Free The Goldfish Bowl by Laurence Gough Page B

okay?”
    As they left Bradley’s office, Willows touched Parker’s arm and said, “I’ve got to make a call. I’ll meet you in the parking lot in ten minutes.”
    Parker nodded, but Willows had already slipped past her, left her behind.
    It had been three days since Willows’ last visit to the cancer ward of the Royal Columbian, and it was past time he gave the hospital a call. There was an enclosed payphone in the hallway next to the service elevator used to transport prisoners to the holding cells and drunk tank on the third floor. The booth was empty. Willows went inside and pushed the folding glass doors shut behind him. The automatic light came on and he saw that the telephone’s receiver had been ripped out of the body of the instrument. The receiver lay on the floor of the booth, next to a shredded copy of the yellow pages. Someone had got it wrong, and taken his fist for a walk. Willows stepped out of the booth. He heard the slow clanking of the service elevator ascending, and pushed the UP button. There was another payphone on the third floor, installed there for the convenience of those crooks and drunkards who wanted to call a bondsman or family, to make bail, or excuses.
    He heard the elevator slow down, stop. There was a pause, and then the doors jerked open. Willows walked into the elevator and found himself standing face to face with Shelley Rice.
    Rice was flanked by a couple of chunky six-footers from Narcotics, Ralph Kearns and Eddy Orwell. Rice’s eyes darkened as he recognized Willows. He shifted his weight, and the steel on his wrists glinted under the harsh light from the quartet of naked hundred-watt bulbs in the ceiling fixture.
    “I’d introduce you two guys to each other,” said Orwell, grinning, “but I believe you’ve already met.”
    “They busted you?” Willows said to Rice.
    Rice’s face contorted with rage. He lunged forward, his knee coming up hard and fast. Willows twisted sideways. The knee hit him in the thigh, right on the bone. He grunted with pain. An elbow caught him flush on the nose. The back of his head bounced off the sheet metal wall of the elevator. He staggered into Kearns, who went down. Willows fought to regain his balance. Orwell was cursing imaginatively, fumbling under his coat for a sap or his gun. Rice clasped his manacled hands together and raised them high over his head. The four lightbulbs exploded in a shower of glass. For a fraction of a second the filaments glowed like a handful of incandescent worms, then the elevator was plunged into absolute darkness.
    Willows heard the sharp metallic click of a revolver being cocked. Instinctively, he went for his own weapon. The elevator jerked to a stop. The doors slid open and the elevator was filled with light Orwell was pointing his gun at Kearns. Willows lashed out. His fist thudded into Rice’s stomach, and Rice sighed wistfully, and doubled over. Willows resisted the urge to hit him again. There was something warm and wet on his upper lip. His nose was bleeding. He yanked a pale green handkerchief from the breast pocket of Rice’s jacket, and pressed it against the flow.
    “Will you put that thing away?” said Kearns.
    Orwell holstered his gun.
    The doors started to slide shut. Willows stopped them with his foot. He gingerly wiped his nose. There was lace on the handkerchief. He took a closer look, and saw that he had wiped his nose with a pair of panties. He dropped the bloodstained panties to the floor.
    “You okay?” said Orwell.
    “He didn’t break it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    “Man, you sure congeal fast. Means you got a lot of red blood cells, that you must be eating right.”
    Shelley Rice was still bent double, looking a little like a failed comedian taking an undeserved bow. Willows grabbed him by the lapels, pulled him upright and held him against the wall of the elevator.
    “Why did you hit me?”
    “What the fuck do you think?”
    “I don’t know what to think,” said