Overtime by John McFetridge
Twenty-three year old RCMP Constable Evelyn Edwards pulled onto the shoulder of the highway, stopped behind another cruiser, got out and said, hey, to LaPierre who was leaning against the trunk smoking a cigarette. He said, “Let’s go,” tossing his butt on the road.
Edwards said, “Shouldn’t we wait for Sergeant Bouchard and the rest of them?”
“Come on,” LaPierre said, “two of us can take him.”
“We’re supposed to wait for back-up.” She didn’t really know LaPierre, he was maybe five years older than she was, five more years of doing this shit in rural New Brunswick, and she didn’t want to come off scared. Even if she was.
LaPierre said, “Call said there was only one shot, maybe he killed himself.”
“That sound like Noel Tremblay?”
LaPierre said, “Don’t believe everything you hear.” They both got into his cruiser and drove down the dirt road to the Tremblay place, LaPierre telling Edwards that Noel had been back in New Brunswick a few months, back from working the dope fields in BC, bringing some nice harvests back east and selling mostly in Maine, maybe as far south as Boston. “At least that’s what we think. Noel moving up in the world since we used to bust him for beating the crap out of guys in town and the couple dozen plants he grew on his mother’s property. After she died he closed up the old homestead and went west.”
The dirt road turned a few times, they couldn’t see the house till they were right on it, Edwards saying it was like it was made for hiding out and LaPierre saying the old man was a moonshiner, or it might’ve been the grandfather. “Been the family business a long time.”
Edwards said, “Holy shit,” when the headlights came around on a Lexus, the driver’s door open and a body slumped over it.
The two cops got out of their car, LaPierre saying, “Noel? You here?”
Edwards said, “Whoever this is, looks like he got it from behind, blew a whole right through him.”
Lights were on in the house, TV playing, sounded like a hockey game.
LaPierre said, “Quebec plates on the Lexus.”
“The Saints think they run all the drug business down here.”
“They don’t know nobody runs Noel Tremblay.”
Closer to the house they could hear the TV, Bob Cole’s voice excited about everything. Well, it was April, playoffs.
LaPierre walked up the wooden stairs slow, his .38 in his hand. He stood on the porch, said, “Noel? You here?”
Edwards came up behind him, looking through the screen door, thinking that must be Noel, sitting on the couch watching the game.
LaPierre said, “Hey Noel.”
Noel jumped, looked over, the shotgun on the couch beside him, saying, “Shit, you scare me. Come on in, you want a beer?” He pointed towards the kitchen.
LaPierre said, no, that was okay, he was working. “Somebody called, said they heard a shotgun.”
“Oh shit, yeah,” Noel said. “That asshole from Montreal, sorry about that. I’m gonna bury him with the other one, but that fucking Swedish fag Koivu scored, now it’s over time.”
LaPierre looked at Edwards, then back to Noel and said, “He’s Finnish.”
Noel said, “What?”
“Saku Koivu, he’s not Swedish, he’s from Finland.”
“Who gives a shit,” Noel said. “He fucking scored, ten seconds to go, shoulda known the fucken Bruins would blow it.”
“Yeah,” LaPierre said, “but it’s only game five.”
Noel turned on the couch, looked at the two cops in his door and said, “They lose tonight they have to go back to Montreal, they’ll fucking lose there for sure.”
LaPierre said, “Noel, who’s the guy you shot?”
Looking back to the TV Noel said, “Asshole thinks I still work for him. I told him I quit his fucken dope business. I only work for myself.”
“He came looking for the other one?”
“Fag came last week, driving a Dodge Ram, you can believe it. Practically brand new. I stripped it for parts, I’m putting the engine in my pick-up.”
“And you buried him here?”
Noel looked up, looked pissed off for the first time, saying, “Not on the hill with Ma, that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Noel, we’re going to have to arrest you.”
He stood up then, said, what? “The fuck you arresting me for? For killing these assholes been criminals their whole fucken lives? Dope dealing kiddie-fucken bad guys? The world’s better off without them.”
“But you can’t just shoot them, Noel.”
“Sure I can, I did.”
On TV Bob Cole screamed and Noel swung around to look but it was off the post and cleared out. “Jesus Christ,” Noel said. “Fucken Bruins. Look you want a beer? You can help me bury that asshole when the game’s over.”
LaPierre looked at Edwards and she shrugged. Might as well wait till the game ended, arrest Noel then.
Maybe the fucken Bruins could still win this one.
