Tumblin' Dice (12 page)

He looked at Felice and was thinking she thought he was still some gofer, some guy picking her up and driving her to her gig, not realizing he was the man in charge. Almost. Executive Entertainment Director, but really he was leaving that to Angie and looking to become Executive Director of the Casino. Just Felix in his way, guy who didn't really give a shit about the Canadian action and wanted to get back to Atlantic City but wasn't ready to hand it over to Frank. Well, fuck him, take it from him. Frank thinking his time had come. Almost sixty-five years old, hell, mid sixties, no, early sixties but looking good, and still a gofer? No, that's what this whole thing with the Saints was going to change.

He said to Felice, “Honey, why don't you show me what you can do?” Didn't have to explain it, she unbuckled her seat belt, slid across the seat and started opening his pants.

They were through Barrie then, nothing but trees and fields till they got to Huron Woods and he was thinking, yeah, it's not too late for me to step up and get my share. These Saints are strong enough to run these fucking Americans back to Philly — they know what they're doing.

And this Felice was good, took her time, no rush. She knew what she was doing, too.

When he was done she sat up on the seat and got some baby wipes out of her purse, cleaned him up and put him away, Frank thinking she was a real pro. Like everything about these Saints, they were nothing like the beer-gut, long-haired losers he'd thought they were. That one, Danny Mac, gave him the money, that guy's wife was hot.

And then Frank thought, no, fuck, get that out of your head, you know what you're doing. Pretty sure, anyway.

• • •

Gayle had a million questions for these women. The first one was “What's a zip?” but they didn't seem interested at all. It was like the '50s or something, out with the ladies who lunch, the most important thing on their minds some new hairdresser that just came over from Italy, some new diet fad, who's sleeping with the pool guy. Shit, Gayle couldn't believe how cliché these chicks were, actually had pool guys.

One of them said they should've gone to Zizi's and another one said they went to Zizi's last time and the oldest one, late-fifties, early-sixties at least but done up, make-up, jewellery — had to be twenty-five grand in necklace and earrings alone, never mind those four, five rings she had on, said, “No, last time we went to Il Cavallino,” and they all said, oh yeah, right. All these expensive Italian restaurants Gayle really had no idea even existed, all the way up here in Woodbridge, north of Toronto.

Not one of these women cared that their husbands made the money bringing heroin and coke into the country, running hookers and killing off the competition. Thinking that made Gayle smile a little, realizing that the reason she was at this lunch was because the husbands couldn't kill off the new competition, her Danny and Nugs and all their boys, coast to coast. This time they had to make a deal with the competition, cut up the pie a little more, and still all these women cared about the money was spending it. They'd walked into this restaurant like they owned it, calling the waiters and the maître d' by name, making jokes, no idea how their world was changing.

Except maybe one, Rita, sitting across from Gayle in the big half-circle booth. Gayle watched her, the way she drank her glass of Merlot in two long drinks and poured herself some more, not offering anyone else any. This Rita was a little younger than the others, mid-thirties maybe, flipping her long, curly black hair over her shoulder, wearing her sunglasses still.

Gayle was thinking she might know a little about this Rita, about her type, a woman smarter than anyone gave her credit for, her brains just making it tougher. Probably had a wild youth, got in some serious trouble, bailed out by her daddy, now still drinking too much, being halfway miserable in a marriage she didn't have the fight to get out of. Like a few of the biker chicks Gayle knew who stayed with their men as they rose up the ranks. Hell, what Gayle'd been doing till she got her act together, started actually running Danny's fronts like real businesses, making money with the car rentals and the detailing shop, and now looking at the real businesses, and thinking, shit, was she really?

There were so many changes happening every day, might as well look at it. Danny sure wasn't.

Other than Rita, though, the rest of the day was the Twilight Zone. First of all, Woodbridge wasn't that backwards little town anymore, it was an Italian city. All the billboards and businesses, the real estate agent signs, the new developments, everything had Italian names. This restaurant, the Tremonti Ristorante, might have looked like a typical Canadian strip mall place on the outside, could have been an Outback Steak House or an East Side Mario's, but inside it was all marble floors and hardwood, plants everywhere, paintings of Italy on the walls, villages and mountain views, not homesick stuff like the travel agency posters in the Greek places on the Danforth, these were classy paintings, originals.

One of the women was saying something about it being so hard, so lonely, and Gayle looked around till the one next to her, the oldest one, the mother hen, said, “Poor Lorraine, she lost her husband last year.”

Gayle said, wow, “That's too bad,” and, looking at Lorraine, “I'm sorry for your loss.”

Lorraine said thanks, said it was a tragedy, he was so young, “My Pietro,” and Rita across the table was looking at Gayle and said, “Big Pete,” and then Gayle really wanted to say she was sorry because Big Pete was one of the first casualties in what Danny called the Negotiations with the Eye-Talians.

So this whole cultural exchange, as Gayle thought of it, still had some rough spots ahead, no doubt. But Gayle was thinking of it as a business move, like in the old days when they arranged marriages between the big families, like royalty. Except now the kids were too much trouble, didn't stay in the marriages, so the wives were getting together for lunch. Same idea, though — make them a social group, bond with them, do more than business. It could work.

The menu was all Italian, with English descriptions underneath, which Gayle was glad about because she might have figured out that Insalata Cesare Con Reggiano was a Caesar salad but she didn't think she'd ever get that Filetto di Struzzo In Agrodolce was ostrich with a raisin sauce or that Costolette Di Cervo Con Bacche Selvatiche was venison chops. She had the Pappardelle Ragù di Cinghiale, wild boar ragu, and was the only one who ordered off the menu, all these other women giving the waiter special orders. The guy was good about it, but Gayle could tell, anybody else, he wouldn't put up with it.

They ate and drank and told Gayle about great vacations, places in Florida with the best spas, and South America, Venezuela and how wonderful the mountains were, and Gayle wanted to say, you know your husbands go there to drive over those mountains into Colombia and buy drugs, right? She thought about telling them what it was like to sit on the back of a Harley, three hundred bikes rolling down the highway, everybody getting out of their way, but she didn't think they'd appreciate it.

Maybe Rita — have to wait and see. Looked like she'd already put away the bottle by herself. This could still be some afternoon.

But the women started saying they had to go, they had nail appointments, and they were winking and saying the pool needed cleaning, even Lorraine getting into it, laughing and saying, well
something
needed to be cleaned, and then it was just Gayle and Rita, Gayle saying, you don't have to be anywhere?, and Rita sliding across the big booth to get closer saying, “I can't think of anywhere.”

Gayle said okay, and ordered an Upper Canada Lager, and Rita said, “So, what do you think of the Mafia wives?” and Gayle said, “I didn't know there was such a thing as the Mafia.”

Rita said, that's right, there isn't, “And your husband's in a club of motorcycle enthusiasts.”

Gayle said, that's right, thinking how they were able to use that con in Canada for so long, people thinking they were fat, dumb thugs. Yeah, well, all good things come to an end.

“They don't know what's coming,” Rita said, “these chicks,” and Gayle said, oh yeah, what's coming?

Leaning back in the booth, the wineglass in her hand, Rita said, “Come on.”

Gayle shrugged and Rita shook her head, saying, “Don't bullshit me. You can bullshit them all you want, don't bullshit me.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Rita looked around the restaurant, mostly empty by now, saying, “I can't tell if they're too stupid or just don't give a fuck,” then looked right at Gayle and said, “But you know.”

Gayle figured this Rita was drunk and looking to become a mean drunk, trying to pick a fight, so she said, “I'm going to step outside for a smoke.”

Rita said, outside? She shook her head and opened her purse, going through it and coming out with a pack of smokes, offering one to Gayle. “We can smoke here, honey. We can do anything we want here.” Lighting the cigarette and handing the lighter to Gayle, saying, “For now. Right?”

Gayle lit her own cigarette, inhaled deep and leaned back in the booth, blowing smoke at the ceiling, glancing around, seeing a couple of waiters by the bar looking over but not moving.

Rita was laughing then, blowing smoke across the table and saying, “But when your husband and his gang of goons get too greedy and my husband and his fucking thugs have enough, they'll go to war, kill each other, and we'll be left with fuck all.”

Gayle took a drag, looking at Rita through the rising smoke, thinking, sure, it was a possibility, all these tough guys trying to get along, might not work out at all.

But no way Gayle was going to be left with fuck all.

“Marty wants me to go up to the casino, look around.”

“You've never been?”

“Honey, we go to a casino it's in Vegas, not some Indian reservation in Ontario.”

“It's nice up there.”

Rita took a drag, saying, “How could it be? They'd never have given it to the Indians.”

“You don't want to go, don't go.”

Rita laughed. She shook her head and looked at Gayle. “You don't know what to do, all this new power. I hope your men can handle it.”

Gayle wanted to tell this Rita that half the deal at the casino was hers, the whole money laundering connection was hers and she was the one pushing Danny into it, though even Gayle had to admit Nugs was happy to be doing it. She wanted to say to this Rita she understood she was worried, she'd been living well for a long time, who expected the fat thugs on motorcycles to become a worldwide operation, hundreds of soldiers, thousands, used as the muscle for so long no one noticed how strong they got, but it would be okay, they'd work together.

But then she looked at this Rita and said, “My men can't understand how your men let a bunch of fat fucking Atlantic City rejects get hold of the business in their own backyards to start with,” and like she expected, Rita laughed again.

“Oh honey, you're so cute. You think this is going to work, this partnership?”

Gayle said, “It's going to work for me.”

Rita put her hand on top of Gayle's, saying, “You're all right, you know that?” and Gayle was thinking, I'm going to be, that's for sure. I'm going to take care of myself no matter what happens to this deal.

• • •

Armstrong and his partner Gord Bergeron were sitting in a booth of the Gull and Firkin on Queen Street East, the Beaches neighbourhood, two in the afternoon, the only customers in the place. Bergeron was saying how it was going to be a small wedding, just family, and Armstrong said, “Gord, it's okay, man, I don't mind,” and Bergeron said, “Shit, I was just about to invite you.”

Armstrong drank some of his coffee and said, “I should've stopped at Starbucks, there's like three of them right around here. Who picked this place anyway?”

“My son's going to be my best man.”

“This in a synagogue?”

“Down at city hall. Hard to get a time now, though, they're booked with gay weddings, parties coming in from all over, Chicago, Detroit, Pittsburgh.”

“Shit,” Armstrong said, “this city's changed.”

“Here I am,” Bergeron said, “a French kid from Sudbury, gonna marry a woman named Ruth Goldbach, my partner's an Indian.” Then he said, “No, a First Nations. I was partnered with an Indian back before, Dhaliwal, when I first started in homicide.”

Armstrong said, “Whole new world.” He liked it, though, his new city. He could remember when he was a kid, getting picked on in the schoolyard, kids asking him which homeless drunk was his father, how much his mother charged for blowjobs. It probably still went on but most people in Toronto now had no idea about the history, about what went on before and Armstrong figured maybe that was good, less baggage. Dundas Junior, his old school, now shared its schoolyard with First Nations Junior, all those Native kids and now Vietnamese kids, India Indians, Jamaicans, Sri Lankans — kids would have to learn so many more racial slurs, might have to get creative, do a little thinking. That would be new for these schools.

Bergeron said it was a small wedding again, this time saying, “Because it's not the first one for either of us,” and Armstrong said, well, no, “Not at your advanced ages.”

“We're going to use walkers coming down the aisle.”

“Honeymoon in Florida, get that early bird special at four thirty, be in bed by nine.”

Bergeron was looking at the front door then, watching Price and Maureen McKeon come in, and he said, “Sometimes we do go to bed early,” looking back at Armstrong and winked, and Armstrong said, “Stop talking right now.”

Bergeron said, “Shit, Price, is that hair? I didn't think you could grow hair.”

“You thought all black guys're bald?”

“Yeah, I thought it went straight from a big fro to nothing, just fell out one night.”