Tumblin' Dice (3 page)

He came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, and said, “Where'd you get the car?”

“Guy I was talking to.”

“A fan?”

“No, a guy I was meeting.”

“What were you meeting him for?”

“I had to pick something up.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Forget it, okay?” Barry moved a red gym bag further under the seat and said, “Lotta chicks at the show tonight,” and Cliff said yeah, but he was looking at Barry like he wanted to know more about this guy he was meeting.

Barry said, yeah, “There are always hot chicks in Montreal. You remember that time we played that outdoor gig, was around here on one of these islands, beautiful night and all those topless chicks in the front rows? They were hot.”

Cliff said yeah. Barry could see him thinking about it, halfway to forgetting about what was going on now, and Barry said, “Some of those chicks tonight might've been those girls all grown up — Montreal is like the
MILF
capital of North America,” and Cliff said, yeah, “There were a couple there, down front, very hot.”

“Let's go find them,” Barry said, “give them something to talk about they get their hair done,” and Cliff said, yeah, okay, “Let me get dressed.”

And Barry realized yeah, they were okay, everything was fine. They could still do what he had planned at Huron Woods, deliver the little gift under the seat.

• • •

Ritchie had expected there to be rumours about him and Emma. He didn't think she'd be able to keep it quiet, and then he was a little pissed off she did. She was businesslike, if anything, mostly quick fucks and the odd blowjob after a show, like she was tucking him into bed.

They'd crossed the border again, driving all the way to Connecticut to play Foxwoods, not as good a show as Montreal, maybe one of the weakest so far, and Ritchie thought they were losing momentum. Well, shit, they only had one more show on this leg, Huron Woods Casino outside Toronto, and then a two-week break before they picked it up again.

Emma hadn't even come with them, said she had a little business in New York and she'd meet up with them later.

Now, sitting on the bus on the way past Toronto, Ritchie was thinking maybe he'd seen Emma for the last time and wasn't too bothered about it. She was so damned serious all the time, half his age and sometimes acting like she was the older one, the mature one. That same shit he'd heard his whole life; he wanted to tell her like he told everybody else, do you think if I wanted to grow up I'd still be playing guitar in a rock band? Shit, he knew what he was doing. He thought.

Dale was in the back of the bus with Cliff and Barry, and they were laughing and having a few drinks. Cliff had brought out a bottle of Scotch, told them all it was his “closing Scotch,” what he drank when he sold a house, and they were sipping it from little glasses.

Jackie was sitting across the aisle from Ritchie and she said, “You don't want one?” and Ritchie said no. He wouldn't've minded a nice fat joint, but he didn't say that, and Jackie said, “You see Cliff's briefcase? It's a portable bar. It's got a few bottles, glasses, all that stirring stuff. Must be something he picked up in real estate.”

Ritchie looked back, saw Cliff telling another story, Dale and Barry laughing, tried to remember the last time he saw Barry laugh and couldn't think of one — ever — not even high school. This was new all right, the High having a good time on the road.

“You going to be okay,” Jackie said, “when you see Huron Woods and Frank?”

Ritchie said, “Frank who?” and Jackie said, “Oh my God, you don't know.”

“Know what?”

She leaned a little closer, Ritchie thinking this was the most Jackie'd ever talked to him in twenty years, and she said, “Frank Kloss is the Entertainment Director of the Huron Woods Casino.”

Ritchie said, “You gotta be kidding,” but as far as he knew Jackie'd never made a joke in her life. “Frank Fucking Klostomy Bag, Frank?”

“Wow, you didn't know.”

He wanted to say how would I know, Jackie, how would I fucking know, but he wanted to know more, so he shook his head and said, “Sorry.”

She said, “No need, Ritchie. I probably hate him more than you do.”

The highway rolling by in the dark, Ritchie said, yeah, probably, but doubted it. With Jackie, like the rest of the High, it was about the money. It was about Frank signing them to their first contract in '74, ten years of personal management, all of them too young and too drunk and too stoned to think more than ten minutes ahead.

But for Ritchie it was way personal.

Jackie said, “He always said if you guys could've just stayed together longer, kept putting out music as the High, then everybody'd make money.”

“Instead of just him.”

“Yeah.”

Now Ritchie wanted some of that Scotch, but he kept looking at nothing out the window of the bus, the highway rolling by in the dark. Fucking Frank, telling them he did the best he could. What else could he do? They were up against the huge American distributors. That's where he said the problem was, that's where they got ripped off. Said they had no power, no negotiating position until they had some hits, then they could get a better deal, start making some real money, but how could they keep working together, living together, spending every minute of the fucking day together in shitty apartments, shitty motel rooms, shitty vans, everybody around them making millions. Hell, they hadn't liked each other much to begin with back in high school — there was no way they could've hung on through that.

Now Jackie was saying Dale freaked when he found out Frank was running the Huron Woods and they'd be playing there. “He wanted to cancel the show, but Emma says it's the biggest house on the tour, best payday we'll have. Where is Emma?”

Ritchie said, how should I know? Jackie smiled at him and said, “It's okay, I won't tell anybody.”

Ritchie said, “Tell anybody what?” and he wasn't even sure there was anything to tell.

“I told Dale,” Jackie said, “we might as well take as much of Frank's money as we can,” and Ritchie thought, hell yes, it's our money. Looking in the back of the bus he saw Cliff and Barry and Dale had gotten a little more serious. He couldn't imagine much talking about old times, but still he didn't want to go back there and hang out. Shit, Frank Kloss.

Jackie said if he didn't know about Frank, then, “I guess there's no way you know about Angie,” and Ritchie turned sideways and looked right at Jackie and said, “What?”

“Angela Maas.”

Ritchie said, “Angie's still with Frank?” Couldn't believe it. No way.

“Not with him like
with
him,” Jackie said, “not like a couple. I heard from Emma, she said Angie's working for Frank again. He gave her a job awhile ago, when she got out of rehab.”

“She just got out? Shit, how long was she in?”

“Been in more than once,” Jackie said, and Ritchie thought, shit. He was surprised Jackie was being so nice about it and it made him think maybe he didn't know Jackie like he thought he did.

“She's his executive assistant.”

Ritchie said, “Shit,” and saw Angie Maas, hot chick hanging out on Queen West, early '80s, Phil Collins' “In the Air Tonight,” that chick with the Bette Davis Eyes everywhere. Frank, fucking thirty-five-year-old Frank Kloss, showing up with twenty-year-old Angie on his arm, giving her a job in the management office.

Jackie said, “Poor Angie.”

Ritchie'd fallen hard for her. And she fell for him. They snuck around, Angie getting a kick out of it, calling him her “other man,” and saying she didn't want to hurt Frank. Yeah, right, Ritchie knew better. Frank was getting her stoned all the time, it was the '80s, coke everywhere, and Frank had the money and the power. Angie wanted to be in the music biz and Frank was showing her the way.

Now Jackie was saying, “You know, I never told anybody, not even Dale,” and Ritchie said, never told him what?

“About you and Angie.”

Ritchie said, what about me and Angie?, thinking he really didn't know
this
Jackie at all, looking at him like his mother did when he said the two ounces wasn't his, he was holding it for a friend.

He said, “When did you know?”

“Probably pretty close to the beginning. Was the first time you got together at the launch party for ‘Out in the Cold'?”

Ritchie said, yeah that was it, but it was before that, the first night they met, him and Angie in the alley behind the Horseshoe, getting away from some big hair metal band Frank signed, Ritchie saying, they can't tell the difference between practising arpeggios and guitar solos, and Angie, in her acid-wash denim miniskirt, saying, they shouldn't bother shoving the socks in their pants. Ritchie thinking he was the bigshot rock star, he was the one with albums out, he opened for Led Zeppelin. This chick looked like a teenager — should've been all giggles and nervous energy, passing out from the attention, but she was the one in charge. Pulled him in close and kissed him, kissed his face, licked his ear, and whispered, Frank can't ever find out. Ritchie said he lived a couple blocks over, on Beverley, but Angie said she couldn't wait and pulled him into a doorway, lifted up her skirt. Ritchie tore her panties off and they screwed right there.

Jackie said, “I always thought you two could be good together,” and Ritchie said, what?

“You and Angie. I don't know why she didn't dump Frank. I don't know why she went out with him the first place. You have any idea?”

Ritchie said no, but shit, it was all he thought about for years. Why did Angie string him along and keep seeing Frank, move in with Frank, get engaged to Frank? Because she was a fucked-up kid? Because she wanted it all? The drugs? She was like the girl in a million songs, and Ritchie couldn't figure her out. When they were together it was great, the time they could steal to be together. Maybe that added to it, the excitement, the danger, but it was all phoney. All she had to do was dump Frank.

“Must have been the drugs,” Jackie said.

Ritchie said, yeah, “The drugs.”

“Anyway,” Jackie said, “that's water under the bridge a long time ago, isn't it? We can all be adults now, can't we?”

Ritchie said, sure, why not? He was game if everybody else was.

Looking in the back of the bus he saw the three amigos all serious, nodding and sipping their Scotch and he thought, hell, if we're going to be adult about something, it'll be a first.

Angie Maas was sitting across the desk from her boss thinking she liked him better when he was a music biz asshole, before he became a gangster asshole. She waited for him to finish his phone call, full of uh-huhs and yeahs and you know its and rolling his eyes. The phone was clipped to his ear, the tiny blue light on it looking like something out of
Star Trek
. He said, “Yeah, I know,” and made a face at Angie and she just waited, not laughing or even smiling.

Frank said, “Okay, good. Talk to you Friday,” looked at Angie and said, “You're in a shitty mood.”

“Should I be in a good mood?”

“Why not, Ange? You tell me, why not?”

“Oh, I don't know, Frank,” she said. “Numbers are down across the board, shows are playing to half-empty houses, they're breathing down our neck from Philly to cut costs,” and, she wanted to say, you just got off the phone with Vic from Niagara Falls telling you all about shylocks getting ripped off in their own parking lot, but she wasn't supposed to know about that.

Frank said to relax, shit, numbers go up and down. “That's the casino business. It's not your concern.”

“Do you know the only show that's sold out as of right now? Do you?”

Frank looked at her, that you-tell-me look, and she said, “Bjorn Again. Do you what that is?” She knew he wasn't going to answer her. When he hired her, making sure she knew what a favour he was doing her, he was running the Showroom. It was his baby, he loved it, hanging out with the stars — Tom Jones and Howie Mandel and the Doobie Brothers, even without Michael McDonald — but then it turned out he loved being a gangster even more.

She said, “It's an
ABBA
tribute band.”

“So? That
Mamma Mia!
was a big hit.”

“The Australian Pink Floyd show, that sold out in a day.”

“Good. You should be happy. Try smiling, it won't wrinkle up your face like that.”

“And, of course,” she said, “the Chinese acts.”

Frank got up and walked around his desk, just a big glass table really, with nothing on it but a phone and a laptop that, as far as Angie knew, he never opened. Behind his desk the wall was all glass, the view fantastic, if, as Frank said, you like trees and water and all that boring shit, which he let you know often enough he didn't. All blue and green, he'd say. Nothing but fucking blue and green. Give me red and yellow and purple neon, give me people, shit, give me cars.

Now he was saying, “We should get more,” and Angie said, what, more Cantopop?, and Frank said, what the fuck is Cantopop?, and Angie said, “Cantonese pop. Chinese.”

“Yeah, more Chinese. Get that circus again, they were good, and those two sexy chicks.” He sat on the edge of his desk looking right at Angie. “I hate that fucking shrieking they call singing, but for Asian chicks they're stacked. You think those tits are real?”

“I don't know,” Angie said, “because they don't move at all and the nipples are always hard?”

“Yeah, who cares, they're sexy. And get more tribute bands.”

“More?”

Frank got up and walked around. “Sure, they're cheaper, they don't have rock star egos, and people like 'em.”

Angie said, “The Pink Floyd act isn't all that cheap, and they've got some egos,” but she knew Frank didn't give a shit about that, he wasn't interested in the Showroom anymore. She'd seen that develop, him getting more involved in the running of the casino, always trying to impress his bosses, and he sure didn't mean the Indians who owned the land they were on or the government stooges that thought they were in charge. No, he meant Felix Alfano and the Pennsylvania Accommodation and Gaming Company that had the management contract to run the place. Back when Angie first started, Frank was making fun of them, saying, what, did central casting send these guys over — get me two wiseguys and half a dozen thugs, but the more he hung out with them, the more he started to become one of them.

Or, from what Angie could see, the more he wanted to be one of them.

Now he was saying, “I know why you're so pissed, your old pals are coming. The High, they sell out?”

“On a bill with Cheap Trick.”

“Those dream police,” Frank said, “they live inside your head. C'mon, cheer up, you get a chance to see your old squeeze Ritchie boy.”

Angie said yeah, thinking, old squeeze, if you had any idea we were fucking like rabbits behind your back all that time, thinking, not that you'd give a shit now, but you never know, the whole gangster image, it's a lot more possessive than the wild rock'n'roller image. And Frank was all about the image.

He said, “I can't believe they're out on the road again. Shit, they haven't talked to each other in twenty years.”

Angie said, “Twenty years,” but she didn't want to take a trip down memory lane with Frank, couldn't believe he'd want to, either. She said, “Anyway, after them we've got nothing selling tickets. Country all-stars, maybe. That's it.”

Frank stopped pacing, nodded, had a serious look like he was really thinking about it, which Angie couldn't believe, but then he said, “I've got an idea,” and she thought, oh shit, no.

She said, “Yeah?”

“Why don't we do a rock all-stars, but with tribute bands?”

“I don't know, maybe because it would suck?”

“It'd be like seeing stadium bands in a small club. There must be some decent Stones tribute bands. Hell, remember the Blushing Brides? It'd be great to see the Stones in the Showroom. Intimate.” He was walking again, looking out the window at the trees and the lake. Angie knew anybody else'd say how beautiful it was.

She said, “Sure, Stones cover band. Why don't we get that guy who does Jimi Hendrix to open for them? Or the Who? Why not the Beatles?”

Frank turned around and said, “I know you're trying to be a smartass, but that's not a bad idea.”

“Oh come on, Frank.”

“No really, call it something like A Night of Stars, or The Greatest Show That Never Was. Or maybe,” he was really getting into it, “we can call the Showroom the Crawdaddy and make it like a night in swinging London in the '60s. Get a Stones band, somebody doing the Yardbirds, the Animals, Cream — the whole blues thing. The boomers'll love it. Dress up the staff in minis and leather jackets.”

Okay, Angie had to admit it wasn't the dumbest idea she'd ever heard, just the wrong decade, so she said, “Might get more interest with '80s nostalgia these days,” and then she was worried Frank would be pissed off, thinking she was trying to make him feel old but he just said, “Yeah, '80 s, but good '80s.”

Angie said, “The waitresses with big hair and shoulder pads, the waiters in pastel jacket with the sleeves pushed up, no socks?”

Frank said, you're making fun, and Angie said no. He said, “Yeah, but the '80s had some style. Yeah, there must be a Springsteen impersonator, doing all that ‘Born in the USA,' none of that ‘Tom Joad' depressing shit. U2, somebody's got to be doing that prick Bono, or Phil Collins.”

Angie said, “Madonna, Tina Turner, Cyndi Lauper.”

“You see,” Frank said, “lots of cool shit in the '80s. Just no hair metal, shit. Maybe the Police. Be funny if the imitator had the same ego as Sting, eh?”

Angie couldn't help but smile, say yeah, and wait for Frank to smile, too. He could still have some fun with the Showroom, still pretend to like music, standing there looking out the window at the boring trees and lake and sky.

Then he stopped smiling, looked at Angie, and said, “Okay, that it?”

She said yeah, and got up to leave, but Frank called her back, held up a hand for her to wait, turned around, and said something on the phone, like he was reassuring this Danny Mac-something, then he turned around and said, “You're going to have to meet Felix.”

She said, I am? And Frank said, yeah, “He'll be here about nine. I have to go into town.”

She couldn't even tell if he was still on the phone, this stupid headset thing, but he was waving her to go and she was getting a bad feeling. Shit, Frank pawning off Felix Alfano and the Philly Mob to go into Toronto and meet some guy named Danny Mac.

Out of the office she was thinking it was too bad Frank was giving up on showbiz, he was actually pretty good at it. But here he was, walking around like somebody out of a Scorsese movie, blowing off a big-time Philly mobster to meet with Danny Mac. She just knew when Frank's true nature got the better of him and he started ripping these guys off they wouldn't sulk and pout the way the High did, fight with each other and break up.

Then what she was wondering was if it made her a stone cold bitch that all she thought was if she'd take over as Entertainment Director with a line on being Casino Director.

Well, hell, she was starting to feel like she really did want to see Ritchie. He could always make her feel better, for a little while anyway.

• • •

Looking at the porno on the flat screen in the living room of the townhouse Frank said, “I remember when chicks had a full bush,” and Burroughs, cell against his ear, said, “Everything else down there is the same.”

Frank said, “We used to say, ‘By a cunt hair,' remember? Something was really close, but we'd make it by a cunt hair. What're these kids gonna say now when they've never seen a cunt hair?”

Burroughs was listening to the phone, smiling and nodding, a good story.

Frank said, “You remember when guys said the Chinese chicks had sideways twats,” and Burroughs said, “Fuck, man, how old are you?”

Julie Qin came down the stairs saying, “Our vags have magic power, too. You heard that?”

Frank said, yeah, I hear that, and all the weird Oriental
Kama Sutra
shit, and Julie said, “And it turns out Chinese guys just want a blowjob like everyone else.” She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and said, “Violet's working, you want me to get her?” and Frank said, “That's okay, I just stopped to talk to him.”

Burroughs was still on the phone.

Julie said, “You sure? She hasn't seen anybody all day,” and Frank said he was sure, but he was thinking, maybe it would be a good idea, relax a little before going to see these bikers in town, but then Burroughs clipped his cell in that little plastic holster on his belt and said, “What's up?”

Julie said, “You gentlemen want coffee?” and walked into the kitchen.

The townhouse was in a new development a few miles from the casino on the way to the 400, the highway to Toronto, filled mostly with dealers and bartenders and waiters and housekeeping staff, three or four to a unit and a couple of units set up with girls to serve the Chinese guys. Julie Qin and her mother had run massage parlours north of Toronto for some Hong Kong gangsters Burroughs knew from when he was a cop.

Now Burroughs was saying, “Boys busted a grow op in Timmins, found a six-foot gator.”

“How'd they get a fucking alligator to Timmins? It's five hundred miles north of here.”

“Five hundred plants and a bunch of magic mushrooms, too. They were working.”

“And I can't find anybody to do an eight-hour behind the bar.”

Burroughs said, “I guess if they left a bear inside to scare people off it would've eaten the plants.”

“Like I said, can't find good help.”

Then Burroughs said, “You talked to them about this place yet?”

“I'm going into town now. They want to set up some chicks in the hotel.”

Burroughs said, “I told you, not in the fucking hotel. We'll get another unit here.”

“I'll talk to them.”

“Okay good. And they aren't as solid as they claim.”

Frank said, no? And Burroughs said no. “I was talking to a buddy on the task force, city cop.”

“You still have friends in the city?”

“They're bringing all the operations together — the provincial police, the city, Mounties. They've even got the Americans involved — Michigan, New York State.”

Burroughs liked to sound plugged in, Frank knew, ever since him and pretty much his whole narco squad in Toronto got picked up by the Mounties. Of course, the investigation went to shit when they handed it back to the city — couldn't find a single witness willing to testify, the evidence was screwed up, wiretaps accidentally erased. Cops really circled the wagons. Officially the case was still open, but Burroughs took early retirement and Felix Alfano hired him as head of security for the casino.

So maybe he was still connected, Frank couldn't be sure, but he knew Burroughs was okay with changing bosses. Pretty sure. He said, “All those jurisdictions, cops sharing information, trusting each other, yeah right. You give me a call when that starts working out,” and Burroughs said, “They're doing it now,” and Frank said, “So what, cops are having a convention, it'll just be a big drunk, get everybody pissed off. They don't even tip the hookers.”

Burroughs said, “Public servant salaries aren't much,” and Frank said, that's right, “That's why I never met a cop who lived on one.”

Julie came into the living room, a mug in one hand and a cigarette in the other, said the coffee was ready, and went upstairs.

Burroughs said, “They aren't going to leave us alone forever,” and walked into the kitchen.

Frank followed, feeling like a kid following his big brother. Shit, he could yank this guy's chain all he wanted, never made an impression.

In the kitchen Burroughs said, “My buddy's on a course right now. All these cops, they're going to do something — they're spending all kinds of money so they're going to need some kind of bust that plays big on the news.”

“So?”

“So.” Burroughs poured himself a coffee and put the pot back. “What looks better, dragging a bunch of greasy bikers out of a sleazy peeler bar or a bunch of guys in suits at a big, shiny casino?”