Tumblin' Dice (13 page)

“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.

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.

• • •

Price and McKeon brought Boner into Fifty-Five Division, McKeon telling him it must look familiar from back when the Saints had the clubhouse on Eastern Avenue and he was getting busted all the time.

Boner said, “Fuck you.”

In the interrogation room McKeon sat down across from him and said, “You must miss that clubhouse, good times. Now all the bigshot full patches are off in their big houses in the country and you're where?” She looked at the file in her hand and said, “Shit, you're still in Scarberia. You living at your mom's?”

“Fuck you. I'm not saying shit.”

“Too bad,” McKeon said, “it would help you a lot if you did.”

He scowled, looking like a tough guy, and stared at the scratches carved into the table.

McKeon said that was fine, they didn't need him to say anything anyway. “We've already got it in your own voice.”

Price was still standing beside her, staring at Boner, watching him try to be cool, look bored, like every other time he was in interrogation.

McKeon took a piece of paper from the file. “‘These fucking assholes just giving me shit all the time.'” She looked at Boner. “Nugs doesn't mind you calling him a fucking asshole?”

Now Boner was looking at her, not so cool, and she looked back at the paper. “‘Think they're such fuckin' hotshit 'cause they've got patches. I should have a fuckin' patch, all the fuckin' work I do.'”

McKeon looked at Boner and said, “You really do that much work?”

“Fuck you.”

“I like this,” McKeon said, “even your buds not helping you out, the other guy, what do you call him, Grizz? He says, ‘Maybe if you shot the right fucking guy.'” She put the paper down and looked at Boner and said, “He has a point, you shooting the wrong person, two people.”

“You're crazy — there was only one guy at that fucking casino.”

McKeon looked up at Price and he shrugged. This was something else. McKeon figured they'd get to that but right now she had to stay on script, so she said, “He's talking about Big Pete Zichello. You were supposed to kill him last year, when he came out of the condo at the bottom of Yonge, after seeing the hooker, Rebecca Almeida. You followed him from the parking lot but you lost him and pulled up beside the wrong car, shot some couple going home to Oakville, guy and his wife.”

Boner looked up at McKeon, she could see him trying to remember more than a year ago, and then he said, “You want to charge me for that, go ahead. You don't have shit and I don't have to answer any fucking questions.”

Price said, “Yeah, but you know what? The Supreme Court threw us a bone, said we can ask as many as we want. We can ask all night? We can take shifts.”

Boner said, so, I don't give a shit, and McKeon said, “Or, yeah, we can just charge you with a double homicide and toss you in the cells, let you rot for a couple years before your trial.”

“I want my fucking lawyer.”

McKeon said, oh yeah? They'd worked this out, exactly how they were going to take Boner through it, but now this new thing with the casino was throwing it all off. McKeon said, “You going to pay for a lawyer, or do you really want Mitchell Fucking Morrison to come in here, sit right there and listen to this? We get to the part where you say Danny Mac's wife is sucking off hangarounds and Spaz is making twice as much as he's telling anybody, you think Morrison will keep that to himself?” She looked at Boner again, watched him shake his head like he can't believe she's saying this.

Price said, “Shit, I love digital recording. Maybe we should make a podcast.”

Boner said, “Do whatever the fuck you want with that.”

McKeon was thinking then that this was such old news for Boner, he'd forgotten about it. They'd pulled out the case file on the murders, got the wiretap from Jones at Homeland Security and got right back into it, but Boner and the Saints had all moved on since then, worked out whatever they had to with Zichello — finally killed him at the hooker's condo a week later — and moved on to new business. Something at the casino. McKeon wondered if it was Huron Woods or Niagara Falls or Windsor. Shit. But they had to stay with this. She said, “At least Grizz is on your side, telling you how everybody's pissed off this J.T. just shows up and he's moving up the ranks so fast, gets his patch in no time.”

Boner crossed his arms and went back to staring at the floor.

McKeon said, “Okay, so you do twenty-five to life for the two murders, all on your own, no boys inside watching your back. Where you think they'll send you? Millhaven? Your mom come visit once a month, ask you what happened to your teeth, you tell her they got knocked out so you give better blowjobs?”

“Whatever.”

“Dorchester, out in New Brunswick? Better, you don't have to face your mom, but shit, that place is medieval.”

Boner shrugged, past caring about this old shit.

Price said, come on. “You know these assholes don't give a shit about some hangaround. All you'll ever be. They're never going to promote you. They don't give a shit if we lock you up for life.”

Boner didn't budge and McKeon realized they didn't even know if he was still a hangaround — that might be old news, too.

She looked up at Price, expecting him to really pour it on, get Boner thinking he was all on his own, nobody looking out for him. She expected Boner to put up more of a fight, start in with the “You don't understand what it's like to have guys watching your back,” like the bangers did, and then Price'd give him his “I'm in the biggest fucking gang in the city, the fucking blue wall, do whatever we fucking like to punks like you, somebody always watching my back,” and then she'd step in, say, no, they follow rules, they have to make him an offer, and he'd take it.

But Price was just looking at Boner, so McKeon said, “That what you want? Spend the rest of your life in a cell?”

Price said, “Yeah, fucking right. And don't give us that shit about these assholes backing you up. They thought you were any good, they'd've given you that patch by now.”

But they could see Boner wasn't buying any of it. Whatever'd happened since the wiretap had been picked up, he didn't care that Mitchell Fucking Morrison would hear it in disclosure and run right out and tell Nugs.

McKeon looked at Price, motioned to the door, and they stepped out into the hall.

Price said, “What the fuck was that?”

“It's like he thinks the murders were last year so they don't count anymore.”

“Well, it was a longshot he'd fall for the bluff anyway, but now we have this thing at the casino.”

“Which one?”

“Be easy enough to find out. Throw him back in the cells, we'll keep him as long as we can and see what we get.”