Hair-Trigger (16 page)

Lofton turned on the radio, passing billboards, lights and an industrial landscape north of the railway tracks below. He was going to have to tell O'Hara what was going on, since he and Rowe worked together and the police were bound to question him as well. He'd swing by the house to brief him, or take him out altogether and tie up one big fucking loose end.

He turned off and continued along Adelaide—a spare, less-travelled route between old factories and warehouses on the edge of the garment district—then up to Queen. Shabby looking bookstores, textile outlets, coin laundries and furniture stores were interspaced with pastel-coloured restaurants and the odd gallery.

Driving along Euclid, Lofton was dismayed to see flashing lights on the road ahead, and realized that squad cars were parked near O'Hara's place. He turned into a driveway. There was a tremor in his leg as he backed out again, trying to keep it together.

23

L
ofton was piecing it together as he drove past the old Palace Tavern on King. A neighbour might have heard O'Hara's shots and later called police after seeing them carrying out what looked like bodies. Such suspicions wouldn't have justified a warrant, however, and it was possible that the cops would have needed to persuade him to invite them inside if they had less than probable cause. But he wouldn't have been that stupid. Not that a few hours would make much difference if they really wanted to investigate.

They'd still have no victims, names or murder weapon, and it was possible that nobody would even file a missing persons report. But they'd eventually match the blood types or DNA to the corpses in the car, and a connection between Rowe and O'Hara would be easy enough to establish. After that, it would just be a matter of time before O'Hara identified him as the other triggerman in the bank. Lofton wasn't sure if O'Hara knew his last name or had any idea where he lived. Then he remembered the knife, which Rowe must have had on him in the car. But he hadn't touched it, so that wasn't a problem.

Lofton knew he had to get off the road as quickly as possible. Back to Marva's, then home in the morning to pick up his belongings, clear out his bank account before it was frozen, and split town. Go Stateside with his green card. Take a Greyhound to Buffalo, fly to California, and wait to show up on
America's Most Wanted
now that they were including Canada. He kept flashing on Rowe's expression at the wheel afterwards, as if he couldn't process having been shot through the head. And now he was on the run while O'Hara, who was responsible for all this, was still alive to turn Crown witness.

Lofton drove over the crest of the hill and through the lights at Dufferin, past the closed bars, stores and
Taco Bell. He steadied his speed and looked out the window. Parkdale always seemed to have the ugliest hookers.

At Spencer he turned left, looking for a place to park, and wondered how long it would take the police to start looking for the BMW. They'd identify the driver, but the car might take a while if the ownership and insurance were in the glove compartment. If he'd lifted his wallet it would have bought him some more time.
What was a sharp-dressed wop in such a car doing down there in the middle of the night anyway? Maybe he had a body in the trunk too.

Lofton parallel parked between a Hyundai and a rusting K-Car, and wiped off his fingerprints. In this neighbourhood the odds were good that it was going to get scratched or have its decal pried off for a necklace. He walked up the street with his shoulder to the wind, his hand around the stock of one of the guns in his pockets as he tried to work out a strategy. Maybe Marva would come with him. He could sponsor her, or try to get her some fake ID. But of course it might be a problem being employed under his own name when there was obviously an extradition treaty between the U.S. and Canada. But one fucking thing at a time.

He walked up her driveway. The light was still on. At the bottom of her steps he tested her door handle with his left hand and found it unlocked. When he went in, a large motherfucker suddenly heaved himself up from the sofa and went for a gun on the coffee table. Lofton managed to thumb off the safety while he pulled out his Glock, which barely cleared his pocket when it discharged. The blast reverberated in the room as he tried to aim at the dodging man maneuvering with his own weapon, and fired again. The ex-boyfriend or whatever crashed into the TV as two others emerged from her bedroom and toilet with guns drawn, trying to stay out of one another's line of fire as Lofton shot at them blindly on his way out the door.

He got up the steps, looking back while he hurried down the driveway.
They appeared, but quickly scrambled for cover as he shot at them repeatedly. When the clip was empty he did his best to run, reaching for another gun, but they returned fire. Bullets penetrated cars and shattered windows. Lofton was hit more than once, and fell down hard in the street as the Glock slid away along the asphalt. Tyrone sprinted over, followed by Rasheed. Marva screamed from the basement steps in her housecoat as he took careful aim and shot Lofton in the back of the head. “That's for Ice,
bitch.
”

“What have you done?” She rushed down the driveway and knelt by Lofton, crying. “You killed him!”

Rasheed yanked on his toque as he looked around. “Yo, let's get Ice, man, and get out of here.”

“Call an ambulance or something!” she wailed. “Help!”

“He fuckin' shot Ice and tried to kill
us
, ho.” Tyrone turned and walked back to the house.

“Help! Police!”

“Shut the fuck
up
!” he yelled, going down the steps.

Marva stood up and started to run to a neighbour's, then stopped and went back to Lofton. “Help!” she cried, kneeling beside him. His blood was on her housecoat. She tried to turn him over and lift his head, then put him down and looked around, starting to get up again. “Call the police!”

A man five houses away was peering out his front door when they came back down the driveway with Ice propped up between them. “Call the
police
!” she yelled at him.

Rasheed held up the automatic and fired in that direction. The neighbour disappeared as windows broke and bullets ricocheted off brick and cement.
Tyrone steadied himself with his left arm around Ice, and discharged a few rounds into Marva, who fell and lay sprawled in the road a few feet from Lofton. They bundled the injured man onto the back seat, then climbed into the front. Their headlights went on as they pulled out into the street and made a wide U-turn over the curb and a front yard, heading south.

REVIEWS OF
Born To Lose

“Trevor Clark's sympathy for jailbirds, panhandlers and whores is tempered by keen insight into the complications of their lives. He writes about the ‘minor' inferno of their deprivation with a compassion that is lacking where they live. Impressive and recommended.”

—
The Ottawa Citizen

“Clark has an uncommonly acute ear for dialogue which renders his characters both realistic and distinct from each other, giving dimension and even occasional humour to what otherwise might be unrelenting territory.”

—
Metropolis

“ . . . Like those writers Clark quotes at the outset of each chapter (Miller, Dostoyevsky, Genet, Algren), he does have an ear for the voices of the underclass.”

—
The Globe and Mail

“The notes of rebellious despair that run through these stories mix with notes of satisfaction to be experienced in the proud, even rhapsodic, excoriation of society and self. There is no rebel like a self-proclaimed member of the legion of the damned. Clark writes this vision with conviction.”

—
The Canadian Book Review Annual

OTHER REVIEWS

Love On the Killing Floor

“Told in clear, understated prose,
Love On the Killing Floor
is a rare, sharp work of social realism, providing a vivid portrait of Toronto at a precise moment in time. The novel's frank exploration of race in contemporary Canada will leave many uncomfortable.”

—
Quill & Quire

Escape and Other Stories

“Trevor Clark creates such complex and diverse characters in
Escape and Other Stories
that it's like reading ten different stories from ten different authors . . .
Escape
is all too believable. Life is painfully awkward much of the time, and we disappoint ourselves as much as we disappoint others.”

—
BC Bookworld

A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

Among other things, Trevor Clark has worked as an oilrig roughneck, editor, portrait photographer, bookstore manager, and home entertainment coordinator for a TV movie production company in London, where he lived for a number of years. He is the author of
Born To Lose
(ECW Press,
1989
,)
Dragging the River
,
Love On the Killing Floor
, and
Escape and Other Stories
(Now Or Never Publishing,
2009
,
2010
,
2012
,) and his photographs have appeared in
Designs of Darkness: Interviews With Detective Novelists
, (Bowling Green University Popular Press,
1983
,) and
Interviews With Contemporary Novelists
(Macmillan/ St. Martin's Press,
1986
,) both by Diana Cooper-Clark, as well as
Ross Macdonald: A Biography
, by Tom Nolan, (Scribner's,
1999
,)
NOW
, and
The Globe And Mail
. He is from Toronto, and currently lives in Vancouver.

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks to stellar publisher/editor, Chris F. Needham.
Also to Alison T., and Jack Higgins: learned vagabond and master storyteller.