Finders Keepers (20 page)

They stopped in Parry Sound for gas and were back on the highway by eight-fifteen. The low cloud cover had finally dissipated, the sun beating down full force now, warming Kate’s face through the windshield.

Her mind wandered as she drove, focusing on the day ahead for a while, then drifting again. She’d have to get busy on that power of attorney thing as soon as she got back, find out if Aunt Lee managed to set something up with Uncle Fred the lawyer. She hoped Steve would go back to the Lottery Corporation with her, help her with that guy Tasker. She hated jocks. She imagined her first date with Steve, hoping it’d be soon. The blues club he’d mentioned maybe, then back to his place.

Kate shook her head, laughing at her own lack of resolve. The frightened part of her, the hurt part that had slammed on the brakes yesterday in her bedroom when they were so close, that part was quickly losing its voice. Something in her experience in the wreckage had freed her from that fear, helped her see how baseless and self-defeating it was. And now, some other part wanted out. It was a new feeling, scary in its own right, almost wild.

“Jesus,” Kate said out loud, laughing. “Get a grip.”

She turned on the radio. Elvis again, doing “Blue Christmas”. Her eyes started to mist with tears. She turned it up and sang along, looking at the back of Steve’s head in the Cherokee, ahead of her now, wondering if he was tuned to the same station.

––––––––

Claudette awoke a half hour ahead of the alarm. She’d slept with the ticket under her pillow, rousing periodically from a restless sleep to assure herself it was still there. Following her usual pancake and coffee breakfast she dressed in her best print shift, accented with a matching silk scarf knotted loosely around her neck. A bit springy, perhaps, but that was how she felt on this bright December morning. Plus, if they wanted photographs, for publicity or whatever, she always looked slimmer in colors. She carefully applied make-up, doing her best to hide the scrapes and bruises, then doused herself with perfume. The finished effect, she decided, appraising herself in a full-length mirror, was perfect. She looked…pampered, a woman accustomed to the privileges of wealth.

Ten million dollars.
The mere thought of it made her heart flutter. The only thing she had to worry about now was what to buy first.

She tucked the ticket into a zippered pocket in her purse, stepped into her Kodiaks and pulled on her winter coat, an ankle length wool job she’d had for years. As she left the apartment she realized there’d be no one to open the store this morning and she said out loud, “Who cares?” drawing a look from the landlady, Mrs. McEwen, busy swamping out the main foyer with a mop. Claudette bugged her eyes at the woman and laughed.

The day was sunny and cold, the sidewalks scabbed with ice, and Claudette picked her way cautiously to the bus stop a half-block away. She moved with that rocking, side-to-side gait characteristic of the extremely obese, her sheer girth taking up the entire sidewalk. She’d stopped buttoning her coat years ago, partly because of the near impossibility of the task, but also because the cold didn’t faze her anymore. As she lumbered along, she drew stares from those forced to shrink against walls or scale snow drifts to let her by. Claudette could care less.

She decided her first extravagance would be one of those extended European tours, leap-frogging from country to country in the first-class section of a private jet, hitting the big cities first, taking in the shows and the hot spots; then on to the countryside, sipping vintage wines from goblets on the turrets of ancient castles, cruising the cobbled streets of quaint historic villages in horse-drawn carriages. Perhaps she’d meet a gentleman whose tastes ran to the more generously proportioned and she would initiate him in the raptures of excess.

The bus pulled up to the curb and with difficulty Claudette climbed aboard. She’d never understood why they made these doorways so damn narrow you had to be a super model to squirm through. She flashed her bus pass at the driver with a surly scowl. This would be the last bus ride she ever took.

Puffing, she said to the driver, “How close do you go to the lottery office?”

“Right across the street,” the woman said.

Without thanking her Claudette labored to the back of the bus, eyeing the other passengers as she passed, purse clamped to her breast in a greedy bear hug.

Two more fares hopped aboard as the driver shut the doors, a pair of hard looking punks, real rough trade. The first one’s head was shaved bald save a thin, beet-red strip that ran along the midline of his skull like a vivid scar. He wore baggy army pants and, in defiance of the sub-zero temperatures, an unbuttoned jean jacket hacked off at the shoulders, scrawny arms sheathed in a pair of fishnet stockings with finger holes cut in the ends. His face looked like an open tackle box, pierced in so many places he jingled. His companion was closer to human, a full head of spiky, lemon-yellow hair and a single gold hoop in each ear. He at least had been sensible enough to wear a coat, a raggedy old cast-off Claudette was betting he’d shoplifted from the Sally Ann.

They flopped into the center-facing seat across from hers, Fishnet’s narrow eyes finding her right away.

“Hey, Tommy,” he said to his pal, jerking his chin at Claudette. “Eighteen wheeler.”

Tommy gave her a look, foggy eyes widening. “Whoa. More chins than a Chinese phone book.”

“Give it a slap and ride the wave in.”

Great
, Claudette thought.
The comedy team of Martin and Lewis.

Tommy said, “Would ya?”

“If I was fucked up enough?” Fishnet said, considering. “Not even with your dick.”

The punks cracked each other up, but quickly lost interest when they failed to get a rise out of Claudette. Tommy returned to his original haze, working a zit on his cheek with a black-painted fingernail.

But Fishnet, easily the more predatory of the two, couldn’t help noticing how jealously the fat bitch was guarding that purse.

He leaned over and whispered something in Tommy’s ear.

* * *

Hicks and Mayer sat in a surveillance van on the north side of Bloor Street, waiting for something to happen. Raybould had been sitting in the window of the café across the street for over an hour now, sipping coffee and smoking. He was reading a paperback, but even with a pair of high-powered binoculars Hicks couldn’t make out the title. That irritated him. Much as he hated the man, Raybould intrigued him in some morbid way and that part of him wanted to know what kind of book a man like Raybould would read. He sat facing the street and Hicks could see his face clearly enough, but he couldn’t quite get that title…

He angled the Zeiss-Icon lenses up to Raybould’s face: a picture of self-possession, hunched over his book like some erstwhile coffee shop scholar, flirting with the waitress when she came by to freshen his beverage. Hicks decided then, looking into that placid, unaffected face, that if the chance presented itself when the shit went down, he’d shoot the fucker dead.

Mayer said, “Heads up.”

Hicks lowered the binoculars and saw a silver BMW glide to a stop in front of the café. A Hispanic male, early thirties, wearing a gray cape over a sea-blue leisure suit, got out of the back seat and strode inside. The Beemer nosed ahead a few feet to idle at the curb, the driver invisible behind tinted glass.

Hicks said, “That’s gotta be a contact.”

“Definitely,” Mayer said. He took a sip of his coffee then focused on his equipment, saying, “Can you close your window? I’m freezing my nuts off over here.”

“In a minute,” Hicks said. He watched the Hispanic through the binoculars, swaggering up to Raybould’s table in his reflectorized shades, swishing that god awful cape off his shoulders before easing into the chair across from Raybould, fucking up Hicks’ view.

Hicks shook his head. “Greaser asshole. Look at him.”

Mayer looked up from his equipment. “Say what?”

“Nothing. You picking them up?”

“Loud and clear.”

Mayer flipped the headphones down around his neck and switched to speaker. The first voice they heard belonged to the Hispanic. Addressing the waitress.

“Coffee, black. Toast, white bread. None of that grainy health-food shit.”

“Would you like jam with that, sir?”

“Did I ask for jam?”

Mayer switched the tape recorder on. “A real charmer.”

A city bus chuffed to a stop behind the BMW, obscuring their view, temporarily squelching-out the reception. Mayer cursed and bent over his dials. A few fares got off and the bus pulled away. Then Raybould’s voice came in clearly.

“Hold on, lemme make sure I got this straight. You want me to wax your
priest
?”

Mayer said, “Now it’s getting juicy.”

Hicks watched through the glasses, a grim smile on his lips.

* * *

Raybould had to chuckle. Where did Corsino find these guys? The spic’d been here less than a minute and already he was almost pissing himself with rage.

“That cocksucker’s no priest, man. He fucked my wife. Fucker her right in her
ass
. The bitch loved it, too. I can’t believe it. I want some of that I gotta go down to the strip and pay for it.”

He dug some glossies out of his coat and handed them to Raybould, who fanned them out on the table in front of him.

The spic said, “Lookit that
puta
. For a dime I’d put her name on the contract, too.”

“Jesus, amigo, you’re right,” Raybould said, rubbing a little salt into the wound. “Lookit the equipment on that boy.”

“Yeah, whatever. I want the
cono
buried.”

Raybould stacked the photographs and handed them back. “The man told you what I get for this kind of work?”

“Yeah.”

“This’ll cost you double.”

“Double. Why double?”

“I’m a Catholic.”

* * *

Hicks and Mayer exchanged grins, Hicks saying, “You get all that on tape?”

“Every sweet syllable.”

Hicks returned his attention to the binoculars. “All right. Let’s see if we can pick up the details.”

There was a prolonged silence, sounds of cutlery and background chatter, the Hispanic munching his toast. Then the Hispanic’s voice: “I gotta take a piss.”

Hicks watched him strut to the bathroom, that swaggering, body-proud walk those guys had, giving Hicks an unobstructed view of Raybould again. Christ, look at him. Cool as a summer breeze. He’d just agreed to kill a man—a priest—and Hicks could read no more tension in his face than if he’d agreed to sell his car. The thought of this animal in bed with his wife made his skin crawl.

Another bus pulled up, blocking his view. He lowered the binoculars and rubbed his eyes.

* * *

Claudette was out of her seat before the bus came to a stop and she stumbled slightly, swaying toward the two punks seated across from her. The one with the stockings on his arms flailed back in an exaggerated pantomime of alarm.

Claudette thought,
Have your fun you little dinks, I’ll buy the roach ranches your mothers call home and burn them to the ground
. She pivoted on a chrome post, heading for the rear exit.

Behind her Fishnet sprang up from his seat and bulled past her into the stairwell, out onto the sidewalk and out of sight along the flank of the bus. Tight on his heels, Tommy did the same.

“Rude shitbugs,” Claudette said. She slung her purse over one arm and lowered herself onto the first step, using the handrails to pull herself through. When her foot came to rest on the bottom step she grabbed the vertical safety bars for a final emancipating thrust. Suspended from her arm, her purse swung out into space—and Fishnet’s spidery hands came up and seized it. The little prick had bad teeth and they flashed yellow at her before he turned to bolt. In her surprise Claudette let go of the safety bars and the purse-strap skidded down her arm to her wrist, nanoseconds now from whipping free. With a ferocious grunt she twisted her hand palm up and the leather strap snagged in her fingers. Her fist closed around it like an iron claw.

“No you don’t.”

Fishnet made it to the elastic limit of the strap before his feet left the ground and his shoulder almost popped out of its socket. He looked up at Claudette and saw a snarling dragon, eyes shot red, blunt teeth bared in fury. She was reeling him in like a ten-pound pickerel.

Red-faced, Fishnet wrapped the strap around his arm and threw his weight back, not caring now that if she let go his skull would probably crack like an egg on the icy sidewalk. In the same instant Claudette heaved—and the strap broke, snaking through her fingers, rope-burning her skin—but then she had it again. She braced herself for one last pull and Tommy appeared, something flashing in his hand as his arm slashed through the space between Claudette and his confederate.

A switchblade.

Then there was only strap in her hand and Claudette toppled backward into the stairwell, wedging there in a heap, the spectacle of the two punks fleeing with her purse reaching her eyes through prisms of raging tears.

“You little fuckers.”

Like a beetle on its back Claudette flailed and twisted until she managed to roll onto her side. She reached up with her right hand, the leather strap still laced through her fingers, and got ahold of one of the rails. A burly guy in a navy toque tried to give her a hand, but his efforts served only to bounce her out of the bus into a puddle of slush.

The doors folded shut behind her and the bus chuffed away.

Claudette was on her feet in a flash, slush dripping from her backside, her big voice raised in fury: “Somebody
help
me.” She pointed after the fleeing purse snatchers with a flapping hand. “They got my ticket.
They got my ten million dollars
.”

* * *

Waiting for his asshole client to return from the can, Raybould watched with amusement as the felony unfolded outside the café window. Despite his status as a police officer, he was not in the least inclined to intervene. The only thing he hated worse than doper punks was fat people. Not just fat, but the mutants like this one. How the fuck could a person
do
that to themselves? It wasn’t just the why of it that baffled him, it was the how, the physical improbability of it. How could a person who had started out small enough to come into the world in the usual fashion bloat up into something so grotesque? How many tons of sugar and grease did it take, how many sedentary hours forking it in? It was a sick mystery to him and he felt content to just sit and watch. For a few seconds there, until Fishnet’s accomplice waded in with the switchblade, it looked as if Tubby might win the tug of war. But the punks were away now, the beast up and rampant—