Free Tumblin' Dice by John McFetridge Page B

Shit, it was like back in the day, the first time she quit using and she’d had that sponsor, that guy looked like her dad, was so proud of himself for not trying to fuck her the first time they met, telling her to open up, saying it would be better if she talked about it. Then all they did was talk, hours and hours of talk, drove her nuts.
    She’d seen an article online somewhere about dieting, said that when men talk about a craving they have to have it and when women talk about a craving it helps them get rid of it. Maybe it was true — her sponsor was back using before he got the nerve to try and bang her.
    Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, she wondered who the old lady was looking back. An afternoon in the sack with Ritchie and she felt like the rock chick again.
    Felt pretty good, too, and that was dangerous, that was when she started making dumb decisions, doing dumb things. Started thinking maybe she could be happy.
    She flushed the toilet, ran the tap for a few seconds, and walked back out into the junior suite. Then she said, hey, “You want to come, too?”
    Ritchie said, what, “On your date?”
    â€œIt’s not a date; it’s business.”
    She could feel Ritchie looking right through her, knowing something was going on, but he just said, “Okay, sure, why not.”
    Angie felt good when he said it, glad she wasn’t going to see Felix alone and glad to be hanging out with Ritchie.
    Then thinking, shit, this could be bad.

FIVE
    Armstrong noticed Loewen and the biz lady had left, so that was good — it still worked out. Later he’d have to tell Loewen it was shitty she was a bigot, see the look on his face. Armstrong was almost surprised Loewen didn’t see it, she was giving off the vibe so strong, but of course Loewen was blinded by wanting to get laid.
    But now Agent Jones from Homeland Security was giving off an entirely different vibe, saying how it’d been a couple of years since she’d last been to Canada, met Armstrong when he was looking into some Arab guy thrown off the roof of an apartment building and Armstrong said, “He jumped.”
    Jones said, “No kidding,” and Armstrong knew she believed him. They were sitting at the table with a few other cops, Americans. Armstrong always having trouble keeping them straight, FBI , DEA , state, city, ATF , marshals, Homeland Security. He wondered how they weren’t tripping over each other all the time.
    â€œYeah, he wasn’t really a criminal, just some guy trying to make a living. His wife left him — you know the deal.”
    Jones said, “Oh yeah, see it every day.”
    The other cops at the table were mostly black guys, one of them saying he’d like to see a hockey game close up, not getting much interest. One of them said the food here in Canada was pretty bland and another cop, looked more Mexican to Armstrong, said well, a hotel, what do you expect?
    Jones said to Armstrong, “After that thing with the Arab guy I got transferred to NYC , supposed to be a promotion.”
    Armstrong said yeah, and she said, “Yeah, I’ve never seen so much paperwork in my life.”
    â€œGotta be organized, keeping the world safe.”
    â€œWe’re keeping it safe in triplicate,” she said, “for democracy or for bankers, I can’t tell. It’s all about the money.”
    Armstrong said, “Yeah, this whole task force, it all money laundering?”
    â€œSo far.”
    The Mexican-looking cop said to Armstrong, “There any good Italian in this town?” and Armstrong said, yeah, two neighbourhoods, downtown — College Street, and a little north — Woodbridge.
    One of the black guys said, “What about Middle Eastern, like Lebanese, shawarma, shish taouk, that kind of thing?”
    â€œWe’ve got pretty much any kind of food you want,” Armstrong said. He looked at Jones. “That’s really what