when the night was over and all the people had gone, Ricky Messina would come to get his money. She’d have to look him in the face, in the eyes-he would insist-and she’d relive everything that had happened the night he came to their door dressed like a pizza boy.
She pushed the table against the far wall so people would be able to serve themselves buffet-style. Hip- checked it home hard enough to rattle the plates on the wooden rail that ran around the dining room walls above eye level. She opened the bottom drawer of their pine hutch, a Mission-style knock-off they had found in East Aurora, and took out a clean linen tablecloth. Everything else was going to be plastic so the tablecloth might as well be nice. She had plenty of plastic wineglasses and juice cups left from last month’s event. Barry would be back soon with the paper plates and the fruit platters. Had she asked him to stop at Premier Liquors? She couldn’t remember. She just wished he’d get back. She didn’t like being alone in the house anymore, no matter how many lights she turned on or what music she played. Even low-dose ambient New Age made her jump.
Amy pushed the dining room chairs against the wall to open up some space and unfolded four bridge chairs. At least thirty people would be coming between six and eleven, judging by orders received. That was her deal with Barry: every shipment that came in had to be sorted, sold and out of the house within forty-eight hours. She couldn’t stand it any longer than that.
Amy wondered if Rich Leckie would come. No one was seeing much of him these days. Marty Oliver was picking up his goods for him and paying for them too, all the things Rich had needed before and some new ones too. She admitted to herself she didn’t want Rich to come. She knew she’d take one look at him and burst into tears.
A door banged close by and she grabbed the dining room chair nearest her and held tightly onto its frame until she heard Barry shout, “I’m home.”
He came clumping in with plastic shopping bags in both hands. “That’s everything,” he said. “Plates, forks, knives, spoons, cups, nap-”
“We didn’t need cups.”
“What?”
“You said you got cups. We didn’t need cups. We still have cups left from last time.”
“Okay, so what’s the big deal?”
“We didn’t need them. What’s so hard to understand?”
“Honey, they don’t go bad or anything. We always need cups.”
“That’s right, Barry. Always. For the rest of our goddamn lives, thanks to you.”
“Me? Ah, Christ, what are you crying for?”
“I can’t keep doing it, Barry. Every time I know he’s coming here, I want to run. I want to get in the car and drive to a hotel where nobody knows me and lie in bed with the covers over my head until he goes away or dies. But he won’t let me. He tells me I have to be there, so I am. He tells me I have to look into his eyes, so I do. He tells me… he… oh, Barry,” she sobbed, “what did you do? What did you fucking do?” She sank to the ground slowly, wrapped in her own arms, her face tight to her shoulder and twisted in misery.
“Every time, Barry,” she panted, “every time he comes for the money he makes me hand it to him and he holds onto my hand and won’t let go. He rubs it between his fingers and he smiles at me like I’m supposed to like it or something, and I don’t know if I can make it through without screaming, Barr, I swear I don’t know if I can.”
“Ssshhh, Amy, you’ll make it through. Take a sedative, honey.”
“I just did, you miserable shit.”
“Amy, please.”
“Well, who got us into this? Who else but you would be stupid enough or stoned enough to steal a shipment of drugs and not expect someone would come for it. For us, damn you.”
“I know I fucked up, Amy.”
“Then get us out of this.”
“How?”
“I don’t care. You got us in, get us out.”
“What do you want me to do, go to the cops? Because apart from that I don’t know what else to suggest.”
“At least don’t let him touch me, Barry… Barry? Look at me, goddamn you. Say you won’t let him touch me, not this time. Not my hands.”
“I…”
“You what?”
“I’ll give him the money.”
“He always says I have to.”
“I’ll do it tonight. I promise.”
“Don’t promise, Barry. Swear. Swear on your life.”
“I do, Amy. I do. I will. I swear.”
She looked up at her husband, so much taller than she was but half her size in heart. She wondered if Rich Leckie even crossed his mind anymore.
CHAPTER 41
The Queen Elizabeth Way: Friday, June 30
I f you could fly as the crow flies, you could get from Toronto to Buffalo in no time. Thirty-some miles across Lake Ontario and a short run south. Confined to land as we were, the truck barely managing sixty miles an hour, we faced a drive of at least two hours, not counting border delays. Along the curving shore of Lake Ontario we went, passing through Mississauga and Oakville and the Hamilton steelworks sprawled along the harbour, flame coming out of one stack and dark smoke out of the others. Swarms of gulls wheeled through the infernal sky, their bellies grey with soot. Wind buffeted the car as we climbed the steep rise of the Burlington Skyway and left the hellish landscape behind.
At least following a truck on a highway was relatively easy. We could hang back a good number of cars and keep its tall white box in sight.
When my cellphone rang, I checked the caller ID and groaned.
“What?”
“My boss,” I said and pressed Talk.
“Jonah!” Graham McClintock barked. “What the hell is going on? You blew out of here yesterday with barely a word and you skip out today of all days?”
“I’m onto something, Clint. To do with Franny.”
“Not that you’ve seen fit to share with me. Or Homicide.”
“I’m chasing it down now. By tomorrow I should know the whole story. Who killed Franny, everything.”
“Forget tomorrow,” Clint said. “Get down here now.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can, if you want to keep your job.”
“Clint, I-”
“You and I need to talk, Jonah. You get to my office now, look me in the goddamn eye and tell me what’s going on!”
I had to buy time. I resorted to an old trick I’ve used on my mother when she gets into one of her “Why isn’t Jonah a doctor/lawyer/husband/father/chief rabbi of Toronto” rants. I turned the radio on and moved the dial between stations, then turned up the volume so the interior of the car was filled with static. I held the phone close to one of the speakers and shouted, “What’s that? I couldn’t hear that last part.”
“Get down here now!” he bellowed.
“Clint? Clint? Are you still there? You’re breaking up.”
“To the office!”
“Clint? Damn this phone! Clint? Can you hear me?”
