Finders Keepers by Sean Costello Page A

dazzled the eyes. “Did Martini finally score?”
    Marty smiled. “That he did, Dane-o. That he did.” He watched Dane’s hands, trying to see how the man pulled off this next little trick.
    Dane drew a draft in a frosted mug and slid it across the bar. Marty paid him with three crisp hundreds from Keith’s wallet. Concealing the action with his body, he raised the mug off the bar and palmed the three flat pouches of cocaine tucked underneath.
    “Damn, man,” he said. “How do you do that?”
    Dane gave him that smile, all pink gums and polished ivory. “Magic,” he said and moved off down the bar.
    Sipping his brew, Marty turned to face the room. It took a few moments, but then he spotted her by the far wall, pantomiming a blowjob for a sweaty bald guy having a stag party.
    Earlene.
    * * *
    Six blocks south of the Fantasia Club, Detective Sergeant Alister Raybould cruised Yonge Street in an unmarked car, wipers working hard against the weather. He pulled up to the curb next to a bus kiosk, a pair of hookers in there huddled in cheap furs, and powered down his curb-side window. The ladies stepped into view, open for business, their stock fuck-me expressions vanishing the instant they saw who it was in the salt-bleached sedan.
    Trish, a tall black girl in a red wig, stuck her head through the window and did her best to smile. “’Evenin’, detective. Just lookin’ tonight or buyin’?”
    “Keep your trash-mouth shut ’til I tell you to open it,” Raybould said. “Where’s that cocksucker, Swain?”
    “I seen him outside the Strand ’bout an hour ago.”
    Raybould accelerated away from the curb, almost taking Trish’s head off. “Bitch motherfucker,” she yelled after him, then prayed he hadn’t heard.
    * * *
    Swain stood in front of the Strand Hotel, coat hanging open to show a little skin, propositioning a pair of teenage boys who looked like they’d rather beat him to death than sample his favors. He was walking a fine line with these two—a couple of mean looking shave-heads, not sure which way they wanted to go yet—but his last fix was hours behind him and if he didn’t score soon he was going to be one sick little puppy.
    “I’ll give you the kind of blowjob you’ll never get from the prom queen,” he told them, teeth chattering in the cold. He didn’t notice Raybould’s car rolling up to the curb behind him or he’d’ve shut his trap. “How ’bout it, boys?”
    “I wouldn’t let you suck my dog’s dick,” one of the kids said, then high-fived his friend.
    Raybould gave a short blast on the siren and the teenagers pulled a quick fade. Knowing better, Swain buttoned his coat and waited, trying not to betray his fear. The last time this psycho hassled him he ended up with three broken ribs.
    Raybould got out of the car fast, put Swain in a wrist lock and slammed him face-down across the hood.
    “What’s wrong?” Swain said. “What did I do?” Blood leaked from his nose, salty and hot on his lips.
    Raybould cuffed him in silence, ratcheting the cuffs tight around Swain’s slender wrists. He pulled Swain up by the scruff of his neck and shoved him into the front seat, then got in behind the wheel and sped away from the hotel.
    “What did I do?” Swain said again and Raybould slapped him in the mouth.
    “You speak when you’re spoken to, Swainy. You know the rules. You fucked up this time, boy, so don’t gimme any of that ‘What did I do?’ horseshit. I’m tired of carrying your faggot ass. This time you’re going down.”
    “Please, Detective Raybould,” Swain said, tears spoiling his mascara, pulling it down his gaunt face in runny smears. “I can’t go to jail. Was it that bitch, Ernesto? I’ll never buy smack from him again, I swear—” 
    Raybould slapped him again. “Speak when you’re spoken to. Don’t make me tell you again. And quit that weepy shit. You’re fucking up my concentration.”
    Swain did as he was told and within seconds Raybould seemed