Ten Grand

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Ten Grand Page 10

by Seamus Heffernan


  “God, yes. I get to be the brains of the outfit.”

  “Don’t strain your neck with your head getting so big.”

  “Don’t waste time with banter when your table and possible wealth of intel awaits,” I said. A brief eye-roll later, she made her way to a game. I waved to the barman and got a Coke.

  Ayesha’s description of Fenske—short, thin, long-ish sandy hair, face featuring a few lingering acne craters—would certainly mark him out here. The average age was mid-50s and the look decidedly clean-cut. By any reckoning, this was a pro operation. Hands were dealt quickly, and the only chatter was the occasional exchange of peasantries between returning players. There were at least two heavies strategically positioned in opposite corners, keeping an eye on the tables and the players, their presence meant as a reminder to play nice. Nothing I saw suggested anyone had other intentions.

  “How’s your night?” I asked the bartender, an older guy with neatly trimmed pewter stubble and a decent head of greying hair. He ignored me, tending to his cleaning duties.

  “Great to hear,” I muttered.

  He continued wiping down glasses as I took in the room, trying to scan without looking too obvious. Ayesha was getting dealt in. We would have to be quick—her bravado aside, we couldn’t risk losing too much of that pile.

  “Fenske works in the cash room,” I heard over my shoulder. I turned. The barman was stacking dried tumblers in a rack and hadn’t moved, but he had certainly spoken.

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  He began slicing limes and did not raise his head to face me.

  “Fenske’s in back,” he said, his lips barely moving. I took his cue and turned away, back to the pit.

  “How do I get to him?” I asked, rubbing my chin to hide my mouth.

  “Fifty quid,” he murmured.

  I nodded, slipping the crisp bill under my now-empty glass. Satisfied, the barman continued.

  “He takes his break in a few. Usually hits the head before going out for a smoke.” From my peripheral, I traced his eye line to the WASHROOMS sign in the room’s rear.

  “Thanks,” I said, voice low. I pushed the glass towards him. He scooped both it and the money up in one smooth motion.

  “No problem,” he said. “Fenske stiffed me on my share of the table tips last week.” He switched to lemons. “Have fun.”

  I smothered my smile and kept an eye on the gents. Several minutes later, a skinny kid with bad skin walked into the washroom. I headed over.

  For a kid working in a decidedly upscale—if illegal—operation, Fenske hadn’t really done himself a lot of favours, appearance-wise. His trainers were scuffed and his shirt, a baggy flannel number, hung low and untucked. I closed the door behind me as he approached the sink to wash his hands.

  “Evening,” I said.

  He gave a barely-perceptible nod.

  “Busy tonight?” I continued.

  He shrugged. “Bit, yeah. You playing?”

  I shook my head. “Just here with a friend.”

  He dried his fingers on some crinkly brown paper towel.

  “Well, have a good night,” he said, already bored with our chit-chat.

  I didn’t move, blocking his path to the door.

  “Hey,” he said, taking a step back.

  “We need to talk,” I said. I held up the picture of Duclos.

  He groaned. “C’mon, man.” He shot a nervous glance to the two stalls.

  “No one’s here but us,” I said. “I watched before coming in. So: let’s talk.”

  “About what?” he said, trying to work his voice up to a snarl.

  “About you moving heroin, for starters,” I said. “Pretty sure the authorities would enjoy a tip about your day job.”

  He took this in. I kept my eyes on his hands. Guys working the cash in a place like this probably weren’t allowed to carry their own weapons around, but you never knew.

  “The guys here don’t know I deal,” he finally said. “I’m finished if they find out.”

  “Well, then. Let’s make sure they don’t.”

  I wasn’t going to get rough with Fenske—it was not really my style—but he didn’t know that. Truth be told, for a drug dealer and aspiring member of London’s criminal underworld, he was a bit underwhelming, physically. I might be able to simply sweat him out. That was the hope. Confidence was, as always, key.

  “Look, kid, it’s option A or option B,” I said, my voice edged between bored and threatening. “Real simple. So let’s have it.”

  Hs eyes darted from the picture and back to me.

  “You know who runs this game?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Albanians,” he said. “Heavy hitters. Your guy there” — he nodded to the pic — “he liked to play. He was good, too. Head for numbers, they said.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Anyhow, he had a few big wins. Gets a sit-down with one of the bosses, mid-level guy. He thinks he’s in shit or something.”

  “He wasn’t?”

  Fenske shook his head. “Nah, guy didn’t cheat. He played the percentages, sure, but he was also good. Tough to read at the table. He earned his money, far as I could tell.”

  “So what’d they want with him?”

  “I don’t know,” Fenske said, his voice getting little higher. He was starting to panic, probably worried about being away for too long.

  “Settle down,” I said. “You seen him since?”

  Fenske shook his head again, a bit more pace to it this time.

  “Can you find out what that chat was about?” I pressed.

  “I think I’d rather go to jail for dealing heroin,” he said, and I think he meant it.

  I sighed and stepped aside. He pulled the door in with a jerk, shooting me a look dirty as I’d seen in a while.

  “Thanks for the help,” I said, with more than a little good cheer.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said stepping out. “Asshole.”

  I shrugged as the door swung shut. Fair enough. I waited a minute, then followed him out.

  Ayesha’s stack was, thank God, pretty much unchanged as I ambled back to the bar. The barman showed no sign of recognition, but I hoped Fenske’s distress as he crossed the floor offered him some pleasure. I shot Ash a look and she nodded.

  “Aw, c’mon” the player to her left said, a pudgy guy with a heavy gold bracelet rattling around a thick wrist. “Stick around.”

  “Sorry, gents,” she said, scooping up her stake. “Ladies night is over. Another time.”

  We headed back to the front door to exchange her chips.

  “Get everything?” she asked, sliding them over.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Everything I could, I’m pretty sure. How’d you do?”

  “Folded a few times, won one hand on a pair of kings,” she said. “Came out a couple hundred ahead. I’ll leave it for Max. Might keep him out of trouble for a bit.”

  “I’m thinking it’ll take more than that to set him on a righteous path.”

  “He hurt your feelings,” she said, a knowing smirk crossing her face. “You’re a big boy. You’ll be OK.”

  24

  Later, in the office. I usually kept a bag of ice in the mini-fridge and wrapped some of it in a towel, pressing against my abdomen. It had still been acting up a bit following the pounding it took at The Empress courtesy Quigley’s guy. I had sent Ayesha home—that had been enough cloak and dagger for one night and I could use an hour or so to myself. In front of me was a box of Yannick Duclos’ personal effects that I had requested be couriered over. A pocket watch from his father. A few old school yearbooks. A stack of glossy snapshots from college parties and friends’ weddings. A mix CD Annie had made for him, presumably early in their courtship. I slipped it into my laptop and the machine came alive, struggling to fill the room with its tinny speakers. Wherever Yannick Duclos was, it was unlikely mid-90s college rock and assorted one-hit wonders were going to be the clues that pointed the way�
�but it helped pass the time.

  I was putting on some coffee and weighing my options when my phone buzzed. It was Calloway.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s up? Enjoying a quiet night in with the opera?”

  “It’s good, thank you,” he said, and right away I could hear it: his cop voice. Clipped, short, no nonsense and banter-free. I slid the mug in place as the java perked, listening to the water’s hiss.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Annie Duclos was found dead in her home tonight.”

  I tapped my spoon against the machine, letting that wave crash against me.

  “Damn it,” I managed after a moment. “What happened?”

  “Shot. Back of the head, small caliber, close range. She was found at home, in the kitchen.”

  “Who found her?”

  Calloway paused.

  “The kid,” he said after a moment.

  I closed my eyes. We were silent for a second.

  “Yeah, I know,” he finally said.

  “How is he?”

  “Not great.” I could hear the click of a lighter and Calloway’s intake of breath. Not all his vices had been abandoned.

  “Thanks for the heads up,” I said.

  “Thought you’d like to know. Get ahead of it a bit.”

  I poured myself a cup.

  “Ahead of what?” I asked.

  “I imagine you’re going to get asked about this. You were in contact with Annie professionally and you were digging deep into the life of a man who is either dead himself or on the run. Stranger things have happened.”

  “What, stranger than me killing my client?”

  “Don’t get defensive. It’s procedure. You’ve got an alibi, right?”

  I took a deep slug from the cup. Too strong. I always made it too strong. I never got used to making it myself.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “Then I advise you get down to the scene and talk to Dunsmore. She’s there right now, working the scene.”

  There was a small washroom off to side of my office. I dumped the ice into the sink and re-tucked my shirt, wincing only briefly.

  “Guess she got her wish,” I said. “Climbing the ladder, I mean.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a helluva way to get to work a homicide,” Calloway said. “But between you and her, you both know more about this family than anyone. So get down there and offer a helping hand. Make yourself useful.”

  I slipped on my jacket, buttoning it gingerly in front of my stomach.

  “You there?” he asked, only a few decibels short of a bark. “You gotta move now if you want to have any say in how this plays out.”

  I looked at the box on my desk, a cardboard cask holding a few lingering shadows of a man who might have well been a ghost—and a wife who now was.

  “Who’s with the kid?” I asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  I grabbed my keys. “OK. I’m heading out.”

  “Don’t spare the whip. I know one of the uniforms down there. I’ll text, let her know you’re coming.”

  “Calloway,” I said, taking the stairs two at a time as I plunged down the stairwell to my Saab. “Thanks, man. Owe ya one.”

  “Help Dunsmore and we’ll call it square,” he said as I crossed the alley, stabbing my door with the key and slipping inside. “She’s good police. Don’t piss her off.”

  My car growled to life. I toed the accelerator and slipped out into the Shoreditch night. The fog hung low.

  “That was not my intention,” I said.

  “Good. Glad to hear,” he said. “And for God’s sake—do something to help find out what the hell is going on with this family.”

  25

  I got to the Duclos house in about 30 minutes, occupying myself with impatient radio station changes and a half-empty and well-warm bottle of Diet Coke stowed under the seat. When I arrived, the street was lit in red and blue lights, but silent except for a few people gathered on the walk outside, gawkers trying to get their first cherished strands of gossip elbow-to-elbow with a couple of genuinely worried neighbours. I politely walked by them before being greeted by a uniformed officer’s upturned palm.

  “Hold up,” she said. “You Grayle?”

  I nodded. She leaned her head close to her shoulder walkie, which gave a short squawk. I couldn’t hear the exchange, but apparently I had passed muster. She waved me under towards the door.

  Inside, a few more uniforms milled about, and a photographer, lanyard tucked carefully inside his windbreaker, crouched low to the floor. I could see Annie Duclos’ feet jutting out from behind the kitchen island. One shoe, a slightly battered ballet flat, had been knocked loose as she hit the tiles, and now hung, askew, off her left toes. Dunsmore was in hushed chat with another officer, and headed my way.

  “Grayle,” she said. “We were just about to get in touch.”

  “Had a feeling,” I said. “Thought I’d come in myself, offer anything you guys might need by way of help.”

  The cop Dunsmore had been talking to heard this, and cocked his head. Dunsmore took me by the arm and pulled me deeper into the living room.

  “What do you have?” she asked.

  “Where’s the kid?” I asked.

  She paused, a brief quizzical look crossing her face.

  “What?”

  “The kid,” I answered. “Aiden.”

  “He’s in his room.”

  “Can I have a word?”

  Dunsmore rolled her linebacker shoulders a bit, trying to loosen them up. I guessed she had already been up a few more hours than expected.

  “Sure,” she said. “Why not.” She pointed down the hall. I walked through the kitchen, keeping my gaze straight as I passed Annie.

  There was a young officer in the room, standing by the door, clearly uncomfortable. I nodded as I entered. Relieved, he took that as his sign to step back outside.

  Aiden was sitting at his desk, still in his school uniform, the note pad in front of him accompanied by a can of ginger ale, its straw sticking straight up. There was no other chair, so I sat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t acknowledge me. I waited for a few moments. I had learned this long ago, thanks to the husbands or wives walking into my office, waiting for the bad news they knew was coming. When you walk into a room like this, heavy with the jolt and fog of catastrophic news, you need to let the charge in the air die down a bit.

  Aiden had his pen over the paper, but it wasn’t moving.

  “Hey,” I said.

  He said nothing, just gave a short nod of recognition.

  “What are you working on?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “Nothing. Homework. It’s stupid.”

  “I used to be a teacher,” I said. “I almost never assigned homework. I hated marking it.”

  “Guess you were a pretty popular teacher, then,” he said. He still hadn’t looked up my way.

  I waited another minute or so.

  “Did you speak to the police?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “What’d they say?”

  “They’re trying to track down my mum’s sister. She lives in Spain.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  He shook his head then took a sip from the ginger ale’s straw.

  “Where were you today? Before you got home?”

  He shrugged again.

  “Nowhere. Walking around. Hanging out.” He dipped his head towards a plastic bag near the head of the bed. I looked inside. It was the rule book for some fantasy role-playing game, the cover adorned with a gleaming-armoured knight and spell-summoning mage, both facing off against a scaled red dragon looking to turn them to ash.

  “Some of the kids at school play,” he said. “There’s a club.”

  “Yeah, I used to play stuff like this,” I said.

  “What was your character?” he asked.

  “Um,” I said. “Which time? I played a lot.”

  He didn’t qu
ite smile, but his lips flattened a little.

  “My first ever character was a rogue,” I said. “You know, one of those sneaky guys who can pick locks and hide in shadows.”

  “Maybe that’s why you do your job,” he said.

  Hunh. “Maybe. I had never thought of that. What are you looking to play?”

  “I like the guys with the bows, the rangers. Maybe a paladin. I dunno.”

  “Paladin? Like those holy warrior knights?”

  He nodded.

  “Yeah, you can play them so they’re like on this quest,” he said. “Or maybe avenging something.”

  I crossed my legs, shaking one out a bit. It had fallen asleep. I scanned the book shelf above his headboard. Mostly graphic novels and a few sci fi paperbacks—some Asimov, a battered Phillip K. Dick.

  I stood.

  “Hey,” I said. I laid one of my cards in front of him, on top of the lined notepaper. It was blank.

  He looked up. His eyes were red, their veins cracked and the skin around them dark and puffy. But they were dry now.

  “You want to talk, you can call or text me,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  I tapped the open book.

  “I don’t think they’re going to be checking your homework tomorrow, Aiden.”

  He nodded.

  “Try and get some rest,” I said.

  I walked out, the last thing I saw before I turned by the door was him laying his forehead on the lip of his desk. I hesitated briefly, and kept walking.

  Dunsmore was waiting for me in the hall.

  “Well?” she asked.

  I stopped.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I said.

  “What’d he say?”

  “I didn’t really ask him anything.”

  She clicked her jaw.

  “So why were you in there?”

  “I’m just checking that he was OK,” I said. “Where are you putting him tonight?”

  “Hotel,” she said. “We’ll have someone from the Council in tomorrow.”

  “Any luck with finding the sister?”

  “We’re still trying to get her on the phone,” she said.

  “Any leads on the shooting?”

  “Yeah. One or two,” she said. She reached into her jacket and pulled out a piece of nicotine gum, unwrapping it before popping it into her mouth for a few aggressive chews. She pulled out her notebook.

 

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