The Goldfish Bowl by Laurence Gough Read Free Book Online Page A

latch, which was stiff with a fresh coat of paint. Parker caught up with him as he pushed the gate open. They walked side by side towards the house, along a path that wandered pointlessly across the lawn. As they climbed the steps towards the wide front porch, Willows discreetly loosened the snubnose Smith & Wesson in the clamshell holster clipped to his belt.
    There was a brass knocker screwed to the door, an art nouveau likeness of a young girl’s face. There was an air about her of dissipation and neglect. The once-clean and graceful lines of her face had been blurred and pitted by the passage of time. Her cheeks were badly corroded, her lips faded and slack. A greenish residue clogged her long and artfully tangled hair, stained the corners of her eyes. Willows hesitated, and then rapped his fist on the white-painted wood of the door.
    Water dripped in a steady stream from a broken drainpipe to the porch railing, splattered across a rusting ten-speed bicycle.
    Shelley Rice opened the door.
    Willows estimated Rice’s age at about twenty-five, his height at six foot even and his weight at roughly a hundred and seventy pounds. Rice had medium-length hair, a friendly, open face. He was wearing a black T-shirt, grey corduroy pants. Looking for the orange running shoes, Willows saw that his feet were bare. But like Fritz the cat, Rice had one eye of blue and one of green.
    Rice ignored Willows. Smiling easily at Parker, he said, “It’s the cops, am I right?”
    “So far,” said Willows.
    Rice gave Parker another chance to admire his teeth. “Come on in, don’t just stand there looking gorgeous.”
    Willows took a quick step towards Rice. As Rice automatically began to back away, Willows put the palm of his hand against Rice’s chest and gave him a gentle push. Caught off-balance, Rice staggered back into the house. Inexplicably, he was still smiling.
    Willows brushed past Rice and walked down a short hallway, turned left through a pair of French window’s into the living room. There were Persian carpets on the oak floor. An overstuffed Chesterfield and two matching chairs were clustered around a massive fieldstone fireplace. A pink marble lamp stood on an antique Chinese endtable.
    Willows went through a curved archway into the dining room. There was twelve feet of mahogany table, eight matching chairs. A pine sideboard from eighteenth-century Quebec and a tea trolley just like the one his grandmother used to have. He moved down the length of the gleaming table to the huge floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows that flooded the room with light. Standing at the windows, he could see all the way across the city and the harbour to the scattering of pastel highrises along the West Vancouver waterfront.
    He didn’t have to take a deep breath to smell it, the house reeked of money. He wondered who owned it. Not Shelley Rice, with his black T-shirt and bright orange shoes. Rice would toss the Persian carpets in the garbage and buy a couple of hundred yards of purple shag.
    Willows heard the front door slam shut, and went back into the living room. Rice and Parker came through the French window. Rice still hadn’t abandoned his smile. He looked directly at Willows and said, “Would anyone care for a drink?”
    “Up against the wall,” said Willows. “Hands in the air and legs spread wide.”
    Rice’s smile faded. He stood there, looking dumb.
    Willows pulled his revolver and pointed it at Rice’s chest. “Move it, kid.”
    Rice swallowed noisily. He started to say something and then thought better of it and went over to the nearest wall and leaned into it. His left hand smeared the glass on a framed Toni Onley watercolour. He glanced up, made a small sound of dismay, and shuffled sideways.
    “Frisk him,” Willows said to Parker.
    Parker moved in on Rice.
    “Jesus,” said Rice weakly. “Is this legal?”
    “I doubt it,” said Willows. “Probably that’s why we’re all having so much fun.”
    Parker searched