I don’t know what it took to bring the two of them up to the fifteenth floor of the Hilton that night. If you think about it, it’s an inherently risky move. You’re way off your home turf, in a confined space, cut off from your vehicle fifteen floors below you. It takes a certain level of trust to make such a move, especially when the person waiting for you is someone you didn’t even know a month ago. It takes trust, or if that’s running thin, then it takes the promise of great riches or great power or preferably both.
Or hell, just cold blood. Maybe that’s all it takes.
I can’t imagine what Natalie was feeling. An actor goes on stage, plays a part. If it’s not convincing, the audience starts to slip away. If it’s really bad, they might stand up and boo. They generally don’t take out guns and start firing. Or they don’t wrap their arms around the actors’ necks, point the guns at their temples, and use them as human shields. The Actors Guild would definitely not go for that.
It’s Natalie Reynaud and her partner, Don Resnik, in a room on the fifteenth floor. The room is wired for both sound and video. The backups are stationed in the adjoining rooms. The rest of the floor is empty, except for one man in a bathrobe, posing as a guest going down to the end of the hall for ice. He’s there to make sure the hallway doesn’t seem too empty. The man’s service revolver is hidden underneath his robe.
The whole point of the operation, of course, is to catch Antoine Laraque offering some amount of Canadian dollars, some specific number of “loonies” to use the local slang, in exchange for a large number of automatic handguns, to be delivered sometime thereafter. The double fake-out, as Natalie herself called it, setting up a woman to be the contact. It’s so unusual it has to be convincing.
The other important part of the operation-the size of the net, as they call it. A big net instead of a small net. When the police move in, the idea is to bust all four of them, Natalie included. You do this just in case there’s a chance to keep the identity intact, to have the fictional character get out on bail, or on a technicality, or whatever else, to go back on the street and set another trap. That’s when the real acting begins, when Natalie plays the part of a career criminal getting taken down. If she can sell that one, then she’s really earning her Oscar.
If it goes well, then nobody gets hurt. They get a clear and unimpeachable offer on tape. Maybe with Rhapsody on the hook, she flips and helps put Laraque away for the rest of his life. Rhapsody, the woman with more lives than a dozen alley cats put together.
That’s the plan. Set the trap, catch the big mouse. Take a few hundred guns off the streets of Toronto. Save lives. Maybe even build some careers for the officers involved.
Of course I didn’t know anything about it at the time. I’d hear all about it much later, in vivid detail.
How the mouse walked right into the trap, and then how he walked away.
Vinnie’s night, on the other hand…He was a lot closer to home, and I’d get the whole story as soon as I opened my eyes.
I fell off the chair. It took me a moment to realize what had happened, where I was. I had finally dozed off, or at least I had slipped into that half sleep with the half dreams about the real events in your life. Me in jail, but instead of Maven standing there, it was Natalie. For some reason she was smiling at me. Vinnie was in the cell next to me, a row of bars between us. He was calling my name. Then I was falling.
I looked around me. Why was I lying on the floor?
God, Vinnie…
I was still in my clothes, so I was out the door in ten seconds. The sun was just coming up, to start another losing battle against the cold morning mist. It was too early to be out there. Too early to be doing anything at all, but I had to see if he was home.
His house was only about a quarter mile down the road, but the days I could have run that distance in less than a minute were a distant memory, so I got in the truck, fired it up, and drove around the bend to his house.
Vinnie’s truck was in the driveway. That was the good news.
The driver’s-side door was open, but I didn’t see Vinnie anywhere. That was the bad news. Probably very bad news.
I pulled up behind his truck, slammed mine into park and got out. I went to his door, opened it without knocking.
“Vinnie.”
There was no answer. I didn’t see him anywhere.
“Where are you?”
A muffled sound, from somewhere. I looked around the place, couldn’t find him. Until I got to the bathroom. He was there, on the floor, his head over the toilet.
“Vinnie,” I said. “What’s the matter?”
I bent down next to him. As I put my hand on his back, the unmistakable smell of alcohol hit me. Which would have made sense for just about anybody else. But before I could figure that one out, he looked up at me.
“Oh my God,” I said when I saw his face. “What the hell happened?”
His left eye was completely swollen shut, his right eye almost as bad. I couldn’t tell how bad his bottom lip was with all the blood on it. Instead of answering me, he went back to spitting the blood into the toilet. The water was pink.
“Talk to me. What did they do to you?”
“Whazzit look like, Alex?” It was hard for him to talk.
“I mean, how bad? Did they break anything? Did you lose any teeth?”
“Whed I can feel anyfing, I tell you.”
“I’ll get some ice.”
I went to his freezer and got both ice trays. When I came back, he was sitting on the floor, his back against the tub.
“We’ll get the swelling down,” I said. “That’s the first thing.”
I was about to start wrapping the ice in a towel, but when I looked at him again I figured, hell, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Instead, I dumped the ice in the sink and filled it with cold water.
“Can you stand up?” I said.
He shrugged one shoulder.
“Come on. I’ll help you.”
I pulled him up to his feet. He swayed back and forth a few times like he’d pass out, until he finally found his legs and we got him over to the sink.
“You ready for this?”
He went down facefirst into the ice water. He stayed down a lot longer than I would have. I was about to yank his head out when he finally came up for air. There was blood in the water, blood dripping on the edge of the sink, blood on the floor. He took a few uneven breaths and then put his face in the sink again.
I left him for a moment, went back to the kitchen and grabbed the roll of paper towels. He was coming up for air again when I got back. I stopped him for a moment so I could get a better look at his face. It was hard to tell exactly where he was bleeding.
“Open your mouth.”
He did.
“I don’t see any teeth gone,” I said. “I think your gums are cut up, though. Here…” I ran some fresh water on a big wad of paper towels and handed it to him. He worked it carefully into his mouth and held it there. When he took it back out it was red.
“Keep doing that.” I gave him some more paper towels. “When we get that stopped, we’ll start icing your eyes.”
He spit more blood in the toilet and then put the paper towel in his mouth again.
“Vinnie, you don’t have to answer this right now if you don’t want to, but how come you smell like a gin mill?”
He looked at me out of the one eye he could still see through. “Vey pord idod me.”
“What?”
He shook his head and waved me away. I’ll get the story later, I thought. Right now, it’s time to do something else. I went out to the kitchen and picked up his cordless phone.
