by Stan Rogal
“Running back, then,” Vincent said. “Pierce, or someone, right?”
“Close. Pearson. Having a pretty good year, but not stellar. Anyone else?” No one spoke. John sighed. “Do you guys know anything about the team?”
“I gotta say, I don’t really watch CFL. I’m a Bills’ fan,” Sid said.
“Yeah, Steelers.” That was Vincent.
“Lakers,” Anthony said. The others gave him the old hairy eyeball. “Hey, football’s too fucking slow. All that huddling and whatnot. Buncha pussies. Takes half an hour to play the final two minutes, gimme a break.” He poked the air with his cigar.
“OK, fine,” John said. “Just to catch you up so we’re on the same fucking page, yes? The Argos have currently won twelve out of eighteen games and of these twelve, only three were by eight points or more, the rest by less than six and ten of these were decided in the final four minutes or in OT, generally by a field goal. What does that tell you?”
“They’ve been damn lucky,” Vincent said, laughing.
“Uh-huh. And what does it tell you about who’s been scoring points and winning games for them in pressure situations?” John topped up his glass and relit his cigar. The others passed the bottle in turn.
Anthony threw his hands open in the air. “The kicker?”
“The kicker, exactly. Name of Larry Donovan. Thing is, he’s also the punter, which is rare these days, in an era of specialization. Leads the league not only in field goals, but in dropping kicks inside the ten, which makes him extra valuable. Take him out of the mix and the Argos have squat.”
“So, that’s who we snatch.”
“Yeah. The real beauty part is that his place of residence is a downtown hotel. The Sheraton. He’s single, lives alone and has no family to speak of. It’s like he’s begging for it.”
“How do you know all this?” Vincent asked.
“Fucking Google, man! Just hit a button,” John said, grinning. “There’s just one slight hitch. Where do we keep him after we’ve made the snatch? My new apartment building’s so secure, they got cameras watching the cameras.”
“Not my place. The wife and I just downsized. She’d have a fit. What about you, Sid? You’ve got a basement suite that’s free.”
“Had a basement suite. My daughter split from her asshole husband — finally — and moved in with her two kids. No way.”
“Vincent! You’ve got the heated garage in Parkdale. It’s perfect.”
“Sure, it’s always left up to the black brother, right? Except that heated garage is storing a shit-load of TVs you guys were supposed to move over six months ago. I barely got room to park my vehicle never mind hide a fucking Argonaut.”
“Look,” John said. “We’ll come by with the truck and clear out the TVs, OK? Put ‘em in a rental unit or something. Worse comes to worse, we each take a few sets home and give ‘em away as Christmas gifts.”
“Everyone I know already has a TV in every room.”
“Yeah, and no one wants a thirty-two inch anymore, anyway.”
“Whatever. We figure it out later.”
“Fine. And what if the guy wants to take a piss or something? There’s no facilities in the garage.”
“Speaking of which …” Sid let out a loud fart, and pointed a finger to the ceiling. “Ducks,” he said. The men laughed.
“Nice one,” John said. “Anyway, give him a bucket. It ain’t the Sheraton, right? With any luck, he won’t be there long anyway. Face it, without him, the Argos got no chance in hell even getting a sniff of the Grey Cup.” John raised his glass. “We clear?”
“Clear,” the others repeated.
“Good. Let’s get to work.”
They hunkered in to listen as John went over details.
Three of the men stationed themselves in various locations of the hotel lobby and studied a downloaded headshot of Donovan. Vincent was the first to spot him. He signalled the others and followed Donovan up the escalator to his room. The decision had been to tail him a couple of days, see where he hung out and figure the best spot to make the grab. Vincent punched his cell.
“Got him. I’ll make myself at home up here and if he steps out I’ll let you know. Be ready to pull the car around. Let’s hope he’s not the type to drink a warm glass of milk and hit the sack early.”
Two hours later, around 9:30 p.m., Vincent caught sight of the door crack open. He bent down to tie a lace, realized he was wearing slip-ons and gave his cuffs a quick brush. A woman stepped into the hall. She had platinum blond hair, bright red lips and dark eye lashes so long and thick they could’ve passed for a set of venetian blinds. She wore a tight red sequined dress cut well below the neck, well above the knees, black fishnet stockings and silver platform heels along with the obligatory pearl necklace, earrings, bracelets and matching silver and pearl encrusted clutch purse.
Holy shit, Vincent thought, as the woman sashayed past him toward the elevator. He made the call downstairs.
“Tell Anthony to get the car. Keep your eyes peeled for a cherry red $500-a-night hooker, and don’t lose sight.”
“Why we chasin’ a skirt?”
“Let’s just say I got a hunch this skirt ain’t no lady.”
“What makes you say?”
“Number one, she looks like she fell off an amateur stage set of Sweet Charity. Number two, I think I got a pretty good shot of Adam’s apple when she walked by.”
“Are you tryin’ to tell me …?”
“I don’t know. I’m just sayin’, let’s follow up and see.”
The woman jumped into a cab and the men followed her along Queen and up Church Street.
“Wha’d’y’know,” Sid said. “The gay fucking ghetto. Can you believe it? Fucking Argonaut.”
The cab stopped and let the woman out. She skipped across traffic into Woody’s Bar. Anthony pulled in and parked the SUV.
“Fucking unbelievable,” Sid said. “What do we do?”
“Coffee and donuts,” Vincent said. “We wait. Maybe we get lucky.”
She was tied to a chair in the middle of the garage floor under a bank of fluorescent lights. Sid straddled a second chair, leaned his arms across the back, stared at her as she slowly came to. Vincent stooped over the back of another chair nearby. John entered from the side door and cocked his head.
“What’s this?” he said.
“This,” Sid said, gesturing with a turned palm, “is your superstar Argonaut punter field goal kicker. Bagged and tagged.” Vincent sidled over, grabbed a mitt full of hair, raised the blonde wig a few inches and dropped it.
“No shit?” John said.
“Guy’s a tranny,” Vincent said. “Maybe a fudgepacker. Also …” Vincent dumped the clutch purse, revealing a used syringe among the make up, plastic credit cards, hotel passkey, bills, change and a half-used roll of mixed Lifesavers. “A junkie. Goes to show, you can’t judge a book by its cover.”
“I’m not a junkie, you fucking asshole.”
“It lives. It speaks,” Sid said.
“I’m a diabetic.”
“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England,” Vincent said, laughing.
“That your pathetic attempt at a sexist joke?”
“If the shoe fits,” Vincent said.
“OK, enough.” John motioned to Vincent. “Come with me, we’ll make the call.” He took a final peek at Donovan and shook his head. “Un-fucking believable,” he said. The two men left.
Donovan squinted across at Sid. “You boys getting ready for Hallowe’en, or what?” Sid just sat there, confused. “The Lone Ranger masks.” Donovan indicated with his chin.
“This is what’s known in the business as a disguise, smart ass.” Sid pulled at the corner of his mask and gave it a flick.
“Ooh, impressive! And I suppose you’ve invented clever little nicknames for yourselves as well, like, Mr. Brown, Mr. Blue, Mr. Pink, yes? So I won’t recognize the three of you in a police line-up, is that it?” Donovan beamed at the man, then let out a laug
h. “You’ve been watching way too many bad movies, my friend, if you believe that cheap, thin, piece of black cloth does anything to protect your identity.”
“Oh, yeah?” Sid raised his eyebrows and twisted his lips.
“Yeah. Let’s start with you. Mid-fifties, I’d say. Thick, curly hair, once dark, now fading to grey. Brown eyes. Five foot eight or nine, one hundred seventy-five pounds, big nose, thick hands and slight accent suggestive of Jewish background. There’s a nasal quality to your voice and your breathing is a bit laboured, indicative of a deviated septum. Snorer, for sure. Drives the wife crazy, I bet. Trouble getting a good night’s sleep.” Donovan leaned his neck and squinted. “Tanned skin in November, nice. You don’t appear to be the tanning booth type, so likely recently returned from somewhere hot and sunny. By the sporty windbreaker and brightly patterned polo shirt I’d guess you were golfing, yes?” He paused. “What do you shoot? Mid to high 90s?”
“Low to mid 90s.”
“Uh-huh. Gold wedding ring with a diamond inset, gold Rolex watch. A knock-off, maybe?”
“It’s no knock-off, pal, it’s the real thing.”
“Real Rolex, fine. Status symbol signifying a man of means. Meanwhile, you wear brown corduroy pants and worn brown size nine or ten Ecco slip on shoes — economical and comfortable. A man of the people.”
“Anything else?”
“Left handed.”
“How the hell did you know that?”
“You wear your watch on your right wrist. You cross your arms left over right. You tug on your left ear when you’re nervous or confused.” Donovan paused. “You want me to start on the other two who were just here, or should I go straight to the fourth kidnapper?”
“What fourth kidnapper?”
“Black dude driving the car last night. Similar age to you. Broad-shouldered, heavy-set, bushy salt and pepper hair and beard, Lakers’ cap, diamond ear stud, funky John Lennon glasses …”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I caught a glimpse of him over my shoulder while you and your buddy jumped out of the car and chloroformed me.”
“You’re a real observant fella. Where’d you learn to do all this?”
“I have a lot of spare time between football seasons. I take courses, one of which was the fine art of police detection, which included detailed observation of clues and characters. Another was Chinese cooking. If you’re a good boy, I’ll share my recipe for Baochao yaohua with you.”
“Thanks, I think I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself. In the meantime, what’s the plan, Mr. Pink?”
“That’s funny. You’re a funny guy.” Sid went to tug his left ear and stopped himself. “Pretty simple. You stay on ice until your team pays the ransom.”
“Sounds pretty simple all right. How much are you asking?”
“Three mil.”
Donovan leaned back and roared.
“What’s so goddamn funny?”
“Do you know anything about the CFL and its pay scale?”
Sid shrugged.
“The cap for the entire team is four million. The average pay per player is about eighty-two grand a year. There’s no way anyone is going to pay three million for me.”
“If they want a chance at the cup, they’ll pay. That’s gotta be worth big money. Bonuses and whatever. Incentives.”
“I hate to pop your bubble, pal, but the winners of the Grey Cup get sixteen grand apiece, before taxes. The losers, considerably less.”
“Sixteen grand? That’s it? I gave more than that to my grandson when he was old enough for his bar mitzvah. Are you shittin’ me here?”
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just sayin’.”
“Huh.” Sid stared at Donovan. “What about where you’re livin’? Can’t be cheap holed up at the Sheraton. That’s gotta cost money.”
“I have a connection. A friend in upper management. Strictly quid pro quo. I could fill in the details, if you’re interested.”
“It’s OK, no need, I get it.”
“You’re sure?” Donovan put on a pout. “You might get a kick.” His ankles were bound to the chair and he only managed to flex his toes for emphasis.
“I’m sure, believe me, I’m sure. Hey — maybe your friend would put up the three mil if the team won’t.”
“My friend has an expensive wife, three kids he’s sending through university and a penchant for betting on the wrong horses. He’s in debt up to his balls. Besides, he’d sooner put a bullet through his head than face the possibility of our arrangement becoming public knowledge. Seems to me, you’re sucking air on this one, Mr. Pink.”
“If what you’re telling me is legit, seems like you’re the one suckin’ air here, pal. And cut with the Mr. Pink, already. If I were you, I wouldn’t be makin’ jokes. You’re in some serious shit.”
“Speaking of which, I need to use the toilet. Every morning at this time. Like clockwork.” Donovan stared at Sid who reached down between his legs and poked at a small white plastic pail. “I don’t think that’ll quite cut it, unless you’re prepared to slip off my panties, hold me steady and wipe my ass when it’s over. Also, I told you I was diabetic. I’m going to need something to eat. And my insulin. Otherwise, Mr. Pink, you’re going to have a very sick fella on your hands.”
“Insulin’ll have to wait. Good chance someone’s figured out you’re missing by this time. Place’ll be buzzin’ with cops.”
Anthony entered the garage. His bushy hair spilled out from beneath a Lakers’ cap. A thin black mask covered his eyes. Around his neck hung a gold chain and pendant. The pendant flashed a garnet coloured letter ‘A’ on it.
“Hey, Mr. Green! How’s it goin’?” Anthony rubbed his hands together and caught Donovan grin and blow Sid a kiss. Sid hung his head and gave a shake.
“Great,” Sid said. “Just great.” He tugged his ear and pointed to Donovan. “Man needs to use the toilet. Also a sandwich.”
“You expect me take him inside the house?”
Sid shrugged. “Unless you got a better idea.”
Anthony’s eyes passed from the bucket to the man dressed in women’s attire and tied to the chair. “Shee-it,” he mumbled, as he loosened the ropes and dragged Donovan to his feet.
“And you must be Mr. Black,” Donovan said.
“Now, who else would I be?”
Donovan leaned in and gave Anthony a quick sniff. “I just love a man in Old Spice. Makes me want to tear my clothes off and run naked through the woods.”
“You keep that thought. Meanwhile, follow me. And no funny stuff. My wife’s in a mood and the last thing I need is you provoking her.”
“Yeah,” Sid said. “And you best put a gunny sack over his head. Otherwise he’ll be adding up the change in your pocket. If he hasn’t already.”
Outside the garage, John and Vincent slipped into their masks and barged through the door. They didn’t appear any too pleased. Sid and Anthony sat in chairs across from each other, drinking beers and playing Gin Rummy. They used the chair where Donovan sat earlier as a table. Their masks were tucked inside back pockets.
“What the hell goes on?” John asked. “Where’s Donovan?”
“Inside,” Anthony said. “Don’t worry, I’ve got him cuffed to the radiator.” He laid down a card and Sid drew from the pile.
“What’s he doin’ inside?”
“Started out, take a dump and have a meal. First thing, him and Rosie are redecorating the living room, talking about paint colours and crown mouldings and vintage chintz drapes for the windows and whatnot. Next thing they’re exchanging favourite recipes. Now they’re cooking up a pot of low-fat chicken tikka masala curry with rice for dinner. It’s like they’re suddenly BFFs. We couldn’t take it anymore and came out here for a beer. How’d it go on your end?”
“It didn’t. They put our call through to fucking accounting. Guy said he understood the seriousness of the situation, but the organization’s budget didn’t cover ransom demand
s. Best he could offer was tickets to the big game, if they made it. Otherwise, he was calling the cops if Donovan wasn’t back in uniform and on the field by practice tomorrow.”
The four men pondered a moment. Sid jumped in: “What yard line?” he asked. The others shot him a look. “What? If life serves you lemons, make lemonade, right?” He laughed; the others turned away. “OK, I’m joking. Sue me.”
“Probably end zone in the nosebleed section,” John said. “I hate dealing with those bean counting asshole bastards. It’s like they’ve got a roll of nickels for a heart.”
“So, what do we do?” Sid arranged his cards and set them down in order. “Gin,” he said.
Anthony let out a moan and tossed his cards on the chair. Sid totalled the points.
“Maybe we can store him with those TVs we can’t unload,” Anthony said.
“I say we drop him off where we found him. Cut our losses,” Vincent said.
“Makes sense,” John said. “You two wore your masks, yeah?”
“Wouldn’t matter if we did or didn’t. The guy’s a regular junior Sherlock Holmes,” Sid said.
“What do you mean?”
“He asked me how serious is your arthritis. Figured it might be rheumatoid.”
“How did he know that?”
“He noticed the copper bracelets on your wrists. Also, your hands looked puffy and swollen this morning. Saw you rubbing your fingers and stretching your hands to work out the stiffness. Also says you could stand to lose twenty/thirty pounds, it’s murder on the knees.”
“That it?”
Anthony piped in. “I figure after talkin’ with Rosie the past few hours, he knows the names and ages of our kids, grand kids and pets. Probably seen pictures. Wouldn’t surprise me if he knew about the heart I’ve got tattooed on my ass.”
“Christ,” John said. “That’s it, then. He knows too much. We’ve got no choice.”
The men glanced at each other and nodded in unison. A cell phone chimed and Anthony answered. “Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? No!” he said, and hit the off button. “Shit.”
“What was that?”
“Rosie. Said Donovan suddenly got faint and passed out on the floor in front of her. She figures it’s a diabetic seizure.”