Tumblin' Dice (7 page)

“Everything?”

She looked up and down his naked body, slowed over his dick, and then looked him in the face and said, “Almost everything.”

“Right. Anyway, at twenty-one you fuck because that's what the boys want. You don't know what you want.”

She said, “Oh yeah?” wondering if she knew any better what she wanted now.

“Yeah.”

She stood up and found her blouse hanging over the armchair by the little table with the phone on it and looked around for her skirt saying, “Don't you guys peak at nineteen?” She buttoned up her blouse, pulled on her short skirt and the matching jacket, and she was Angela Maas, big boss lady, again.

Ritchie said, “Honey, I'm still nineteen.”

“That something to be proud of?”

“You sure liked it ten minutes ago.”

She said, yeah, that's true, and he said, “And twenty minutes ago and a half hour ago you thought it was great.”

“It was okay.”

He laughed and said, “Shit, you bullshit like a manager. Frank taught you good.”

“Frank never taught me a thing.”

“I believe that.”

She walked around the room, the Junior Suite, every room in the hotel a suite of some kind, needing to get ready to see Felix but in no hurry to leave Ritchie. She really had planned to just run into him, just say, hi, how've you been, good to see you, but as soon as she saw him . . . “Way back when, maybe, back in Niagara Falls when Frank was still interested, but since he's been here, he doesn't give a shit anymore.”

Ritchie said, what, “Are you going to tell me with Frank it's all about the money?” and Angie smiled, almost laughed, and said, “He used to want to make money from music, at least.”

“What's he make money from now?”

She was looking right at him then, thinking, is he still a kid, playing his guitar in a rock'n'roll band, or is he a fifty-six-year-old man, a grown-up? She really couldn't tell. She wanted to tell somebody about Frank, about how she was worried about him, and then that sounded stupid in her own head. Why should she be worried about Frank? Why should she give a shit?

She said, “Well, you know, he's a gangster.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Well, he's not really. I mean, he's mostly the front.”

Ritchie said yeah, not making a move to get up, looking right at her, listening.

She said, “You know, when he hired me here, he'd already been running the Showroom in Niagara Falls — not the big place, the new casino downtown, the old one up the hill.”

Ritchie said, “The one that used to be a bingo hall?”

“It's bigger now — they added onto it a lot,” and Ritchie said, “Yeah, I know. I played there a couple of times with LeAnne Barclay.”

“Isn't she a little country for you?”

“She's all right.”

Angie said, yeah, sure, still in no hurry, looking at Ritchie waiting for her to tell her story. She couldn't think of any guy she'd ever been with so patient
after
she slept with him. She said, “I don't really know anything about it, the business — the real business.”

Ritchie said, “I bet you do, Ange. I bet you know all about it, but hey, you don't want to tell me, that's fine. It's none of my business. Anyway, you want to get something to eat? I've got a fifty buck per diem burning a hole in my pocket.”

“I've got to meet someone.”

She was pretty sure he looked disappointed for a second, his rock star cool slipping a little, and she said, “Sorry. Maybe another time?”

She walked into the bathroom thinking she had a lot more bottled up inside than she realized. If she didn't watch out, she'd tell Ritchie everything, and then it felt good to think that, the idea of talking to somebody. No, talking to Ritchie. There wasn't any reason to be in the bathroom — she didn't need to go, she'd just wanted to get away from him for a minute, but she didn't want him to leave. Shit, it was like back in the day, the first time she quit using and she'd had that sponsor, that guy looked like her dad, was so proud of himself for not trying to fuck her the first time they met, telling her to open up, saying it would be better if she talked about it. Then all they did was talk, hours and hours of talk, drove her nuts.

She'd seen an article online somewhere about dieting, said that when men talk about a craving they have to have it and when women talk about a craving it helps them get rid of it. Maybe it was true — her sponsor was back using before he got the nerve to try and bang her.

Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, she wondered who the old lady was looking back. An afternoon in the sack with Ritchie and she felt like the rock chick again.

Felt pretty good, too, and that was dangerous, that was when she started making dumb decisions, doing dumb things. Started thinking maybe she could be happy.

She flushed the toilet, ran the tap for a few seconds, and walked back out into the junior suite. Then she said, hey, “You want to come, too?”

Ritchie said, what, “On your date?”

“It's not a date; it's business.”

She could feel Ritchie looking right through her, knowing something was going on, but he just said, “Okay, sure, why not.”

Angie felt good when he said it, glad she wasn't going to see Felix alone and glad to be hanging out with Ritchie.

Then thinking, shit, this could be bad.

Armstrong noticed Loewen and the biz lady had left, so that was good — it still worked out. Later he'd have to tell Loewen it was shitty she was a bigot, see the look on his face. Armstrong was almost surprised Loewen didn't see it, she was giving off the vibe so strong, but of course Loewen was blinded by wanting to get laid.

But now Agent Jones from Homeland Security was giving off an entirely different vibe, saying how it'd been a couple of years since she'd last been to Canada, met Armstrong when he was looking into some Arab guy thrown off the roof of an apartment building and Armstrong said, “He jumped.”

Jones said, “No kidding,” and Armstrong knew she believed him. They were sitting at the table with a few other cops, Americans. Armstrong always having trouble keeping them straight,
FBI
,
DEA
, state, city,
ATF
, marshals, Homeland Security. He wondered how they weren't tripping over each other all the time.

“Yeah, he wasn't really a criminal, just some guy trying to make a living. His wife left him — you know the deal.”

Jones said, “Oh yeah, see it every day.”

The other cops at the table were mostly black guys, one of them saying he'd like to see a hockey game close up, not getting much interest. One of them said the food here in Canada was pretty bland and another cop, looked more Mexican to Armstrong, said well, a hotel, what do you expect?

Jones said to Armstrong, “After that thing with the Arab guy I got transferred to
NYC
, supposed to be a promotion.”

Armstrong said yeah, and she said, “Yeah, I've never seen so much paperwork in my life.”

“Gotta be organized, keeping the world safe.”

“We're keeping it safe in triplicate,” she said, “for democracy or for bankers, I can't tell. It's all about the money.”

Armstrong said, “Yeah, this whole task force, it all money laundering?”

“So far.”

The Mexican-looking cop said to Armstrong, “There any good Italian in this town?” and Armstrong said, yeah, two neighbourhoods, downtown — College Street, and a little north — Woodbridge.

One of the black guys said, “What about Middle Eastern, like Lebanese, shawarma, shish taouk, that kind of thing?”

“We've got pretty much any kind of food you want,” Armstrong said. He looked at Jones. “That's really what we mean by multicultural in Toronto. Restaurants and folk dancing, otherwise we want your ethnicities to be just like the nice, white Canadians,” and the other cops all said stuff like I hear that, the way it is, you know it.

Jones said, “So now it looks like I'll be moving to Buffalo or Niagara Falls.”

Armstrong said, “I heard a comedian once say you're going to dig a big ditch along the Mexican border but along the Canadian border you're going to put in a huge penalty box.”

“Give everybody two minutes for terrorism.”

Armstrong said, “That's pretty good,” and she said, “I had to look it up.”

She was looking at him, flirting, no doubt, but she had more on her mind, he could tell, so he waited, see if she'd get there on her own. She said, “You played pro hockey in Germany for a couple years?”

He said, “Yeah, and a year in Switzerland.”

“And,” she said, “don't forget Michigan State.”

“Go Spartans. This what you use the vast resources of the most powerful government in the world for?”

She said, “I Googled you,” and he said, oh, right.

Then she said, “I had to use the spy satellites and the deep cover agents to find out you were single, why is that?”

“Makes you suspicious, doesn't it? I mean, you like the idea, but you don't like it at the same time.”

“You avoiding the question?”

“I don't have an answer for it. Never met the right person, that kind of thing. What about you?”

“How do you know I'm single?”

“Oh, so is this just business?”

“Just business? We're not selling staplers here — this is the security of the free world we're talking about.”

“So, you haven't met the right person, either?”

“I think the stats say I have a better chance of getting killed by a terrorist.”

“I think that statistic means more,” Armstrong said, “when your job is like grade school teacher or stockbroker, you know, when you're not actually out looking for terrorists.”

“Well, if we go by how many we find . . .”

The other cops at the table were getting up then, talking about going to a sports bar, maybe seeing a show, and Jones said to Armstrong, “They're looking for a strip club. Which one would you recommend?” Armstrong said they could just walk across the street to the Club International.

One of the black guys said to Jones, “Least we didn't call it the Canadian Ballet,” winked, and they left her alone with Armstrong.

He said, “That's really a Detroit thing, calling the clubs across the river in Windsor the ballet.”

She said, “Like it's a secret code we'll never break.”

“All you cops and spies.”

Armstrong was thinking he'd like to ask if she wanted to move this up to her room, but then he was thinking maybe it was too soon. He waved the waitress over and they ordered another round, Jones drinking bourbon over crushed ice and Armstrong going for a Scotch, no ice.

Jones said, “Speaking of secret codes, we did pick up something might be of interest to you.”

Armstrong said, “To me personally, or to us Canadians?” Thinking if the reason she wanted to see him was official, why'd she check him out, see if he was single?

“To Toronto Homicide.”

Armstrong said, oh yeah, leaning back and watching Jones sip her drink, thinking how the last time they met they'd flirted right away, her telling him about her Cherokee great-grandma and them both talking about how their families were mostly military. Now she'd looked him up and was talking about a transfer to a place that would be less than a two-hour drive. Armstrong thought, how often will I meet a woman like this?

He said, “But this information, that might be of interest to Toronto Homicide, it's not something might go in an official report?”

“Not really. But I mean, we're supposed to be into all this co-operation and everything.”

Armstrong said, yeah, that's what he heard, “World's longest unprotected border,” and Jones smiled at him and he liked the way they were settling into it.

She said, “You know how we're working to get past all these jurisdiction problems,” and he said, “Having these conferences,” and she said, “Talking to each other in unofficial ways.”

“Passing around rumours, nothing we could put in our official notes.”

“Giving each other information that if we did follow up on, our sources wouldn't be enough to get warrants or even go on record.”

Armstrong said, “It's hard playing by the rules.”

“It sure is.”

He sipped his Scotch and waited. Waiting for this Homeland Security Agent who looked like Halle Berry was a lot better than waiting for some low-life informant.

She said, “We picked up something on a wiretap. Didn't seem like much, a guy bitching he hasn't made full patch.”

Armstrong said, “Saints of Hell. When they took over the country they patched over anybody who called themselves a motorcycle gang, got a lot of crap. They've been weeding it out, been a lot more selective about who gets promoted.”

“Yeah, it didn't mean anything, the one guy whining, the other telling him it'll come in time, you know, and then the guy says something about, it's still because he popped Mr. and Mrs. Blowjob by mistake.”

Armstrong said, “On the Gardiner Expressway, couple going home to the suburbs. We found out who the real target was, but they got him somewhere else.”

“Well,” Jones said, “the shooter was somebody named Boner — that mean anything to you?”

“It will to someone. Who was he talking to?”

“The other guy shut him down quick. I'd say from his attitude he's done some time in the military.”

“Yours or ours?”

“Come on,” she said, “all military sounds the same.”

Armstrong said yeah. Then he said, “So, tell me, which side of the border did this conversation take place on?”

Jones drank her bourbon, looking at him over the rim of her glass, raising her eyebrows.

Armstrong said, “Shit.”

“One of the reasons I can't tell you officially. But I thought you'd want to know.”

“Yeah,” Armstrong said, “Price worked that, and McKeon. She's the one who figured out who the real target was.”

“So she's probably getting close.”

“I don't know,” Armstrong said. “I'm surprised our own taps didn't pick this up.”

Jones just looked at him and shrugged a little, not about to tell him any more and he figured, okay, good enough. It was decent of her to tell him this much.

Then she said, “You're pretty busy.”

Armstrong said, “We ran an operation a few years ago, went after one of the gangs. I don't know how many of us on it, dozens anyway, plus thirty-five civilians on the wires, over a hundred thousand calls recorded, transcribed, highlighted, summarized, looked at.”

Jones said, “Uh-huh, oh yeah, you know it.”

“Ran it for six months, then we picked up sixty-five guys.”

“Not bad.”

“Yeah, then we hand it to the lawyers so we lose half right away, plea bargains all over the place.”

“Well,” Jones said, “you go after the big fish.”

“That's right, the ones who can afford real lawyers. So their real lawyers do what lawyers always do: they stall, they file a thousand motions, they go after everything. Used to be, out of those hundred and fifty thousand phone calls we only had to transcribe and print up the ones that were relevant, the ones the prosecution was using. Now, the lawyers say, no, come on, there might be something on those other calls — Mom making hair appointments, little sis talking about the cute guy on
American Idol
— you have to give us everything.”

Jones said, “I hear you.”

“Half a million pages get typed up, printed out because they won't take a fucking Word file, oh no. Tell me that's not a tactic, not strategy. Then they need time to read them all, another delay. Meanwhile, most of these guys are back out on the street doing what they do.”

“Or they move south.”

“Yeah,” Armstrong said, “aren't you supposed to be stopping them at the border?”

“We can't help that your passport's the easiest to fake in the world.”

“Now it's five years later and maybe a half dozen guys will actually go to trial. Maybe. What did we spend on it, a few million bucks?”

“What did you say? It's hard playing by the rules?”

“These guys run operations all over the country, all over North America, South America. They've got chapters all over Europe, all the way to Australia. Shit, I don't know what the guys upstairs in guns and gangs are doing, never mind next door.”

“Well,” Jones said. “We can do our bit for international co-operation,” and Armstrong said, yes we can.

And it was time to move it up to the room.

On the way Armstrong said in the morning they could talk to Loewen, he knew Price, get the information where it needed to be. Then he said, “Might be fun. The nice polite Canadian bigot he's with, probably never talked to an Indian or black person wasn't airport security in her life,” and Jones said, “We catch them coming out of her room, and she's trying to look businesslike?”

Armstrong said, yeah, something like that. Seeing all kinds of potential for international co-operation with Agent Jones of Homeland Security.

• • •

Ritchie didn't think Angie walked around like a big boss lady — she didn't have any attitude. He got the feeling most people working at Huron Woods knew who she was and liked her. She told the girl at the door of the Longhouse Restaurant, the nicest one in the place, that they'd find their own table and then led the way to a nice corner booth.

Sitting down she said, “Felix'll be late — you know, make us wait.”

Ritchie said, sure, of course, looking at Angie, liking what he saw, thinking it was just like old times, the two of them jumping in the sack the minute Frank's back was turned, then thinking, no, Angie is all grown up, she isn't
with
Frank anymore. She liked being in charge, he could tell, but that wasn't all. He liked the way she joked around with the waitress, confident, ordering club soda, relaxed, waiting for him, saying he could have whatever he wanted so he ordered a Glenfiddich, no ice.

Then Angie was looking at him and Ritchie was nervous. She said, “I've been clean now five years.”

“And how many days?”

“You think I don't know the exact number? Hours and minutes?”

“I know what it's like.”

“You do?”

She got him there. He said, “Well, no, Ange, not personally, but I've known a lot of people.”

“I guess.”

“Come on, I've been in the rock'n'roll business, shit, thirty years. Not everybody makes it.”

“No, I guess not.”

“Yeah, well, you know.” He was looking at her, seeing the old Angie now, the kid who flipped moods in a second, went from that couldn't-wait-to-get-you-alone chick, ripping clothes off in the elevator, to walking out the door and then looking at you like she didn't even know you an hour later in the bar.

She said, “Yeah, I know.”

Now Ritchie could see it going either way here, he could be Mr. Nice Guy, try and get her to open up and talk to him because he knew there was something she wanted to talk about, or he could blow her off, have a little dinner, and walk out of her life. Again. Then he was thinking maybe that's what she wanted, maybe she just hopped into bed with him to get rid of him, and then he was thinking, yeah, like Emma did when my guitar was stolen, and then he was thinking, shit, stop it, you're thinking like a chick, worried they're just using you. What are you gonna do next, write a sappy song about it? Fuck.