Yard Dog Page 9

  Grover was already seated. He saw me coming and stood up.

  “What did I tell you? Pretty nice place, eh?”

  I looked around and had to agree. “How’d you find out about this place?”

  “My wife. She belongs to the club upstairs.”

  We sat down, encased in dark wood. “Tell me about Little Vito.”

  Grover swirled his wine. “You know, people get into our line of work for a variety of reasons. Some guys are just angry, with short fuses, hair-trigger tempers. Some guys see it as “just business,” like in the army — soldier versus soldier. Some guys really enjoy the work. And some guys can’t feel a thing.” Grover held his wineglass up to his nose and breathed in deep. “Little Vito is the last kind of guy. He’s a stone-cold sociopath, Jack. They say that’s the reason Vito never rose as far as he wanted within The Family. Tommy’s dad … sure, he’s a vicious killer, but the man has a heart. Vito’s the kind of guy who would step on a puppy if it got in his way.”

  “So he doesn’t care about anything.”

  “Wrong. He cares about one person — himself. He thinks the world revolves around him and gets plenty pissed when he encounters evidence to the contrary. For this guy, too much flattery is never enough.”

  “Any other weaknesses?”

  “There’s another reason he never got to be the big boss: he can’t relate. You, me, that empty chair over there — to him it’s all the same.”

  “Have you ever seen him in action?”

  Grover paused. “Once. It was a thing in Hamilton. Wintertime — you know, dirty snow piling up on the street corners, steam and smoke rising from the steel mills. The Chief and I were downtown, freezing our asses off in a borrowed Cadillac outside the bingo parlour. We were there to pick up an envelope. You know the drill. This guy Louie had an envelope, our guy needed the envelope … Louie hands it to us, we hand it to the boss, we get paid, everybody’s happy. Only it didn’t go down like that.”

  Grover sipped his wine. “I was about to lapse into hypothermia, I was so cold. Sitting there in the front passenger seat with crumpled-up McDonald’s bags scattered all over everything. I was jiggling my feet, trying to get warm, when suddenly The Chief went tense. I did, too; I trust The Chief’s instincts.”

  I nodded. The Chief had been right about Tommy. He knew I’d get pulled in too deep.

  Grover continued. “The Chief didn’t look over at me, but he said, really quietly, ‘There’s our guy.’ I casually glanced out the driver’s side window and saw a beat-up, mud-splattered white van pull into a parking spot right in front of the bingo parlour. I blew on my hands and reached for the door handle, but The Chief shook his head. Wait.

  “So we waited. Across the street Louie got out of his van. The man looked like a circus bear, this big hairy beast that some poor sucker had to dress up in a vest and a little hat. Louie reached into his jacket pocket — he had one of those quilted jackets — and pulled out the envelope. ‘There’s the envelope,’ I said. ‘I’m going in.’

  “The Chief said, ‘Wait.’

  “So we waited some more. At that point I wanted to scream, I was so fucking tense. I turned to The Chief again and said, ‘What the fuck is this, a Beckett play? Let’s go get the motherfucking envelope.’ Yeah — I was more profane back in my younger days.

  “It had only been only about four minutes since Louie pulled up in his mud-splattered van, but it seemed like it was twenty-to-life. Louie was rummaging around for something in the back of his van and suddenly the door to the bingo parlour swung open and these two guys in suits walked out. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the bingo parlour in downtown Hamilton, but there aren’t a lot of suits in there. Track pants, rhinestones, sweatshirts with airbrushed wolves howling at the airbrushed moon — I don’t mean to stereotype, but that’s what you wear to bingo. The Chief slid down in the driver’s seat, way down. Without being told, I did the same. I was still looking out the window, so I saw it all. I saw these two guys in nice suits and overcoats walk straight toward Louie, still rummaging in the back of his van. One of them said something and Louie looked up. He must have known the guys because he smiled. Just then a long black Caddy pulled up, and somehow this car was spotless. I mean, the roads were a mess, right? Mud and snow and road salt all over the place, but not on this car. Louie reached for the door, but one of the suits popped it for him. Laughs and smiles all around.

  “I turned to The Chief. ‘I don’t want to follow that car around all the goddamn day. We’ve got to move now.’

  “The Chief said, ‘Wait.’

  “Across the street Louie ducked his head to climb into the car. The guy in the suit — the doorman — he was still smiling. The other suit, he was smiling, too, but suddenly he had a gun in his fist. Four shots, five. Louie spun around dead. The Caddy took off. The smiling guy chucked his gun into a snowbank and then he and the other suit casually sauntered across the street and climbed into a long black town car as if they were going for a Sunday drive. The town car zoomed away. Louie was lying dead in the snow. A woman screamed. The Chief turned to me and smiled. ‘Aren’t you glad we waited?’”

  I sipped plain water that cost six bucks a bottle. “You think The Chief knew about the hit?”

  Grover shrugged. “Hard to say. I think it was instinct. Like The Chief could feel the electricity in the air and it felt wrong. You ever get that?”

  “All the time.”

  “So you know what I’m talking about. But wait, it gets better. The Chief leaned over to my side, popped open the glove box and pulled out a stethoscope. A stethoscope! ‘Wait here,’ he said. I’m about ready to vibrate through the fucking floorboards, I’m so keyed up. I’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting for fucking forever and now I’ve got to wait some more? The Chief threw this stethoscope around his neck, got out of the car, and ran across the road, shouting, ‘I’m a doctor! I’m a doctor!’ The Chief strode over to poor Louie’s body, knelt down, opened Louie’s jacket, and damned if he doesn’t palm the envelope. The Chief played doctor with the stethoscope for a few minutes and then stood up. ‘This man … is dead.’ Oh, shit, Jack, you should’ve seen it.”

  “And Little Vito?”

  Grover frowned. “Didn’t I tell you? Little Vito was the trigger man. POW POW POW, right in broad daylight. You know what I remember most about that day? It was the look on Vito’s face. Just smiling gently, like he was talking to his next door neighbour or his dentist’s receptionist. Just a soft, gentle smile.” Grover shuddered and shook his head. “Gave me the creeps.”

  Grover handed our server his menu. “I’ll have the lamb. Jack, you should really try the lamb. It’s excellent.”

  “Steak,” I told the server. “Raw.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Grover drove me home along King Street, tracers of headlights and sparks from the streetcar wires lighting up the night. Soft quiet jazz floated from the speakers. I sank back into the soft, buttery leather of the passenger seat.

  “The Chief’s in trouble.”

  Grover frowned. “What do you mean? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not disagreeing with you, but let’s make sure we’re on the same page. He’s drinking again, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s not all.”

  “No. He’s …” I trailed off. A clarinet blew hot and sweet. Outside the lights flashed past. How to put it into words? The trashed motel room, the woman in her undies, The Chief’s death’s head grin.

  Grover glanced over at me. “Don’t worry about The Chief. The Chief’s a big boy, Jack.”

  “There’s plenty of big boys in the boneyard. They get buried in special big boy coffins.”

  Grover floored it, staring straight ahead. The Lexus leapt forward, bumping over the streetcar tracks and cutting off a green van in the far righthand lane. The van’s driver, a young East Asian kid, slammed on the brakes and leaned on the horn. Grover spun the wheel, sending the Lexus squealing into a gas station parking lot. Inside the b
rightly lit gas station convenience store a bored teen looked up briefly, then went back to his porno mag. Grover stared over at me and cut the engine. I kept one hand near the knife in my coat.

  “All right. Cut the shit, Jack. Are you seriously worried about The Chief?”

  The broken bottles, the dried blood, the ocean of booze.

  “Yes, I am.”

  Grover sat quietly for a minute. “Do you remember the first time The Chief brought you to see me?”

  “Of course.”

  “You were scared shitless. No, don’t deny it. You were just a rookie back then. Greener than Kermit the Frog, and just as wet behind the ears.”

  “Frogs don’t have ears.”

  “Forget about it. The Chief introduced us and I paid attention. You know why?”

  “No, why?”

  “Eleven years before we met I asked The Chief to find me someone just as vicious as himself. Someone young and rough but willing to learn. You were the first person he ever brought by.”

  Grover sat quietly. Cars passed by. A fat man walked out of the gas station convenience store, unwrapped his sandwich, and took a big bite. “You never disappointed me, Jack. Not once.”

  My hand inched closer to my knife. This would be a hell of a way to die. Killed in a gas station parking lot by the man who’s been like a father to me. What did Grover say, so many years ago? “Never Trust Anyone.” That’s harder than it looks. Or maybe I’m just a trusting sort.

  Grover stared straight ahead through the windshield. Two kids with baggy jeans and long white shirts rode up to the convenience store on tiny BMX bikes. The kids reached into their back pockets and pulled out nylon masks. One of the kids reached into the front of his pants and pulled out a handgun.

  Grover groaned. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Hold on a minute.” He stepped out of the Lexus and sauntered over to the kids, who were working up their nerve to storm the store. Grover turned on his shit-eating grin. “Hiya, kids! You’re up pretty late, don’t you think?”

  The kid’s gun jerked up. “SHUT THE FUCK UP, MAN!”

  Rapid-fire gunshots. The young would-be robber was blasted backward through the glass front of the convenience store. Grover had a gun in each hand and was blazing away. The other kid was screaming and waving his hands in the air. Grover strode toward the screaming kid and shot a red hole smack in the middle of his forehead. Grover kept firing, blasting the kid’s body, the bicycles, the store windows, the sidewalk.

  The gunfire stopped. A car alarm was going off. There was a screeching of tires: nearby cars hauling ass out of there. Grover screamed at the dead body sprawled out on the sidewalk. “I’M TRYING TO HAVE A CONVERSATION HERE! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” Grover’s face twisted into a mask of hate as he unloaded the last of his bullets into the dead kid’s body.

  Grover ran back to the car and I realized I’d missed my chance to slip away. The door slammed shut and Grover floored it.

  Quiet jazz, double bass, and vibraphone. Grover shook his head. “My wife’s going to kill me.”

  “Not literally.”

  “No, not literally. This was a brand new car and now I’ve got to ditch it. Goddamn punks!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Grover grinned. “Maybe this time I’ll get a Bimmer. What do you think? Get it painted British racing green.” Grover shook his head. “Can you believe that shit? There we were, trying to have a nice quiet conversation and they came waltzing in and made me break my concentration. Where were we?”

  Two kids, dead on the sidewalk.

  “Um … we were talking about The Chief. You said I never disappointed you.”

  “That’s right, Jack. You never have.” Grover cocked an eye over at me. “But I’ve got to know. The Chief … should he be worried about you?”

  “Who, me? I’m fine.” That morning I’d woken up screaming with blood on my knuckles. I had been punching the wall in my sleep.

  “No, I mean … say you see The Chief sitting by his lonesome in an out-of-the-way sidewalk café. Should he be worried?”

  “What?” I reeled back, incredulous. “Hell no. The Chief is one of my best friends.”

  “So you haven’t been given a contract?”

  “You sure you’re all right to drive? You know I don’t do that kind of work. And besides, if anyone ever tried to give me a contract on The Chief, that would be the last thing they ever did.”

  Grover relaxed. He smiled. “That’s good to hear. I believe you, Jack.”

  If Grover didn’t believe me, I’d have been dead by now. They’d find my headless, handless body tucked away neatly in the Lexus’s truck. That is, if they found my body at all.

  “What’s this all about?”

  “You’re right to be worried, Jack. Someone has taken out a contract on The Chief.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I’m working on it. Any ideas?”

  “He’s got a lot of enemies. It wouldn’t be Joey Machine …”

  “No. He wouldn’t take out a contract. He’d do the work himself. Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll find out who did it. In the meantime, you hear anything, you let me know.”

  “Always.”

  The jazz played. Grover gunned the engine and the car glided through Clubland. “I’ll drop you off here. I’m going to go dump the car.”

  “Grover …”

  “Yeah, Jack?”

  “Has anyone taken a contract out on me?”

  “You mean like Little Vito?”

  “Whoever.”

  Grover smiled. “Not that I’ve heard, my boy. But you never know.”

  CHAPTER 25

  From Clubland I walked toward Spadina, past the reeling drunks and cops on horseback. A party bus full of drunk girls shouting out the window roared past. A rolling bachelorette party. One of the girls spotted a crowd of hair-gelled guys and shrieked, “Who’s got a big dick?” The guys laughed and the party bus rolled on.

  On Spadina I looked down and noticed my hands were shaking. I closed my eyes and saw Grover’s hate-filled face, his guns barking fire. Two teenagers dead on the sidewalk. I tightened my fists and kept walking, fingernails digging into my palms.

  The stale beer smell of Suzanne’s bar hit me instantly as I slouched through the door. Suzanne wasn’t behind the bar. Instead there was some joker with bushy eyebrows and a ponytail. There was an old man with hair like a haystack camped out at the end of the bar, half of a half pint of beer forgotten in front of him. The old man stared straight ahead at nothing. The Rolling Stones’ “Sister Morphine” droned from the jukebox. A crowd of artsy hipsters was slumming it at the big table over by the window. A girl with 1950s-style thick, black-rimmed glasses and purple dreadlocks was laughing too loudly at everything this guy with a goatee and a porkpie hat said. One drink, I told myself.

  Four drinks later my hands had stopped shaking and Bruce Springsteen was on the jukebox and I was so relaxed I wasn’t even thinking about the two teenagers Grover had gunned down earlier. Not thinking about their bodies being laid out in cheap coffins and lowered slowly into the ground as their mothers wept and then were helped back to their sad apartments where they would sit at their kitchen tables and cry all night.

  I signalled the bartender. “Another vodka.”

  Something fluttered behind me. A hand touched my shoulder and I ducked to the right and lashed out with my left leg. I spun around just in time to see Suzanne falling back, her eyes wide open, her mouth a surprised O.

  “Oh shit!” I reached down and helped her up. “You okay?”

  Suzanne brushed off her backside. “What the hell, Jack?”

  “I don’t like people sneaking up on me.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Now you get this: you do not get to hit me. Ever. Got it?”

  “I got it. I’m so sorry. I thought …” I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t happen again.”

  “Damn right.” Suzanne exhaled and pushed back her hair. “What ar
e you doing here, anyway? I thought you had a business thing.”

  “Business thing’s over, babe. I dropped in to see you.”

  “I don’t work tonight. I’m just here to pick up my cheque.”

  “Well,” I said, grinning, “can I buy the pretty lady a drink?”

  Suzanne scowled. “I’m serious about the hitting, Jack.”

  “I get it. I really do.”

  “In that case, tequila.”

  Booze burned down my throat like amber fire. The jukebox shook, rattled, and rolled. The lights went dim, then dimmer. The hipsters moved off, laughing. The old man with the haystack hair limped toward the bathroom, and after what seemed like three days he limped back to the bar. The server (“That’s Mark,” Suzanne said. “He’s a nice guy.”) refused to serve the old man another beer. Without a word the old man turned and limped through the door, haunted eyes staring into another world.

  Suddenly Suzanne and I were outside in the cool night air, laughing on the sidewalk, supporting each other’s bodies. She smelled so good, like talcum powder and vanilla. Then we were in a cab that smelled like doublemint gum and the speakers were blasting salsa tunes and I blinked and I was sitting in Suzanne’s apartment in Kensington Market, kicking back on her bright red couch as she passed me a martini and sashayed over to the record player. Soft jazz trickled from the speakers.

  “Let’s listen to something else,” I said.

  Suzanne frowned. “You don’t like jazz?”

  “I like it plenty. It’s just … let’s listen to something else.”

  “Dub reggae okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  Bass rattled the room. Echoey guitars leapt from speaker to speaker. Suzanne danced slowly toward me. I gulped my martini.

  She stopped short and smiled, shaking her head at her living room window. “They’re at it again.”

  “What?”

  “The neighbours. Check it out.”

  I staggered to my feet and shuffled across the shag. Suzanne’s living room window looked out into an alley and directly into the apartment next door. Nice place, I thought. Black-and-white tiled floor, ceiling fan, lots of bookshelves. On the couch a woman with pale skin and long black hair was straddling a brown man with muscles. Hot ’n’ heavy makeout session in progress. I blinked as the muscle man peeled off the brunette’s purple sweater. She wasn’t wearing a bra: her massive breasts swung free.