Part 17 (1/2)

”How big do you want to go, Chief?”

”Be discreet. I don't want to put out an APB if she just went to the drugstore.”

”Yes, sir.”

”But I would like to know where she went.”

”She said she'd let me know if she was going to leave town.”

”Did she let you know?”

”I gave her my card. It's got my extension on it.”

”Check your messages.”

The ticket was good to Union Station but she got out one stop early, at Danforth and Main. She needed to make sure Grova hadn't moved his p.a.w.n shop, or burned it down, or lost it in a card game, or died, like everyone else. How many years was it? The last time she saw the troll? Ten? More? Had to be more. She was in Winnipeg four years. Four and a half. When she came back, she stayed away from this part of the city, avoided the old crew. They found her anyway, but that was her fault.

It was eleven years. She remembered it now - the year, the season, even the day of the week. A hot, humid Sunday night on the Danforth, sitting in the back room with Viktor and Va.s.sili, talking about survival.

Ludmilla would have been dead by then, but they tried to believe that she was in her new life in California with her big black musician husband. It was a good thought to carry. Viktor knew better, of course, as did Grova. It was just she and poor Va.s.sili who were still clinging to the story of Ludmilla's magical escape. Escape was much on her mind that year, that night.

Viktor and Va.s.sili were still arguing about the stones, had been since the beginning. There were so many, but the numbers always came out uneven and they couldn't agree on the split. Va.s.sili argued that since Viktor had already lost a small fortune in Montreal, he should give up a percentage. Viktor countered with the inescapable fact that they wouldn't have any jewels if he hadn't brought them into the country. That started another round of fighting about how Viktor had ruined all their lives.

In the beginning, before they had begun tearing it apart, the crucifix held forty-eight diamonds, all roughly two carats, twenty-three pearls, exceptional ones, all the same size and colour, and four extravagant sapphires, deep blue, more than five carats each. The cross and chain could be melted and sold for weight. Grova said he would handle that part of the operation. They decided not to take so drastic a step unless and until it was absolutely necessary.

The big question was what to do with the Ember. Va.s.sili and Viktor didn't trust each other, and neither one trusted Louie enough to let him hold it. And at some point during the endless arguing they agreed that Anya should carry it until a decision was reached. And while they were arguing about diamonds and sapphires and gold, she made it disappear. ”It is hidden away,” she told them. ”It is safe, and you cannot find it, and I will not tell you where it is. It is too well known for you to sell. It would be your death warrant. Its only value is as insurance. If someone catches up to me, if they find me, I want something to bargain for my life with. You and Va.s.sili have all the other stones. They are worth more than the two of you put together, unless you are so stupid you lose them, or give them away like the last ones.”

”n.o.body gave anything away.”

”Yes? How much money do you have in your pocket?”

And Grova? What were you doing that night, you troll? Sitting in your dark corner, surrounded by your mountains of junk, quietly planning how to separate Viktor and Va.s.sili from their treasure. Wondering where I'd hidden the big prize.

She took the pearls to a jeweller in Winnipeg. Pearls are perfect; they're anonymous. She told the gem merchant a sad story of her great-grandmother. He might have believed her. It didn't matter. He brokered them for her, took twenty percent. She got enough to keep her alive for a while. She didn't tell Viktor or Va.s.sili where she was going. They had the sapphires and all the diamonds big and small to sell. They had each other to keep an eye on. She didn't want to be near them.

Adele's apartment was as welcoming as ever: nothing edible in the refrigerator, a sink full of dishes, the new Vanity Fair she'd bought for the trip still sitting on the sideboard under her coffee cup and Pop Tart crumbs. Home sweet home. She put the bag full of Paulie's c.r.a.p in the breakfast nook like an unwelcome guest. ”Sure you don't want some coffee, Paulie? Fix you some really s.h.i.+tty instant. No trouble.”

Sole beneficiary, was she? Well he d.a.m.n well wasn't her sole frickin' beneficiary, that's for sure. Her sister's name was on that line of the form; a replacement for her mother's name, once there, grudgingly, because it was too much trouble to think of anyone else. Finally got around to removing it a year and a half after the bitter old woman died. But here she was, Paul Delisle's sole beneficiary, of pension, insurance . . .

Okay, enough d.i.c.king around, open it. She didn't feel like messing with the G.o.dd.a.m.n staples. She sawed the top open with her mother's breadknife, spread the contents across the table. Christ, look at this. Clothes, shoes, shampoo, tweezers, floss, combs, hair goop - ”Paulie, you are such a dude.” More beauty products than she had in her bathroom - Italian loafers, stinky Adidas, notebooks, mini-ca.s.sette recorder, pens, watch, phone book, business cards, wallet, keys, pictures of his daughter, baby pictures, birthday pictures, school pictures, ”Danielle soccer” and the date, last year, what is she? Fourteen? Birthday in October. He always got her something. The only person he gives a s.h.i.+t about. Gave a s.h.i.+t about.

Stuffed inside a sneaker in an envelope marked ”DELLA,” she found a mini-ca.s.sette for the recorder. He was the only one who called her that. As far as she could remember he was the only person who'd ever given her a nickname.

”Hey, Della. If you're listening to this . . . well, you know what happened, or maybe you don't, h.e.l.l, maybe I don't, but whatever the specifics . . . I've checked out, right?”

She swatted the machine. Made it shut up. s.h.i.+t! Her knees unlocked and her back slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, wis.h.i.+ng she had a drink, wis.h.i.+ng she was still in Jamaica.

”Well, how do you start a thing like this?” It was the voice she remembered from nights of stakeouts and waiting: familiar, conversational, intimate. ”All the stuff, you know, pension, insurance, car and whatever, I've got to let you deal with it. Sorry. Don't have anybody else I can count on to take care of things. You'll have to handle it however you think best. If I know you, you're probably already worried about Danielle. I just never got around to organizing a fund or any of that stuff. She's still a kid, and I don't trust her mother not to make a grab at it. Anyway, when you have the time, get a lawyer to work out some system so Danielle can get some of it, for school, or leaving home, I don't care. Whatever you think makes sense.”

She heard a chair sc.r.a.pe. Where was he? Probably at home. She heard a siren far off. Middle of the night. Sitting in the dark, giving her his last will and testament.

”Don't do yourself in the eye, all right? Executors are ent.i.tled to a percentage. Should that be executrixes? Whatever. You're stuck with the job, Stretch (another nickname), like who else can I trust? Right? So make sure you get the full share coming to you. And for sure keep the car, it's a great car, and any of my stuff you want, got a great TV, fantastic sound system, and my blues record collection you l.u.s.t after, I know you do.”

She remembered one night after work when she was in his place for a beer, both on their way to some department nonsense, never made it, spent all night listening to his collection: Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Robert Johnson, he had them all. Sitting in the dark across from him, watching him handling his precious LPs with the same dexterity he finessed a basketball, or a set of cuffs, sliding the platters in and out of their paper sleeves, lifting the tone arm on his vintage turntable, adjusting the volume on his precious McIntosh amp. She, slightly stoned, watching his hands dancing in the lamplight, hearing the pa.s.sion in his voice as he introduced her to Sonny and Brownie.

”I mean, you and Danielle are the only two people I actually give a s.h.i.+t about, so you figure out the split and I'll be fine with it.

”Okay, that's it for my last will and testament. Feels weird saying this into a tape recorder. There's some other stuff you need to know about, job-related, so I'll maybe put that on a different ca.s.sette. You'll need to play this one for the lawyer.”

There was a long moment's pause. She could hear him breathing into the microphone. Finally, ”Sorry to dump this on you, Stretch, I know you hate all this personal stuff. But hey, how do you think I feel?” And then his laugh, infectious, wicked. She smiled in spite of herself.

b.a.s.t.a.r.d, she thought. Thanks a heap. Get a lawyer, work out some trust or something but make sure ”ol' itchy-pants” can't touch it. Get rid of all his stuff. f.u.c.k! That d.a.m.n apartment of his is an antique shop. Crammed. All his c.r.a.p and treasures and who knows what? Sort it, pack it, move it, store it, sell it. Thanks a f.u.c.king heap. You're d.a.m.n lucky you're dead a.s.shole or I'd f.u.c.king kill you! And then she started to weep, slumped on her kitchen floor, hiding her face in her hands and sobbing, deep uncontrollable waves of pain and grief.

A strong west wind was in her face. She stayed on the south side of the Danforth, walking the seven blocks from Main to Woodbine. Grova's shop was on the north side, and she wanted to see it first from a distance, make certain of the street number, check the lane for fire stairs, back doors, hiding places, escape routes. The subway station was close. If she had to run, she wanted to know which way and how far.

”Grova's p.a.w.n, Jewellery and collectibles, bought and sold.” Peeling paint, sputtering neon, a gigantic dusty rubber tree that hadn't moved since the last time she saw it, and a well-used ”Closed” sign taped to the inside of the door pane. She crossed at the Woodbine intersection, counted the store fronts to his entrance - bank, thrift shop, smoke shop, pub and . . . five.

Grova would salivate the minute he heard the word ruby. He wanted the Ember more than anything he'd ever l.u.s.ted after, and he'd l.u.s.ted after everything, all his life. Greed. That's all he was. Need. Getting, holding, owning. Through his sc.u.mmy window she could see what he valued most in the world. Things. The narrow store was crammed from floor to ceiling with things. They were all alike to him. Worth everything and worth nothing - guitars and socket wrenches, cameras and ski poles, p.o.r.nographic video tapes and mismatched silver servers, some with bigger price tags - Grova knew the difference between a Rolex and a Timex - but the need to have them was just the same. And, as with all those who hungered and grabbed and h.o.a.rded, he never found the thing that would fill the hole in him. Until the Ember. It was the ultimate prize. The one thing truly worth having. But he only believed that because he didn't have it.

The upper floor lights were on where the troll lived, sometimes with his wastrel stepson when the degenerate wasn't in jail or on the run from people trying to collect money. Was there a wife these days? She left him years ago, but she could be back, or there could be a new one. Not likely. Likely he was up there all alone, sitting in his crowded room, counting his things.

It now cost fifty cents to make a call from a public telephone, if you could find a phone booth. And of course the Yellow Pages were missing. Grova's phone number was on his window. She retraced her steps and then read it aloud a few times to memorize it.

In the smoke shop next door she bought a package of Players. The price had gone up again, overnight. Someone really wanted her to quit. At the rear of the store a fat man was methodically tearing open a wad of tiny pull-tab lottery tickets, one after the other, dropping them into the trash bin. Grova's stepson. What was his name? David? Darryl. That was it. Almost didn't recognize him; he had become a middle-aged, balding fat man, even less appealing than when he was in his twenties. Time continues to fly, she thought, and is not always kind. He was absorbed in losing his money and didn't look up as she slipped out to the street.

The phone booth was on the opposite side of Danforth, with a view of the store and the second-floor windows. She whispered the numbers as she pressed the b.u.t.tons. It rang five times before he answered.

”Yeah, what?” Familiar voice, thick-tongued, guttural, unfriendly.

”Charming as always, Louie.”

”Who is this?”

”Oh please, Louie, you know who it is. Have you heard from Viktor?”

”Viktor who?”

”Good boy. That is right. Viktor who. Your old business partner is not with us any longer, is he, Louie? He has gone the way of all the rest. Except you and me. And Sergei, of course. Sergei is still around, is he not? Perhaps he is upstairs with you as we speak.”

”What do you want?”

”The question is, what do you want, Louie? What is the one thing you really want.”

There was silence on his end except for audible breathing. She imagined him trying not to dribble. ”You still have it?”

”Of course I have it. I have always had it.”

More silence. She smiled to herself. His mind is racing, he is a.s.sessing his position, counting his options, trying to figure out how to turn things to his advantage. ”And what?” he said. ”You want to sell it?”

”That is the trouble is it not, Louie? Who could afford it?”