Finders Keepers (26 page)

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the singer said, “a special treat tonight.” He looked down at Kate. “This one goes out to you, Kate…”

Then she saw what he had: a harmonica, Steve hunched over it now, eyes closed, body rocking, rich, throaty sounds coming from his cupped hands to fill the room, making the downy hairs on her arms stand on end. Kate knew the tune, “Whammer Jammer,” by the J. Geils Band. The crowd went wild, jumping to its feet, clapping along with the beat. Kate joined them, wondering what other surprises Steve Seger had in store for her tonight.

* * *

Hicks had seen Raybould leave, crawling out through the swinging doors back there, but he couldn’t get to the stairwell to go after him. Every time he tried Corsino’s goon pinned him down. Hicks decided to negotiate. His leg was leaking a steady stream of blood and it hurt like hell.

He said, “Hey, listen up. I’m a cop and I’m expecting back up any minute. Raybould’s already gone.”

“Whaddya mean, gone?”

“I mean gone. Out those doors over there. Look, it’s him I’m after. You want to get your ass out of here in one piece, do it now or I swear when the cavalry arrives I’ll shoot you myself.”

You mean it? I can go?”

“I mean it. Put the gun down now and walk out of here.”

“How do I know you won’t shoot me?”

“I just fucking told you I won’t shoot you. Now go.”

The goon tossed out his gun and stood up, fingers laced behind his head. Hicks shot him twice in the chest, the goon crashing into a silverware cart.

Hicks tried to stand up then, get down the stairs and cut Raybould off before he got to his car, but he never got past his knees; the room took a lazy spin and the lights went out.

Hicks fainted dead away.

He came to a short time later, disoriented, his leg throbbing with pain. He got his belt around it above the bullet hole and yanked it tight with his teeth. Then, crawling on his hands and knees, he found a cell phone on one of the dead bodyguards, got the thing working and called for help.

He tried to get to the bag of money after that, hide it somewhere until the heat was off, but shit, he looked over at Bryan’s bullet-riddled corpse and passed out again.

* * *

Steve wound up doing five songs, the crowd getting balky every time he tried to sit down. If it hadn’t been for the appearance of Reese van der Heiden, a saxophonist for the Toronto Symphony and one of the best blues musicians Steve had ever seen, he’d’ve been stuck on stage until dawn. He’d played better tonight than he had in years, the energy of the band, the enthusiasm of the crowd, the whole atmosphere bringing it out of him. But none of it pleased him more than the sight of Kate’s beaming face as he returned to the table through a gauntlet of backslaps and high-fives, her wide smile only for him, the sparkle in her eyes as she clapped along with the rest of them.

She put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth and the smartass on the lights swung a spot on them, drawing a prolonged
ooh
from the crowd. Then the band rolled into an old Muddy Waters standard and they were alone again, easing into their seats, holding hands across the table.

“That was fantastic,” Kate said. “Where did you learn to play like that?”

“My grandfather, mostly,” Steve said, feeling like the grin on his face would never go away. “A lot of it I picked up just listening.”

Kate raised his hand to her mouth, brushing his knuckles with her lips. “Think I’d make a good groupie?” she said and Steve felt her touch all the way down to his boots.

“I’ll turn in my badge tomorrow. Put a band together and go on the road.” He stood, disengaging his hand from Kate’s. “Save my seat,” he said and took off to the boy’s room.

He collected a few more kudos in the john, one enthusiastic drunk jostling him so hard in front of the urinal Steve almost peed on his own shoes. The Muddy Waters tune ended while he was washing up and then a strange thing happened, an old girl-group tune reaching his ears, “My Boyfriend’s Back” by the Angels. As out of place in the Blue Room as a polka, but it sounded great. The crowd thought so, too.

Steve went out to see what was up, his own empty table visible before he could see the stage—holy shit—Kate up there now with a mike in her hand, singing lead with the girls doing back up, all of them looking down at him with smiles on their faces. She had all the right moves, too, sassy as hell. Steve sat in his chair and just grinned at her.

When the song ended the crowd surged to its feet, shouting for more, but Kate said, “Sorry, folks, that’s the only one I know,” and walked off the stage, face red as a beet, hiding in her hair. Steve stood too, pulling her chair out for her when she got to the table.

The singer announced a break, the lights went down and Steve asked Kate if she wanted another drink. She said no, then whispered something in his ear.

A minute later they left the Blue Room, Kate snuggled under Steve’s arm against the winter chill.

* * *

Raybould found the guard Hicks had cold-cocked still unconscious, laid out on his back with his eyes half open, bald head haloed in blood. He took his guns back—helping himself to the guard’s piece, too, a big chrome-plated Desert Eagle, three extra clips in the guy’s pocket—then got in his car and drove to the exit, alert for an ambush, realizing only as he turned onto the highway that Hicks and his fat-boy partner had been acting alone. Not as cops, either, but after the money. Probably Paulie who finked on him. Or maybe IA working with SIU, the way it started, hoping to turn up some dirt on him, strengthen their case against him; then Hicks and fatso getting wind of what was going down and deciding, fuck it, retire rich. Leave a stack of corpses at the scene—one dirty cop and a bunch of mob assholes, nice work, fellas—pocket the ticket and the cash and walk away clean. Decent plan, if you didn’t know about the sting on the ticket. Which made him doubt Hicks’ actions had ever been official. Probably just Hicks with a four-year hard-on about his coke-whore wife, looking to get even and just lucking into the whole thing. Not that it mattered. He had a flight booked to Grand Cayman at five tomorrow afternoon and he’d be on it, ten million richer instead of only five.

It was time for plan B.

He pulled into a closed gas station a few miles from the track and wrapped his forearm with gauze he kept in a first-aid kit in the glovebox. The wound was through and through, not bleeding much, and his fingers were all working, which meant no serious damage had been done. He had a bottle of Percocets in the first-aid kit and he chewed a couple of those, then drove back to the city.

* * *

Steve said, “You sure you’re okay with this? Being here, I mean?”

Here was Steve’s loft apartment, on the sofa, Nat King Cole crooning, “White Christmas” in the background.

Kate looked up at him from her glass of wine, her second since the club for a total of six. Maybe seven. She said, “Hmm?” though she’d heard him.

“You seem a little distracted,” Steve said. “I don’t know, maybe it’s too soon. I mean, maybe we should’ve just gone back to the hospital.”

Kate said, “No, I’m fine.” Distracted, yes, but not for the reasons he might be thinking. “I was just…” But there was no way she could tell him what she’d been thinking. Was there? She giggled and held up her wine glass. “Too much wine,” she said. “Could I have another?”

“Sure,” Steve said, getting up.

Kate caught him by the wrist. “I was kidding. One more of these and…well, I’ve had enough. Let’s watch the movie.”

Steve said, “Good idea,” and got busy queuing up the video.

They’d picked up
One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest
at a nearby video outlet, Kate surprised when Steve took it off the shelf and said he’d never seen it. It was one of her all time favorites. She and her dad had the dialogue practically memorized.

The suggestion to come to Steve’s place had been hers—the wine talking, but Steve had been quick to agree. They’d snuggled all the way home in the truck.

Kate loved his place. It was exactly as she’d expected, spacious and neat, lots of natural wood and earthy colors. She’d always liked the idea of a loft, everything right there, no secrets. It was hard not to notice the big bed over there by the windows, so neatly made and inviting. Kate giggled at her thoughts.

Steve said, “What’s funny?”

“Never mind,” Kate said. She took the remote from him and fast-forwarded through the opening credits. “It’s time to introduce you to R. P. McMurphy.”

* * *

Stan Howson, Hicks’ superior officer, walked alongside the stretcher Hicks was strapped to, a couple of paramedics wheeling it at a fast clip through a maze of squad cars to a waiting ambulance. The ride across the parking lot was bumpy, the morphine they’d given him not working yet, and Hicks listened to his boss rag him out with both hands clamped to the side rails. He couldn’t believe he’d fainted like that. Raybould’s bullet had only creased him, a through-and-through flesh wound, but shit, it hurt.

“Goddam cowboys,” Howson was saying. “What were you thinking? Bryan’s wife and mine go bowling together every Thursday night. What am I supposed to tell her?”

Hicks said, “You’re right, Stan. We were out of line. I’ll take the heat on this, all of it. Shit, it was me talked Bryan into it.” He grabbed Howson’s wrist. “But Stan, promise me, you’ve got to bring that animal down.”

“He’s going down, all right. Count on it.”

“You got the tapes from the van?”

“Yeah.”

They were almost to the ambulance.

“There’s an alley on Stanton across from the liquor store,” Hicks said. “Pop the manhole cover back there, you’ll find more of his handiwork. We should’ve called it in then, but the scene was spotless.” Easy to sound sincere with the pain in his leg. “We figured if we could nail him making the switch with Corsino, with the ticket in his hand…”

The paramedics hoisted the stretcher into the ambulance.

Howson said, “Don’t worry, Rodney. We’ll take it from here.”

* * *

Kate closed the narrow gap of leather sofa between them, cozying herself into Steve’s side. He looked away from the TV to glance at her, smiling, and Kate wet her lips, ready as she’d ever been. But Steve turned back to the movie, letting his arm slide off the back of the couch to encircle her shoulders, but that was it.

Rule number one
, Kate thought.
Never screen a film classic in front of a man you intend to seduce.

Steve laughed out loud. Kate looked at the tube and saw Jack Nicholson’s character walking zombie-like into the common room from electroshock therapy, hamming it up for his cronies, who at the moment weren’t quite sure if he was kidding or not.

Kate raised up and kissed Steve lightly on the corner of his mouth, feeling him shiver. That got his attention. He turned to her, looking for more, but now Kate was looking at the screen, saying, “Wait, this’s my favorite bit.”

On the screen, smiling that infamous smile, Nicholson said, “The next woman takes me on’s gonna light up like a pinball machine and pay off in silver dollars.”

“Jack,” Kate said, her eyes on Steve again. “Ain’t he the coolest?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. He hit the pause button on the remote. “Except maybe for Clint.”

Kate brushed her lips against his, the touch like silk. “Well, mister,” she said, feeling more than the wine now. “Can you light me up like a pinball machine?”

Steve smiled. “Will you pay off in silver dollars?”

She kissed him again, a real kiss this time, finding his tongue, their mouths not able to get enough. Not using their hands yet, savoring this part, knowing there was so much more ahead.

“Didn’t we talk about waiting?” Steve said, moving his lips against hers, keeping the thrill alive.

“We waited…twenty-four hours?” She checked her watch. “Twenty-seven.”

Then they were gone, the movie forgotten, time condensed into their touch, their movement, their hunger. There was a sweet, urgent inevitability to their lovemaking Kate had sensed even in the limo, and every time since that she had felt his touch or heard his voice shape her name. She felt herself falling, letting it happen.

––––––––

Raybould parked in front of an apartment block on Jarvis Street. The place was a dump, trash poking out of the snow, crack vials crunching under his boots on the front steps. He went inside, down one flight to the basement and knocked on the door to apartment 3. Somewhere down the hall rap music played at full volume, the bass track thudding like an urgent heartbeat through the cinderblock walls.

He flexed his hand while he waited, trying to prevent the arm from cramping up, the Percocets not touching the pain. He fucking hated getting shot.

He knocked again, harder this time, and a hoarse woman’s voice said through the door: “Who is it? I’ve got a gun.”

“It’s Al. Open up.”

Bev Beauregard opened the door, smiling when she saw him, striking a pose in her ratty housecoat, obviously stoned. “Well, fuck me gently…”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Raybould said. Bev was just another in a long line of fuck-ups Raybould kept like livestock, people like Swain who owed him favors or were just too shit-scared of him to balk. He shouldered past her into the apartment. “You alone in here?”

Bev stood behind him, lighting a cigarette with shaky hands. He turned to look at her, waiting for an answer, Bev eyeing him through veils of smoke, using whatever was left of her brain to puzzle out why he was here.

“Yeah, I’m alone. What’s up, Al? Feelin’ frisky?”

“You glanced in a mirror lately, Bev?” Fucking dummy. He showed her his arm, the gauze soaked through with blood. “I’ve been shot. Are you blind?”

“Why’d you come here, then?” Bev said, insulted now. “I got thrown out of nursing six years ago. You know that.”

“But you’re still a nurse, right? You can still handle a needle and thread?” He sat in an easy chair next to the phone table and rolled up his sleeve. “Now get a move on. I’ve got things to do. And get me something to drink.”

Bev gave him a look but did as she was told, shuffling off into a back room, mumbling under her breath.