Body Blows

by Marc Strange

  Larry Gormé and the Jeep Cherokee are still missing when I get to the car. I sit in the front seat of the hotel’s sedan, which does look in need of a fresh set of tires, and at very least a visit to the carwash. I manage to make the cellphone work and punch in Gritch’s number.

  “Hey, Gritch? Call Mooney and Pazzano will you? Tell them to check out Dysart Motors. The manager is a guy named Starryk, S-T-A-R-R-Y-K. Dimi’s brother. He was the replacement driver Monday night.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he says. “You want me to tell them about the limo we found in the parking garage first?”

  “Mercedes?”

  “Oh, it’s the right one,” he says. “Got the Ultra sticker and everything.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Top level. Far side of the elevator where they usually keep the dumpster,” he says. “Garbage guys were pissed, phoned down. One of the Presbyterians went up and found it ten minutes ago.”

  “Stick with it. I’m on my way back.”

  “You going to call them or should I?”

  “I’ll call them.”

  Much as I dislike making Pazzano’s day … “Hello? Detective Pazzano, please. Okay. How about Mooney? Okay, well could you reach out for them? Tell them it’s Joe Grundy. Tell them one of our security guys found that limo they’ve been looking for.”

  I start the car, count to ten, about ready to maroon Larry when he squeals into the lot and shudders to a stop a few inches from the rear of a Pontiac Firebird. He bounces out of the Jeep and swaggers over with a big grin on his face. I can see the salesman dismounting gingerly.

  Larry climbs in beside me and slams the door.

  “Have fun?” I ask.

  “It was a blast,” he says. “I drive like one of the Andretti boys. Don’t know why they pulled my licence.”

  Gritch is waiting on the open roof of the parking garage, puffing happily on an El Producto as we pull up. Larry is still pumped after his test drive, or maybe it’s because he’s about to steal a story from an ambitious young reporter who’s been beating him to the punch. Whatever the reason, he’s cheerful as a songbird, snapping pictures with his cellphone. Mine doesn’t have that function. At least I don’t think it does.

  “Right on your doorstep,” he says. “With any luck there’s a dead body in the trunk.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” says Gritch. “The trunk lid isn’t latched all the way. Something’s sticking out. Could be a coat.”

  Larry wants a closer look but I grab his arm. “Let’s wait for the authorities,” I tell him.

  “Aren’t you prudent all of a sudden,” he says. He grabs another shot.

  “Security camera up here?” I ask Gritch.

  “Yeah, there’s one over there and one on the ramp.

  And they should have picked it up driving in from the street, too. Rachel’s getting that organized.”

  A cruiser pulls onto the roof. Melody Chan gets out. She looks happy to see Gritch. He’s definitely happy to see her. They don’t have any chance to swap war stories because Pazzano and Mooney are right behind them. I can’t tell whether they’re pleased or pissed, they have their cop faces on — we’ve heard ’em all, we believe no one, and where were you on the night in question?

  “Anybody touch it?” Pazzano.

  “Not from our staff,” Gritch says. “Can’t speak for the rest of the world.”

  “Goddamn tinted windows,” says Mooney. The limo is parked nose out. He walks around to the rear, crouches. “Trunk isn’t closed all the way.”

  “Pop it,” says Pazzano.

  Mooney puts on a glove and pops the lid. No body.

  Larry looks disappointed.

  “Got a cordless drill,” Mooney says.

  “Rachel Golden’s getting the security tapes for you,” Gritch says.

  “Okay,” Mooney says, taking control of the situation, moving Pazzano and me a few steps apart.

  “You uniforms bag this area. Civilians out. You!”

  “Have you guys talked to Dimi’s brother yet?” I ask.

  “Who?” says Pazzano.

  “Dimi Starr’s real name is Starryk. His brother George, also named Starryk, is currently managing Dysart Motors on Broadway.”

  “I thought we told you to keep your nose out of this,” Pazzano says.

  “Oh, Lord!” I say, thoroughly fed up. “If you two were half as good as you think you are, you’d know all this.”

  Pazzano muscles up to my chest, getting his feet set. He’d like to make this physical, provoke me into shoving back. Stupid as that might be, I’m getting perilously close to obliging him. I can feel Gritch’s hand on my wrist.

  “Oh, I’m sure they would have found all this out in a few more days,” Gritch says.

  “While you’re at it,” I say, “you might want to check with the fraud guys. This is the third limo’s gone missing at Ultra.”

  “Get away from the car or I’ll break your little camera,” Pazzano says.

  Larry turns. “Me?”

  “Not a lot of gratitude around here,” Gritch says.

  “Hey, I appreciate,” says Melody Chan. “I was on my way to guard a dead horse.”

  chapter fifteen

  “You wouldn’t believe the checklist,” Connie says. “It’s a masterpiece of bafflegab — what to say, what not to say, to our hosts, to our guides, to the governor general, questions you can ask, questions you must never ask. Not to mention the security clearance, medical checkup, shots …”

  “You likely to pick up an exotic disease over there?”

  “Don’t want me spreading any. I’m going to be cooped up in a plane with the G.G. for ten hours — can’t have me incubating microbes all the way. She has to disembark looking bright-eyed and ready for business.”

  “How long before you take off?”

  “Four hours. Finish your lamb chop, big guy, I haven’t got all night.”

  The Palm Court is beginning to fill up with the pre-theatre dining crowd. Rolf Kalman, the maître d’, has given us one of his premium tables, secluded, by the potted trees for which the place is named. I promised him we wouldn’t occupy it all night, it’s worth at least a hundred-dollar gratuity from the right couple seeking public privacy. Connie is dressed for travelling — a soft, tailored jacket over a very fetching silk blouse. She looks chic, alert, filled with anticipation, fully capable of handling anything that comes her way. I must stop fretting about her. I try not to hover but it’s in my nature. Inside my jacket is the little black box I’ve been carrying for two days.

  “Safe trip,” I say.

  “Awww,” she says, pulling out the thin gold chain and medallion. “A Saint Christopher medal. You cashiered altar boys sure know the way to a gal’s heart.”

  “I wanted to get you a flak jacket but they didn’t have one in your colour.”

  “I thought the Pope had this guy decommissioned,” she says, deftly fastening the almost invisible catch. She knows better than to ask me to handle it.

  “Don’t tell my Uncle Victor,” I say. “He flew twenty missions in Korea wearing one just like that.”

  “Uncle Victor still around?”

  “Oh, yeah. Eighty-four, never had a fender-bender. Doesn’t matter what Rome says, Saint Christopher looms large where I come from.”

  She tucks the medal inside her blouse and jiggles sweetly to settle the erstwhile saint. “He’ll be happy there,” she says with a smirk.

  “Who could blame him?”

  “You want dessert?” she wants to know.

  “I haven’t looked at the menu.”

  “It wouldn’t be on the regular menu,” she says.

  We can’t linger over dessert nearly as long as I’d like. The airport beckons, China beckons.

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she says. “I’ll grab a cab.”

  “I’d get another hour out of the deal.”

  “Well, get a move on then. Miss that plane, you’ll never
get lamb chops again. Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “All gooshy.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “While you’re away I’ll miss you.”

  “Don’t fret.” She touches Saint Christopher. “I’m in good hands.”

  “Button your shirt,” I say. “The governor general’s waiting.”

  I stick around the airport until takeoff. One brief wave passing through security and she’s out of sight. Still, I stay until the plane is safely airborne, and longer than that, sitting in the cafeteria, drinking poor coffee, looking out at arrivals and departures, aware of being alone. I’ve never minded being alone all that much, not for some time anyway, but tonight it’s getting to me, just a little.

  I stash the car in the parking garage and descend to street level. My mind is occupied with vague concerns about trans-Pacific air travel and hijackers masquerading as flight attendants. I need sleep. The wall clock in Connor’s darkened diner says it’s 3:38 a.m., the one in the brightly-lit Scientology reading room disagrees by two minutes. The street is empty. I barely notice the wasp whine of the approaching motorcycle until it’s nearly on me. The rider isn’t wearing a helmet. The bike disappears around the corner by the construction site and the noise quits. He’s parked it. It’s possible he’s come back for his copy of Conan the Barbarian, but I wonder how he plans on getting in with his hacksaw still at the bottom of the excavation, or tagged in a police evidence locker.

  I stay on the opposite sidewalk and make an effort to walk like an unconcerned pedestrian. I can see the bike stashed around the corner in the shadows but no sign of the man who rode in on it. No sign of anyone working on the padlocked gate. Then I spot him. He’s on the roof of the walkway, taking the long way down. Agile, too, no wasted motion, no fumbling, a skilled porch-climber.

  My choices are limited. I could follow him into the pit, but taking into account my dubious left knee and the possibility that he could be waiting in the dark with something more lethal than a pocketknife, it seems that the best plan is to wait near his Suzuki.

  I don’t have to wait long. I can hear him clambering across the roof directly overhead. He swings down like a trapeze artist, duffel bag slung across his back, spots me instantly and freezes, like a cat. A young man, in his twenties probably, close-cropped hair, black moustache and beard. A streetlight catches his dark eyes when he spins around to make sure we’re alone. He sets his feet like a man who’s fought before.

  “Excuse me, you’re Mr. Santiago, Jesus, is that right?” I begin politely. “I have something of yours. I think it’s a Bronze Star.”

  “Ten bucks and it’s yours.”

  “Someone was murdered Monday night, and you were close by. You need to answer some questions.”

  “How about you answer one. Who the fuck are you?”

  “Joe Grundy. I work at the hotel. I’m helping with the investigation.”

  “Good. You do that. I’ve got other plans.”

  “The police want a word with you as well.”

  “I won’t be around that long.”

  I can see that he isn’t going to cooperate and I’m too tired to spend the night arguing. I fumble in my pocket for the cellphone, pop it open and try to remember where 911 is on the miniscule keypad. “Hello, this is Joe Grundy at the Lord Douglas, corner of …”

  Without actually seeing where it came from, I find myself looking at a very shiny blade, some kind of combat knife with brass knuckle accessories. The thing probably has a compass in the handle, too. He slashes the air a foot from my face. “You can fuck off or get cut, your call,” he says.

  A person takes extra care when cold steel is waved in their face. I know I do. I drag off my jacket and start wrapping it around my left forearm.

  “Wish I could,” I say, “but I really need some answers.”

  “Yeah, life is just full of disappointments, isn’t it?”

  He knows how to use a knife, I can tell that much in a hurry. He slashes and darts and never stays in one spot for long. He’s whipping slices at my face and lunges at my midsection. The only thing hampering him is how narrow the walkway is. The wooden fence and the sidewalk railing are keeping him from circling me and it’s pretty much straight back and forth. In my case, mostly back.

  “Leave me the fuck alone!” he yells.

  I can hear desperation in his voice. Desperate men are dangerous. His next slash cuts through my jacket and I can feel hot wetness well up on my arm. Another article of clothing ruined. I duck as he makes a lunge at my eyes and bump backward into the Suzuki, barely managing to stumble around to the other side without landing on my butt. The bike tips over, whacking me on my bad knee. Well, he’s got steel to work with; I might as well have some too. Good thing it’s not a Harley, although with my adrenaline pumping the way it is I could probably lift that as well. I grab the bike by the front forks and the seat and charge straight at him. Now he’s backing up, tripping, stabbing wildly, the blade catches somewhere in the motor mount and when he tries to wrench it free he goes down hard. The Suzuki crashes onto his chest. I club him twice on the side of his jaw with my good right fist. He’s out cold. I’m bleeding, my knee hurts, but I’m very much alive. I resist the urge to bellow. I can hear a siren getting closer. A welcome sound. I could use some backup. I’m tired.

  A very nice, very kind Korean doctor sews up my forearm, clucking disapprovingly with every stitch. There are thirty-six of them.

  “Very deep cut,” she says. “Clean edges.”

  “It was a sharp knife.”

  “Tsk tsk.” She shakes her head.

  “It’s starting to hurt.”

  “You gashed a muscle. It’s supposed to hurt.”

  “That’s a comfort.”

  She looks over her shoulder at the man in the doorway. “Last one,” she says.

  “Take your time,” says Norman Quincy Weed. He yawns. “I’m not awake yet.”

  “All done.” She snips the last knot. “Sit tight. A nurse will come in and dress it.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” I say. “You sew a fine seam.”

  “Watch out for infection,” she says. I can hear a few clucks as she heads for her next emergency.

  Norman has a close look at the stitching. “Nice one,” he says. “I just love visiting you in the hospital.

  Gets my day off to a sunny start.”

  “Is he locked up?”

  “More or less,” he says. “In the Infirmary, under guard. Someone hit him over the head with a motorcycle.”

  “Just a small one.” Small or not, my shoulder muscles are sore, my hands are torn up and I’ve got grease on my shirt. “Is he conscious?”

  “He’s moaning a lot. You broke a few ribs.”

  “He started it.”

  “Yeah, well, be careful he doesn’t sue you,” Weed says. “You bent his bike.”

  I lift my arm gingerly off the table and rest it against my chest. It feels heavy. And useless.

  “I don’t think this can be repaired,” he says, holding up my jacket. The left sleeve is much darker than the right one. Weed sits in the vacated doctor’s chair and looks at me for a long moment. I can see in his eyes that’d really like to smack me upside the head. “If I really felt like it, you know,” he says, “I’m pretty sure I could get you ninety days for being an all-round pain in the ass, but then we’d have to nurse you through your convalescence.”

  “You talked to the Americans yet?” I ask.

  “Time you took a vacation, Joe, my boy,” he says pointedly. “Before my detectives bust your ass, or before you get yourself killed.”

  “Say what he was doing here?”

  “I plan on asking him that very question when he stops bellyaching about his ribs.” He steps aside as a nurse comes in carrying a tray of bandages and tape. “And after I’ve had breakfast,” he says.

  Almost noon. I’m outside now, and I have new visitors. Mooney
’s wandered off to watch ambulances arrive and depart while he talks to Weed on his cellphone. The questioning began inside some time ago — how do you know this guy? What were you doing there that time of night? — all of which I manage to deal with — Leo owns the property, I work for Leo, Santiago was trespassing.

  Just doing my job.

  Pazzano watches me fumbling to adjust the sling.

  My left arm feels like a half-cooked leg of lamb.

  “That’s gonna mess up your jab for a while,” Pazzano says.

  “Making a fist is not an option right now,” I say.

  “Got stuck in the leg a few years back,” Pazzano says. “Infection, antibiotics, swollen up. Hate knives.”

  He looks at me with something akin to tolerance. “Better hope he kept his blade clean,” he says.

  “He kept it sharp,” I say.

  “I hear you.”

  It seems we’re blood brothers. Temporarily, at least.

  Mooney rejoins us. “He’s awake,” he says, “pissing and moaning.”

  “Let’s go brighten his day,” Pazzano says. “Give him something substantial to moan about.”

  As much as I hate to admit it, the arm is less painful when I leave it in the sling but it does tend to give the game away.

  Gritch says, “What the hell happened to you?”

  Rachel’s reaction is somewhat more motherly. “Oh, Christ, Joe, now what have you done?”

  “I was hoping for a ‘there-there, poor thing,’” I say.

  “Is there any coffee?”

  “I’ll get it,” she says. “Is it broken?”

  “No, no, just a few stitches?”

  “How few?” She hands me a mug.

  “I forget.”

  “Bullshit,” she says. “What happened?”

  “I bumped into that guy Santiago, the one who’s been camped out next door. He had a knife.”

  “He get away?” asks Gritch.

  “In the hospital. Under guard.” The coffee has extra sugar. Rachel probably thinks I’m in shock.

  “So?” Rachel is insistent. “When did this happen?”

  “About four a.m.,” I say. “He was climbing out of the gravel pit. We had a scuffle, that’s all. He nicked me. I knocked him down and called the cops.”