Yard Dog
Copyright © A.G. Pasquella, 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Laura Boyle
Cover image: shutterstock.com/Dundanim
Printer: Webcom
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Pasquella, A. G., 1973-, author
Yard dog / A.G. Pasquella.
(The Jack Palace series)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4597-4228-4 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-4597-4229-1 (PDF).--
ISBN 978-1-4597-4230-7 (EPUB)
I. Title.
PS8631.A8255Y37 2018 C813'.6 C2018-901429-6
C2018-901430-X
1 2 3 4 5 22 21 20 19 18
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Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
What does a man do when he gets out of jail? Gets drunk and gets laid, not necessarily in that order. Tommy picked me up in one of his dad’s limos, screeching up to the front of the Don Jail with the sound system blasting, guards on the steps looking like they’ve been sucking lemons. The limo door swung open and there was Tommy in a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt covered in orange flowers, grinning at me over the top of his sunglasses.
“Come on in. The water’s fine.”
Did this guy have a Jacuzzi back there? I slid into the limo, feeling the guards’ eyes boring a smouldering hole into the back of my neck. I knew what they were thinking. Who says crime doesn’t pay?
Tommy, grinning like a sultan, leaned back into the limo’s plush seats. “Tiffany, Amber … I want you to meet a friend of mine. Amber, go over there and introduce yourself.”
Now, I like to think I’m a pretty stoic bastard, but going from a tiny jail cell to the back seat of a limousine with two beautiful bikini-clad women in the space of five minutes is a bit of a mindfuck. Still, when Amber brushed her breasts against my arm I wasn’t about to push her away.
“Jack, you want a martini? Tiffany, get my friend a martini.”
“You got any beer?”
“Sure, we got beer! Tiffany, get me a martini and get my friend a beer.”
How many nights had I laid awake in the clatter and gloom of jail dreaming of The Perfect Beer? The kind you see in the commercials, bits of ice and moisture rolling down the sides, ice-cold and delicious.
I savoured the first sip, letting it roll gently across my tongue. The taste of freedom.
I drank the rest of the beer in about three seconds. Amber laughed. “You were thirsty!”
“Take off your top,” Tommy told her, and she did.
At the club, the music was so loud it shook my molars. A dark-haired waitress with impossibly long tanned legs swept away the third round of empty bottles. Fresh bottles appeared like magic. Tommy was swigging Grey Goose straight from the bottle because he was classy like that. Amber and Tiffany, now in party dresses, banged their heads together and laughed, white powder dusting their nostrils. Tommy did a line off the top of Tiffany’s left breast and the ladies laughed louder. I glanced around uneasily. Then it hit me: there were no guards, cops, snitches, stoolies, or parole officers here. This was Tommy’s place, and if he wanted to do a line off a stripper’s fake tits, it was his fucking business.
“You sure you don’t want some, Jack? This is good fucking shit!”
“You know why Mormons don’t drink or do drugs? It’s because they believe God gave them Free Will.” I held up a bottle of beer, green glass glinting in the disco light. “Me, I like beer.”
I downed the bottle as Tommy and the ladies laughed. “Doesn’t he talk funny? I love this guy! Jack, you’re a funny fucking guy!”
I grinned as Amber nestled closer. She smelled like vanilla. Goddamn, it was good to be free.
Tiffany and Amber were naked now, gyrating together in Tommy’s V.I.P. lounge. Amber wriggled out of her little black party dress so sexily I almost asked her to put it back on and do it again. Tiffany ran her wet pink tongue along Amber’s neck, both girls swaying to the soul music pouring from the speakers like molasses. Next to me in the darkness Tommy twitched and groaned. Tiffany’s manicured hand rubbed Amber’s tits and dropped lower, her finger dipping into Amber’s folds before pulling away, teasing. Amber moaned and fell to her knees. Tiffany grabbed the back of Amber’s head and pushed her face between her legs. They moaned together, swaying. They seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves and that turned me on. Amber lay back on the stage with her legs spread, giving us an eyeful. I had just enough time to savour the view before Tiffany crawled over on her hands and knees and dove between Amber’s thighs.
After five minutes T
ommy couldn’t stand it. He leapt up, charged toward the girls, and seized Tiffany’s hand. “There’s bedrooms on the third floor,” he shouted back at me as he pulled Tiffany from the room. “See you in the morning. We’ll talk business!”
I knocked back the last of my beer. The room wobbled. I must have been drunk because the idea of doing business with Tommy didn’t bother me a bit.
Let’s get one thing straight right now. I’m not a criminal. I believe in truth and justice and all that good shit. It’s just that sometimes truth and justice and the law don’t match up. Sometimes the path of the righteous man leads directly to jail. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
Amber stood over me, naked. “Are we going upstairs?”
I grinned. “Just try and stop me.”
At some point in the night I woke up to Amber shaking me. She looked freaked the fuck out.
“Jack! Jack!”
My heart galloped as I fumbled for my knife. It took me a few seconds to realize the knife was long gone, sitting tagged and bagged in some police evidence locker. “What? What is it?”
“You were screaming in your sleep. Are you okay?”
My grey undershirt was soaked with cold sweat. “Yeah,” I lied, “I’m fine.”
CHAPTER 2
“You like eggs? They do the best eggs in the city.” Tommy squinted at the menu. “Chorizo? What the fuck is chorizo?”
A well-groomed couple with matching sweaters and silver hair edged their chairs away from us. We were sitting in a restaurant in Yorkville: waiters with ties and ladies with big purses. Yorkville used to be a hippie enclave before the hippies grew up and became investment bankers. Now it was fancy boutiques and million-dollar condos and nostalgia shops selling five-hundred-dollar lunchboxes.
“It’s spicy sausage,” I told him.
“Hell yeah,” he said, slamming the menu closed. The waiter took our order and glided away.
Tommy rubbed his temples. “My fucking brain. You have a good time last night, Jack?”
I closed my eyes and listened to the rush and hum of my own blood. The whiff of vanilla. Amber, so warm and soft and good. “Yeah.”
“Good.” Tommy sighed. “It feels good to cut loose like that every once in a while. I tell ya, Jack, ever since my dad’s been in the hospital, things haven’t exactly been peaches and cream.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Tommy shrugged. “That’s life, right? First you’re riding on top of the world and the next minute you’re lying in the hospital with a tube up your ass.”
Across from us the silver-haired couple in the matching sweaters got up and changed tables.
“He’s been in there, what, a month?”
Tommy nodded. “One month and already the vultures are circling. You know Little Vito?”
I nodded. “I’ve heard of him.”
“He had the gall to come by my club, offer his condolences. That fat prick. He was looking over my shoulder the whole time. I could practically hear him remodelling. Well, fuck him. He’s got a club. He can’t have mine.”
“It’s a nice club, Tommy.”
“Damn right it’s a nice club. I run things, kick a share up to my dad. That’s how it works. That’s how we all work.” Tommy clenched his fist. “That fat prick.”
I drained my water glass and gestured for more. “Let me guess. Vito’s not paying.”
“Oh, he’ll pay. We’ve got a system here. An operation. My father spent years putting this together. It’s a well-oiled machine. Guys like Little Vito, they gum up the works. Him and the rest of the pricks, they think that just because my dad’s in the hospital, they can backslide. ‘Oh, it’s been slow this week, Tommy. We’ll have it for you next Tuesday, Tommy.’ Fuck that. It’s a system. They gotta understand that. A guy like Vito … he’s gotta learn the hard way.”
I shook my head. “I don’t do that kind of work anymore.”
Tommy scowled. “Did I ask you to do anything? Did I?”
“No …”
“No. That’s right. We’re just talking here.” Tommy’s face brightened. “Jack, I like you. We’re buddies, right? I’m not going to ask you to do anything you don’t want to do. Understand? I’m not going to put you into any awkward situations. Guys like Vito, we’ve got guys for guys like that. It’s just that it’s been pretty rough, you know, with my dad in the hospital and everything. I could really use a friend like you, Jack.”
Something inside me screamed, Get up! Get up and walk away now and don’t look back. Go on, you stupid bastard — run!
“What can I do to help?” I heard myself say.
Tommy grinned. “I just need an extra guy on a couple of runs. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t even handle the money. My guys will do that. You just stand there, all right? You’re my eyes and ears. Who’s paying? Who’s not paying? Who could use some extra encouragement? Is there anybody in my crew with sticky fingers?” Tommy burped, coughed, and thumped his chest. “You’re like an outside accountant. I know I can count on you.”
“You want me to audit your routes.”
“Yeah, audit! You’re a smart guy, Jack.” Tommy smiled. “So whaddaya say? Go on a few runs, keep your eyes open, and report back to me. Easy.”
My hungover brain was screaming louder now. RUN! RUN, YOU FUCKER!
Tommy must have seen the look on my face. He laughed. “Don’t you worry. I’ve got your back. I’ll watch out for you, just like I did on The Inside. You made it out in one piece, didn’t you?”
More or less.
“I go on your routes, I report back to you, and that’s it.”
“That’s it.”
“I’ll do it.”
“You’re a good man, Jack.”
The waiter materialized with artistic plates. Everything arranged just so.
Tommy tucked into his food. “What did I tell you? Good fucking eggs!”
CHAPTER 3
All right … time to set my life in order. Tommy’s driver dropped me off at Dundas and Spadina, deep in the heart of Chinatown. Throngs of people everywhere, carefully stacked mountains of garbage in front of all the grocery stores. Dirty sidewalks and the smell of rotting fruit. Hacked-open young coconuts with straws sticking out the top resting on every garbage can.
My apartment was long gone, of course. What was I going to do, pay two years worth of rent while I cooled my heels in jail? Fuck that. My stuff — a few books, some clothes — was boxed up and stored in a friend’s basement. I’d get it later. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t my life; it was just stuff.
I pushed through the crowds and almost collided with a blind man playing the flute. His milky-white orbs stared right through me and I got the chills. Stop freezing my soul, blind man. I’ve got work to do.
Eddie Yao was right where I left him, right where he always was: smoking a cigarette in a haze-filled illegal basement casino fronted by a Chinese restaurant. Eddie was spread out on his stool like a frog on a lily pad. He had gotten bigger since I last saw him, his bulk almost hidden beneath a shiny black suit. Hair perfectly slicked back in an effort to distract from his pockmarked face.
Eddie saw me cutting through the blue cigarette haze and his eyes lit up. He stood and gave me an enthusiastic handshake. “Two years already? Man oh man, time flies.”
“You look good, Eddie,” I lied.
Eddie laughed. “You’re full of crap. You look like crap, too. You look like you’ve been in jail for two years.”
“It was a bullshit charge.”
“Oh, I know, I know. Here in Chinatown we never get the police involved.” Eddie smiled, his teeth glinting gold. “We handle things our way.”
I nodded. “I’ve seen some Chinatown Justice. A few years ago I was walking down Spadina in the middle of the afternoon and I saw a guy come tearing out of a store like he was on fire. Six guys took off after him and boxed him in on the other side of the street. Then they picked this guy up and started carting him back across the str
eetcar tracks. You know how in the middle of the street there’s a concrete strip with trees growing? This poor sucker latched onto one of the trees and was screaming as the other guys yanked on his legs. They finally pried the guy loose and disappeared him into a nearby store.”
Eddie shrugged. “Probably a shoplifter. He would be, ah … discouraged from shoplifting again.”
“He looked plenty discouraged, all right. What got me was that no one lifted a finger. The streets were packed — as I said, this happened in broad daylight — and everyone just watched calmly and then went back to buying Buddhas and cheap T-shirts.”
Eddie grinned. “Forget it, Jack. It’s Chinatown.”
We headed upstairs, the dusty wooden steps groaning beneath Eddie’s weight. The fluorescent hallway light flickered as Eddie fumbled with a giant dungeon-master-style ring of keys. Finally he got the right key in the lock and the door swung open.
“Here you go, Jack. Just as you left it.”
If that was true, then I was one hell of a housekeeper. My office was covered in a thick layer of dead flies and dust. The brown and yellow plaid couch (straight from the 1970s to the Salvation Army to me) was piled high with cardboard boxes sealed up with tape. Otherwise there wasn’t much to write home about — one wooden desk, one wooden chair, a battered set of iron-grey filing cabinets, a tiny bathroom with a toilet, a sink, and a shower almost big enough to stand up in.
“Whose boxes are those?”
“Hmm? Oh yeah, right. I’ll take care of it.” Eddie leaned toward the stairs and barked off some rapid-fire Cantonese. Then he leaned back toward me. “You want me to send someone up to take care of the dust?”
“Nah. I like it. It adds to the ambiance.”
Eddie chuckled. “You haven’t changed a bit. Come on downstairs … let’s have a bite to eat.”
“Eddie.”
“Yeah, man?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Eddie snapped his thick fingers. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash thick enough to choke a horse. “What was it? Ten thousand?”
“Twenty.”
“Right, right.” Eddie peeled off bills. “Now let’s eat. I’m starving.”
One platter of egg rolls later I was back in the office, scrubbing away on my hands and knees, getting rid of all the dirt and dust and grime, all the dead flies and mouse droppings and cockroach casings.