But no way Gayle was going to be left with fuck all.
“Marty wants me to go up to the casino, look around.”
“You’ve never been?”
“Honey, we go to a casino it’s in Vegas, not some Indian reservation in Ontario.”
“It’s nice up there.”
Rita took a drag, saying, “How could it be? They’d never have given it to the Indians.”
“You don’t want to go, don’t go.”
Rita laughed. She shook her head and looked at Gayle. “You don’t know what to do, all this new power. I hope your men can handle it.”
Gayle wanted to tell this Rita that half the deal at the casino was hers, the whole money laundering connection was hers and she was the one pushing Danny into it, though even Gayle had to admit Nugs was happy to be doing it. She wanted to say to this Rita she understood she was worried, she’d been living well for a long time, who expected the fat thugs on motorcycles to become a worldwide operation, hundreds of soldiers, thousands, used as the muscle for so long no one noticed how strong they got, but it would be okay, they’d work together.
But then she looked at this Rita and said, “My men can’t understand how your men let a bunch of fat fucking Atlantic City rejects get hold of the business in their own backyards to start with,” and like she expected, Rita laughed again.
“Oh honey, you’re so cute. You think this is going to work, this partnership?”
Gayle said, “It’s going to work for me.”
Rita put her hand on top of Gayle’s, saying, “You’re all right, you know that?” and Gayle was thinking, I’m going to be, that’s for sure. I’m going to take care of myself no matter what happens to this deal.
• • •
Armstrong and his partner Gord Bergeron were sitting in a booth of the Gull and Firkin on Queen Street East, the Beaches neighbourhood, two in the afternoon, the only customers in the place. Bergeron was saying how it was going to be a small wedding, just family, and Armstrong said, “Gord, it’s okay, man, I don’t mind,” and Bergeron said, “Shit, I was just about to invite you.”
Armstrong drank some of his coffee and said, “I should’ve stopped at Starbucks, there’s like three of them right around here. Who picked this place anyway?”
“My son’s going to be my best man.”
“This in a synagogue?”
“Down at city hall. Hard to get a time now, though, they’re booked with gay weddings, parties coming in from all over, Chicago, Detroit, Pittsburgh.”
“Shit,” Armstrong said, “this city’s changed.”
“Here I am,” Bergeron said, “a French kid from Sudbury, gonna marry a woman named Ruth Goldbach, my partner’s an Indian.” Then he said, “No, a First Nations. I was partnered with an Indian back before, Dhaliwal, when I first started in homicide.”
Armstrong said, “Whole new world.” He liked it, though, his new city. He could remember when he was a kid, getting picked on in the schoolyard, kids asking him which homeless drunk was his father, how much his mother charged for blowjobs. It probably still went on but most people in Toronto now had no idea about the history, about what went on before and Armstrong figured maybe that was good, less baggage. Dundas Junior, his old school, now shared its schoolyard with First Nations Junior, all those Native kids and now Vietnamese kids, India Indians, Jamaicans, Sri Lankans — kids would have to learn so many more racial slurs, might have to get creative, do a little thinking. That would be new for these schools.
Bergeron said it was a small wedding again, this time saying, “Because it’s not the first one for either of us,” and Armstrong said, well, no, “Not at your advanced ages.”
“We’re going to use walkers coming down the aisle.”
“Honeymoon in Florida, get that early bird special at four thirty, be in bed by nine.”
Bergeron was looking at the front door then, watching Price and Maureen McKeon come in, and he said, “Sometimes we do go to bed early,” looking back at Armstrong and winked, and Armstrong said, “Stop talking right now.”
Bergeron said, “Shit, Price, is that hair? I didn’t think you could grow hair.”
“You thought all black guys’re bald?”
“Yeah, I thought it went straight from a big fro to nothing, just fell out one night.”
“We’re just pissed we don’t get to do that comb-over.”
The waitress was at the table then asking them if they wanted menus and McKeon said, no, just a club soda, and Price said, “Yeah, me too. Lots of ice.”
Armstrong said, “Is that why we’re meeting here? You shopping?”
Price lifted a bag that said Pro League Sports onto the table and said, “My kids are into soccer now,” showing them two red t-shirts and two scarves with Toronto FC on them.
“Yeah,” Bergeron said, “those fans are crazy.”
“Place is wild,” McKeon said. “My brother was at a game, guy beside him got a beer poured over him.”
“The Molson Golden Shower,” Armstrong said, and Price said, “Do they still make that beer, Molson Golden?”
“It’s good for the city,” Bergeron said, “give them someone else to hate besides the Leafs.”
The waitress came to the table then, carrying a tray with two glasses of club soda in one hand and the coffee pot in the other. Price took the two glasses and the waitress said thanks, refilled the coffee cups, and left.
Then McKeon said, “So, what have you got?”
Armstrong drank some coffee and made a face, then said, “That couple got shot in their car on the Gardiner last year, you still working that?”
Price said, “Mr. and Mrs. Blowjob.”
“Yeah, didn’t you put up something on YouTube about that?”
“No,” McKeon said, “we put it up on YouPorn, got a million hits but no leads.”
“But it’s not a cold case,” Armstrong said, and McKeon said, no, “It’s still active, why?”
“I got something.”
Price said, yeah, “Informant?”
“Wiretap.”
McKeon said, “You working bikers? I mean we know it was a biker supposed to hit Big Pete Zichello, got the wrong car. We just don’t know which biker.”
“Guy named Boner,” Armstrong said. “Got him on a wiretap bitching he’s still not a full patch.”
“Well,” Price said, “maybe he should shoot the right guy, he wants to make it.”
McKeon said, “You got this on a wiretap?”
Armstrong said, “No, I didn’t get it on a wiretap.”
“Task force? Why’d they give it to you?”
“No,” Armstrong said, “wasn’t the task force.”
“Shit,” McKeon said, “what the fuck?” She looked around to see if anybody heard her but the place was empty.
Bergeron said, “You’re going to love this.”
“Couple years ago,” Armstrong said, “I met somebody with Homeland Security. She’s up here for a conference.”
“That money laundering thing?”
“Yeah, so anyway, she called me.”
Price said, “Nice,” and McKeon said, “Yeah?”
Armstrong said, “And she told me.”
McKeon said, “So now we’re getting information on our cases in Toronto from Homeland Security? From a police force in another fucking country? Where did this wiretap go down?”
Armstrong just looked at McKeon and she said, “Shit, right here, didn’t it? Fuck. And she told you because it’s unofficial, because if we try and access it they’ll deny they have it, tell us they didn’t invade our country and spy on our citizens.”
Price said, “It’s bikers, Mo,” and she said, “Still.”
Then she said, “It’s bullshit.”
Armstrong waited a second and then said, “Boner, he’s your
shooter. You know him?”
Price said, “No, but it’ll be easy enough to find out.”
“What’s the point?” McKeon said. “We can’t get a warrant. Anything we get from this we can’t take into court — shit, we wouldn’t get anywhere near court.”
Price said, “You get the transcript, the whole conversation?”
Armstrong said, yeah, the whole thing.
“Okay, so we can use that.”
“Sure.”
McKeon said, “How do you think you’re going to use it? You can’t use it.”
Price said, “Boner doesn’t know that.”
“Pick him up,” Armstrong said. “Read it to him. He hears you’ve got it, he thinks you can use it, he’ll spill.”
McKeon said, “You think so?”
“You put enough pressure on him,” Armstrong said, “you might even be able to turn him.”
Price said, yeah, “Get him working for us.”
Then McKeon said, “Oh, I get it now. You think we’ll go out on the limb here, take all the risks, deal with all the shit when it hits the fan so that maybe we can get him to tell us who the shooters were on Queen Street? Killed that biker in the Land Rover you’re working?”
Armstrong said, “That’s not why we brought this, Maureen,” and she said, “No, of course not.”
No one said anything for a few seconds, and then Price said, “It’s worth a shot, though. Maybe we bring in G&G, OCEPT, whatever it’s called. They might have something already.”
Armstrong said, “Yeah, you know Taylor? He’s still working G&G and he’s good.”
McKeon said, “How do you geniuses think it would work?”
“We sit him down,” Price said, “tell him we have the wire, prove it to him with the conversation, he’ll deal.”
“What if he doesn’t? What if he does like every other biker and tells us to go fuck ourselves, what then? We have to let him go. We’ll look pretty stupid then.”
“It’s worth the shot.”
“Longshot.”
“Best we’ve got.”
McKeon said, shit. “I’d like a drink, who’s idea was it to meet in a bar?”
“It’s a restaurant,” Price said.
“Stupid city,” McKeon said, “can’t have just a bar, it has to pretend to be a restaurant. My mom remembers when women couldn’t even go into bars by themselves, called them beverage rooms or lounges, had to have an escort.”
Price said, “Times have changed. You want something to eat?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Armstrong drank some coffee and thought this was good, Price and McKeon could run with this. Never know, they might turn Boner and get a real in with these bikers, might even get something on the Queen Street shooters. And he’d have a lot more reasons to talk to Agent Jones from Homeland Security.
EIGHT
Felice’d been worried, the guy was so tall and some kind of rock star, of course he wanted anal, but now she was trying not to laugh, wondering if he had enough dick to even get it in her ass.
She said, “Yeah, baby, oh yeah, fuck me, oh yeah,” rolling her eyes, glad he wanted to do it doggy.
Took him long enough, though, and when he was finally finished, flopping on his back and reaching for his smokes, Felice was thinking if she’d been able to get on top and do him cowgirl she might’ve even liked it a little. It’s just not ever what the customers want.
She went into the bathroom, put one leg on the side of the sink and ran the water, waiting for it to get hot. Got the face cloth and cleaned herself up. She was thinking this was going to be a good gig. She wasn’t in the bar five minutes when this guy came up to her.
First thing, he said, “You working now?” and she’d said, “I don’t know,” looking at the bartender. The way she’d been told, she was supposed to sit at the bar, let everybody get a look at her and then go back up to the room. The guys who were interested would talk to the bartender or one of the chicks in the buckskin outfits — Frank said some regulars were already told she was coming — and they’d put the charge on the bill, let them know what room she was in.
Whatever they tipped was between Felice and the guy.
This guy had asked her how much standing right there in the bar and one of the buckskin chicks came up and asked if she could take his order. Felice almost laughed, wanting to say, yeah, he wants a rum and Coke and my ass.
The guy’d said, oh, do I pay you?, and the waitress said, we charge your bill. The guy said, like a laundry service, and Felice was starting to get pissed. The waitress pulled him aside and had a little chat and the next thing, Felice was in the elevator by herself thinking she might not even have to set foot in the bar again, these guys so anxious.
Now, in the bathroom, she was thinking the hundred dollar tip wasn’t enough, that and her hundred and a half from the bar, and she’d have to turn four a day to make a grand. Maybe other guys would tip better.
Back in the room, the guy was still on the bed, naked, but at least not looking like he was wanting to go again any time soon.
Felice said, “So you’re a rock star,” and the guy said, yeah, and she said, “You playing tomorrow?”
“Friday.”
“You’re here early enough.”
He said, “I like the scenery,” watching her walk naked through the room.
“What band are you in?”
“The High.”
She said, “What you play, guitar?”
“Bass.” He took a drag off his cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray, and said, “I’ve got rhythm.”
She said, “You ever meet Justin Timberlake?”
“At that big show at Downsview, after SARS, with the Stones and AC/DC. We played at noon — it was 110 fucking degrees. Decent guy, Timberlake, actually knows music.” Then the guy said, “You came here with Frank Kloss, right?”
“Is that his name?”
“Yeah.”
She picked up her bra but then decided, no, and dropped it back on the chair, picking up her blouse, white, to look a little schoolgirl but not too much. At least the skirt wasn’t plaid or buckskin.
The guy was still looking at her but she knew it wasn’t because he thought she was so sexy standing there with her blouse unbuttoned and her skirt in her hand.
She said, “Yeah, Frank drove me.”
“He have a cool car?”
She wrinked her nose and said, “He calls it a classic. It’s like a hundred years old, big as a fucking streetcar and it’s purple.” She was laughing and the guy shook his head, laughing a little, too. Then she said, “He works for the casino.”
“That what he tell you,” the guy said, “he works for the casino?” He picked up his smokes again but this time got out a joint and lit it. Took a deep hit and held it out for Felice.
She leaned forward more than she had to, thinking he must want to look at her tits, but the guy just handed her the joint and fell back on the bed.
The dope was really good, she inhaled deep and let it out slow, saying, “He tells me he runs the casino, trying to be a bigshot.”
On the bed the guy smiled like he knew exactly what she was talking about. She was starting to like this guy. He wasn’t too full of himself and she was thinking he could be fun, maybe she’d go to a rock star party.
“You don’t think he does?”
“Why would he come all the way to Toronto, drive me up here if he ran the place?”
“I was wondering that, too.”
“You know him?”
The guy said, “I knew him a long time ago. He was an asshole then, thought his shit didn’t stink.”
“He hasn’t changed.”
“I wouldn’t expect he had.” The guy smoked and nodded his head a little. Felice was thinking she was probably supposed to get back to
work but she didn’t feel like it. She sat down on the bed and took another hit from the joint, holding it a long time and letting it out slow, getting a nice buzz already.
The guy said, “Was Frank the one who hired you? I mean, was it his idea you come and work here?”
Felice took another hit and held out the joint but the guy didn’t want it back and she thought, okay fine, it was good weed. She said, “No, not Frank. I was with an escort agency in town, in Toronto, and they asked me did I want to come out here.”
“Yeah, but was it Frank called them?”
“I don’t think so. All the way up here he’s telling me what a bigshot he is, how he used to run the whole music business, now he runs the casino, but he seemed like, you know, he wanted to run the place. He was excited about this.”
The guy said, “He get excited in the car?” and Felice slapped his leg, playful, thinking this guy was all right, knew the score, okay with it. Old enough to be her grandfather, shit, but nowhere near the oldest guy she’d ever done.
“So, somebody else used to run your business here and now that’s changing.”
“No, I think the credit card stuff is going through the same agency, or it can go through the casino. Whatever, I don’t really give a shit about that, nothing to do with me.”
“Nah, me either.” The guy sat up and said, “You hungry, or you want to do some coke?”
“You got coke?”
“I met a waiter before, he can hook us up. Hand me my phone.”
Felice said, okay, sure, and walked over to the chair by the window, picked up the guy’s coat, and got out his phone. She turned around, expecting him to be staring at her naked ass, but he was lying back on the bed, looking at the ceiling and lighting another smoke.
Then he said, “I’m hungry, though, why don’t you order some room service?” He flipped open his phone, going through the numbers in the memory, talking to himself, saying, “Frank Kloss, going for the big time. Too little, too late, buddy.”
Felice was thinking this guy was way too interested in Frank Kloss, but he might be okay for a couple days, help her get settled here, out in the middle of fucking nowhere. Might even have some fun.
• • •
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