Tumblin' Dice

by John McFetridge

  Loewen said, “Yeah, that’s right,” getting to it now, looking at Bolduc and saying, “The shylock killed in the parking lot of the casino,” and Bolduc said, yeah?

  McKeon said, “We were talking to a biker in Toronto, a hangaround, about a double homicide from last year but he thought we were talking about the guy killed at the casino.”

  Price said, “We let it pass and the guy is whining about the double, saying it was last year, like it doesn’t count anymore.”

  “And,” McKeon said, “he didn’t even shoot the guy he was supposed to — he picked up the wrong car and killed a husband and wife going home to the suburbs.”

  Bolduc said, “I can’t decide if I like the fact they’re so stupid or not.”

  The waitress brought the drinks then and all four cops ordered pasta off the specials of the day page.

  Then Bolduc said, “I’m not really surprised to hear the bikers are involved. I found out there’ve been a few things happening at the casinos. A shylock went missing from the one in Montreal and a couple days ago his body washed up on the shore of the St. Lawrence River, some place called Boucherville?”

  Price said, “South shore, used to play football against them, I grew up in LaSalle. The guy probably went in off the Jacques Cartier Bridge. Could’ve been a suicide.”

  Bolduc said, could’ve been, yeah, “Body’d been in the water a while, not much evidence on it.”

  Loewen said, “I also heard, unofficially, about shylocks being robbed at casinos in Niagara Falls and some in the States.”

  Price said, “Unofficially,” and Loewen said, yeah, “Surprise, surprise, they aren’t filling out police reports.”

  “So,” McKeon said, “they’re making a play for the casinos?”

  Bolduc shrugged and drank a little of her beer. “Had to happen, I guess, all that money going through them right here in their backyard and now they’re getting to be so big.”

  “I was at a conference about money laundering,” Loewen said. “Cops from all over, ten, fifteen different forces — Ontario, Quebec, Michigan, New York State, Wisconsin, city cops, state troopers.”

  Bolduc said, “You think the bad guys have so much trouble getting coordinated?”

  Price said, “Anyway, we figured maybe we could work together on this guy, Boner,” and Bolduc said, “Boner?”

  McKeon said, “Brent Andrew MacMillan. Brent became Bent and then Bent Boner and then just Boner.”

  The waitress brought garlic bread and asked if they wanted another round, but only Price wanted another iced tea.

  Bolduc said, the thing is, “It’s very political.”

  “A biker killing a shylock in a parking lot?”

  “Parking lot of a government-owned casino on leased Native land.”

  They all agreed on that and then McKeon said, “Still, I’d like someone to get jail time for killing a guy,” and Bolduc said, “You run any of this by Arthurs?”

  Loewen looked at Price, who said, “Michael Arthurs, Crown Prosecutor, does most of the organized crime stuff,” and Loewen said, oh yeah.

  Then Price looked at Bolduc and said, “Thing is, we didn’t exactly bring him in officially.”

  Bolduc drank some of her beer and said, “Now why didn’t I see that coming.”

  Loewen said, “The information is reliable,” and McKeon said, “Just not admissible in court.”

  Bolduc said, “Fruit of the poisoned tree.”

  “Well shit,” Loewen said, “the first thing they tell us on the task force is that this shit is complicated. These guys are all insulated: they have so many layers between the guys calling the shots and the guys pulling the trigger.”

  McKeon said, “Even the guy pulling the trigger would be good if that’s all we can get — better than nothing,” and Bolduc said, “Maybe we can do something with this. Maybe I can find a witness saw him in the parking lot close to the time of the shooting.”

  McKeon said, “You’ve got a witness,” and Bolduc said, “Maybe.” Then Bolduc said, “You have a recent picture of this Boner?”

  McKeon got out her phone, both thumbs working the touch screen and said, “Emailed to you.”

  Bolduc said, “Okay, maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe he was stupid enough to use a credit card at the casino or the gas station across the street or something — just something to put him at the scene.”

  Loewen said, “Maybe he’s even on a surveillance camera,” liking what was happening now, saying, “they’ve got hundreds of them.”

  Bolduc said, yeah, “But casino security is handled by your old friend Sergeant Burroughs.”

  McKeon said, “Shit,” and Price said, “He’s not a sergeant anymore,” and Bolduc said, no, “But he’s still not very co-operative.”

  Loewen said, “Fuck.”

  McKeon finished off her iced tea and said, “It’s worth going after, isn’t it?” and Bolduc said, “Oh yeah, it’s worth talking to the witness. If I get anything at all can you bring in Boner again?” McKeon said, oh yeah.

  • • •

  J.T. crawled out from under the Barracuda and said, yeah, “This is live.”

  Gayle and Frank were standing beside the car, and Frank said, “Fucking guy,” and Gayle said, “You think Felix did this?”

  Frank was pretty sure but he said, who else?, and J.T. said, “This looks just like one of Marcel Beauchemin’s,” and tossed the grey pipe bomb to Frank, who caught it but jumped a foot off the ground.

  Gayle said, “Marcel would’ve told us if one of these guys talked to him,” and J.T. said, yeah, “But this sure looks like one of his, right down to the note,” and he held up a piece of paper he’d taken from the pipe bomb that had “Boom!” written on it in cartoon letters.

  “It’s just a warning,” Gayle said, looking at Frank. Then she looked at J.T. and said, “But you’re sure the charge is live?”

  “Oh for sure. If you’d opened the door . . . boom.”

  Frank said, “Not much of a warning. I could have missed that scratch.”

  They stood there for a minute, no one saying anything, and then Gayle said, “You going to be okay?” and Frank said, yeah, of course, “I’m fine.”

  Then Gayle turned to J.T. and said, “Marcel’s still in Montreal, isn’t he?” and J.T. said yeah, and they started to walk away, Gayle saying, “Do you think Felix went through the Italians and their guys in Montreal to get this?” and J.T. said, “Seems like a long throw for a pipe,” and Frank yelled after them, “Hey,” and they stopped and turned around.

  “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

  Gayle said, “Keep it — we might need it,” and J.T. said, “Just don’t drop it.”

  “What?”

  J.T. said, “I’m kidding,” and he turned around and walked away with Gayle, who was saying she had to go back to town, to Toronto.

  Frank walked around back of the car and popped the trunk, put the pipe bomb inside, and closed the trunk gently. Then he looked down the side of the building to the east parking lot and all the buses taking all the gamblers back and forth to town.

  And the tour buses.

  Then he was thinking, shit, did the High play Montreal before they came here? Have to check with Angie.

  • • •

  Cliff was looking at his BlackBerry saying, “Jesus Christ, 120 guys arrested, holy fuck,” and scrolling through the story, reading it over and over, saying, “One of the biggest takedowns in FBI history,” and then saying, “Holy fuck, how does this affect us?”

  Barry was looking at his laptop, reading the same story, but now he was thinking, “Us?”

  Cliff saying, “I thought the Mafia was dead. I thought there was nothing left but old guys drinking shitty espresso.”

  “That’s right,” Barry said, “and there’s no more drug smuggling or loan sha
rking or prostitution.”

  Cliff said, “The nicknames are great: Jimmy Carwash, Johnny Bandana, Junior Lollipop, fucking Baby Shanks — imagine being called Baby Shanks.”

  “He’s eighty-three,” Barry said.

  Cliff was laughing, “Lot of fat guys: Fat Larry, Fat Dennis — Dennis? Fat Tony.”

  “That’s The Simpsons.”

  Cliff said, oh yeah, “It’s Big Tony here. Jesus Christ, these guys.”

  They were in Barry’s room. Cliff came over first thing in the morning — which for Barry was two in the afternoon — telling him about this huge Mafia bust in New York, shoving his BlackBerry in his face. Barry had to go to the bathroom and then get on his laptop because he couldn’t read anything on that small screen.

  Now Cliff was looking out the window saying, “How long are the cops going to keep that taped off?”

  Barry said, “Who knows? They’re probably getting overtime, keep that going as long as they can,” and Cliff said, yeah, probably.

  Then Cliff said, “You didn’t kill the guy, did you?”

  Barry said, no, but, “That is good for us.”

  “How can that be good for us with cops crawling all over the place?”

  “Gives Frank something to think about — how easy it is to shoot a guy in the parking lot.”

  “You don’t think you gave him a big enough warning?”

  Barry said, “The bigger the better,” but he could tell Cliff was scared. Well, shit, he knew this wasn’t going to go smooth, that’s why he got Cliff involved. He knew the guy was always going to be hard to keep on track, shit he practically quit in Montreal when they had to throw that guy off the bridge, but he just had to keep him involved until they got the money out of Frank — till Barry got the money, then he could get rid of Cliff. Get rid of Cliff and Frank.

  The way the bodies were falling there’d be so much shit going on Barry could just walk away — hell, ride off into the sunset on the tour bus.

  Now Cliff was saying, “What if he didn’t see the scratch? What if he’d opened his car door, what would we have done then?”

  “Played the gig?”

  “I’m serious.”

  Barry shrugged and said, yeah, “Serious. That’s the fucking point — had to show him how serious we are.”

  “Could have ended it right there. We’d be empty handed.”

  Shit, Barry was getting really tired of this guy. He said, “Risk you gotta take,” and scrolled through the website about the big bust in New York.

  Cliff didn’t say anything for a second and then said, “Shit they arrested union leaders, ex-cops, shit cops. They got them all on crimes going back thirty years. Fuck they never give up, these guys.”

  Barry said they always get their man but then he said, no, “That’s Mounties. I figured the FBI gave up all the time.”

  Cliff said, “Murder, extortion, arson.”

  “It’s what they do.”

  “Fuck,” Cliff said, “a double murder in an Irish bar over a spilled drink.”

  Barry said, “It’s just the FBI doing the Mafia’s housecleaning for them.”

  “What?”

  Barry stood up and stretched, over six feet tall and never more than 180 pounds in his life, the Jenny Crank diet working great for him. “All the guys arrested are over sixty — shit, some of them are in their eighties. This is just the new generation taking over, getting rid of the old guys.”

  “How do you know this stuff?”

  Barry looked at Cliff and said, “I read it on the Internet.”

  Cliff said, “I thought you just looked at porn,” and Barry said, that too. Then he said, “Okay, maybe we better talk to Frank again, see what kind of a mood he’s in.”

  Cliff said, “Let me ask you something,” and Barry was thinking, great, what could this be?, and Cliff said, “Did you know Frank was in the middle of something here, that he was dealing with all these guys?”

  “Come on, it’s a casino.”

  “Yeah,” Cliff said, “but Frank, did you know how connected Frank is?”

  “How connected is he?”

  Now Cliff was getting pissed off, saying, “Come on, Barry, you know what I mean,” and Barry smiled a tight little smile and said, “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t matter that there’s gangsters all over this place?”

  “No,” Barry said, “it doesn’t. But that’s not what I meant — I meant it doesn’t matter how much I knew about Frank’s business. I knew for him to be in the job he’s in he had to be connected. I knew the Philadelphia Gaming and Accommodation Company has the management contract for this casino.”

  “You knew it was the Philly Mob?”

  Barry said he knew. Then he said, “You knew it would be some Mob — Philly, Buffalo, they’re connected all the way to Atlantic City. New York up through Montreal.”

  “What about Toronto?”

  Barry said, who knows, “And who cares? They have all kinds of shit between them. They have La Cosa Nostra, they have ’Ndrangheta, all kinds of shit. Somebody had to be running this place, somebody else probably looking to get in.”

  “These bikers?”

  Barry said, “Who gives a fuck, Cliff? Look, Frank has our money, and he’s going to give it to us. Who gives a fuck what else is going on here?”

  Cliff said, yeah, okay that sounds good, and Barry said, you know it does.

  Then Cliff said, yeah, “So we squeeze Frank again,” and Barry looked at him, seeing the guy change from a soft real estate agent into a gangster as easily as he changed from a rock star to a real estate agent, and Barry was thinking maybe that was Cliff’s problem — he could never stick with anything.

  Then he was thinking, oh well, whatever it was it wouldn’t be his problem much longer.

  ELEVEN

  Price was sitting at his desk in the homicide office when he took the call from dispatch. He wrote down the details and the address and hung up, then looked at McKeon, who was on the phone, and right away he knew this one was going to be hard on her — this was going to be one of those that would be impossible to leave at work.

  McKeon hung up saying, that was Sandra Bolduc — she’s going to talk to her witness and might get lucky. “Brent MacMillan did use a credit card at Huron Woods and also at the Adderly Hotel just down the road and a gas station on the 400,” and Price said, “Who?”

  “Boner.”

  “Oh right, good. That’s good.”

  McKeon said, “What?” and Price said, “We got a call,” and McKeon said, okay, let’s go, and stood up.

  Price said, “It’s bad.”

  McKeon looked at him and said, “They’re all bad, Andre.”

  He said, yeah, but this one, “Guy called 911, said he killed his daughter.”

  “Called it in himself?”

  “Yeah.”

  McKeon said, “Okay, well, by the time we get there he’ll of had some time to think about it, come up with his story. He’ll say it was an accident, it was her fault, he was trying to help her — some bullshit like that, you know it.”

  Price said yeah, and stood up, and they walked to the elevator.

  They got to the house, a cheap twenty-year-old bungalow out past the airport, just as the ambulance was pulling away, and McKeon said, “Lot of cars in the driveway,” and Price said yeah. Besides the two police cars there was ten-year-old Dodge Caravan, a four-door Corolla, and a new Hyundai compact.

  “And,” Price said, “some of those on the street could be here, too.”

  Inside the house was crowded, and Price felt right away it was always crowded. There were grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles and kids and Price knew, today at least, none of them would speak any English. Just the father.

  A young uniformed cop with blond hair in a ponytail and a notebook
in her hand and a serious look on her face, Mueller, was waiting for them by the door. McKeon asked about the scene and Mueller said, “EMT took the victim to Etobicoke General.”

  “VSA?”

  Mueller took a second and then said, “Vital Signs Absent, no, Detective, but very faint. EMT said there’s very little chance.”

  McKeon looked around and said, “Who went with her?” and Mueller said, “No one.”

  McKeon looked at Price and he nodded, not saying anything, then he looked around the living room at all the other faces in the house, all brown, not nearly as dark as he was, and he didn’t see anybody likely to do any talking.

  Then Mueller was saying they took the father into a bedroom. He was still in there with her partner, Costa, and Price said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  They walked down a hall past a couple of bedrooms to the one at the end and opened the door.

  Costa was standing by the door and a guy sitting on the edge of the bed looked up and said, “A tragedy, a terrible accident,” and McKeon said, yeah, “Of course it was.”

  The guy said, “She was out of control, crazy — I try to help her,” and McKeon said, “Sure you did.”

  Price pulled McKeon by the arm, gently, back out into the hall and motioned for Costa to follow.

  The four cops were crowded in the hall then, and Price said, “What did he say, the first thing, when you got here?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Not a word?”

  Mueller said, “I was the first one at the door, and he was waiting, opened it and then just walked to the basement and we followed him.”

  “All these people in the house?”

  Mueller looked at Costa and then said, “There were a lot of people, but I’m not sure if it’s the exact same ones — maybe some left.”

  “I went into the basement, too,” Costa said, “I’m sorry.”

  Price said, no, that’s okay, “Anybody say anything?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Not even in . . .” Price looked down the hall and said, “What language do they speak in the house?”

  Mueller shrugged and looked at Costa and he shrugged, too, and said, “They’re Pakistani, I think, so Urdu? Pashto?”