Finders Keepers (7 page)

He said, “So what do we do now?”

“We wait.”

“I have a taste in the meantime? Take the edge off?”

“If it’ll keep you sharp.”

“As a tack,” Swain said, opening the baggie. He fished his works out of an inside pocket and got busy, cooking up a batch in a well-used spoon, then drawing it up into an insulin syringe through a tiny wad of cotton. Not bothering with a tourniquet, he injected the hit into a track-marked vein at his wrist.

His head drifted back and he sighed.

Raybould said, “You nod on me, Swain, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

Swain grinned. “I’m fine. Just point the man out.”

He’ll be along. Just sit tight.”

Swain reached for the radio, saying, “How ’bout some tunes while we’re waiting?” and Raybould slapped his hand away.

“Just…sit tight.”

They sat in silence for a while, a tense silence, spoiling Swain’s buzz. It was like sitting next to a caged animal, the man’s gaze fixed on the elevator doors, the air going in and out of him in slow tides, all Swain could hear in the close quarters of the car. The windows were starting to steam up and Swain became aware of his heart, a startled sparrow in his chest. He could hardly breathe. He wanted out of this car, away from this man.

Breaking the silence, Raybould said, “Fucking politics,” giving Swain a sideways glance before looking back at the elevator. “It’s getting so a cop can’t do his job without being treated like a criminal himself. Ten years ago, even five, a clean shoot was a clean shoot. The whole deal was handled internally; we did our own dirty laundry. You showed up at the Coroner’s inquest in a suit and tie, you said your piece, next day you were back on the street. Now, fuck, fire your weapon on duty, you’ve got the Special Investigations Unit all over you, so fast, you’re spending the next two years of your life being raked over the coals.”

Raybould looked at him again and Swain tried to show some level of interest, some degree of understanding. Raybould shook his head, saying, “What am I talking to you for? Fucking SIU. So far up my ass right now I can hardly breathe. Eight months on light duty, doing call backs, waiting for the ax to fall. Government pricks, sticking their nose in everybody’s business. They’re all ex-cops, too, if you can believe that. Whatever happened to the fucking code?”

Raybould staring at him now, nostrils flaring, hard eyes searching Swain’s like he believed Swain had an answer. Swain just shrugged, praying for whatever this was to end. Why was the man telling him this shit anyway? Swain had no idea what he was talking about.

The elevator opened and a balding guy in an ankle-length coat stepped out carrying a trim leather attaché case.

Raybould said, “There’s our mark,” no trace of agitation now, totally cool. Like a switch had been thrown. He opened his door to get out. “You’re up, Swainy. Move it.”

Swain could tell from here he’d never seen the guy, but he decided to play along. The cop had given him quality scag, the least he could do was put on a show.

He got out and followed Raybould, the detective intercepting the guy now, showing his badge.

“Nelson Flexner?” he said.

The guy said, “Yes,” openly annoyed. “What’s this about?” He checked his watch. “I’m on my way to a law review—”

Raybould said, “Look at him, Swain. You ever suck his cock?”

Swain said, “I—” and snapped his mouth shut. Flexner’s gray eyes flashed on Swain for a beat, then shifted back to Raybould, already narrowed with outrage. An instant before they fixed on the detective, Swain saw Raybould wrap a gloved hand around the man’s neck and with the other drive something into his belly, drive it in hard, something that gleamed in the overhead fluorescents. He saw the man fold over Raybould’s arm, heard the air go out of him in a brisk expulsion, then saw Raybould lift the man off his feet, the whole time looking into his eyes, foreheads touching, murmuring something to him.

Now Swain saw blood—a shocking plume of it, soaking Flexner’s shirt—and let out a womanly squeal. Flexner slid off the Bowie knife Raybould had filleted him with and sagged to the damp pavement.

“Take this,” Raybould said, holding the knife out to Swain.

Frozen with shock, Swain only whimpered.

“Take it,”
Raybould said and Swain reached out with a trembling hand and took the knife.

“Why’d you do that?” he said.

Raybould sank to one knee next to the body. Unseen by Swain, he palmed an untraceable .380 Colt semi-auto from an ankle holster and with a sleight-of-hand as slick as any stage magician’s produced the gun from inside the dead man’s coat. He showed it to Swain.

“This a good enough reason for you? The prick was going to shoot us.”

“Who is he?” Swain said.

“That’s none of your concern. But listen, sweetheart, maybe you should make yourself scarce. Anybody sees this scene, they’re gonna think you killed the man.”

“Me…?”

“Yeah, you. Now go. And get rid of that knife. Toss it down a sewer or something. It’s got your fingerprints all over it.”

Swain hesitated, mincing from foot to foot, holding the murder weapon at arm’s length.

“Go,” Raybould said. “I’ll try to keep you out of it.”

With a last glance at the body, Swain stumbled away.

Raybould lifted the dead man’s hand and tucked the gun into it, poking the index finger into the trigger guard, holding it in place with his own. Hunkering down further, he raised Flexner’s arm and sighted the semi-auto on Swain’s back.

“Oh, and Swain.”

Twenty feet away, Swain stopped and turned.

“You’re under arrest.”

Raybould put three rounds into Swain’s chest, the reports clapping flatly through the underground lot. Swain toppled over, the knife spinning from his grasp.

Raybould lowered Flexner’s arm to the wet pavement, leaving the pistol in his hand, then took the lawyer’s wallet and attaché case and planted them on Swain. He fished the baggie of smack out of Swain’s pocket and tucked it into his own.

Ninety seconds later he was back on the street, squinting through a fresh snow squall for a corner store. He was out of smokes.

* * *

Seated in a chair by the runway, Marty Small tucked a ten into Earlene’s outstretched hand and waited for the next song to begin. He hoped it’d be a grinder. Earlene stood between his spread legs and chewed her gum, gaze clicking idly around the bar. If she weren’t almost naked, she could be waiting for a bus.

Marty was unfazed. He was biding his time.

The song began and Earlene went into her act, cool and mechanical, dipping her hair into Marty’s upturned face, straddling his lap to rub her crotch hard against his, her lithe body glistening in the club lights. Marty’s cock was already painfully stiff. The rule was no touching the girls and it was all he could do to comply.

Halfway through the song he plunged. “Wanna party later?”

“You bore me, Marty,” Earlene said. “Marty Small-time.”

She sank to her haunches and began bobbing her head up and down in his lap. Marty looked around to see if anyone was watching. He should’ve sprung the twenty for a private booth. He could afford it.

When she glanced up at him, teasing, he tucked a folded hundred between her teeth and flashed the coke. “And this ain’t the half of it.”

Showing some interest now, Earlene slid up his legs into his lap, folding the hundred into her palm.

Marty said, “Know who’s lap you’re sittin’ in?”

“Tell me.”

“Santa’s. That’s Santa’s stiff dick you’re sittin’ on. And I got a van full of Christmas booty with your name on every box.”

He let his hand slide to one of her breasts. Earlene slapped it away. But playfully.

The song ended. Earlene hopped off. Considered.

“My place,” she said. “Two A.M. And if you’re jerking my chain, Marty…”

Marty just smiled.

* * *

Steve Seger and his partner stood in front of their lockers, Barrie O.P.P. Headquarters, changing into their civvies. The clean up on the limo-tanker accident had drawn them deeper into overtime, four more frozen hours’ worth, and Steve had never been so beat.

“Well, Maggie Muggins,” Mitch said, “I’d say you had quite a day.”

“And then some,” Steve said. Lowering his voice he added, “Uh, Mitch, about that burrito…”

Mitch chuckled. “It never happened, okay? You want to come over to the house for a nightcap? I won’t be seeing you again for a while.”

“If you don’t mind I’ll take a rain check,” Steve said. He cut his eyes away. “I thought I might head down to Toronto tonight, you know…”

Mitch said, “You’re gonna drive another hour in this shit?” Then: “Whoa. Hold the phone a minute. The girl, am I right?” Steve didn’t even try to play dumb; he was too tired. Mitch said, “I thought so,” and shook his head. “A word to the wise here, okay? Even if she’s available, you’re only begging for grief. Intense circumstances like these, people start thinking they’ve got feelings that aren’t really there. I’ve seen it before. If  I was you, I’d head back to the dorm tonight. Sleep on it.”

Steve said, “I hear you,” shooting for casual and failing. “But it’s nothing like that. I just want to see how she’s doing.”

Mitch slammed his locker and shrugged. “It’s your ass,” he said, starting away. Then he was back, shaking Steve’s hand. “Have a nice holiday, chum.”

“You, too. And thanks for all your help.”

Mitch smiled. “You’re all right, kid, you know it? If you’re looking for a partner when you’re done, I’d be more than proud to team up with you.”

Steve felt himself blushing. “Thanks, Mitch.”

Mitch nodded and walked away.

Steve stood in the abandoned locker room a few minutes longer, mulling over Mitch’s words. Deciding. Then he shut his locker and left.

* * *

The bodies of Thomas Swain and Nelson Flexner were found by a member of the building’s security staff shortly following the incident. From the available evidence it was assumed by police that Flexner was slain during a botched mugging attempt by Swain, a junkie street fag with a long list of minor drug- and prostitution-related offenses. That Flexner was able to put three slugs into his assailant before dying of his horrendous wound was testament to the man’s toughness. Flexner was a criminal prosecutor and as such, well known to the officers investigating his murder. He showed the same kind of balls in court, going toe to toe with some of the nation’s most notorious criminals.

Flexner’s wife, Abigail, insisted on seeing his body. A slender, poised woman of forty-six, Abigail flinched visibly at the sight of the knife wound, which she also insisted on seeing. When asked, she told the investigating officers that if her husband owned a gun she had no prior knowledge of it. It was assumed, therefore, that Flexner had somehow gotten the gun away from his assailant, probably during the struggle that must have preceded his stabbing, and killed the wild flake with his own piece.

Exhibiting some of her husband’s grit, Abigail proceeded dry-eyed through the entire ordeal and afterward, saw herself out to her car. She’d be fine, she told the female officer who offered to drive her home. She could take care of herself. She left Metro headquarters at one in the morning, wrapped in fur, heels clocking briskly against the damp cement surface of the underground lot. She climbed into her car, a snappy champagne-colored Mercedes, an exact duplicate of her husband’s, and at last allowed herself a shudder. Though she was glad it was done, the brutality of it had startled her. She had thought the job would be…cleaner.

She started the car and felt something cold touch her neck.

“Nice wheels,” Raybould said, breathing the words into her ear.

He was hunched behind her in the backseat; Abigail could see his image in the rearview. The cold thing against her neck was a Bowie knife—an exact duplicate of the one that had taken her husband’s life.

Without moving, Abigail said, “What do you want?”

“I just wanted to know if you were satisfied with the work.”

“Did it have to be so…monstrous?”

“Didn’t you tell me with your own sweet lips that
he
was a monster? That he humiliated you? Made you…do things? Threatened to cut you off from the mon-ey?”

“Yes, but…”

Raybould showed her the knife, rotating it slowly before her eyes. “So I gutted the pig coming out of his girlfriend’s apartment. The one you said he pays for. I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I’m glad it’s over,” Abigail said. “And you’ll get your money, you needn’t worry about that. Mister Corsino told me he’d work out the details with you—”

The knife went back to her throat, the cutting edge stinging her skin.

“Don’t confuse the issue, Abby. Corsino may have set this up with me on your behalf, but you’re dealing with me now. Understand?”

“Yes…I understand.”

“Good girl.”

The knife was withdrawn. Abigail heard Raybould slide across the seat behind her and get out on the opposite side. Badly rattled, she put the car in reverse, shifting in her seat to back out. In the same instant the front passenger door opened and Raybould got back inside. He closed the door and smiled at her.

“I was thinking, Abby,” he said, opening his zipper, “about a little advance.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

He pulled out his penis. It was rock hard and the biggest she’d ever seen. “I look like I’m kidding?”

“Here? In the police station?”

“Works for me.”

Numbly realizing what kind of animal she’d invited into her life, the widow Abigail lowered her head into Raybould’s lap and took him in her mouth. She’d had plenty of practice with her husband and his friends.

“Jesus,” Raybould said, “I love my work.”

* * *

This time Marty came into the game with a strategy. He started her off with the coke—nothing put a happy in Earlene’s ass like cocaine, especially when those lovely white lines made the trip to her nose through a rolled up C-note—then gave her the espresso machine. The girl nearly freaked. After that he coaxed her into a kind of prefuck party game, a hybrid of strip poker and spin the bottle—spin the gift—the only rule being that whoever was closest to the bow when the box stopped spinning lost an item of clothing. And by nature, Earlene dressed light. He let her rip through about a third of the goodies—the rest he kept locked in the van, planning to dole it out a little at a time—but there was no way he could keep her out of the dope. Earlene loved her nose candy and she knew exactly how much he’d scored. He’d blown that carrot going in. And at the rate she was going, he’d be cleaned out before sunrise.