The Piper Has Many Purses

The Piper Has Many Purses

Everything about this life was as alien as if he had been dropped on a Jovian moon. Only his desperate obsession overpowered Doug’s disgust.  A final deep breath of marginally more tolerable air, and he entered the board-front bar as he had been doing daily for two weeks.  Mechanically, he got a beer and slumped into the same unstable chair. Once more he stared lifelessly at the grimy pool table and drank uncomfortably from the bottle. He could not imagine touching a glass supposedly washed in this place.  It was grim enough wearing the same dumpster clothes night after night.  Being now so close to the prize that had been driving him for more than a year was all that made it bearable. 
         Tonight only one of the two men he pretended not to watch came to drink and shoot 8-ball.  There was no convenient drinking buddy tonight for another pointless game, and no drunks in the place to hustle.  Months of agonizing patience were about to open the door to satisfying his desperate need.
         “Hey, old man, can you hold a stick?”
         Doug did not change his blank gaze, but continued to appear see no-one and nothing. He waited through three slow breaths of poisoned air, before speaking almost inaudibly, “Are you talking to me?”
         “I’m not talking to my crotch.  You’re the only asshole in here.”
         “I have played the game, but not for a long time.”
Doug struggled to his feet and removed the torn coat revealing a once blue plaid shirt and green, faded to near brown, shapeless trousers.  No belt.
“Five bucks and a beer on the game”, came at Doug on a hurricane of foul breath.
“Have you got five bucks, old man?”
         “Two games out of three.  I need to practice.  It’s been a long time.”
         “Two out of three - but it’s $20, and a beer a game.  Show the bread, old man.”
         Doug pulled two crumpled tens out of a formless pocket, slowly straightened and handed them over, offended by his own unwashed hands.  He reached in again and put a toonie on the side of the table.  The man, Doug had watched so surreptitiously for so long, put the toonie in the table and shouted much louder than was necessary in the empty room, “Frankie.  Two Blue”.  The barkeep reached in the cooler without a sound or a glance.
“Hey!  Old man!  Pay for the beer.”
         “My name is Doug.”
         “Jamie”
         By closing, Jamie was yattering incessantly, and dropping into the nearest chair, when not trying to find the cue ball through bloodshot eyes.  A week later, Jamie and his companion, Ken, made a permanent threesome with Doug for beer, pool and malox guaranteed pizza.  A bit at a time the three shared stories of past jobs, barely remembered women, and dreams of one big score.  Gradually, Doug began to admit to being most turned on when taking a young, objecting woman – or girl.  It was an addiction they shared, and it soon became their common ground – beer and girls who needed to be used.  “If you don’t take what you want, you don’t get it” was their shared vision of the world.
         Occasionally the boys were troubled. Who was this old man?  He talked too well and never got drunk.  He wasn’t local, but neither were they. It bothered their few sober moments.  Doug told stories of past scores and girls, but revealed nothing else.  If they tried to get something out of him, there were more drinks, a new game, or a new story.  The conversation would subtly change – if their beer-sodden talk could be called ‘conversation’.  Doubts vanished each time Doug bought another round. It did not seem surprising that this wino always had booze money.
         It was time to take the next step toward the prize.  Doug took the boys to his pay-by-the-week-cash-only room.  Intolerable for Doug, the room was normal for the Jamie and ken, especially with a cold (or warm) 24 on the dresser.. Well into the case, and after Doug kept pressing for a girl for the three of them to use, he put it directly to them  “Come on guys, you’re young and can hustle some good stuff.  I can’t get them to come with me anymore, but I can still do it as good as you young bucks – or better! “  They were hooked and Doug had his partners.  These slimy men would help satisfy Doug’s consuming need. The painful frustration would be purged – soon.
“First, we need money.  We can’t stick around after we party.  I’ve been waiting for a deal to go down.  It’s ready, but I need help”.
         Jamie’s bloodshot eyes almost cleared.  “A score? What’s goin’ down?  I knew there was something fishy about you.”  Ken was trying to listen but he was still fantasizing the three of them and a girl he’d seen in the pizza take-out. Doug walked to the window and shut it in spite of the heat, smoke, and stench, already overpowering the room.  “ I’m not what I seem to be.”
“Shit, we know that, don’t we, Ken. We ain’t stupid.”  Ken wobbled a nod, and tried to grunt an affirmative.
The wino vanished and even Doug’s tattered outfit seemed to straighten as he took command. “I need unregistered handguns - untraceable.  Automatics  - not revolvers - and no 22’s! Can you get them?’
Even Ken sobered and four eyes narrowed.  Guns meant real money and this sounded like connections. This was bigger than Jamie had imagined. “How many?  How much?”
“We need four and they can’t come from the south.  It’s inside work, and my people know every deal that goes down.”  It was now obvious to Jamie that Doug was not of their world.  He was hiding among them. Ken was fighting for a piece of sober thought, “What, wha, where … damn! .  … Wha – How much in fer, for  uh…uh…us?”  Jamie was doing better at holding off the booze, “What’s our end?”
“When can you get them – and ammo?  No tracing.  You’re not so dumb that you can’t figure my connection.  You know what happens to anyone that screws up.”
Ken was getting more coherent by the second, but Jamie spoke up first, “We ain’t dumb, asshole. Sorry, no offence.  That’s just me.  I know where to get them.  There’s a guy up in the bush, west of here, that hunts with pistols and stuff. He has this big collection … and he don’t like cops ….and he ain’t registerin’ nothin’.”   
“When?”
“We have to get up there and watch ‘til he’s gone.  Maybe next week.”
“No.  Before Wednesday.  There’s three grand in it, and you get five hundred each.  But the deal goes down Wednesday night. No later.  Wednesday or nothing.  Got it?”
“Jeez, for a thousand bucks, we’ll do it even if the damned hunter has to have an accident.
Doug, now carried the alley clothes like a three piece suit.  He had them.  It could be done.  “No witnesses.  Can you handle that?”
“It won’t be the first time.  You should have been there when we did that kid in Ottawa.  They don’t have a clue. That gun’s long gone and it ain’t never getting’ found. A five grand reward for us by her old man, and not a trace of evidence to tag us.  We can get the guns, and no sweat about witnesses.”
Doug turned and seemed to stare out the greasy window.  He took deep breaths before turning back to the boys.  “Good, but a missing or dead hunter will pull in OPP Ident, and the press. My people get upset at any noise.  Very upset. Do what you need to after the deal.  A theft won’t bring in the media or the forensic boys.  Got that?”
Any logic Jamie or Ken might have mustered was lost in expanding greed. They nodded in unison. Doug demanded confirmation, “You’re sure no-one can trace you to the, b-bitch, in Ottawa?”
“No chance, and they won’t find the one the three of us have either.  We know what to do.” Doug nodded with an executioner’s lifeless expression.  Jamie assumed the morgue cold look was a warning to the more soused, Ken.  This was Jamie’s shot at the big time and Ken would not louse it for him. Not this time.
         The following day, Doug called on Jamie privately to be sure he understood that  Ken had to be controlled and kept quiet or Doug’s people would see to all three of them.  “This is too big for anyone to shoot off their mouth.  The guns are a side deal.  The main event is ten kilos for thirty grand.”  Jamie’s eyes widened and his ability to speak vanished.  This was the big time. This was his chance.  Doug had his absolute attention. 
“There’s five thousand for you, not five hundred.  Maybe more.  Ken is your problem. “You control him or it’s more than no deal.  It’s no anything! Understand?”
         Jamie assumed his imitation of a wise-guy stance.  “I got it.  Don’t worry about Ken.  He won’t be a problem.”
         “We need a cell phone so we can tell my people when it’s set and clear.  I’ll give Ken the money to buy one.  Pay-as-you go.  No contract.”
         Jamie got the point.  “Can’t be traced to you or me. Right?”
         “Smart man!  There’s one more thing.  Tomorrow you‘ll get an envelope with $5,000 in small bills. Count it. This is the advance so we can leave.  We cannot touch the rest of the money until we are out of the area.  You will pick-up our $25,000 when you deliver the guns and coke.  Pay Ken whatever extra you want from your end, but he doesn’t need to know more than he knows now.  He’s one too many already.”
         Wednesday night Ken and Jamie slipped the door and entered the unoccupied house Doug had located for the exchange.    It was hard not to clean out the place.  Even by flashlight they could see expensive things everywhere. Maybe after the deal.
Still dressed for alleys and paper-wrapped wine bottles, Doug stumbled into the house with a child’s school backpack. He handed the pack to Jamie, who was surprised at the weight of it.  “Here’s the ‘stuff’.  It’s wrapped in comic books like a kid might carry to go trading. You hang onto the coke, Jamie.  Ken you got the guns?” 
         Ken put four automatics on the kitchen table.
         “You dumb jerks.  Package two of them, and each of you take one loaded in your hand.  Don’t you know anything?  What if it’s a hit? Once the deal is good and after you count the money, – and only then - you give him the last two guns. And you empty them first.  Then walk out of here with no guns, no dope - clean.  Jeez! Use your heads.”
         The ‘jerks’ each loaded a gun and felt its power drive up their adrenaline levels.
“Ken, give me the phone. I’ll call my contact and let him know it’s set.” Doug studied the boys, made a tiny involuntary shake of his head, then told them he was leaving.  “My man will be here in 30 minutes.  You know what to do and where to meet me. Don’t screw up!”  In the doorway, he turned back and said to Jamie, “Did you have the envelope?”  Alarmed, Jamie nodded tensely, and Doug added, “You know what to do.”
         As he closed the door, Doug added a final warning, “Don’t mess this – ten grand is the best deal you ever had.”
         Ken growled at Jamie, “Ten!  What ten? What envelope”
         “Nothing, nothing.  I’ll tell you later.”
         “Now!  Tell me now!”  With his face turning red from fury instead of only booze, Ken pointed his gun at Jamie’s face.
         It was obvious that Ken was a liability. What he learned now would not matter. Jamie needed to calm ken for now, “It’s the five grand advance.  I’m holding it for us.”
         Ken fired without word.  Rage spoiled a point blank head shot, and Jamie crumpled spurting blood from his throat.
“Advance my ass!” 
Ken readied another shot as Jamie tried to hold his throat with one hand and fumble for his own gun with the other. His “why?” would not form.
“You mother-f……, Jamie! Doug told me that you’d made a deal for the reward. I didn’t believe it. That’s the five grand. You sold me out.”  Both men became vaguely aware of approaching sirens as Jamie’s eyes widened for the last time, and he only gurgled as he tried to warn Ken that they’d both been set up. Ken fired again and again, no longer missing.
Doug ignored the shots behind the door, turned off the phone, wiped and dropped it at the back door.
         Strolling along the street in a tailored sports shirt and trousers, Doug added a bag to a householder’s garbage.  Thursday morning at 6 a.m. was the pickup on that street . This week it would contain clothes even the Sally Ann would toss, together with a wig, false mustache, and a pair of dirtied, though new, gloves. He straightened his shirt and was soothed by the rising scream of sirens.
The reward was paid, and would go to the “proceeds of crime” fund.  It might prevent another father’s agony. He joined the gathering spectators as police cars poured into the area.  Apparently there had been a 911 cell phone call by a man who claimed to have been shot by a thief in the home of the Chief of Police. Everyone in this town knew that the Chief was at a Conference in Toronto.
         Doug waited with the rubbernecking neighbours, until he overheard a gossiping officer sending off the police wagon with its prisoner.  “Killing in the course of an indictable offence is murder one, and we got him in the act. Smoking gun and his prints on everything.”
  It was the response of the second cop that brought the first glimmer of a true smile in a very long time to the face of a grieving father. 
“Yeah, and wait until he gets to the pen.  Shit. Guns and a child’s bag packed with the worst kiddie and snuff porn any of us ever saw. He’s a dead man.”
“Nobody will buy his bullshit story that he thought it was coke. Twenty pounds of coke in the Chief’s house in this town?  With  $5000 in fives & tens in his pocket? That’s schoolyard money.  It’s insane.  He’s dealing kiddie porn, and snuff flics with real guns!  He’ll never live to make a parole application.”
“25 years?  Shit, in six months, he’ll beg to have his throat cut.”
         Two unknown father’s lost their sons tonight, but others would not lose daughters. The Piper had his due, and Doug might see some life return to his wife’s eyes.