seahorses. We watched them whirl around and crowds of people came close and eddied around us, respecting the strollers, perhaps.

  I looked at Elena and shook my head. “You are strange. I get accused of being strange but you beat me hands down …”

  Her eyes were alight with mischief. “You are a n’er-do-well, just like my grandma said about certain boys in her home town.”

  “This is true.”

  Claire and Elena’s husband Alex appeared with white plastic cups of lemonade loaded with too much ice, and corn dogs with mustard. For the next few minutes there was nothing but the sound of eating and drinking. Then both children loudly refused to eat the unfamiliar food.

  “Nononononono. NO! Yes. NO!” From Jake and roughly the same from Fred.

  Elena stared at her son. “Last year you loved corn dogs and now you hate them.”

  I got the two brats regular, boring hot dogs with dull, uninteresting k
etchup and they both shut up and ate quickly. And messily.

  I knew hot dogs were bad for kids. I knew there was a choking danger. I guess that makes me a bad dad. But it was one of those risks Fred was going to have to face eventually in his life and I felt he should face it with some paternal support.

  Alex put his arm around his wife while she ate. They made an interesting contrast: he was white and thin with long black hair and she was West Indian, brown and solidly built. I wondered where her gun was but I didn’t have the guts to ask for fear she might show me.

  Claire knelt in front of Fred and cleaned ketchup from his nose and eyebrow. Then she turned to me, sighed, and cleaned mustard from my cheek with the same napkin.

  “I can’t take you anywhere.” Her voice was melodious and amused.

  “Hey!”

  The four of us kept walking and pushing our strollers, working our way through the fair. Fred was tired and I wanted to carry him but I was trying to be a tougher kind of parent. Frankly, I was sucking at it, but I kept pushing and tried not to think about it.

  We passed plastic slides, chain and canvas swings tied to V6 engines, bumper cars and many other devices designed to zip, shake and agitate.

  As we walked Elena kept talking cheerfully. “It all used to be different, back when I was a child … like the prizes. They used to give out bugs on the midway.”

  Claire wrinkled her nose. “Bugs? Really?”

  “They weren’t really bugs, they were bright green anole lizards given out in glass bowls. A bug butcher was a salesman, and he would wear the lizard on his lapel, tied with a piece of string to show they were harmless. My granda used to claim he caught bugs for sale to Mr. Barnum when he came down to Sarasota, Florida.”

  Alex interrupted. “Your granda also used to claim he was a pirate.”

  His wife gave him a swat. “That was much more believable. He was a dreadful liar and I mean that both ways. But all that’s changed. No more bugs. No more trains. And the grifts … oh the grifts. Where have they all gone?”

  The word was familiar to me but I asked anyway, “Grifts?”

  I had to say something. An ambulance was nosing through the crowds, preceded by two fat rent-a-cops slowly turning beet red. I guessed they were there to pick up my friends back at the bug house.