Crime Always Pays (35 page)

          'What you said was, the note's bad juju. A grift.'

          'Y'think I'm just charging in there? I'll scope it out, see what's what.'

          'Then, maybe this what works out as what, you scoop three-quarters of a million and bolt for Sicily, not stopping to rescue any moles in any buckets.'

          That one hit Rossi where he lived. 'Y'think 
I'd
 scam you? Me, the guy's been fucked four ways by everyone except you, you being the guy who volunteered, okay, took it back after, but offered to do my time if things fucked up?' Rossi getting emotional. 'Last person I'm ever screwing over,' he said, 'is you. I mean, that halvesies deal we were on up to now, that's out the window, we're talking inheritance and shit here. But, it works out it's
bona fide
, I'm cutting you in for a slice. No man left behind, Sleeps.'

          In the end they compromised on a disguise, swapping clothes, although Rossi had to keep the belt from the suit, when he put on Sleeps' baggy shorts they dropped to the floor without even grazing his knees. He'd had to keep the two-tone shoes too, Sleeps taking a size thirteen. Rossi believed he'd need a tent-pole, guy-ropes, he was ever to wear the suit again.

          Now, though, wandering around the Chora – the Whora, Sleeps called it, Rossi presuming it was on the basis the village fucked Rossi every time, no questions asked – draped in Sleeps' toga of a t-shirt, a Daffy Duck baseball cap tugged down over the turban of bandage, kids stopping to stare, Rossi took comfort in knowing the cops'd never square him with the guy in the sharp Italian suit. As a disguise it was --

          'Oh, Rossi? Over here. Coo-ee. Rossi?'

          'Fuck.'

          Mel waving from the doorway to Ali Baba's in these MC Hammer pants looked like she was planning a getaway on Ali's magic carpet. Rossi, conned again by Mel but carrying no shiv, the darts back in the room, guessed Mel'd heard about Johnny's guy getting took by Ray, Mel all of a sudden needing Rossi again, not knowing which way Johnny'd jump. Rossi with a sinking feeling strolling across to Ali Baba's, scaling down his expectations from three-quarters of a million to twenty grand. Which, he made a mental note, would be forty grand Johnny didn't get the finger out in the next hour or so.

Except then he walks in and follows Mel to the table and Madge is just sitting there, this smile on her like the Moany Lisa, letting Rossi know she knew something Rossi didn't. Rossi's brain going square trying out the math. Like, you get screwed over twice in the same thirty seconds, what's that, double-bubble-bubble?

'Hi, Rossi,' Madge said, her eyes bright. 'You're keeping well?'

Rossi was still trying to decide, one stitching him up for Frank, the other swiping his coke, who he was forking first in the eye, when the bald guy came back from the bathroom adjusting his cuffs, the guy slowing up when he caught sight of Rossi, appraising the threads as he came on.

'Nice,' he said. 'Blending in, I like it.' The guy now putting out his hand. 'The elusive Rossi, right? The Scarlet Pimpernel.'

Rossi eyed the outstretched hand. 'The fuck's this guy,' he asked Mel, 'comes in here calls me a pimp?'

'That's Terry,' Mel said. 'Terry Furlong.'

'Although you might know him better,' Madge said, 'as Terry Swipes.'

Sleeps

There was a queue when Sleeps got to the phone-box. Which in one way was good, he could blend in, just one more big guy in an Italian suit about six sizes too small, just waiting to call Mom, let her know he hadn't yet succumbed to alcohol poisoning or the clap, beg another loan to keep the party going.

          Sleeps wondered what the protocol was, you were a gangster waiting at a call-box, there was a queue. Uh, 'scuse me, I gotta take this call from a snatch artist, you mind?

          Except – finally, a break – just as the last of the kids hangs up, the phone rings.

          'Ray?'

          '
Who'm I talking to
?'

          'It's me, Ray. Gary.'

          '
I was expecting Rossi
.'

          'Rossi's, uh, busy right now.'

          '
And that's why I'm talking to you
?'

          Sleeps, he was going to have to get into it at some point, said, 'You're talking to me now, Ray.'

          '
Not, you're saying, Rossi anymore
.'

          'You got a problem with that?'

          '
The problem I have right this second
,' Ray said, '
is I got me a situation that needs another pair of eyes, a good head. A guy can handle himself
.'

          'And you were hoping for Rossi?'

          '
It was either Rossi
,' Ray said, '
or some lummox who can't tell Johnny Priest from a Greek cop
.'

          Sleeps, his balls tingling, grinned. 'Guy's a cop?'

          '
Way I see it, Gary, you're the one put me where I need the extra pair of eyes. What d'you say
?'

          'I'll need, at some point, half-an-hour with Karen. A sit-down.'

          '
Where's Rossi for this sit-down
?'

          'In the corner, a pointy hat on his head.'

          '
I can't make you any promises, man. But I'll see what I can do
.'

          'Okay.'

          '
You're in
?'

          'Where'll I find you?'

          '
Stay on the line
.'

          Ten seconds later the navy Punto eased up to the phone-booth, Johnny's guy, the cop, driving. Ray in back nodding Sleeps on. Sleeps hung up, got in.

          'The guy who unified Italy,' Ray said as Niko pulled off, 'was Garibaldi. You say it slow, it's Gary Baldy.'

          'Except these days,' Sleeps said, 'people think he invented the biscuit.'

          'What's that,' Johnny's guy said, 'some kind of Sicilian code?'

          'You just drive,' Ray said.

Melody

Mel had seen her fair share of drama-rama, considered herself a connoisseur of the unexpected yelp or moan, the quivering declaration of undying love. But even Mel was a little shocked when Rossi dropped to one knee, took Johnny's hand and kissed the guy's signet ring.

          Johnny a little embarrassed, heads turning in the restaurant. He cuffed Rossi gently on the side of the head, Rossi wincing, then hauled him upright, gesturing for him to take a seat beside Mel, across from Madge.

          'I'm only here to ask you one favour,' Terry said. Rossi's eyes shining. 'Just hear Madge out, see what she has to say. Can you do me that one favour?'

          So they ordered some more drinks, Mel wondering who this guy Terry was, exactly, and then Madge went into her spiel, how she was Rossi's mother, the inheritance coming due once Frank's affairs were sorted, the insurance cleared, Madge finishing up with, 'Terry has agreed to help me prove it, he made a call earlier on to some guy he knows in the Births and Deaths office back home. We can have your birth certificate here tomorrow morning, or a fax version of it.'

          'Three quarters of a million,' Rossi said, an expression on his face like a duck staring at thunder.

          'The twins get half,' Madge said, 'you get half. It's only fair.'

          'Okay.' Rossi sipped on his Woo-Woo. 'Except what I'm hearing, the cop wants me for Frank. Third-degree manslaughter, Sleeps said.'

          'But 
I
 was the one,' Madge said, 'shot Frank.'

          'Might be the best way to play it,' Terry said. 'Rossi gets pinched for Frank, Madge sews up the insurance, Rossi gets his half.'

          'I gotta do 
time
 for that ratbag?'

          'Worst case scenario. You've done it before, right?'

          'Sure, but --'

          'Why not get Sleeps to do it?' Mel said, anxious to make a contribution, justify the finder's fee she reckoned she was due. 'The guy says he'll do your time for you, he's practically begging for a reason. So why not --'    

          'This guy's doing your time?' Johnny said. 'See, that's the kind of loyalty,' he told Madge, 'you just don't see anymore. Not like the old days.' He toasted Rossi with his Bellini.

          Rossi, morose, clinked Johnny's glass with his Woo-Woo. 'He took it back,' he said. 'Guy's gone bofto for Mata Hari here. Reckons he's got a proposal for her, she ever quits fuckin him around, running off with other guys.'

          'Really?' Mel said. 'That's sweet.'

          'For you, maybe.'

          'No,' Melody said, 'wait a minute. If Sleeps has a proposal for me, I say okay, I'll have a listen. Then, he says his piece, I'll have a proposal ready for him.'

          'Like it's a Leap Year,' Terry said, 'for guys who want to go back inside.'

          'Something like that, yeah,' Mel said.

          'And this is because,' Rossi said, 'you're keen to make the Guinness Book of Records for being a back-stabbing bitch. I mean, that'll be what, the third time you've fucked the guy? The bad fucked, like.'

          'Sleeps is the one who wants to go to prison,' Mel said. 'I'm just helping him get there.'

          'The guy wants 
you
.'

          'Yeah, well, that won't be happening.'

          'Hey, Mel – you're the one, maybe you haven't noticed, has to go running after other guys. Y'know? First you're hijacking me and Sleeps, then you're onto Ray. Two seconds later you're canoodling with Johnny Priest. Y'see what I'm saying? There's no guys running after 
you
. Except Sleeps, the fat moron.'

          'He's not fat, he's chunky.'

          'Guy's the Pilbury fuckin Doughboy, Mel. And right now the fat fuck's down the port negotiating with Ray, putting himself on the line to get us back in touch with Johnny, mainly because you swiped Johnny's coke, ran off.'

          'Easy, Rossi,' Terry said.

          'Actually,' Mel said, wanting to get it out there while Terry was around, the guy for some reason a calming influence on Rossi, 'that's something I should probably mention. About the coke.'

          'Do 
not
,' Rossi said, 'tell me there's a problem with the coke.'

          Melody cleared her throat. 'There's no actual problem with the coke,' she said, '
per se
.'

Doyle

'You know guys, ' Sparks said, 'they think it's cool, they say they'll ring, to leave it two or three days. So you can both pretend they're not pussy-whipped from the start.'

          Sparks sitting on the low wall dividing the balconies, Karen on her own balcony, smoking, watching the bathroom door of the room she'd rented specially to keep Johnny Priest stashed.

          'I got a hostage in my bathroom,' Doyle said. 'Like, Ray's hostage. So you'd expect him to make like he was keen.'

          'Even if he's not.'

          'Don't complicate it, Sparks.'

          'Me? Girlfriend, I'm not the one illegally detaining the big-time coke dealer from Amsterdam on account of this snatch artist I know fucked up, stole the wrong guy. This while I'm supposed to be a cop.'

          'A suspended cop.'

          'And you're thinking this is the best way to get your badge back?'

          Doyle with a bad feeling. Not so much Ray and the little he knew about women, off rescuing Karen while Doyle sat home, barefoot and minding his fuck-up. Or even the way it might look if it all screwed up, Doyle holding Johnny Priest, the coke-dealer under the impression Doyle was his temporary muscle. No, what was bugging Doyle was how she was at the mercy of all these unknowns, Doyle with no control, a sitting duck. Christ, at this rate she might as well be back home, at the desk right next to the corridor led to the holding cells, just sitting there waiting for the next moron to drop a case-file on the desk, the latest dead fish to stink up the joint.