by Marc Strange
Leo never told me why he was expecting trouble. I got the impression that it was a recent development and that prior to hiring a bodyguard, he had functioned quite comfortably with only Madge to tell him where his next meal was coming from, and if he was expected to send flowers.
On the ninth day of my employment we were to attend a thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner supporting the candidacy of a man running for federal office. Leo bought me a place at his table. He was flanked by attractive women on either side, neither of whom looked like they wanted to harm him. The gentleman beside me was an inebriated gasbag and the twitchy younger man on his right was trying to avoid a scene. Neither looked to be a threat.
Both of Leo’s sons were in attendance, albeit not at their father’s table, nor seated within twenty paces of each other. I hadn’t detected much paternal pride or filial warmth when he introduced me. I felt he was establishing his perimeter rather than being polite. Theodore, whom I’d already encountered, was accompanied by his wife whose name I learned somewhat later was Gloria. She looked tiny and apprehensive beside her walrus husband. I couldn’t blame her. Theo looked like he squashed things without thinking much about it.
His greeting was curt. “Hiring muscle, Pop?”
His wife wasn’t given the opportunity to shake my hand or say hi.
Leo’s other son, Lenny, was a different sort. He had the look of a man who’d risen from the ranks. Although a head shorter and fifty pounds lighter, he braced me with a pugnacious scowl and a nod that said “I back down from nobody.” I believed him.
His wife, Jackie, as it turned out, was cute and flirty. I don’t think her fluttering endeared me to Lenny.
When coffee was served Leo excused himself to do some mingling and I rose to accompany him. Not too close: a large presence at his back.
Leo schmoozed his way through the gathering with elegance and nimble feet. He didn’t have a date that evening and felt free to lavish charm on the neglected wives he encountered, never lingering long enough to start a rumour, just pausing sufficiently to earn a flattered titter from a matron or a proprietary glance from a preoccupied husband.
People were standing now, moving from table to table, a small orchestra began tuning up across the dance floor. Leo pointed at, and then started moving toward the French doors leading onto a terrace. He wanted a cigar. I had the cigar case in my Manny Bigalow jacket pocket. Leo didn’t want his silhouette to bulge.
I was two steps behind him as we passed through the French doors, reaching inside my jacket for Leo’s cigar case. Leo turned, already gesturing with two fingers for his after-dinner panatela, and I saw him spot someone over my shoulder, saw a change come over his face. With my left arm I swept Leo to the side as I swung around. Sharp snapping sounds. I took a bullet through my left trapezius which clipped my collarbone, another went through the fatty layer of my left exterior oblique muscle, and a third scorched across my chest and tore Leo’s cigar case to shreds an inch from my fingertips. There were two other shots fired but by this time I was down, dragging Leo with me. I heard screams and shouts and turned just in time to see a dark figure disappearing over the terrace wall. Leo hadn’t been hit. I’d been very lucky by about half an inch. Manny Bigalow’s suit was ruined.
That was our last date.
I spent some time getting well, then went to work full time for Leo as head of security for the jewel in his crown, the Lord Douglas Hotel. Leo stopped going out. He sequestered himself in the penthouse suite. He says he likes it up there. It’s comfortable enough, and it requires a special key to visit. The shooter was never apprehended.
Neither of Leo’s sons hastened to our aid.
chapter two
Rachel Golden helps me with the bow tie.
“You can get ones that clip on,” Gritch says. “It’s the latest thing.”
“Pay no attention,” says Rachel. “He’s jealous because he wasn’t invited.”
“Are you going home soon?” Gritch wants to know.
Rachel took over as manager of JG Security a while back and since then things have run smoothly. Rachel looks like the chairperson of a PTA committee, but she’s ex-Army and I’ve seen her escort a large drunken man onto the street by merely taking his hand. She had two of his fingers pointing in an unnatural direction at the time and he was trying not to blubber, but you get the picture. Hiring Rachel has made my life a lot easier. She handles the details I was never good at, and a few I used to think I’d be good at but never actually attended to. I still make my grand tour mornings and evenings, still handle complaints when a measure of beef is indicated, still keep my uncashed paycheques in the hotel safe, but I’ve become more of a presiding entity than a day-to-day administrator.
Even Gritch grudgingly allows that Rachel is much better at running the operation than I ever was. Still, her presence rankles. “The Presbyterians,” as Gritch insists on calling her four new staffers, are excessively well-groomed and polite for his taste. He was more comfortable when the Lord Douglas had ashtrays in the lobby. Gritch is an indispensable part of the security system but doesn’t fit any designation that Rachel is familiar with. He’s not part of any shift, he sets his own hours, and he refuses to acknowledge her authority. Except on the subject of cigar smoke in the office — Gritch can’t light up until she clocks off for the night.
“There,” she says. “You look like a million bucks.”
“As long as you’re wearing clean gonch for the trip to Emergency,” Gritch says.
“Okay, Grinch,” she says. “I’m heading home to suburbia. You can fire up that thing. Remember to turn on the ventilator.”
“Thanks for the bow,” I say.
“You look great,” she says. “Don’t get chicken-ala-king down your frock.”
“Prime rib,” I say.
Rachel heads out and Gritch waits the obligatory five seconds then lights his cigar. Gritch doesn’t smoke the same brand as Mr. Alexander. No one on a salary does.
“You going upstairs or waiting for him down here?” Gritch asks.
“I’m invited for a drink,” I say.
“This is a big step for him,” Gritch says. “Been seven years, almost eight.”
“Eight exactly,” I say. “This time eight years ago a doctor was explaining how fortunate I was.”
“He say why, now?”
“He says he wants to try out his tango lessons.”
“He has a date?”
“Oh, yes,” I say.
Leo’s date is a woman some years his junior, closer to my age. She has diamonds at her throat. Leo introduces her as Vivienne Griese but she corrects him immediately and explains that she’s reverting to her pre-divorce name of Saunders. Vivienne Saunders is wearing a gown the colour of black roses. It rustles as she crosses the room.
“I’ve just heard all about you,” she says. “Leo says you used to be a prizefighter.”
“Sometimes he tells people I was an astronaut,” I say.
Leo hands me a small whisky, which he knows I won’t drink. Forget about the fortune in Italian wool I’m wearing, I’m on the job. He can refer to me as his Executive Officer, or his good friend, or an astronaut if he wants. I’m still what I was the last time we went to a party — the large presence at his back.
“Sometimes I embellish,” Leo admits. “Telling the same stories over and over can be a bad habit at my age.”
“Hiding up here for so long was a bad habit,” says Vivienne. “I’m thrilled you’ve decided to rejoin the human race.”
“I guess the timing was right,” says Leo, with a puckish smile. I can’t be certain but he may have winked at me.
“My divorce was final as of yesterday,” she says to me sideways.
“I’m never sure,” I say. “Are congratulations appropriate?”
“In this case, definitely,” she says.
“Be a shame to waste half a bottle of Veuve Clicqot,” says Leo. “How are we for time, Joseph?”
“It’s your night,” I s
ay. “It can’t start until you show up.”
Leo refills Vivienne’s flute and his own with the flourish of a man handy with champagne. I take my half-finger of whisky and retreat a few steps. Three’s a crowd. Vivienne is telling Leo about a tango club in Buenos Aires. I notice that Raquel, Leo’s housekeeper, is preparing canapés in the kitchen.
Cómo está usted esta noche, Raquel? I ask.
She smiles at me. “Muy bien, Señor Grundy,” she says. She lowers her voice. “He looks fine tonight, does he not?”
“Very fine.”
“It is good to see him like this,” she says.
“I didn’t know he was taking tango lessons.”
I’m almost certain I catch the flicker of a smile as Raquel turns to check her mis en place. There are serving dishes and shiny glasses standing by.
“Are guests coming back here after?” I ask.
“He says it is possible. If there is anyone he is still friends with. You know how he talks. I have things prepared.”
“Then I’ll see you later,” I say.
She holds up one finger and looks around the corner to make sure Leo is occupied. She gestures me closer.
“Could you do something for me?”
“I’d be happy to,” I say.
“I have bought a little gift for Señor Alexander,” she says. “I wonder, could you pick it up for me? It’s a secret. I don’t want him to know until his birthday.”
“Where do I go?”
“The cigar store on Robson. You know the one? Austin & Davies?”
“That’s where Gritch wants to go when he dies.”
“It’s all paid for.” She checks to make sure the coast is clear, then hands me a folded piece of paper. “The receipt,” she says. “You are kind to do this.”
“Tomorrow,” I say. It takes me a moment to come up with the correct phrase. “Tengo tiempo.”
“Very good. You have time.” She grins. “Gracias. I am relieved.”
“It will be my pleasure,” I say. “Hasta luego.”
“Si,” she says with a lovely smile. “Hasta pronto.”
She’s always pleased when I get it right.
“All set?” Leo is beckoning from across the room. Vivienne is adjusting her wrap, black roses with a crimson lining. I glance back at Raquel. She is ignoring the elegant woman with the perfect hair and the diamond necklace. Leo hands me his cigar case and gold lighter. “Hold these for me will you, Joseph?” The case is three-barrelled, Spanish leather, primed with Cuban extravagance. The lighter is a Colibri. Han Chuen Chu’s tux has a special inside pocket to hold both items without ruining my silhouette. Leo no doubt has the same pocket but chooses not to burden himself.
It crosses my mind that Caesar Augustus would have appreciated the regal decorum of Leo’s passage through the lobby. Maurice has imposed a level of restraint on the personnel, no palm fronds waving or ram’s horns blowing, but, had Leo deigned to raise a finger in benediction, twenty people would likely have genuflected. To most of the hotel staff, whether customer service or support, Leo Alexander is a mythic figure, the unseen power who lives on Olympus and controls their destinies. Have to admit, tonight he looks the part.
Andrew, our doorman, himself resplendent in gold-braided livery, opens the polished brass door with perfect timing and Leo exits the Lord Douglas and inhales the air at street level. Give him credit, he doesn’t swivel his head. That’s my job. I checked the faces of everyone on the interior parade route and I’m checking the street in both directions and I even look up at the portico ceiling in case someone’s hung an anvil. Our limo driver is holding the passenger door open. He has a moustache and a stubby ponytail. I’m half-expecting a brass band to give us a sendoff. I hear a restrained “whoop whoop” as we turn onto the street and I think Leo just winked at me again.
chapter three
A few hundred of Leo’s “closest personal friends,” most of who have had to introduce themselves, are spilling drinks and waiting for the dinner doors to open. So far I haven’t noticed Leo being particularly convivial with anyone, but I’m impressed by the restraint he’s showing with some puffed-up middle-management-type from the Fairmont chain.
“I hear you finally changed a fuse in that mausoleum of yours,” the guy says. “Ever get elevator three moving again?”
“Oh, sure,” Leo says. “Of course the people inside had long since starved to death, but we comped them anyway.”
Then I see his eyes light up at the approach of a pretty face. I’m almost certain I told Connie Gagliardi that I’d be working tonight and didn’t want to be distracted, nonetheless she’s put on an emerald gown which shows off her nice shoulders and she’s wearing the cheeky smile that always makes my face crease. I can feel Vivienne’s temperature drop as Connie sifts through the pre-dinner reception throng. I admire the way she dips those nice shoulders, like a running back weaving toward the end zone.
“Mr. Alexander,” she says. Touchdown. “How nice to meet you at last. I’m Connie Gagliardi, Channel 20.”
“You’ve smiled at me from your news desk often, Ms. Gagliardi,” Leo says, bending over her outstretched hand. “Be assured that I was smiling back.”
“Have you missed me? I’m on in the morning now.”
“And I thought you’d gone to Hollywood.” A charmer when he wishes to be.
“I’m hoping I can sit you down for an interview. At your convenience, of course.”
“Maybe we can discuss it over lunch sometime soon,” says Leo.
“Better make it quick,” I say. “She’s trying to hitch a ride to Afghanistan.”
Connie tilts her curly head in my direction. “Will he have to be there?” she wants to know.
Leo begins his acceptance speech with generous thanks to all concerned for the great honour. He even manages to look flattered by his profile in bas-relief on the mandatory brass plaque they’ve stuck him with.
“The Lord Douglas is one of the last, great, fully independent hotels,” Leo says, looking out at the audience of well-fed innkeepers. “I know that many of my peers and competitors look forward to the day when either old age or red ink forces me to become a link in some global chain …” (He pauses to allow for the expected chuckle) “but I advise them not to hold their collective breath. Autonomous innkeepers may be a disappearing breed, but we ain’t extinct. Hell, some of us aren’t even on the endangered list.” (Another chuckle.)
So far I haven’t seen a hint of anything suspicious or out of place. The affair has been catered like clockwork. The three-hundred-plus guests all received their prime ribs hot and their crèmes brûlée crunchy on top and creamy in the middle. Connie Gagliardi is at a table somewhere off to the side. She’s been chatting with a quarterback from the Seattle Seahawks who’s up here for some charity golf tournament. Drake something-or-other. It’s either Drake-something, or something-Drake, I forget. I’ve heard Connie’s wicked laugh ring out more than once. Even so, I’m staying focused.
And finally, after the applause and the benediction and another round of convivial schmoozing, the doors to the dance floor are opened and Leo Alexander and Vivienne Saunders get a chance to try out their moves.
“Not dancing?” A familiar voice at my shoulder.
“Hmm? Quarterbacks don’t dance?”
“Ho,” she chortles. “You were paying attention.”
“I’m working,” I say.
“Your boss is getting away,” Connie says. “Couldn’t you do a better job from the dance floor than the stag line?”
“He’s picked up some nifty moves, got to admit.”
“Come on,” she says. “We’ll head him off by the fountain.”
“I’m pretty rusty.”
“Where have I heard that recently?”
I don’t think I’m as good at this job as I once was, and it isn’t just my two-step that’s rusty. I’m losing my edge. I’ve been enjoying myself far too much.
After a while Connie says, “I think he’s f
lagging.”
“It’s the new hip,” I say. “It’s only good for an hour of ballroom.”
The dancers pause in place to applaud the last number (a mambo, I think, I’ve let Connie set the tempo and chauffeur me around) and we cross the parquet floor to join Leo and Vivienne.
“Isn’t he terrific?” says Vivienne. “I haven’t had this much fun since Argentina.”
“I’m about ready for a splash of brandy and a cigar,” Leo says. “Ms. Gagliardi, would you care to join us?”
“I’d be delighted,” she says.
“How many more are coming, sir?” I ask.
“Just us,” he says. “I haven’t met this many horse’s asses since the last time we went out together. See about getting the car, will you, Joseph? I’ll make a few obligatory good-byes.”
“Don’t like leaving you alone, sir.”
“Pish-tosh,” he says. “I have two lovely escorts. What do I need you for?”
I get the impression that Ms. Saunders isn’t completely thrilled that Connie has joined the select circle, but she smiles nonetheless, give her that. I head for the main entrance and tell the valet to order up Leo’s limo. I do all the tipping. Leo doesn’t carry cash either.
Leo’s obligatory farewells must include everyone in the ballroom because wherever he is it’s behind a wall of backs and heads. I start across the room toward the largest flock and one of the organizers comes running up, a man who introduced himself near the start of the festivities but whose name I’ve misplaced. He looks upset.
“Excuse me, you’re Mr. Grundy, is that right? Mr. Alexander’s assistant?”
“That’s right, ah, Mr. —” he’s wearing a nametag “— Trueller.”
