LITMIR.BIZ

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down with a rolled up newspaper; another taxi clipped by, wowing wide in the road. In the rear-view mirror, Ray Tate watched the Chinese man start the long hike up Harrison Hill, rhythmically slapping his newspaper against his pant leg in frustration. At a coffee shop an Asian woman in business attire, holding her briefcase against her chest, was blocked by a man in a white apron waving a spatula over his head, shouting, “We’re closed, we’re closed.” Behind him through the street-front window, Ray Tate could see the place was packed with hunched customers who lifted their masks to sip coffee or eat food.

      Down at the waterfront where the river widened into the lake, there were dozens of boats bobbing off the city’s edge. People believed the bug was landlocked and those with sailboats or power monsters slept on them, barbecued meals on deck, had rifles or pistols at hand to repel the diseased. They kept an eye to the pennants on their masts, ready to weigh anchor and head for Canada if the wind changed. There was litter and beer bottles on the riverbank where vigilant groups of Volunteers had spent the nights, ready to go hand-to-hand with any boatloads of Chinese migrants trying to sneak in from Canada to steal the American dream.

      He eased the Taurus down under the span bridge and across the access road, turning where it lifted at the waterfront. There was a bit of reluctant mist still locked in the hollows. The sun was screened behind fading fog that looked nuclear in the strengthening yolky light. The radio muttered and he sorted calls and warnings and requests with a casual inner ear. A fist fight at a bus stop; all free units to the airport for a protest over rumours Asians were being routed from Chicago; a call to shots-fired on Marlborough in Stonetown.

      Everyone was getting a little goofy with the two- and three-shift days.

      “Any unit near Bradford and Queen?”

      “Scouter four solo unit, right there, dispatcher.”

      “Report a naked male complainant covered in pythons. Possible mental incompetent. Ambo rolling.”

      “Repeat, dispatch? Did you say …” The voice rose to soprano, “Py-py-py-py-thons?”

      “Ten-four, four solo. Pythons.”

      “Unable to respond, dispatch. I got ophidiophobia.”

      “Sorry, four solo. I meant to say ... ah ... spiders?”

      “Okay, then, dispatch. Through counselling I’ve overcome my chronic arachnophobia. I’m rolling solo.”

      There were appreciative single clicks.

      A disguised voice whispered: “All yoo-nits. Ray Tate’s on the road with a pencil.”

      Ray Tate laughed. The Road.

      “All yoo-nits,” the Road whispered. “Ray Tate’s looking to meet new friends. Call him up for an autograph.”

      A serious youthful voice came over. “Sergeant Tate, come up on the air, please?”

      A female charger, sounding like a breathy beauty queen: “Oh, Sergeant Tate? Ray? I’m in the Hauser North, building four, tenth floor, south end of hallway. I’m real lonely, honey, my puffy pal is no fun. Knock twice and let yourself in. Do come and sign me out and we’ll go part-tay …”

      He ignored that call but was a little itched to take a run up there anyway, scope the thing out. She sounded fun, the kind of girl who could stand in human gases and be cute with a clothespin on her nose. Except for his ex-wife, who was a cop’s daughter, in his adult life he’d only slept with lady cops and a nurse who wanted to become one. Except for a woman from an art class he’d taken over in Chicago, he hadn’t dated in a year.

      Another man’s voice: “We got one down in the gun smoke at Hauser South. Sergeant Tate, come up on the air.”

      Another: “We got a gunfire stage on Branksome in Stonetown no victim. Sergeant Tate, come up.”

      The transmissions broke with three fast clicks as Ray Tate pulled into the waterfront parking lot near an abandoned bacon stand. He cranked the volume.

      A level, unpunctuated voice, fast: “Urban Squad Two solo request backup transport supervisor seven-seven Marlborough Road holding one solo at gunpoint one-eight-seven no outstanding no ambo required supervisor detective required roll the catering truck.”

      A female voice came on. “You okay, U Deuce?”

      Silence.

      Four rapid responses: “Ghost ten rolling solo.” “Ghost four rolling lonely.” “Scout four wheelman stag on it.” “Scout sergeant one lonely.”

      Ray Tate imagined the ghosters and scouts and prowl cars, wherever they were, turning and racing like iron filings toward the invisible pull of a violent magnet. There were a lot of lonelys, solo units, and stags on the road, wheelmen whose shotguns were down with the bug.

      He unlocked the short shotgun racked under the dash and started a slow roll to the access road, sorting himself a fast route, leaning for his red Hello light in the passenger-side foot well.

      A ghost car came over, the charger a melodious thespian. “Ghooooos-terrrr Ten on the stage, dispatch. One for the box, one for the bag, all secure, break off, units. Con-tinue the coroner’s catering truck, sil vous plais.”

      “Ten four, ten. Thank you.”

      “No, my dear, thank you for this opportunity to perform for you …” the stage voice giggled, “… and all the other little people.”

      Appreciative single clicks.

      Ray Tate listened a moment. When there was no further air, he rolled the Taurus back into the parking lot. He locked the shotgun rack, took off his raid jacket and got out, slipping his rover into his back pocket. He popped the trunk and took a sketchpad and some charcoal sticks from his briefcase, slammed the trunk and walked to the edge of the river and set up on a defaced bench under a parched tree. The gold buildings of Canada, across the way, were half lit-up by the struggling sun. The sails of the boats in the foreground were still in low dawn shadow, vague smudges. A moaning tanker eased like a relentless predator down the centre of the lake under a plume of screaming seagulls.

      Gold buildings and trudging tankers weren’t going to do it for him. He’d had it with the lack of flesh.

      He waited for inspiration, something to engage him. It wasn’t long in coming.

      On a nearby sailboat a woman came above deck. She had long black hair twisted into a rope, wore a white bra and red shorts. She carried a bucket and looked around, then stripped off the bra and shorts. Balancing herself to the rhythm of the waves off the tanker, she bent over and dipped the bucket into the river and doused herself down with water. At the distance she looked undefined, a smear of light grey. Minimalist, of no detail, as though she’d already been sketched or painted.

      It was a vision that stirred him on a lot of levels. It was human and sexual, obscure and specific; enough to allow him possibilities, to fuck a little with reality. He flipped to a blank page and clutched the short charcoal stick between his knuckles. He kept the woman’s graceful shape but used the flat of the stick like a wide brush to make a perfect, small dark torso in graceful pose; he made her hair spiky, the hint of her eyes wide and Asian.

      The voice of the female charger with the puffy friend at the Hauser North Projects rang in his inner ear. His homicide target was coming out of the courthouse at ten. He decided if the Hauser North stage hadn’t been broken up by the time the target was either down for the day or in handcuffs, he’d push the Taurus up that way, maybe get a date or at least a few laughs.

      He finished the sketch and softly blew the charcoal dust off of the thick page. The shape of the small dark woman was a shadow, but he’d managed to get the idea of detail in there; she was recognizable. The buildings of Canada were bare suggestions of sinister mountains looming over her and the boat. The woman looked very small and isolated.

      “Hey, Picasso, yo.”

      He knew what the voice was. He kept his hands still and turned his head slowly and waited.

      “You

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