Tumblin' Dice by John McFetridge Page B

changed, went from hip hop to some country song and Valerie was onstage, looking at J.T. and swinging on the pole.
    It was still tense at the table, the guy who’d said that about the information scared and pissed off at himself, but J.T. figured he was just wound up, that was good, so he said they could have stopped it there, in Montreal, “But we need to make a statement.”
    The guys all nodded, easing up a little and J.T. said, “We need to let these American fucks know that Huron Woods is ours, that what goes on here is ours,” and the guys all said, yeah, sure, fuckin’ right. J.T. looked at Boner, knew he knew all this, but still. He wanted the guys to relax, to know they’re all on the same team. He said, “Montreal’s still as fucked up as always, those Irish assholes running the port and selling to whoever pays. We decided,” pausing to look around the table, letting them know that it really was “we” and that it really was a decision, “that there’s just no talking to stubborn Irish fucks, so we let them have the port. Works out better for us anyway.”
    The guys all nodded, drank their Molsons. J.T. thought about explaining to them how Montreal was divided between the Italians and the Saints, how they had a good working arrangement there just like they did in Toronto, except in Montreal there was also those Irish fucks, called the Point Gang because they crawled out of Goose Village and Point St. Charles dragging their knuckles, been running the port there for a hundred years, taking a piece of everything that came through and not giving it up, but he figured these guys didn’t care. Hangarounds and prospects, thrilled to be working for the actual Saints of Hell.
    Valerie finished her dance and walked off the stage naked, looking right at J.T. The one she’d gone into the bathroom with went up on the stage and Valerie got dressed, pulling on her sequined bra and cut-off jean shorts slow, looking at J.T. and the guys, but they weren’t interested. Still too pumped. J.T. wanted to tell her to be ready after — what they were about to do was way better than Viagra.
    Boner said, “We’re ready,” and J.T. said, yeah, we are. These hangarounds like all the others, young and tough and don’t give a shit who they’re up against. J.T. was thinking how at home they looked in this shitty club, probably been in dozens of them all over Ontario.
    Like the chicks, the weekday regulars were always white, early twenties, J.T. figured probably from small towns nearby, probably all had kids in daycare. An hour north of Toronto and it was like going back in time. In town the strippers’d be from Russia and Romania, Thailand and India, hair and make-up looking like movie stars, boob jobs and tanning booth tans, knowing every scam there is, but up here they were country chicks, chewing gum, home dye jobs and chipped nails. Sitting at the table, they looked to J.T. just like the cool chicks in high school who’d never talk to him and now he was thinking, look at that, I join the army, go off to Afghanistan, come back and join these Saints of Hell, and the girls’re still sitting around talking about who’s a slut.
    Valerie caught J.T.’s eye and motioned to the door. Turning his head a little he saw them, a guy and a girl coming in, looking around and following the bouncer to a table. The first thing the guy should have seen was the five of them sitting at a table but he didn’t, he just sat down.
    J.T. said, “Okay,” and Boner got up, didn’t say a word, just walked into the bathroom and, J.T. knew, right out the back door.
    Gizz said, “Okay,” and J.T. stood up saying, “Wait here with him,” pointing to one of the hangarounds. The other kid jumped up and J.T. looked at him, trying to get him to calm down.
    Gizz said, yeah, okay.
    In the parking lot J.T. saw a white BMW M 3 pull up