by Marc Strange
“Let me get that for you,” I say.
He turns to give me a once-over. “Thanks,” he says. I don’t think he means it.
“Mr. Goodier?”
He doesn’t bother to answer. Larry and I follow him inside where he dumps his impedimenta on the reception counter with evident relief and takes a deep breath. The trek from car to lobby was about as much as he could handle.
“Mr. Goodier, my name’s Grundy, I work for Leo Alexander at the Lord Douglas Hotel. This gentleman is Larry Gormé; he’s a reporter for the Emblem.”
He looks us up and down, doesn’t like what he sees, shakes his head in annoyance and starts bustling toward his office. “Already talked to the police,” he growls. “Said I shouldn’t speak to you.”
“Seems harsh.”
“Said the whereabouts of Mr. Starr was part of an ongoing investigation and you were told to stay away from it.”
“What if I want to talk about something else?”
“Such as?”
“Let’s start with Theodore Alexander.”
He enters his office and tries to slam the door in my face but I’m too close behind for that to work. Goodier does the next best thing, positions himself behind his executive-size desk and adopts what he probably figures is the air of a man far to busy to deal with inconsequentials. Larry follows me in and closes the door softly behind him.
“I rarely see the man,” he says. “He doesn’t involve himself in the day-to-day operation.”
“So, he wouldn’t have been the one who hired Mr.
Starr.”
“Now you see, Mr. Grundy, there you’ve strayed into that police matter.”
“And you wouldn’t know if Mr. Starr and Mr.
Alexander had met before.”
“Once again …”
“And I presume the police have had a careful look at the limousine he was driving?”
“Look, if you don’t have a warrant, or a police badge, we’ve got nothing further to discuss.”
“We could talk about the ten million dollars.”
Mention of money usually gets people’s attention.
“What ten million dollars?” he wants to know.
“The ten million dollar lawsuit that Leo Alexander’s lawyer, Winston Mickela, of whom you may have heard, is about to file against Ultra.”
“On what grounds?”
“Hotelier of the Year is a prestigious award which Mr. Alexander was deeply honoured to receive. To have it destroyed by one of your drivers, either as a personal attack, or under orders from someone higher up, has caused him great emotional distress and well as immense professional embarrassment.” I’m making this up as I go along but it seems to be having the desired effect. I give him another push. “I can assure you that the suit will be pressed with all due diligence.”
“I had nothing to do with that!”
“That will be for the courts to decide. I’m certain your lawyers will advise you on potential liability. You should also be aware that Mr. Gormé’s newspaper is very interested in the story. That’s not likely to be good for business.”
“I get it. This is some sort of squeeze play.”
“Are you feeling squeezed, Mr. Goodier?”
“Wasn’t that the whole idea? First the police turn the place inside out, then you barge in threatening me with a lawsuit, dragging the newspapers in …”
Larry takes umbrage at that. “No one has to drag a newspaper,” he says. “A story’s either a story or it isn’t.”
“What the hell is it you want?”
“Hey, I just want to talk to Dimitar Starr.”
“Well, good luck with that! No one has seen or heard from him since the night in question.”
“What about the other driver?”
“What other driver?”
“The one who took over for Mr. Starr when he disappeared. Someone must have notified the dispatcher that another driver was needed.”
“I guess, I don’t know, you’d have to ask the dispatcher.”
“Do I have your permission to do that?”
“Oh, for Chrissake! Do what you want.”
“Who’s the dispatcher?”
“Amina. The woman in the office.”
“Hi, Amina? My name’s Joe Grundy. Mr. Goodier said you might be able to help me.”
“How can I do that?” Her lips are pursed and she is shaking her head as she sorts the stack of files dumped on the counter.
“Monday night one of your drivers, a Mr. Starr, drove my boss to a function, but when we were ready to leave we noticed that we had a new driver. Do you remember the occasion?”
“Tuesday. Eight p.m., Lord Douglas Hotel for Mr. Alexander and party. The police needed the same information.”
“That’s the one. Does it mention what happened after he drove us there?”
“There was a call that the car had developed a problem. We sent a different car to replace it.”
“And who was that driven by?”
“Also Mr. Starr.”
“No, the driver was a different man.”
“I think you are mistaken. A mechanic delivered the new vehicle, and then most likely brought the other one back here. Mr. Starr stayed with the new vehicle.”
“The second driver looked like Mr. Starr, superficially at least, but it was a different man.”
“Did you really look at Mr. Starr? Sometimes people don’t really notice the driver, if they’re on the way to a party, you know.”
“I suppose that’s possible. Thank you for your time.”
“No problem.”
“One other thing. What was wrong with the car?
The first car?”
“You’d have to talk to one of the mechanics.”
“Thank you, I will.”
“You won’t need a ref this time, will you?” Larry asks.
“We do have a secret handshake,” I say. “You’re just not allowed to see it. Wait in the car.”
There are two Mercedes in the garage, one of them large enough to house a travelling carnival, the other one slightly bigger. I recognize Mo Feivel immediately; he looks like the front end of a Mack truck. His shape is similar to Looch Pazzano’s but I can pretty much guarantee that Mo hits harder. He still has that sailor’s walk, legs apart, shoulders swaying. I remember that I nearly broke a knuckle on his boulder of a head.
“Hey Mo, how’re you doing?”
He squints across the hood of the Mercedes. “Who’s that?” I can see the scar tissue over his eyes.
“It’s Joe Grundy. Eight-round prelim. What was it, ’88, ’89?”
“What? Oh, shit! Hammer Joe. Sure! February, ’89. Ref stops it in the third.” He comes around the front of the car, wipes his hands on a rag and sticks one out. “The ref held up two fingers, I counted four. Game over.”
“You hurt me in the second,” I say.
“Yeah, I thought so,” he says. “Body shot, right?”
“Bruised my liver.”
“Those were the days,” he says.
“I don’t miss them either,” I say. “So, how’s it going?”
“This is a good gig. Steady pay, nice clean machinery.
What are you doing these days?”
“Security. At the Lord Douglas Hotel.”
“Oh, yeah?” He gives me a careful look. “So what is this, you looking for a rematch?”
“Trying to find one of your drivers. Starr? Dimitar Starr?”
“Lorne? I’m taking a smoke break.”
“Have one for me,” says a man vacuuming the back seat of the stretch.
We step outside, he offers me a Players, which I decline, with thanks, and we walk around the side of the building where the parked vehicles are clearly not part of the fleet.
“Can I have a look at the car he was driving Tuesday night?”
“He never brought it back,” Mo says. “I told the cops.”
“Dispatcher says a mechanic delivered a replacement and brought t
he first car back here.”
“Never happened,” Mo says, lighting up.
“You sure of that?”
“All you’ve got to do is count ’em. “Supposed to be nine. Eight now. Two stretch — one of them is armoured, couple of Lincoln Town Cars. S320 Mercs, a 560, also bulletproof.”
“And one of them is missing.”
“Yeah, one of the 320s.”
“Any idea who the other driver was?”
“What other driver?”
“There was a second driver. If the first car went missing, and there was a second car delivered, there had to be a second driver. Did the second limo come back?”
“Yeah. It’s here.”
“So, who was driving that one?”
Mo delicately taps ash onto the asphalt and shakes his head. “That would most likely have been Dimi’s asshole buddy, Farrel.”
“Who’s Farrel?”
“Farrel Newton. Don’t know what he’s doing here. Not qualified to work on these machines.” He stops, leans against a Honda Accord. “Goodier keeps him on the payroll as janitor, handyman, carwasher, who knows? About once a month he goes off his meds and starts foaming at the mouth. Guy’s a nutbar.”
“And he’s most likely dead,” I say.
“Yeah? How?”
“Unless there’s more than one Newton connected with this case. He either fell or was pushed off the roof of the hotel.”
“Holy shit!” He turns his head to blow the smoke in another direction. “This is all about the murder, right?”
“It was my boss’s girlfriend who was killed. Maybe by mistake.”
“That’s a little out of their league. Ripping off the company’s more Dimi’s speed.”
“Homicide would like to talk to him.”
“They’ll have to get in line,” he says. “Dimi’s a wanted man.”
“Who else wants him?”
“Fraud squad was around last month, two different insurance investigators.” He looks around, motions me to keep in step and walks further down the side of the building. “We’ve had two limos stolen in the past year. Maybe three, if that other one doesn’t turn up. All the units were signed out to either Starr or Newton.”
“They’re stealing cars?”
“They’re doing something.” Mo looks around. “Two limos. Insurance company detectives. We’re talking easy two hundred, closer to three hundred thousand insurance, plus whatever a stolen Mercedes is worth outside the country.”
“And the Fraud Squad thinks something’s fishy.”
“Hey, they know something’s fishy, they just don’t have anything they can prove.”
“What do you think’s going on?”
“Those guys lost two, maybe three expensive machines and they’re still working here? You’d have fired them, wouldn’t you? Like after the second time it happened?” Mo butts his smoke on the underside of his boot. “Tell you one thing the cops might not know, Dimi’s name isn’t Starr. It’s Starjac, or Stazruk, some Bulgarian name. Used to work some car lot down on Broadway.”
chapter fourteen
“Wanted to bill himself as ‘The Battling Jewboy,’ remember that? The promoters wouldn’t let him.”
“He was a wrecking ball,” I say.
“Yeah, but his arms were too short,” says Larry.
“Newton,” I say.
“What about him?”
“It’s a last name. First name, Farrel. He used to work at Ultra.”
“All right!” Larry chortles, hauling out his ballpoint. “Better and better.” He scribbles. “Farrel with two ars or two els?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“I can find out. Where’re we going again?”
“Used car lot,” I say. “Do up your seat belt.”
“What’s at the used car lot?”
“Besides the obvious?”
“You figure they’re selling stolen limos out the back door?”
“Somebody’s stealing limos, we know that much.
Mo figures they’re leaving the country.”
“Looks pretty good for his age, don’t you think?”
says Larry.
“Who?”
“Mo Feivel. I’m just saying, looks pretty good.”
“What do you mean for his age? We’re the same age, more or less.”
“Maybe it’s working with his hands,” he says. “Or maybe there’s less confusion in his life. He doesn’t have that worried crease between his eyes.”
“I have a worried crease between my eyes?”
Dysart Motors. The banner reads LOWEST PRICES! HIGHEST VALUE! Plastic pennants hang limply over a dubious fleet. The prices on most of the windshields wouldn’t replace a bumper on one of Ultra’s vehicles. I’m barely out of the front seat before a hopeful looking man sidles up. He gives the hotel’s utility sedan a once-over, no doubt calculating to a penny how much it might be worth as a trade-in.
“Hey there, my friend,” he says as if he’s known me all his life. “Looks like you’re ready to move into something a bit more your style.”
“What style would that be?” I want to know.
“Let’s see now,” he says. “Big man like yourself might want a little headroom, legroom. Got a fine Cherokee over here, A-1 condish, four-wheel drive, just sit yourself in the front seat there and tell me if that doesn’t fit you like a glove.”
“Handsome ride,” I say. “But I don’t want to waste your time …”
“You let me worry about that,” he says. “Nothing makes me happier than finding the right match of man and machine.”
“I’m really here to talk to Mr. Dysart.”
His hopeful smile disappears. “Outta luck there, pal. Old Dysart checked out five years ago.”
“Oh? Who runs the place these days?”
“Mr. Starryk.”
“Is he here?”
“George? Sure. He’s inside.”
“Thanks,” I say, heading for the showroom.
“Sure you wouldn’t like to just sit behind the wheel for a minute? It’s a great feeling.”
“I’m sure it is,” I say. “Why don’t you show it to my friend? He’s always interested in new experiences.”
Inside, a young man and woman are hotly debating the merits and possible drawbacks of owning the canary yellow Mustang on the showroom floor. The man mediating the discussion could be Dimi’s twin, blood relation at least. He recognizes me immediately and takes off toward the far end, past a silver Focus and through a wooden door marked STAFF ONLY.
“Mr. Starryk?” I call after him. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”
Just before the door slams I distinctly hear the words, “Piss off!”
That’s not going to happen. I disobey the door’s injunction and follow him into a windowless sector of tight office cubicles. The lone employee visible is a woman on her knees in the narrow corridor picking up scattered papers with an aggrieved look on her face. She looks angry even as I’m helping her.
“Did he say sorry?” she asks me. “Hell, no. Goddamn rhinoceros.”
“Did you see where he went, Ma’am?” I ask politely.
“Nobody has to pee that bad,” she says.
The door to the Gents is locked. I knock. No answer.
“Mr. Starryk? I have to talk to you.”
The voice from inside sounds preoccupied, perhaps wrestling with a stuck zipper. “Piss off!”
“I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Go away! I got nothing to say to you!”
“I’m looking for Dimitar. You’re related, aren’t you?”
“Piss off, I’m calling the police.”
The sounds from inside aren’t generally associated with calls of nature. “Good. You do that,” I say. Something is being dragged across the floor. It occurs to the quick-witted sleuth that there may be at least one window in this part of the building. “That will work out fine.” I can’t spot a rear exit. “I’ll wait right here until they show up.
I’m sure they’d like to talk to you as well.”
I lied. I have no intention of waiting outside the men’s room. I retrace my path through the showroom and onto the lot. The Cherokee is missing, presumably with Larry Gormé at the wheel. I head for the rear of the building and arrive in time to see George Starryk extricating himself from a bathroom window. There’s a wall at the far end of the lane and nowhere to run.
“What do you want?” he says. “I don’t know you. I’ve got nothing to do with you.”
“You filled in for Dimi on Monday night.”
“So? I was doing a favour. One brother for another. That’s no crime.”
“You are going to have to tell that story to the police, sir. Better just sit tight until they get here. They hate having to look for people.”
He doesn’t much care for that option. He picks up a handy length of two-by-four.
“Take it easy, Mr. Starryk,” I say. “We need to sort this thing out.”
“Why don’t I sort you out? You’re an intruder.”
He takes a swing at my head, which wasn’t his best move; I’d have gone for the wonky knee. I duck the bat and get too close for him to try it again. I don’t want to hit him. He’s right about one thing, I am an intruder. I tie him up, force him back against the wall and take the stick away from him.
“You don’t want to make this worse than it is, Mr. Starryk. Seriously. Calm down. I need to find your brother.”
“I drove a car. That’s all.”
“Did you see your brother that night?”
“Him and the little guy drove away. I put on the hat and jacket, you guys come out, you grab a cab. None of my business. I wait around until some guy says move the car, then I bring it back to the shop and come home.”
“That first limo is still missing. Were you aware of that?”
“Nothing to do with me.”
“And I just heard that two other limos have gone missing from Ultra this year. Were you aware of that?”
He pulls away from me, brushes off his jacket and straightens his tie.
“I’ve got nothing to do with what he does.”
“So none of those vehicles have shown up here at any time?”
“Look around. I got nothing to hide.”
“Well, they’d be in South America or somewhere by now, wouldn’t they?”
