Free In Plain Sight by Mike Knowles Page A

booth that contained a discarded morning paper and leafed through the news. I was into the front-page story about a shootout at a local bar and the supposed links to the Russian mob, when a young woman approached the table. She was tall, about five-ten, with dark skin and dark hair. She wore little make-up and a black shirt and pants. The woman radiated beauty. I almost had to look away when she smiled and asked me if I was ready to order. I regained my composure, ordered steak and eggs, and got back to reading the paper. I didn’t let my eyes wander to her ass as she walked away. I learned to shut out my pants long ago. It was always a fight, but I wouldn’t let myself lose focus on a job.
    I got to the end of the article, and twelve words floored me. I read them over and over again. The twelve words made me realize that I didn’t need any help from Morrison to find Igor. The paper told me everything I needed to know: The funeral will be at Thomas and Dunne on King and Wellington. My feelings of stupidity for missing something so obvious were interrupted by the waitress pouring me a glass of ice water.
    â€œYou don’t look happy,” she said.
    â€œI just realized I lost something.”
    â€œNot your wallet?” She looked concerned.
    â€œNo, not my wallet. The upper hand.”
    â€œWhich glove is that? Left or right?”
    The waitress waited for an answer, but I got back to reading the article — looking for anything I might have missed. The food came five minutes later with a side order of cold shoulder. I ate and thought about what I had said to Morrison. I asked him to find Igor. I gave no description, just the name and position of a man. It was possible that Morrison would be unable to put a face to the name right away. There might have been more than one powerful, mobbed-up Igor in the city, but it wasn’t likely, and I knew it. All I could hope for was that the upcoming mob funeral would take precedence over everything else. Cops would be running security and surveillance to make sure they kept everything safe and on film. It would be a dangerous event despite the police presence. The cops would use the guise of security to plant themselves right outside the graveyard, and every Russian with a gun and a scar would be brazenly walking across the grass to the gravesite. Every member of the Russian mob, hopped up on anger and chemicals, would be daring the cops to touch them. Funerals were often places where wanted criminals had no problem showing their faces. The cops never touched them out of fear of the backlash from the rest of the made funeral attendees in front of the greedy camera lenses. I would have to join in the throng of media and police onlookers to find Igor and follow him home. I was on a cramped timetable, Morrison had a lead on me, and I had a lead on Igor. We all couldn’t be in the lead forever.
    I finished the steak and eggs, paid up, and checked out the waitress one last time. She caught me and flashed a glare that made it easier to look away. I nodded goodbye to the cook and left the restaurant with the newspaper under my arm.
    * * *
    I picked up the car from the motel parking lot and drove into the city, keeping an eye out for the kind of store I needed. The men’s shop on Ottawa Street North wasn’t a chain but a decades-old independently run business. The sign out front looked as though it had weathered a quarter of a century out on the street. I drove down the street looking for a place to park, only to be sent back the way I came. This part of Hamilton housed fabric and textile wholesalers. The clothing here would be plentiful and cheaper than anywhere else in the city. The tailor would also have put enough time in to have seen everything at least twice.
    I finally found a spot in the parking lot of a retirement complex. As I walked to the men’s shop up the street, I checked behind me to make sure I was clean. I didn’t see a tail