Tumblin' Dice (5 page)

“It's
The Journey Back to Magnificence
.”

Ritchie, still not looking at her, saying, “The long road back.”

“We're supposed to say it's a wampum of faith. Faith in a better, healthier, more balanced life for
all
people in Canada.”

“Yeah,” Ritchie said, “I saw that on the brochure. Well, you gotta have faith — it's what keeps every gambler coming back.”

He turned his head then, looked right at her and said, “You look great, Angie.”

She said, “Yeah, I do,” and like she knew he would, Ritchie made her really feel like it.

“Big boss lady now, running the casino.”

“The Showroom, anyway.”

“Doesn't Frank think,” Ritchie said, “that he runs the place?”

Angie smiled, said, yeah, “Frank.”

“You want to get a drink?”

“I'm working, Ritchie. Big boss lady.”

“What's the point of being the boss if you can't take five minutes off, talk to your old friend?”

She said, okay, five minutes. “But not the bar. The coffee shop.”

“Sure, yeah, okay.”

She led the way, walking through the lobby knowing Evelyn at the front desk was looking at her, feeling good.

Danny Mac's wife Gayle said, “Assholes shouldn't leave his body out in the open like that, not even covered up, his wife seeing it, his kids.”

They were in the living room of their new condo, Nugs stopping by to talk a little business with Danny.

“The news lady said it'd be graphic.”

“Yeah,” Nugs said, “with a fucking gleam in her eye. The asshole on the scene with a hard-on.”

“Saying they're just trying to show the way it really is on the streets.”

Gayle looked at Danny and said, “Assholes,” then looked back at the
TV
, couldn't stop watching, staring at Dickie's body, his legs on Queen Street West, the rest of him on the sidewalk, bare chest covered in blood. Paramedics worked him for a while, but he'd been shot about twenty times. She said, “Look at them, heartless fucking bastards.” Cops walking all over the street, whole thing roped off, traffic stopped in both directions. Gayle said, “What kind of guns are those?”

Nugs said they were
C
7s, the Canadian
M
16. The
ETF
guys used them, trying to look like Marines, “Itching for a chance to shoot somebody with one of those, blow him into a million fucking pieces.”

Danny said, “They have three kids?”

Gayle said they had the two boys; Janet already had the girl when they got together. “Alicia, I think. Shit, Janet must be freaking out,” and Danny said, so why don't you call her? Gayle just kept staring at the
TV
, saying, “It's like they're playing for the cameras, look, walking around like tough guys, those detectives.” A big square-shouldered cop in a slick suit, looked like he might be South Asian or something, but so big, and a white guy in a rumpled overcoat.

Danny said he liked the part where they said it was gang-related, like there might be some other reason two guys walk up to a Land Rover on Queen Street West, fire fifty rounds into it, drop the guns, and walk away. “What do people think, it's a mugging? A random carjacking? Morons.”

“I like the part,” Nugs said, “where they don't say what gangs, what it's about.”

“They got Dickie's name up fast enough,” Gayle said. “None of that waiting to notify the next of kin.” Using an old mug shot, saying he was known to police. “I hate the way the
TV
and the cops work together. Look, making sure they get a clear shot of his body, nobody in the way.”

“Listen to him,” Danny said, “talking about all the video cameras in the stores. They might get a good look at the gunmen. I like that they call them gunmen.” They'd already shown interviews with witnesses, none of them giving their names, most of them more interested in the
ETF
guys and the cops, crime scene guys, so many all over the street. A couple people said they saw a guy wearing a baseball hat walk up to the car, shoot the driver, walk away. A few other people said it was two guys wearing hoodies, some other people said the shots came from another car.

“Was a good hit,” Nugs said, and Danny said, oh yeah, those fucking Nealon brothers know what they're doing — they're back on the reserve by now, like they never left.

Nugs said, “We're meeting them on Friday up at Huron Woods.”

Gayle said, “Frank's coming down tonight, making the pick-up.” She watched Nugs nod, knowing he still didn't like the idea she was in on everything, this one practically her deal alone. Shit, she'd known Nugs for twenty-five years, but most of that time him and Danny Mac and O.J. and the rest of the Rebels were small-time dope dealers, maybe some truck hijacking, a little
B&E
and stealing cars, all behind their motorcycle shops, garages, and strip clubs. Gayle was the only wife or girlfriend —
old lady
made her laugh — that knew the real business, and she'd taken over all of Danny's legit fronts and made money with them, too.

She'd watched pretty closely, gotten a little involved, and when the Saints of Hell out of Montreal joined up with the big boys in California and romanced and muscled the rest of the bikers in Canada into giving up their renegade ways and coming on board, she was right there. A few other wives and girlfriends were around as long, and they sure liked the new big money the patch-over brought, but they had nothing to do with business. Gayle liked it, she was doing more now than Danny, and Nugs knew it. She figured maybe that's what pissed him off.

But he liked the big money, too, saying, “How much you giving him?”

Gayle looked at Danny and saw he wasn't about to say anything so she said, “Half a mil to start. He's got a nice operation at that casino, can clean it good.”

“He have any idea what he's doing?”

“He's the one out front,” Gayle said. “If he doesn't, it's on him.”

“Still,” Nugs said, “seems a little late in the game for this guy Frank to be changing teams.”

Danny was still looking at the
TV
, so Gayle said, “Well, I bet he doesn't think it's that late,” and Nugs said, yeah, that's true, “Who ever does?”

Gayle thinking, yeah, right, something I'll have to keep an eye on, for sure.

Nugs said, “I notice they don't say anything about Dickie talking to cops, being an informant.”

“Not a fucking word,” Danny said. “Not a word.”

Gayle thought about saying, well, he just started, hasn't really even given them that much, maybe these homicide cops don't even know. She was looking at the big-shouldered one, his grey suit silver in the right light and his tie silk, talk to the camera and she thought maybe he was a light-skinned black guy, had what looked like a crewcut, short black hair standing straight up, no curl in it at all. He was saying something about how they'd find the shooters for sure, and Gayle got the feeling the guy meant it. Shit.

She got up and walked to the little kitchen saying, “You want more coffee?” The condo was brand new, but the building used to be offices. They'd paid more for the two-bedroom, two-bathroom unit than they did for a four-bedroom house and a barn on fifty acres out by Napanee. Gayle liked the new big money, too.

She poured herself another cup thinking she knew Nugs liked the idea of moving into the casinos in Ontario, this Huron Woods and Niagara Falls and Windsor, they were in his own backyard after all, but she knew better than to sound like she was the one making the move. Maybe these guys don't ride motorcycles anymore, and maybe they look more like businessmen, but they're still old-fashioned when it comes to the chicks.

Back in the living room Danny'd changed the channel and they were watching sports, some guy talking about the Leafs, all they ever talked about. Gayle watched for a minute, wanting to say something about this Frank Kloss looking like a great contact, but she waited. Finally Nugs said, “It's good to have another source to move the cash,” and Danny said yeah.

Nugs said, “That fucking Russell Akbarali and the MoneyChangers, I don't know.”

“He's okay,” Danny said. “But you need more sources.”

This was good, Gayle seeing her men talk business. It seemed like more and more she'd been pushing them. They'd gone along with the guys from Montreal, then gotten rid of the top guy, the French guy Richard, and now Nugs was national president.

Nugs said, “You think this Frank Kloss can move a lot more?” Looking right at Gayle.

She saw Danny still staring at the flat screen, glued to the highlights, another season of the Leafs missing the playoffs, and she said, “Yeah, probably.”

“Well,” Nugs said, “J.T. and his boys are up there now, taking over the dope. When can we move girls into the hotel?”

“Anytime, I guess,” Gayle said.

“We can set it up like the Club International out by the airport, get the charge added to the restaurant bill, biz boys can expense it.”

“Or at least do it through work,” Gayle said, “not their personal credit cards the wife might see.”

“Okay, sounds good,” Nugs said, not even looking at Danny, doing his business with Gayle.

She was liking it, seeing how it could really work out.

Just have to be careful with these guys.

• • •

On the way to the bathroom in the back of the club J.T. handed the stripper who said her name was Valerie, her real name she'd said, the pack of smokes with the coke in it. She'd said to him, just wait in the
VIP
room, she'd be right back.

J.T. watched her go into the bathroom, the other stripper holding the door for her saying, “How come we always do it off the toilet?” and Valerie saying, because the sink is always wet. Before the door closed she stuck her head out and said, “You want us both?” and J.T. said, no, just you.

The middle of the afternoon and the Adderly Hotel, a hundred-year-old fleabag that'd gotten even worse when the Huron Woods Casino opened up ten miles down the highway, was almost empty. Bartender, bouncer who looked asleep, three or four guys sitting in the dark, one chick onstage and these two in the can. J.T.'s guys would be there in a half hour.

Twenty minutes in the
VIP
— a few booths boarded off by the bathrooms — and J.T. was sitting at a table with his guys, Boner and Gizz, and a couple of hangarounds, glad to see they were early. He told them the shipment was coming in from Montreal in a car, a guy and a girl bringing it, and one of the hangarounds wanted to know if the information was reliable.

J.T. gave him a look, that's all, just enough to shut him up and make him think about what he said.

The music changed, went from hip hop to some country song and Valerie was onstage, looking at J.T. and swinging on the pole.

It was still tense at the table, the guy who'd said that about the information scared and pissed off at himself, but J.T. figured he was just wound up, that was good, so he said they could have stopped it there, in Montreal, “But we need to make a statement.”

The guys all nodded, easing up a little and J.T. said, “We need to let these American fucks know that Huron Woods is ours, that what goes on here is ours,” and the guys all said, yeah, sure, fuckin' right. J.T. looked at Boner, knew he knew all this, but still. He wanted the guys to relax, to know they're all on the same team. He said, “Montreal's still as fucked up as always, those Irish assholes running the port and selling to whoever pays. We decided,” pausing to look around the table, letting them know that it really was “we” and that it really was a decision, “that there's just no talking to stubborn Irish fucks, so we let them have the port. Works out better for us anyway.”

The guys all nodded, drank their Molsons. J.T. thought about explaining to them how Montreal was divided between the Italians and the Saints, how they had a good working arrangement there just like they did in Toronto, except in Montreal there was also those Irish fucks, called the Point Gang because they crawled out of Goose Village and Point St. Charles dragging their knuckles, been running the port there for a hundred years, taking a piece of everything that came through and not giving it up, but he figured these guys didn't care. Hangarounds and prospects, thrilled to be working for the actual Saints of Hell.

Valerie finished her dance and walked off the stage naked, looking right at J.T. The one she'd gone into the bathroom with went up on the stage and Valerie got dressed, pulling on her sequined bra and cut-off jean shorts slow, looking at J.T. and the guys, but they weren't interested. Still too pumped. J.T. wanted to tell her to be ready after — what they were about to do was way better than Viagra.

Boner said, “We're ready,” and J.T. said, yeah, we are. These hangarounds like all the others, young and tough and don't give a shit who they're up against. J.T. was thinking how at home they looked in this shitty club, probably been in dozens of them all over Ontario.

Like the chicks, the weekday regulars were always white, early twenties, J.T. figured probably from small towns nearby, probably all had kids in daycare. An hour north of Toronto and it was like going back in time. In town the strippers'd be from Russia and Romania, Thailand and India, hair and make-up looking like movie stars, boob jobs and tanning booth tans, knowing every scam there is, but up here they were country chicks, chewing gum, home dye jobs and chipped nails. Sitting at the table, they looked to J.T. just like the cool chicks in high school who'd never talk to him and now he was thinking, look at that, I join the army, go off to Afghanistan, come back and join these Saints of Hell, and the girls're still sitting around talking about who's a slut.

Valerie caught J.T.'s eye and motioned to the door. Turning his head a little he saw them, a guy and a girl coming in, looking around and following the bouncer to a table. The first thing the guy should have seen was the five of them sitting at a table but he didn't, he just sat down.

J.T. said, “Okay,” and Boner got up, didn't say a word, just walked into the bathroom and, J.T. knew, right out the back door.

Gizz said, “Okay,” and J.T. stood up saying, “Wait here with him,” pointing to one of the hangarounds. The other kid jumped up and J.T. looked at him, trying to get him to calm down.

Gizz said, yeah, okay.

In the parking lot J.T. saw a white
BMW
M
3 pull up beside a minivan with Quebec plates. The trunk popped open on the M3 and a guy got out, walked around it to the minivan and slid open the side door.

Boner got there the same time as J.T. and the hangaround, coming from the other side so the
BMW
driver was trapped between his car and the minivan, guys coming at him from each end. He said, “You don't know what the fuck you're doing,” and J.T. said, “Yeah, we do.”

The guy went for his gun, tried to get it out of his belt but Boner hammered him from behind, smacked him across the head with a goalie stick, and the hangaround grabbed the gun, twisting the guy's arm till they heard it snap. Boner slammed the guy's head, bringing the stick down two-handed, whack, whack. Rolling on the ground between the cars the guy was saying, “You stupid fucks, you're dead. You're so fucking dead,” and the hangaround was putting the boots to him.