Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Read Online Free Page B

far.”
    “Fuck you, Garret.”
    They glared at each other for a long moment, and then Garret turned away. Billy thought he was such a tough dude. Well, fine. Let him keep on believing it.
    Garret said, “What’re we gonna do now, call it a night?”
    “Wanna steal some radios?”
    “Not really.”
    “Me neither.” Billy lit a cigarette. “What kinda radio we got in our new car?”
    “I dunno, can’t see a brand name.”
    “Turn it on. Punch some buttons.”
    The Stones. Some violin shit. Billy Joel. That weird black kid carved himself up or whatever. Slept in bed with a human skeleton, he’d heard. Barbara fucking Streisand. Yuck. Paul McCartney sounding like he was about a thousand years old. “Rip it out,” said Billy.
    “Now, while we’re drivin’? Shit, I could get myself electrocuted!”
    “The way we’re headed, it’s probably gonna happen sooner or later anyway.”
    “What’re you talking about, man?”
    “Kidnapping. Unlawful confinement. Grand theft auto or whatever they call it. You rip off some dude’s Chevy, nobody gives a shit. But hey, try stealing some bitch’s BMW, that’s another thing. Especially if she’s in it at the time.” Billy punched Garret on the shoulder. “They get us now, it’s the chair for sure.”
    Garret thought it over for a while, frowning, and then said, “This is Canada, man. You could slaughter a whole fuckin’ kindergarten, all they can give you is life.”
    “Bust that radio out of there,” said Billy. “Be a good boy and do what you’re told.”
    Garret didn’t usually carry a knife but he always had a big screwdriver on him. The way he figured it, if the cops ever busted them, they’d pat Billy down, find his blade and charge him with carrying a concealed weapon. Then frisk Garret, find the screwdriver and figure he was an electrician or something, let him go. He chopped at the console, slashing at the leather, trying to gouge the radio free. Whack whack whack. McCartney made a sound like he’d swallowed a five-cell flashlight. Bits of leather and chunks of high-impact plastic sprayed across the seat. Whack whack. Garret grabbed and twisted, using his arms and the strength in his wrists. The radio came free, trailing half a dozen red and blue umbilical cords. Garret tossed it in the backseat. “Do I fuckin’ pass, teach?”
    “Wanna rob a store?”
    “What’s open, this time of night?”
    “There’s a Mac’s about a half a mile away.”
    Garret shook his head. “I’m tired, let’s go home.”
    “Chickenshit.”
    “It’s been a long night, Billy.” Garret slumped back in his seat. Just to keep his hands busy, he popped open the glove compartment. Porsche sunglasses, registration papers. A baggie containing about a quarter of an ounce of marijuana and some loose cigarette papers.
    “Hey, look what I found.”
    “Roll it up. Whatsa matter, you stupid?”
    Garret rolled a joint, fired up and sucked smoke deep into his lungs.
    Billy said, “Hey, what about me?”
    Garret tried to pass Billy the joint. Billy knocked it away.
    “Roll me one of my own,” he said.
    “Sure,” said Garret. Billy had a real strong thing about sharing. He just hated it.
    Billy dropped Garret off at his front door, burnt rubber all the way down the street. He parked Nancy Crown’s black BMW in an alley six long blocks from his mother’s house, grabbed the radio out of the backseat, got out of the car and started to walk away. The sky was clear. There was a skinny fingernail moon down low on the horizon. Billy swore, tossed the radio in somebody’s backyard and climbed back into the car.
    He found Nancy Crown two blocks from where he’d left her, walking rapidly down the sidewalk in her long black dress and high heels. He pulled the BMW up against the curb and stepped out on the sidewalk. She stared at him, her face pale. Billy stared back. She was taller than he’d thought, nice figure. Cold, shivering. He handed her the keys. She didn’t thank him.