James Heneghan - Fit to kill

Percy said, “Okay. Sounds like we got a lineup. But what’s the biggest item right now?”

“Joico Hair Competition?” suggested Wexler.

“The murders,” said Ozeroff gloomily.

“Right. So what about a cautionary piece, a list of do’s and don’ts for the women of the West End? Deb, you’re a woman-”

“Holy fuckoly! I’m a woman, am I, Perce? The way you’ve got me crammed into that shoebox with three men I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

Percy sighed.

“Forget it, Perce. Anyway, how about your editorial? Why don’t you do a piece on the murders, too, instead of your usual shit-nosed, right-wing prose poem.”

Percy winced. “I already did. ‘Violence Makes Victims of Us All.’ How you like that?”

Ozeroff said, “Sounds like I might agree with you, Perce, for once. And as regards advice for the women of the West End, I’m seriously thinking of packing a piece, and I plan to tell them to do the same.”

Percy’s protuberant eyes popped.

“Packing a what?”

“Every woman should carry a gun,” said Ozeroff. “We don’t stand a chance unless we’re armed.”

“Serious advice for West End women, Deb, okay? Even if you gotta miss the fashion stuff. You know what I’m saying?”

“You wouldn’t want to read my advice, Percy. We women are mad as hell, and we’re not gonna take it anymore. Castration’s too good for these-”

Percy’s eyes popped again. He waved his arms. “Deb? Deb? Could you cool it? You’re makin’ me ill. All I’m askin’ is a few hundred words on precautionary-”

“I hear you loud’n clear, Perce. No need to get your underpants in an uproar. I’ll do it, okay?”

Percy propped his elbows on his desk, sighed, and massaged his hair with his fingers until it stood up like a gray toilet brush.

Casey raised an eyebrow at Wexler as they carried their chairs back to the reception area. Wexler grinned back at him.

At the fitness center that evening, Casey said hello to Emma Shaughnessy.

“Hello, Casey.”

“I lost one pound.”

“Ah, that’s brilliant right enough.”

Pope heard what he’d said and came over. “Ah, then you are on the road to magnificence, Sebastian, like myself.”

“Casey,” said Casey.

“One pound is a beginning,” said Emma after Pope had gone off. “The main thing is, how do you feel?”

“I feel fine.”

He wanted to ask her out. There was an Irish movie playing, but while he was waiting for the words to come, she had moved on to one of the machines.

Pope told him later that the police had doubled their evening patrols. Black-booted plainclothesmen hung out on the Denman and Davie restaurant strips. Pope said he was sure that some of the extra people working out in the gym were cops. They probably were. Pope knew everybody.

Later that evening Casey walked through the rain to Granville Street to see the Irish film. It was still raining when he got out. He dropped into O’Doul’s Bar on Robson for a beer. Then he walked home.

Casey enjoyed a morning cup of tea with Matty in her kitchen as they talked about the murders.

“Do you think the police will ever catch him, Casey?”

“He’s sure to make a mistake eventually, and when he does…”

“I hope so. I hope it will be soon. Those poor women.”

“Thanks for the tea, Matty.”

Roseanne Agostino finished her workout a few minutes before the gym was about to close. Her black cotton-polyester tights were damp with sweat, as well as the matching bra top and the bare midriff that showed off her tiny waist.

She would be thirty-two next week, and she felt better than she had at twenty.

She hurried downstairs and sweated in the sauna for ten minutes, then showered. She stepped out of the shower and eyed her glistening body in the mirror. Slim and tight. She planned to keep it that way. Her thighs were a tad on the thick side, she knew, but it was solid muscle, every bit of it. No fat. Took after her mother-good peasant stock. Strong like a horse. But her mother’s body had gone to fat years ago, and now her thighs and rump were enormous. Roseanne wasn’t about to let that happen to her. She stayed away from junk food and worked out whenever she could. Usually four or five times a week, sometimes six if her boss didn’t make her work weekends.

Roseanne’s boyfriend, Gary, who drove a Coca Cola truck, went ape when she danced for him. He loved her tiny waist and muscled thighs-her hourglass figure, as he called it.

“Beam me up, Scotty!” he’d yelled last Friday night at her place when she did a slow strip for him and danced nude. It felt like she was dancing only for herself. Like he wasn’t even there, mouth open, tongue hanging out like a Doberman’s. Begging her to lie down with him. Which Roseanne loved to do. But she also loved to keep him waiting and waiting until he could take it no more. Until he finally grabbed her and gave it to her, which was fine for him but was over way too soon as far as she was concerned. Like last Friday. As soon as it was over, he’d wanted to know if she had any potato chips in the cupboard.

Men were one of life’s major disappointments.

She dressed, stuffed her damp things into her gym bag and headed out, walking down Denman Street. The rain had stopped. When she got to Comox, she turned east up the hill to Nicola, where it was quiet. She had only a short distance to go. Along Nicola to Pendrell, and then her studio apartment was on Broughton, just one block farther up the hill. She lived alone, which was the way she liked it. Even if it did mean only having a tiny place with no proper bedroom and having to manage all the rent herself. Gary stayed weekends sometimes, but she was always glad when he was gone so she could have the apartment to herself again. He often took her to his place in the east end, near Commercial Drive. A grotty attic room decorated with stolen street signs and Penthouse centerfolds and smelling of stale cigarettes and bad hygiene. She didn’t like it, preferring the West End and her own place to his.

Thinking of Gary’s place made her feel a bit depressed. Maybe what depressed her was not having a man she really needed in her life. Someone who was strong and quiet and serious. Not like Gary, who talked too much about silly things. He was always complaining about his job and about his boss, who nagged him for not taking care of his truck.

The kind of man she needed would have a good solid job and be affectionate. They would read and discuss books. Gary never read books. If he kissed her, it was because he wanted her in bed. The man she needed would love her. He would get pleasure out of brushing her hair sometimes, when she felt like it, and rubbing her tired muscles after she’d slaved on her feet all day at Eaton’s. And he’d be thoughtful, bringing her little unexpected things. She loved surprises. Gary wasn’t thoughtful, unless it was himself he was thinking about.

She wasn’t getting any younger and hadn’t yet met a man she wanted to marry. Most women were married by thirty. The ones she knew, at least. They had a couple of babies and a home with a two-car garage in Richmond or Port Moody. Or, if their husbands had good jobs, a rancher on the side of the mountain in North Vancouver. Maybe she should try changing her job. The only people she ever met in Women’s Wear were women. She could try waiting tables again. Get a job in one of the better downtown restaurants where people treated you nice and the tips were good. She could join a hiking club like the North Shore Walkers, which was a great way to meet new people. At least that was what Louise, her friend at work, said. And she should know, because she’d met her Tommy that way. They were engaged to be married in June.