Finders Keepers (25 page)

Corsino said, “Guy runs this place’s an associate of mine. I like to come up here sometimes and raid the freezer.”

Raybould stopped a few feet shy of the grille, hands linked behind his back, waiting for the old man to finish his preliminaries.

Corsino said, “What can I fix you to eat? I got some Alfredo sauce over here.” He kicked Muscle-shirt’s chair. “One of these Dagwood sandwiches this garburator eats? Green eggs and ham?”

That got a chuckle out of the boys.

Raybould said, “I’m not hungry.”

“Suit yourself,” Corsino said. He flipped a steak, yellow flames sprouting up, eating the grease. “So, Al, tell me again why you don’t just collect on this yourself?”

“It’s like I told you over the phone. This punk grabbed the ticket from a civilian. Purse snatcher, didn’t even know what he had. I happened to be in the vicinity so I went after him. All very public. Things got out of hand, I had to put the punk down. You know how it is. Problem is, my name’s on the incident report. See? I can’t just walk in there now and cash in the ticket, turn up a millionaire.”

“So cash it and disappear.”

Raybould smiled. “And leave all this?”

“Send a friend in to cash it for you then.”

“You know me, Mister Corsino. I don’t have any friends.”

The old fucker nodding now, thinking it over.

Muscle-shirt turned up the volume on the TV with the remote. Raybould glanced up at the screen, a female anchor setting up the next news item:

“A story of misfortune from our neighbors to the north. Keith Whipple, a sixty-year-old Sudbury retiree—” A photo of Keith appeared behind the anchor “—recently realized a dream most all of us share. He won the lottery, ten million dollars on the six-four-nine. But on his way to Toronto with his daughter, Kate, to collect his winnings and spend Christmas with family, disaster struck.” Kate’s face appeared next to Keith’s. Also shown was the mangled limo. “A head-on collision with an oil truck.”

Raybould thought,
Fuck
. “So Mister Corsino. Are we on here or not?”

Corsino flipped another steak, glancing at him with those beady eyes. “Sure, Al. Relax.”

He signaled one of his bodyguards, who dropped a gym bag at Raybould’s feet. Raybould nudged it with his toe, testing its heft. It felt a little light. He said, “And the other four?”

“Paulie’s with my accountant right now, waiting for my call. When I’m satisfied the ticket’s legit the money gets wired. You verify the transfer and we all go home happy. Sure you’re not hungry, Al?”

Raybould shook his head. The idiot in the muscle-shirt cranked the volume up again. Corsino didn’t seem to notice, his attention on the steaks.

“Though the Whipples survived the collision,” the anchor said, “the ticket did not. It was stolen by a passing motorist, along with Mister Whipple’s wallet and several thousand dollars’ worth of Christmas gifts and cash. STV reporter Leo Lang interviewed Ms. Whipple earlier today at the North York Trauma Center, where her father is listed in stable condition.”

Muscle-shirt said, “Boss, I think you oughta see this.”

Corsino turned his head to look at the screen. Raybould came around the grille and stood behind him, watching, the next few seconds unfolding in his mind.

Kate appeared on the hospital steps, the interview already in progress.

Leo Lang: “So Kate, if he’s watching, what do you have to say to the man who robbed you?”

Kate: “What I’d like to say to him you wouldn’t allow. But I want him to know this.” The camera zoomed in on Kate’s face, her eyes aimed straight into the lens. “My father’s ticket is worthless to you now. If you try to cash it you’ll be arrested. If you keep it, it’s worthless to us all. Under the circumstances, we’re willing to forgive and forget. If you return the ticket to us, we’re offering a one million dollar reward.”

Corsino kicked Muscle-shirt’s chair. “Hey, Dagwood,” he said, chuckling, “show me that part again. Where she says, ‘If you try to cash it you’ll be arrested’. It’s my favorite.”

Muscle-shirt hit the rewind button and Raybould noticed the VCR up there, a slim Sony unit mounted under the TV.

Corsino faced him, no amusement on his face now. “I taped this off the six o’clock news. This how you treat your friends, Al?”

On the screen Kate said, “If you try to cash it…”

Corsino said, “Air this fucker out.”

Muscle-shirt came off his chair fast, weapon in hand, but Raybould was a split second faster, snatching a carving knife off the counter and grabbing Corsino from behind, holding the knife to his throat. Corsino’s men closed in, guns raised.

“Back off, boys,” Raybould said. “Nobody needs to get hurt.”

“You’re not gonna get hurt,” the old guy said, no fear in him, “you’re gonna fuckin’ die.”

Raybould drew the blade lightly across Corsino’s throat, breaking the loose skin. “That’s the dotted line, you old prick.” He faced the bodyguards. “Now put ’em down.”

Corsino said, “Shoot this cunt.”

“Let him go,” Muscle-shirt said, he and his two buddies closing in. These guys weren’t backing down, they were just waiting for a clean shot.

Corsino spoke to Raybould over his shoulder, his bony, old man’s body squirming with surprising strength. “Know what’s in the bag, Al? A hundred grand—for the first man here puts a bullet in you. See how motivated these guys are?” He looked at his men. “Now
shoot
this sonofa—”

The stairway door banged open and Hicks and Mayer barged in, sidearms raised. Hicks tossed the white fedora onto the floor and said, “Police, all of you,
freeze
.” And to the nearest bodyguard, “Drop it, meatball.”

The bodyguard drew a bead on Hicks. “You drop it.”

Corsino said, “Who’re these guys?”

“Internal Affairs,” Raybould said. “Fuck ’em.”

Hicks said, “Bryan, get the bag.”

The bodyguard shifted his aim to Mayer. “Touch it, I shoot you in the balls.”

Hicks put a bullet in the man’s temple. He said, “Bryan, get the—”

And the door to the walk-in freezer swung open, a guy with frost in his eyebrows popping out, cutting Mayer in half with a blazing Uzi. Every man in the room with a weapon was firing now, diving for cover. Bullets spanged off pots and appliances.

Using Corsino as a shield, Raybould rushed Muscle-shirt and drove the knife into his chest, seizing the man’s weapon as he fell. He shoved the old guinea aside, spun to fire and a slug plowed through his forearm. He hit the deck and fired at Hicks, catching him in the thigh, then shot the guy from the freezer in the ankle, the guy dancing around on one foot now, screaming like hell, the Uzi firing wild. Hicks finished him off.

“Rodney,” Raybould said from behind the grille. The steaks were starting to burn, dense smoke spiraling up into the vent canopy. “Excellent timing.”

One of the bodyguards opened fire on the grille and Hicks shot him in the neck. The bodyguard slouched to the floor, gun spinning across the tiles.

“Shit, Rodney,” Raybould said. “Nice shooting. I should’ve stayed partnered with you—”

Roaring with fury, Corsino came at Raybould from behind, a fire axe raised over his head. Raybould twisted from his crouch and shot the old man in the belly, watching him fold, the axe flying wild.

“Hey, asshole,” Raybould said to the surviving bodyguard, crouched ten feet away behind a big laminated chopping block. “Your boss’s dead. You’re out of work and my arm hurts. What say we call it a day? Maybe gang up on the copper over there by the door, wants to put you in jail.”

The bodyguard said, “Meat eater, you’re gonna die, motherfucker, and I’m personally gonna stuff your dick in your mouth when it’s done.”

“Nice image,” Raybould said. “You hear that, Rodney? Your wife used to like my dick in her mouth. She liked it a lot. You with Special Investigations now, Rodney? Is that why you’re here?” He waited. “Cat got your tongue? How’s that leg?”

Raybould raised up to fire a couple of rounds at the bodyguard and a couple more at Hicks, just to keep things going. Both men returned fire. Then, covered by the counter, he belly crawled to the swinging doors and silently slipped out, gunfire still raging behind him.

* * *

The band finished their first set at eleven-thirty, Kate’s ears buzzing in the sudden lull. As the musicians left the stage, Steve got up and said a few words to the lead singer.

When he came back Kate said, “How do you know him?”

Smiling, Steve said, “I’m a regular.”

“I gathered. Did you come here when it was a biker bar?”

“I was eight,” Steve said, taking a sip of his beer. “But yeah, I hung out here all the time. Had to kill a guy to get in, beat him to death with a spoke wrench. It’s an initiation thing, but hey—my motto? Whatever it takes.”

“You look like a killer,” Kate said, giggling, tipsy. “Something in the eyes…”

Steve gave her his Clint Eastwood squint and Kate threw her head back and laughed. She touched his arm and Steve put his hand over hers.

They chatted for a while about little things, getting acquainted, at ease with one another. Steve was a talker and Kate loved to listen. He used his hands a lot, and when he laughed a deep dimple appeared in his right cheek, the mild asymmetry adding to Kate’s growing affection for him.

Somehow the subject of embarrassing moments during first dates came up and Kate told him about falling down a flight of stairs on her backside at the Sadie Hawkins dance in the ninth grade, the boy she’d taken standing on the top step with his mouth hanging open while she sat on the landing in a pair of her aunt’s pumps—the reason she’d fallen in the first place—laughing herself sick.

“I waited about a month for him to call,” she told him, “but he never did.”

“What’s he do now?”

“Last I heard he’s a surgical resident in Boston. Gonna be an orthopod like his dad.”

“He didn’t try to examine you? See if you broke anything?”

Kate laughed. “He didn’t have that much imagination.”

“Good story,” Steve said, “but I’ve got it beat. In fact, I’ve got a first-date story so embarrassing there’s no
way
I’m going to tell it.”

“Not fair,” Kate said, giving him a poke. “Come on, ’fess up.”

“All right, you asked for it. But this is under duress.”

“Duly noted. Now give.”

“I was nineteen,” Steve said, “tending bar in a place called Shox on Queen Street. There was this upscale modeling agency next door and every lunch hour these tall, decked-out babes’d slink in for salads and wine coolers.”

“Babes?”

“Yeah, you know. Babes. Mostly synthetic. There was this one in particular, had one of those Cindy Crawford moles on her upper lip—”

“The first thing you noticed about her.”

Steve gave her an innocent look. “Of course. Anyway, I was young, she was bodacious, and I finally got up the nerve to ask her out. She smiled, gave me her phone number and said, ‘How’s tomorrow night sound?’ Being cool, I told her that’d be peachy. The guys at the bar couldn’t believe it. When we got off that night they took me out on the town. I hit it a bit hard and woke up the next morning with the mother of all hangovers. You name it, I had it. Mostly gastrointestinal, if you know what I mean.”

“My father calls it the green apple two-step.”

“You do know what I mean. By noon or so I was pretty sure I was gonna have to call her up and cancel.”

“Did she have a name, this babe?”

“Greta. Or maybe Grechen. You want to hear this or not?”

Kate laughed. “Please, go on.”

“By four o’clock I had myself convinced I’d be okay. I didn’t want to blow it—what would you think, guy calls you up and says he can’t make it, he’s got the green apple two-step—so I gave her a call, made the arrangements, rode the Go train with her into the city and took her to the fanciest restaurant I could find.”

“Chinese?” Kate said, smiling.

Steve laughed. “Continental. So during dinner, every ten minutes or so I’m excusing myself, running off to the boy’s room. I’m sure she thinks I’m back there snorting coke or something. I wasn’t exactly relaxed. We eat—salad and wine coolers for her, soup and crackers for me—the check comes and this time I’ve really got to go, but I don’t want her to think I’m stiffing her for the check so I stay. Somebody she knows comes over, she’s gabbing away and I’m thinking, If I can just sneak out this one bit of gas…”

Kate laughed. “Not gas, right?”

Steve made a face. “Right. So I’m sitting there on this…wet spot and it’s time to go. Tan cotton pants and a short-sleeve shirt. No jacket. And what’s her idea of a good time after dinner?”

“The movies? A nice dark theater?”

“Shopping. All the way to the Eaton Center on foot trying to hide my behind. We end up in The Gap, where I bought these tan pants, and I see an identical pair hanging on the rack. So while she’s busy in the dress section I roll these pants into a bulky knit sweater and take them over to the cash, tell the cashier I don’t want the sweater, just the pants and keep my eye on Grechen or maybe Greta while the cashier does her thing. I’m about to hit the change room when my date appears saying we have to leave right away, she forgot to feed her cat. We get back on the Go train and I excuse myself. By now she’s used to it, but this time all I want to do is change my drawers; my gut’s finally settling down. So I get in this cramped little cubicle back there, take off my pants and underwear, ball ’em up and throw ’em out the window. Then I open up the Gap bag…and there’s the bulky knit sweater.”

“No pants?”

“No pants.”

“Oh my God,” Kate said, her laughter loud enough to draw stares. “What’d you do?”

“Locked myself in ’til the train stopped, then pulled the sweater on like a diaper and ran like hell. Next day I quit my job at the bar and got on with the city mowing lawns.”

Kate said, “Okay,” tears streaming from her eyes as she pictured it, “you win.”

Steve said, “It’s not that funny,” as the singer came on stage and called his name: “Steve? Can you come up here a minute, man?” Showing those big teeth.

Steve picked up the roll he’d brought in with him and stood. “Be right back,” he said. Then he was up on stage, the singer handing him a mike, Steve taking something out of the roll.