Tumblin' Dice (21 page)

• • •

Angie drove from her townhouse to Huron Woods listening to the radio — some oldies station with a guy's name, Jack
FM
or Bob
FM
or something, all the hits of the '70s and '80s — and almost sang along, almost getting out the words about her true colours shining through, and then she was wondering what her true colours were.

She'd been at Huron Woods a few years, enough to see Frank get bored and restless and now get himself into the middle of some serious shit. It wasn't going to just go away — Angie knew that — and it was going to get a lot worse before it got better. If it ever got better.

Yeah, true colours, beautiful like a rainbow, but she didn't see any rainbows now.

So, she was thinking she could just drive right past the casino, a couple more miles and she'd be on the 400, head south to Toronto and . . . and what? Look up some old friends, well not friends, really, people she scored from. Sure, she could call up Bethanne, see how things were going on the movie sets, see if she was still doing the make-up thing, hanging out with movie stars half her age, and how long would it take before they were back to the old days.

Shit, how long before she'd be back in rehab like Whitney Houston.

The thing was, until Frank started fucking around with these bikers Angie really liked it, really liked her life at Huron Woods, and she had it under control. There was just enough excitement with the rock bands coming through, some of them putting on great shows, but it never got crazy, it was never too much. She'd been worried for a while that she'd get bored up here in the middle of nowhere, no addict wants to get bored, everybody knows what happens then — but she never did. Maybe it hadn't been long enough. Shit, now she was second guessing everything.

She pulled into the parking lot, saw the police tape was gone and it looked like nothing had ever happened there, no one had been shot and no one saw anything. Nothing to worry about.

She sat in the car thinking it was the same with Ritchie, if she just didn't see him again until he left it would be like he was never there, like nothing had ever happened, nothing to worry about. Just go back to the way it was before, just a couple days ago, just go back to that.

Then she almost laughed, knowing how stupid that sounded, going back.

You call me up because you know I'll be there and don't be afraid to show your true colours.

All these old songs, they all sound so different now, half of them she never liked when she was a kid but now she was getting whole new meanings out of them and wondering, did the songs change or did I?

She never used to wonder about her true colours.

She turned off her car, quick before she started singing along to Nicolette Larson and her “Lotta Love,” and she sat there and thought if she was really honest with herself — which would be a laugh, really — she had no idea what her true colours were. All she knew was that she'd spent a long time hiding from herself. Well, that's a cliché, sure, and she almost laughed again, but that didn't make it any less true. All those years ago she got together with Frank because she knew — yeah, even then she knew — it would never work out. She didn't have to be afraid that Frank would dump her and crush her and just destroy her; she didn't have to worry about opening her heart to a self-centred, selfish jerk like Frank because he'd never care about her enough for it to matter.

But Ritchie . . .

Then she did laugh out loud, saying, don't need Dr. Phil on this one.

And then she was serious again thinking, shit, but yeah, that still doesn't make it any less real.

And she almost got caught this time. She almost opened up to Ritchie and started thinking about what life could be like if she was happy.

Scary.

What if she'd trusted Ritchie? She was about to: she knew this shit with Frank and the mobsters was going to blow up and she'd started thinking about just walking away with Ritchie, and that felt good, imagining a life with someone who wanted to be with her, and she'd almost let herself get carried away . . . and then he went and talked to the cop.

Then she was thinking why did she even come in today? Why didn't she just stay home or go somewhere else for the day, go shopping and buy some shoes or . . . She shook her head and thought, yeah, because I knew where that would end up.

Well fuck this.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get in there and go to work. Live your life.

Good. Easy. Nothing to it.

She got out of her car, looked at the clear blue sky, breathed in the fresh, clean air, and walked into the administration building.

• • •

Before driving up to Huron Woods, Gayle stopped off at the police station where they were holding Boner before they transferred him to the Don Jail. Once he went in there it would be the weekend before she could talk to him again and she wanted to make sure everything Danny said was right, but as soon as she saw Boner she knew. She knew Danny was right.

The cops, a big black guy and woman, let Gayle and the lawyer, Mitchell Morrison, sit in with Boner in the interview room and Morrison said the cops would be listening in, saying, “They're not supposed to. They can't use any of it in court; they can't even use it to follow up on, but they can't help themselves.”

Gayle said that was fine, “Who gives a shit,” looking at Boner and seeing exactly what Danny said, a guy not worried about doing a few years of easy time. Hell, he probably had more friends inside than out and they'd send him hookers twice a month for conjugals — it would be easier than dealing with girlfriend shit on the outside.

She said, “You need anything?” and Boner shook his head, said, no, “I'm good.”

Morrison said, “They're going to transfer you to the Don for the weekend then send you up to Barrie for the arraignment. They'll make you lots of offers,” and Boner said, “Better than they have?” and Morrison said, “Maybe.”

Gayle was watching Boner, looking at the way he shook his head like he was pissed off at the offers, and she could tell it wasn't because the offers weren't good enough, she could tell there wasn't anything they could offer a guy like Boner that he'd even think about.

Then Morrison was saying, “They're going to try and get into court as fast as they can, but there really isn't enough evidence. We don't take any deals and we make them spend money — see how much they have in their budget for this. My guess is not nearly enough.”

Gayle said, “So they'll drop the charges,” and Morrison said, no, “But in a couple of weeks they'll probably make a very good offer, downgrade the charges. They don't want a trial talking about their casino and what really goes on there.”

Boner said, “Their casino,” and shook his head again.

Gayle said she'd be right back and got up and looked at the mirror in the room, thinking it really was just like a
TV
show, and said, “I need to use the bathroom,” and the door opened and the black cop was standing there and he said, “Down the hall, left around the corner, ladies is first, then the men's — which one you use, balls as big as yours?” and Gayle said, “Fuck off,” as she passed.

Gayle walked into the bathroom just as the cop who'd let her in to see Boner came out of a stall looking pissed off. Gayle didn't say anything, just put her purse on the counter beside the sink and started looking through it and then looked around the bathroom and said, “Shit.”

The cop was washing her hands and she looked over and said, what? Gayle said, “There's no machine in here?”

The cop said, “There wasn't even a women's washroom when I started: this was a closet.”

Gayle shook her head and the cop said, “You need a pad?” and Gayle said yeah.

The cop got one out of her own purse and Gayle took it into the only stall in the little room. She sat on the toilet and pulled down her tight jeans and her thong, now wishing she'd put on her grannie panties but she thought she'd had a couple days till her period started. She put the pad on the thong as best she could, and when she was pulling up her jeans she realized she hadn't heard the cop leave the washroom, and sure enough when she stepped out of the stall she was still there, leaning against the sink.

Gayle said, “You want something?” and the cop shook her head and said, “Yeah, but I'm not going to get it.

Gayle had to squeeze close to wash her hands and she was thinking, what is it with this chick? We're not going to make a fucking deal. You want Boner you have to get some evidence. Then the cop said, “Sometimes I hate this fucking place,” and Gayle almost laughed and said, “Oh you do, do you?”

The cop didn't get it, just looked at her and said, “What I'd really like is a drink — you don't have anything in your purse, do you?” and Gayle said, “No, sorry, you want a cigarette? Could be like back in high school, cutting class and smoking in the bathrooms.”

The cop said, yeah, just like high school. Then she said, “I was at a high school this week, talking to kids,” and Gayle said, “Giving them the ‘Don't do drugs' talk. I remember when the cop gave us that speech — I think he was drunk.”

“No, homicide investigation. You probably heard about it — that guy killed his daughter, calling it an honour killing.”

“She wouldn't wear the scarf on her head, cover up her face?”

“There's more to it.”

Gayle was just standing there then, the cop seemed to want to talk and it was awkward, but Gayle just said, “Oh yeah,” and the cop said, “Maybe not, maybe that's why it pisses me off — maybe it's just more of the same, some guy wanting to be in charge all the time, making everybody do what he says,” and Gayle said, yeah, “Could be.”

Then Gayle was thinking how she and this cop both spent almost all their time with men, tough guys who always thought they were in charge.

“So, he kills his daughter,” the cop said, but then shook her head and said, “No, he doesn't — his son does.”

“Her brother killed her?”

“Yeah, but the father's taking the fall.”

“The son's letting him?”

“Testifying against him.” The cop looked right at Gayle and said, “He took the deal,” and Gayle said, “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, he's pleading down to accessory. We'll hold him for the weekend and he'll get bail on Monday. The father's going to plead to manslaughter and get seven to ten, but here's the kicker — his fucking cancer is terminal so he'll be gone in a few months anyway.”

“And the son will be out.”

“Like nothing happened.”

Gayle said, “Why do you take such lousy deals?” And the cop said, “It's up to the lawyers. They tell us there was a lot of pressure on this one.” She made air quotes and said, “Community leaders are involved,” shook her head and said, “so it's political. Or cultural, I don't know. What the fuck, they didn't want a long trial, experts going on the stand arguing over honour killings and what they mean and how often they happen, have in the papers for weeks, on
TV
. They just want it to go away.”

“Seems you guys never want a trial in public.”

The cop said, “Yeah, seems like it,” and then she said, “This fucking prick, the son, he knows it, the coldest bastard I've ever met,” and Gayle said, “Really?”

The cop nodded, Gayle watching her think about that, here, now, and making up her mind it was true and saying, “Yeah, he is. The sister, she was sixteen, she just wanted to be seventeen, she wasn't . . .” she looked around, then looked at Gayle and said, “in the game. She didn't sign on for anything, she was born here.” She paused and said, “You know what I mean?” And Gayle said, yeah, I know.

The cop looked at herself in the mirror and said, “Guy's going to serve a weekend for killing his sister.”

Then she looked at Gayle and walked out, and Gayle waited a minute, looking at herself in the mirror, and then she went back to see Boner and Mitchell Morrison, couple of guys just doing their jobs.

• • •

Barry was in his room watching the lesbian scene from the
Scooby-Doo
parody on YouPorn, liking the way Bobbi Starr kept wearing the Velma glasses while going down on Bree Olson, who did look a little like Daphne, when there was a knock at the door. He paused the video and said, “Yeah,” thinking it was Cliff back to whine and pretend he wasn't scared, but a woman's voice said, “Hey.”

Barry stood up and walked to the door saying, “Who is it?” and heard, “Felice,” and it took him a second to realize it was the hooker.

He opened the door and right away saw the black eye, the bruise spreading all the way down her cheek, and he said, “Come on in.”

She stood in the middle of the room and Barry said, “You want some coke or you want to smoke a joint?” and she said, “You have coke?”

Then as he was getting it out of his shaving kit, getting it ready, she was saying the guy just walked into her room and punched her, “Just punched me in the face,” and Barry said yeah, and she said, yeah, “Told me not to work this hotel.”

Barry looked up and motioned for her to come over to the writing desk beside the
TV
.

He watched her bend over and do the line and was thinking he should have told her something like that was going to happen but he hadn't been sure how much of the deal Frank had worked out, and then he was shaking his head thinking, fucking Frank, of course he'd screw this up.

After she'd done both lines she stood up and said, “You have anything to drink?” and Barry said, yeah, sure, and went to the minibar and got her a Mike's Hard Lemonade.

Felice sat on the bed and drank straight from the bottle, leaning back and letting the coke kick in, but Barry could see she was still scared. And starting to get pissed off.