Maid of the Mist (21 page)

'That,' said Madeline, 'is the radio.' She flicked a lighter for him.

He accepted gratefully, again. He put the cigarette to his lips, still breathing hard, and sucked hard. The experts were wrong, of course. Smoking was good for you. He was living proof. He could feel the goodness soak through him. 'So,' he said, having reduced the cigarette to a butt with one elongated draw, 'what's been happening?'

'Not much. We've formed a private army to storm the Old Cripple's mansion. He's hosting a ball tomorrow night. Everyone will be there.'

Corrigan nodded, eyes on Popov's car as it ran a red light. Madeline slowed.

'I give you permission to go on red,' he said.

She waited until it changed. The sedan was still in sight. 'I don't want it to look like we're following.'

'We're not following,' Corrigan said, 'we're pursuing.'

'There's a difference?'

Corrigan nodded thoughtfully for several moments. 'Spelling, mostly.' He took another cigarette from the box sitting on the dash. 'So,' he said, lighting up, 'how many have you managed to recruit for this private army?'

'Seven,' she said. 'Including you.'

He nodded. 'You ever handled a weapon before?'

'A gun?'

'Yes. A gun.'

She shook her head. 'But I'm willing to learn.' There was another set of lights, and this time the sedan came to a halt. Madeline pulled up two cars behind. She looked across and he saw that the lightness had vanished. There was concern and a little bit of anger. 'Are you going to tell me what happened to you?' she said. 'I was worried sick.'

'About me?'

'Yes. OK?'

'I'm touched.'

'Well?'

'Well what?'

'Tell me! I saw those men killed! Their throats cut! I was hiding under the bed and an Indian came in and left a scalp on the bedside table! I thought you were dead! Now
tell
me!'

The lights changed. She moved the car forward.

'I can't,' Corrigan said.

'What?'

'You'll have to speak to my agent.'

She laughed, in spite of herself.

'I'm OK,' he said.

'The Indians . . .'

'Just wanted to protect her. Despite what
you
might think, they do seem serious about her being Lelewala. They think she's come back to fight evil. And there's certainly no shortage of evil.'

'The Old Cripple and the convention.'

'The Old Cripple and the convention. And yer man up ahead. Gavril Popov. Her husband and pimp.'

'Oh,' said Madeline. 'Disappointed?'

An hour later they had been parked for fifty minutes outside the bus station on Erie Avenue. Corrigan had his one good eye trained on an apartment above the pizza parlour that faced the station. Madeline watched it too, occasionally folding or unfolding a bus timetable which she had propped up against the steering wheel as if she couldn't make up her mind whether to leave town or not. They had watched Lelewala, Popov and the hoods enter the pizza parlour then disappear behind the counter. A few moments later they'd seen them briefly at one of the top windows, then the curtains had been abruptly pulled. There had been nothing since. Nobody had looked out of the window to check on them, or on anything. The apartment was rundown; paint peeled, one window boarded up, a hand-painted
FOR SALE sign taped to the board.

After a while Madeline said: 'What say I go over there and ask to buy the place?'

Corrigan pondered it for a moment. 'I think not. We just need to be patient.'

'Patient for what? We've been here an
hour.'

'What's an hour? What else would you be doing?'

'An hour's a lifetime in television.'

'This isn't television.'

'It will be.'

He told her about Lelewala and her blackouts. Madeline thought she sounded like a schizophrenic. Corrigan was in two minds about that. He stared morosely at the apartment. She was up there. Popov had thrown her in the Niagara. A husband who sent her out to hook. 'He could be doing anything to her up there,' Corrigan said. 'You're right. It's been an hour. It's too long. Give me the phone.'

She handed him her mobile. 'I hope you're not phoning the cops,' she said.

He shook his head. 'The Indians.'

'The Indians? They
kidnapped
her . . .'

'They've also sworn to protect her.' He phoned the Clifton Diner and asked for Barry Lightfoot. There was a lot of noise in the background. Voices raised and wood splintering.

'Barry,' said Corrigan when he finally lifted the phone, 'sounds like there's a fight going on.'

'There is. Flower arrangers arguing over who sits where. Who is this?'

'Frank Corrigan.'

'Oh.'

Corrigan explained the situation briefly.

Barry Lightfoot was deeply, deeply embarrassed.

Corrigan said: 'Let me get this completely clear, Barry. The False Faces have sworn to lay down their lives to protect Lelewala, but only at weekends?'

'Uhm, yes,' said Barry.

'Does that include Fridays?'

'Fridays after five.'

'Are you kidding me?'

'Uhm, no. We all have jobs. It's pretty much a social thing, Corrigan. We're coming into powwow season, lotta dances, lotta public appearances. It's difficult to get the time off.'

'Right. Thank you. Thank you very fucking much.' He cut the line.

'So what do you say?' Madeline asked, taking the phone back. 'I go in and ask for a twelve-incher, or is that what Lelewala is doing?'

'You aren't funny,' Corrigan said.

They looked at the building a little more. There was a young girl, maybe seventeen, working behind the counter, although there wasn't much work. There had been only two customers since they'd arrived. They'd disappeared from their line of sight for ten minutes – possibly there was a waiting room off to the left – before emerging with red-and-white-striped pizza boxes.

Madeline lifted the mobile and began pressing numbers.

'What're you doing?' Corrigan asked.

'Ordering a pizza.' She nodded towards the shop. The telephone number was painted beside the sign. The sign said: PIZZAS, which must have taken a while to think up. 'Hi. I'd like to order a . . .'

'Sorry, ma'am, but we're closed.'

'Oh . . . but it's lunchtime.'

'Closed for refurbishment and training, ma'am.'

'You couldn't just squeeze one out for me? I'm starving.'

'Sorry, ma'am.'

Madeline clicked off, raised her eyebrows. 'Restaurant,' she said, 'closed for lunch.'

As she put the phone down, a car pulled up just in front of them. Corrigan tensed, ready for anything, but ultimately helpless, as a puffy-faced guy in a too-tight t-shirt and red trackpants climbed out. He ignored Madeline's car and hurried across the road to the pizza shop, his hands deep in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. It was the guy who sold tickets at the House of Frankenstein on Clifton Hill. Corrigan knew him of old. He was about to say so when Madeline said: 'I know him, he was at our recruitment meeting. Wasn't interested.'

They watched as the guy stopped outside the shop, looked at the sign above it, rubbed at his neck, then entered. He placed his order, then disappeared off to the left. Ten minutes later he reappeared with a box under his arm. He hurried across the road to his car. As he slipped the key into the door Corrigan appeared at his elbow.

'Dr Frankenstein, I presume,' he said.

'What the fuck . . .' the guy shouted. Then he saw who it was and said: 'Oh shit.'

Panic and fear were written in big thick letters all over his face. There was plenty of room. It was a fat face, with thick cheeks and ping-pong-ball eyes. 'Please don't kill me,' he said weakly.

Corrigan took the pizza box off him. It was extremely light. 'What are you, on a diet?' He flipped the lid. There was nothing inside. 'I don't see no pizza.'

'No, well.' There were damp patches under the arms of his t-shirt. He looked despairingly at Corrigan. 'You gotta understand, since my wife had the baby, things ain't been the same.'

'Excuse me?'

'She's not interested. Was yours like that? Before she died, I mean.'

'What're you talking about?'

'Making love. She's just not interested. You can't blame a guy; once in a while you gotta . . . y'know . . . do the business.'

'You . . . ?'

The man who sold tickets at the House of Frankenstein glanced back towards the pizza shop. 'She's the most beautiful woman I ever seen. That kinda helps.'

'You. . .'

'Y'know, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Even with the handcuffs.'

'What fucking handcuffs?'

'She's handcuffed to the bed. You don't pay any extra for it, but it does give it a certain . . .'

Corrigan got hold of him by the lapels and slammed him against the car. 'She's being held prisoner, you stupid bastard,' he spat.

Fear dripped off the man who sold tickets at the House of Frankenstein. 'Please don't kill me,' he said again.

Corrigan tutted. He let him go. There was no point in taking it out on him. 'Get the fuck out of here,' he said. He pulled the car door open and bundled the quaking wreck into the driver's seat. 'Just get the fuck out of here,' he hissed, and slammed the door shut.

As the man who sold tickets at the House of Frankenstein fumbled to get his keys into the ignition Corrigan hurried back and knelt by Madeline's window. 'He has her handcuffed to the fucking bed. He's had her in there less than an hour and he's already had three punters in with her. What kind of a fucking animal is he?' She just looked at him. 'I'm going in,' he said.

She tried to open her door.

He held it shut. 'Alone,' he said.

'They've got guns, Frank.'

He ignored her. He was already halfway across the road.

She scrambled out of the car after him. He was already past the counter and the protesting pizza girl and thumping up the stairs by the time Madeline reached the door.

She went to follow him, but the pizza girl blocked her way. 'Get out of the way,' Madeline said, 'I'm a journalist.'

In the big chart of threats, it didn't rank very high. The pizza girl snarled and pushed Madeline in the chest. Madeline pushed back. In moments they were wrestling, and then they both hit the ground. As the girl scrabbled at her Madeline realized she was only a slight thing. It was not hurting. She moved to one side and punched the girl in the face. The girl stopped suddenly, surprised, and checked her nose for damage. Madeline bucked under her and she went flying over her head, crashed off the open door and lay still.

Pleased with herself, adrenaline pumping, Madeline jumped to her feet and had just set foot on the first stair when the gunshot rang out.

She stopped, peered up the darkened stairs, then turned and ran away.

Lelewala was doing her nails.

He was blinking through the pain and Lelewala was
doing her nails.
She was looking at him, but she might as well have been looking at a very slow-moving programme on television. He tried to speak, but it came out as a thick croak and she barely blinked before returning her full attention to getting those nails
just right.
He started to drift away again . . .

There was movement to his left. It was getting brighter now. Before, there had just been a light around Lelewala. Why was that? Why was she bathed in light, like an angel? Like an Indian princess come to rid the world of evil? Or because she was sitting by the window . . . his thoughts were jumbled and the movement to his left was a distraction that. . .

Slap.

And sting.

And the room was suddenly properly bright and Lelewala was asleep on a couch and there was a face leering into his and there was a blinding glare.

Teeth. Golden . . .

Slap.

And sting.

And he was back and his whole arm hurt, not to mention his face, but he was back and Gavril Popov was standing there. Corrigan tried moving, but he was tied, and it hurt. There was blood on the floor. His hand. He looked at his hand. It was crudely bandaged. The bandage was soaked red.

'Ah now,' Popov said. 'You come a-storming upstairs like that, what can you expect but to be shot? You lucky I choose only to shoot you in the hand. I shoot you in the head we would not be having this conversation.'

'I . . .'

'Yes indeed. Gretchin tells me you save her life. Very good. There should be a reward. Perhaps in heaven. Tell me, were you ever down a Russian coal mine?'

Corrigan shook his head.

'No matter,' Popov continued. 'This Old Cripple. He been giving
me
a hard life. All I ask is to be left alone to carry out my business. But no, that is not good enough. And what is more, his son, this Pongo, this
singer,
he doesn't pay. Now that's not good business. That's the comedy, isn't it? The Old Cripple, he's Mister Drugs, but his son has to come to me for his fix. Funny, yeah?'

Corrigan nodded and looked away. Looking at Popov made him uncomfortable. His eyes were out on stalks. There was spittle at the corners of his mouth and sweat on his brow. Corrigan had dabbled enough to recognize the gabble. Motormouth was on speed. It wasn't the worst thing in the world, unless you were a psycho to start with. He looked at Lelewala. She was still sleeping. He wondered how she could ever have fallen for someone as obviously disturbed as Gavril Popov. But then she was hardly the full shilling herself.

'You know how much Pongo owe me? One million dollars.'

'That's a lot of drugs.'

'One hundred thousand for the drugs. Nine hundred thousand for the interest. That's snow business, Mr Policeman, and now I'm afraid I must cut off your finger.'

Corrigan's head shot back. 'What?'

'Choose a finger, any finger. What's the difference? You lost one already; I shoot it clean off. . . not clean maybe, tell you, fuck, there was bits of it everywhere, but anyways . . . what hand you write with?'

'What are you . . . ?'

'Do you know there are fifty ways to say steal in Russian?'

'I've never . . .'

'So what's it to be? Little finger, index finger? Take a thumb if you want, though you never pick up a pen again. Who needs pens? All computers these days. You decided yet?'