by John Farrow
Because of Quinn’s predicament, whatever time he took might be too much. Yet he needed to be methodical. Mistakes could steal time and quickly compound. They could be fatal.
Confronted by a safe after years of abstinence, virtually against his will Tanner felt a surge of excitement, akin to sexual arousal, as he commenced his work. He was suddenly feeling buoyant and transported. He’d missed this.
A single dial on the outside of the safe. Internally, three dials revolved. He removed a stethoscope from his toolkit and placed it close to the exterior dial at ten o’clock. Very slowly, he spun the entire circle. He did so again with the stethoscope at two o’clock. Then at four o’clock, and again at eight. Those old wheels had served the unit well, yet time wears on everything. He would have a chance to flush out the combination, sparing him a forced entry.
An old technique taught to him by his wife jumped to mind. Worth a shot. She had learned the trick from her safecracking uncle, although never came across a situation to use the gimmick herself. Jim Tanner took out a small flashlight and put the dial under the beam. The theory went that a single owner typically spun the center of a large dial to select the first number in his sequence. He’d do it quickly. Then slow down to catch the next numbers, so as not to overshoot them. In doing so, the middle finger and the thumb ventured to the outer rim of the circle. Stopping there. Then the owner spun the center again but slowed down and located the next number the same way, with thumb and middle finger on the outer rim. After decades – in Ezra’s case, thirty or forty years – the fingers imparted a stain upon the dial. Though imperceptible at a glance, if the light was right the marks could be detected by someone who knew what they were looking for. Close study could reveal them. Tanner needed only to imagine a horizontal line between two such opposite stains created by Ezra’s thumb and middle digit. Then at ninety degrees above the center of that line, or very close to it, find a number in the combination. That digit, or its complete opposite at the bottom of the dial, depending on where the thumb had landed, would be either the second or third number in the combination’s sequence.
He believed he could see the stains. Imprints left by finger oil having smudged dust through decades. He might crack this baby in record time. Through trial and error, he needed to discern the angle at which Ezra’s fingertips typically rested.
He turned the dial again. Slowly, slowly. His stethoscope pressed to the metal.
When the first tumbler from one of the three internal wheels nudged into place, he knew that he could do this. Of course, it would take time. But damn it, he still had the touch.
Quinn! Quinn! Hang on! Everything, not only the tumblers, was falling into place.
A meeting was arranged, the security details agreed upon. Trust and its lack was a factor, as each side anticipated secret deadly force. A suspicion that would keep the peace.
Touton chose the location, a favorite restaurant in Old Montreal, and requested the patron to shutter the door. He proposed two dinners for the entire Night Patrol – half the gang one night, half the next. To take place on weekdays that were normally quiet, so that the patron would not be significantly out of pocket from this evening. They had done such business in the past.
Touton was granted the run of the place.
Subterranean, the bar resembled a cavern. Fake firelight from the lanterns caused sensual images on the walls to dance. Shadows played on the convex ceiling, as if macabre spirits were springing to life.
Something had to be done. The police had run amok the night before. No matter who controlled the streets and alleys by night – Touton or Ciampini, the Night Patrol or the Mafia – the two men had agreed that the battle was not civilized.
Having arrived first, Touton waited in his preferred corner, close to a red exit sign.
The Mafia boss walked in through the kitchen, via the back door.
Surprised at first that the man hadn’t sent a goon ahead of him to scout the premises, Touton concluded that the unforeseen might be how this played out. Norms would be set aside. He wasn’t going to pat him down for a weapon, either. What did he care if Ciampini pulled out a pistol? He’d smack his old man’s jaw and the mob boss would wake up chained to a hospital bed, if he was lucky. In the morgue, if not. Ciampini was no dope. He’d not try anything that stupid.
‘Armand,’ Ciampini said. His tone of voice was pleasant. While his first language was Italian and his second English, and they would converse in English, his accent speaking the French name was pitch-perfect.
‘Hey, Joe,’ Touton said. ‘You look good.’
‘Red wine,’ the mob boss stated to the patron behind him. ‘Your best Italian.’
‘Sir,’ the patron said. He checked with Touton.
The policeman stipulated, ‘My usual.’
‘Bring the man his whisky,’ Ciampini ordered, to indicate that he was picking up the tab.
The patron served the men himself. He did not send in a waiter. He gathered his staff in the kitchen and advised that anybody making a sound would be fired. Then moved back to the kitchen door to eavesdrop.
Ciampini settled into the booth. ‘So,’ he said. ‘We talk.’
‘Talk,’ Touton instructed.
Ciampini did not do so. He sipped his wine. Shook his head. Sipped again.
Touton declared, ‘So much to say. You should retire.’
Ciampini scrunched up his mouth, as if willing to consider it. ‘Speak for yourself, old man. I have a villa in Tuscany. Very nice. One in Sicily, also. The one in Tuscany …’ He contracted his mouth and kissed the tips of his fingers, then let them flay out.
‘There. You see? You’re already halfway retired.’
‘Will you come visit, Armand? We could talk of old times. Drink fine wine.’
‘That depends,’ Touton sounded a note of caution, ‘on what we say tonight.’
‘Everything,’ Ciampini agreed, ‘depends.’ He sipped his wine. ‘Thank you for the truce.’
‘Only temporary. Everything depends …’
‘We put things right. Armand, let us make a permanent peace.’
Having his ear affixed to the safe through a stethoscope was like listening for his daughter’s heartbeat. He had that thought. All Jim Tanner’s senses were attuned to the present moment, then to the next. The safe sounded like a giant, still lung. That breathed.
In and out of traffic. Cinq-Mars pressed the accelerator toward the floor. He was glad he drove a nimble Beetle. Giroux was less enamored with the choice of transportation. Cop sedans provided more room for his legs and protuberant gut. Also, they had sirens. Given the rampage through traffic, he’d feel safer in a proper vehicle. But he did not suggest that the younger man slow down.
They sped on through the night.
Cinq-Mars had asked a question when they learned that the chauffeur couldn’t help. ‘The driver drove Quinn from the Rabbit’s place. Correct?’
‘Right,’ Giroux confirmed.
‘Who else was there? We raided, who else did we pick up?’
‘The usual suspects. Bar staff. Working girls. A couple of customers were booked.’
‘Who was upstairs?’
‘What do you mean?’ Giroux asked.
‘Upstairs. Not in the bar. Anyone?’
‘I can find out.’
‘Find out.’
A process that led to a worn-out young tramp of a woman. A hooker off work while she recovered from a venereal disease. Cinq-Mars declared, ‘Put her in a box. I’m interviewing.’
She was trembling when he entered the interrogation room. He showed her his card.
She reached for it. He pulled it back.
‘Nobody can find this on you. Memorize my name. If you get jammed up, give me a call. If you want to be pulled out completely, same deal.’
She committed his name to memory. ‘Got it.’ Then she said, ‘He can find out. He has ways.’
‘He won’t. You never talked to me.’
‘What do you wanna know?’
‘Where she is.’
Hard crust. And yet, she could relate. In her marrow she didn’t want devastating harm to come to the girl. Cinq-Mars convinced her of that. It didn’t take much. No need to twist her arm. ‘She’s a kid,’ he said. ‘Talk to me. No one will ever know.’ The hooker doubted that. Still, she spoke.
When Ciampini was on the phone setting it up, she’d overheard where they planned to take Quinn. Her story was convincing because the destination for Quinn was logical. Brilliant, even. Cinq-Mars knew the place. He’d been there.
They ripped across the side of the mountain and sliced through the affluent streets of Outremont, where tall mansions loomed over the quiet sidewalks, then nipped across the overpass above the train tracks into the Town of Mount Royal. After that, Cinq-Mars slowed down, not wanting to attract attention. They meant to give the denizens of the sleepy suburb more excitement than they’d seen in a generation, but approached as invisibly as the wind.
Touton had suspended the random frenetic raiding. He wanted Ciampini to relax. To let his guard down. He wanted him to feel confident that Quinn remained securely hidden.
A full-on raid might put her in deeper jeopardy. She could switch from being a kidnap victim to being a hostage exposed to a variety of lethal dangers. Cinq-Mars and Giroux needed to assess and devise the preferred course of action to extricate the girl without giving away their presence. To Cinq-Mars, that meant going in alone.
Thanks to the Rabbit’s hooker, they knew where she was being held.
Right under their noses.
Quinn had been terrified all night and day.
Driven around the previous night, she behaved herself while looking and hoping for a way out. They knew that. They parked in an alley. She recognized the neighborhood. While scouting districts to plunder as an apprentice thief, she had passed through the area and been upset by the poverty. The alley was dark, empty. She feared her captors might shoot her on the spot and dump her body in somebody’s messy scrap of a backyard amid rusting iron and cats in heat. They pulled her out of the car, and she wanted to pee again. But didn’t. They turned her around. One man blindfolded and gagged her; she cooperated because she didn’t want to be shot. She feared that that came next. They would force her to kneel and put a pistol to the back of her head and she’d cry out, through her gag, to her mom and to her dad. She felt so sorry for her dad. Her hands were already bound, and when they shoved her back into the car she didn’t know what they planned to do. The car took on the aspect of a sanctuary. She doubted they’d risk staining the expensive leather upholstery with her blood and brains. The driver told her to stay down on the floor and another man pressed a pistol against her neck. The driver was not the same one as before. A different voice, a different attitude. She stayed down. The pistol on her neck. A different man, also. She didn’t wiggle around. The driver told the other guy to shoot her if she budged. ‘Don’t hesitate.’
She didn’t budge, fine upholstery or not.
They drove on. She listened when they stopped the car. A garage door opened, and the car went forward a short distance. The engine stopped, then the garage door closed.
She was indoors.
They got her out of the back seat. She hit her head hard on the doorframe and cried out, her voice muffled by the gag.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ one guy said. The new driver’s voice.
They marched her forward. Told her to step up when she had to step up. That was difficult, raising a foot blindly. But they never misled her. A stair was always a stair. She never tripped.
A door was shut behind her. She was inside a house, no?
Carpet underfoot.
Familiar.
She sniffed. The scent of the house was familiar. She’d been in this house!
She’d wanted to steal the wall-to-wall carpet, preposterous as that had been! Her nostrils quivered with the memory of stale smoke.
She totally recognized the smell of the place.
She’d been returned to the house she robbed.
Where Maletti had screwed the married lady upstairs and Deets was knifed outside. Where the surgeon was gunned down. Ciampini’s daughter’s house.
Their hiding place for her.
They lashed her to a chair in the basement and secured the chair to a pool table.
They took her blindfold off and the gag, too.
The two men who brought her there left her alone.
Then the house went quiet.
She thought she heard the garage door open. A car start up and leave. The garage door close again.
She was left alone.
Or almost alone.
A different set of footsteps came down the stairs.
Jim Tanner wiped the perspiration from his brow. He had to start over again.
This woman frightened her more than the last one. Hard to know why at first. The woman at Dino’s had that tough, mean-chick look. Nasty tattoos. A cold attitude. A flinty disposition as though she was looking for any excuse to slap her. Quinn thought of her as half-demented.
The day had worn on. This woman frightened her, although she preferred to take her chances with her. Tall, skinny, made-up to the hilt, straight yet coiffed hair with bangs. Her house reeked of cigarettes. She reeked of money. She had a mean streak. Cruel. Quinn had not been convinced that the low-life woman at Dino’s was inherently cruel herself, only that she was heartless and abided the viciousness of others. Although this other woman appeared to be cruel, Quinn suspected that she could talk to her, appeal to a sense of decency that resided somewhere in her bones. She’d just have to be smart about it.
‘Sorry you got hit twice.’
‘Excuse me?’ The question back at her could not be construed as polite.
‘First your husband. Then Arturo Maletti. You got hit twice.’
Quinn could not believe what the woman was doing. Rather than answer her, she picked up a magazine, readjusted a pillow on the sofa, took a cue stick off the pool table and returned it to the rack. Her notion of housework. Tidying up while one of her father’s victims teetered on the brink of death.
Somehow, she had to force her to respond.
Quinn performed her best imitation of her from memory. ‘Babes, we got another hour. Two, if you want. Don’t go. I’m so damned crazy about you, babes.’ She was willing to exaggerate. ‘I’m so fucking crazy about you. Any way you want it. I love the hell out of you, sweet pea.’
The woman was staring at her with that cold, expressionless, seemingly vacant gaze. Like a dead person gazing at a corpse.
‘I hope they cut your feet off before you drown,’ she said. ‘They can use my tub. I’ll think of you when I take a bath. That’ll put a smile on my face.’
‘I know who your father is,’ Quinn said back.
She smirked. ‘An Italian businessman. So what?’
She had to break her down somehow. ‘My father was a crook.’
‘You want a medal? Violins? Or lunch?’
‘I can eat. What was your mother like?’
‘Quit the twenty questions!’
‘Just asking. Did she know about your dad? How did that work?’
Savina Shapiro shrugged. ‘My mom loved the yacht vacations in the Caribbean. She had no problem with Tuscany in the spring, or any of that. Anyway, my mother was not my mother. She was my step.’
‘Did your real mother die?’ They might have that in common.
‘I dumped her. Preferred to live with my dad, see.’
Quinn came at her differently. ‘Tuscany. Right. Your father said I could be his whore in Tuscany.’
‘I’m shocked. Really. Truly. Shocked.’
‘You don’t sound shocked.’
‘He wasn’t serious.’
‘He sounded serious.’
‘A gimmick. If it makes you afraid of him, good, he’s got you. If you go along with the idea, good, he’s got you. Either way you lose.’
‘I didn’t say yes. My mom would cry her eyes out
.’ An appeal to her sensitivity as a woman. Which went nowhere.
‘She’ll cry her eyes out anyhow.’
She realized the difference between the woman at the Rabbit’s and this one. The tough chick imagined the worst and threatened her, but didn’t know what might happen. This woman, from the nicer side of the fence, looked at her as if seeing her dead. In her eyes, Quinn was already a corpse. Still breathing, but only for now.
The woman said, ‘Too bad for Arturo. But he had it coming. My husband? I had him taken out.’
Quinn didn’t want to hear her confession. It sealed her own fate.
‘Poor baby, you’re shocked. You caused your boyfriend’s death, so don’t play Miss Goodie with me. You should be happy my husband’s dead. I did you a favor.’
‘Did me a favor?’
‘He whacked your boyfriend. Your fault, but he did the dirty work.’
To keep her talking, she pretended not to know. ‘Why?’
‘Not sure. Mistaken identity, I think. Your boy came out of my yard. My husband must’ve thought he was screwing me. I found blood – your guy’s blood, I presume – on my man’s shirt. Not from performing surgery. He wouldn’t have left the operating room bloody.’
The doorbell chimed.
Quinn’s head jumped.
The woman was amused. ‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ she cautioned her. ‘Guards. Showing up for their shift. Hell, did you think I’d look after you all day?’