Body Blows

by Marc Strange

  That’s a lot of assumption and extrapolation from one fact. What was the fact again? Raquel was murdered.

  And she had dressed for the occasion.

  Got any other facts?

  Yes. There was a dead man hanging on a piling.

  So? Anything you can extrapolate from that? It’s a safe bet that Farrel Newton was related to Yarnell Newton, drowned off Cape Flattery while sailing with my boss. I know for a fact that Farrel was here that night. Close enough to get himself killed. Likely he was up here trying to rob the place with Dimi Starr. That’s not really a fact, merely an informed guess. Okay, fact number two — Raquel wasn’t the only one murdered on Tuesday night.

  What else have you got?

  I’ve got a seven-inch gash along my left pronator muscle. That’s a fact. And the man who gave it to me was in the vicinity the night of the murder because he tried to run me down with his bike. And his name is Santiago. Surely that means a relative. Brother? Nephew? Another long-forgotten child? I’ve just remembered something else. Racing back to the Douglas in a cab, looking out the rear window to see if we were being followed, a high-revving motorcycle passes us, exceeding the speed limit. Jesus? Don’t see too many dirt bikes zipping down the city streets late at night. He was headed in the same direction. And he knew where we were going.

  But, big but, if he was following us from across town, then he wasn’t up here when it happened. Not much of a fact, but Raquel’s blood kin was definitely around that night. Somewhere. Sometime.

  What else?

  Not much. Everything else is murk. And voices in the back of my head saying haven’t you figured it out yet? It’s all there in front of you.

  Perhaps. But I can’t see it. Two people got killed. One person is missing. Two people are locked up. One of them tried to kill me; the other one is my boss.

  Did Leo know that Raquel was dressing for the late gathering? He said he was going to tell Vivienne that they’d had their last dance. Had he done that already?

  When I escorted her to the cab she was in a sour mood. I’d assumed it was because of the limo mixup, or Connie joining the group, or because there wasn’t a larger contingent of her sort of people invited along for nightcaps. But maybe she’d already been given the sad news. Maybe Leo had used the time in Olive’s, the public conviviality, to tell her it was over. Maybe. I can ask.

  Who knows; he might even tell me.

  The rear of Raquel’s suite opens onto an enclosed patio. There is a high brick wall along the back. On the other side will be the hotel roof. No ladder out here. A chaise and an umbrella, and a table of plants. She liked African violets. A long tray of pots, all the colours. They probably need a drink. Bone dry. I find the watering can under the plant table and carry it in to the kitchen.

  There’s a bottle with an eyedropper that says “African Violet Food” but I can’t make out the dosage in the fine print. I won’t feed them, I’ll just water them. Might as well admit it, I need reading glasses. Need more than that. Need to re-examine my prospects.

  Given Leo’s battered emotional state and his precarious legal situation, it is possible that I’ll be looking for another job before long. Even if Leo doesn’t wind up in jail, things could change quickly. Lenny says the old man’s stretched too thin. I don’t know anything about finance. I know even less about Leo’s financial situation.

  I have no idea how much he’s worth, what he owns, how much he owes. Leo is at a level where such questions are irrelevant, to me at least. Leo is one of the rich people. He smokes the best cigars, he drinks the best champagne, he wears the best soup and fish, he gives his sweetheart a diamond at least half the size of the Ritz, he has a yacht, modest by Lenny’s measure, but not too shabby. Rich people have cushions; what Morley Kline always referred to out of the side of his mouth, as “fuck-you money.” “Gotta have it kid,” he’d say. Whatever happens I’m sure Leo won’t suffer too much. And if things get really tight, he can always sell out to one of the big chains. He wouldn’t like it, but he might not have a choice. As far as I can project, that scenario ends with JG Security looking elsewhere for employment.

  Then there are the Alexander sons, always looming, either or both of them waiting for Leo to stumble. What kind of position are they in? Not too solid, as far as I can see. Lenny’s overdrawn all down the line, at least according to him. I know almost nothing about the other brother except that Theo Alexander may be ripping off his own limousines. Doesn’t sound like the wheeling and dealing of a legitimate high roller, but what do I know? High finance. Not my area of expertise. Reminds me, I should open a bank account.

  I give each of the violets a good soaking. Not sure what to do about them. Maybe Rachel Golden can take them home. Maybe I should set up a place in my little office. I’ll think about it. If the world as we know it is dimming and dying it won’t matter much where Raquel’s collection of African Violets winds up.

  I have the code for Leo’s voice mail. I’ve been told to delete everything. There are thirty- seven messages waiting.

  A lot to delete.

  “Leo, it’s Frobe, I’m still getting the dickaround from Licences and Permits …” Delete.

  “Mr. Alexander? This is Virginia Newton calling. I need to talk to you. I keep getting this machine. I think you should call me pretty soon.”

  I jot down her number before erasing the message.

  There are six others from her interspersed with calls from people Leo wouldn’t talk to on any occasion — newspapers, television stations … “This is Wendy McDonald at the CBC …” Delete.

  “Mr. Alexander, this is Cameron Marti at the Globe and Mail …” Delete.

  Et cetera, et cetera … delete, delete.

  And a final one from “Virginia Newton again, Mr. Alexander. You know what happened to Farrel. I can’t get hold of Theodore. I need to have a few things straightened out. I’m not going to wait around like the last time.”

  To delete or not to delete? I have her number. I can deliver the gist of the message even though I have no idea what it’s about, only that it sounds dire, possibly threatening, definitely urgent. Yarnell Newton, drowned off Cape Flattery, Farrel Newton, certainly related, Virginia Newton, likewise, and sounding impatient.

  Delete.

  Tomorrow, after Leo gets bail, which he no doubt will, and after he’s made his way back to the relative safety of the Douglas, I will have a thorough examination of all relevant issues. It will be necessary. Who are the Newtons for God’s sake? What’s Farrel’s connection to Theo? What’s Virginia’s connection to Leo? Oh, Lord, not that again. I should have been keeping score. By loose calculation I can call up six, eight, I’m not even trying. There seems to be an accepted truth among almost everyone I’ve bumped into that Leo is, or was, prior to Raquel, a “ladies man” or a “sultan” or a straight-ahead libertine.

  I’m beginning to think that the critical mass of this situation isn’t a business deal gone sour; it sounds more and more like woman trouble. Or women trouble. Lots of women trouble.

  Leo’s castle in the sky feels hollow and forlorn. The warmth and comfort I used to sense in these rooms is gone, gone with Raquel, gone with the affection and domesticity and feeling of completeness that was once here. On my first visit I remember getting a twinge of envy. Not that this was the kind of life that I wanted, but the sense that everything Leo needed in the world was in one place, safe and whole. A reminder, if I needed one, that such conditions are illusory, or temporary at best. Morely Kline reminded me regularly, “Nothing lasts forever, kid.”

  Leo says the wall safe wasn’t touched. What else would they want? It all looks brimming to me, albeit somewhat disarrayed by various search parties — books, paintings, model boats, sculptures (tchotchkes, Louis Schurr would have called them), rugs, furniture, appliances, entertainments, crystal, liquor cabinet. Other than one knife missing from the wooden rack, everything looks in place. Leo’s office, off his bedroom, not large, not elaborate, only the basic machinery h
e needs to direct his interests, stay in touch — fax, phone (four lines), printer/scanner, paper shredder. The computer is missing, probably taken under a search warrant. I can’t possibly tell what discs are missing, or if they’d be significant. Leo hasn’t mentioned anything he was concerned about. Of course it could be something incriminating. How would I know? He keeps secrets; he has a lot of secrets to keep.

  And the bedroom, and the bathrooms, and the closets, and the guest room, and the other guest room, and the exercise room, and all his other amenities and holdings — walk-in humidor, wine vault, pantry, freezers — anything a man would need to spend his years in comfort.

  “I don’t care how long he lives, he’ll never smoke all those,” Gritch says.

  “How do you get up here without a key?” I ask him.

  “Lloyd’s key,” he says. “You’ll be happy to know he didn’t have a heart attack.”

  “Thought you were taking the day off,” I say to Gritch.

  “I did.”

  “That usually means back the next day.”

  “The wife’s sister came over,” says Gritch. “I overheard them talking about moving a few things.” He stands at the door to the cigar closet like a man viewing the Mona Lisa. “Jeeze, you think I could smoke one of these? He’s got like a thousand.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Always wanted to try a Montecristo. Winston Churchill’s brand, or so I’ve been told.” He lights up. “So?” He puffs happily. “What are you looking for?”

  “Something worth stealing, something worth risking your life for, worth falling off a building for, worth killing a —”

  “And nothing’s missing.”

  “Nothing. Except maybe a diamond ring that Dimi wouldn’t have known about anyway, especially if he wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.”

  “Wall safe?”

  “Leo says it wasn’t touched.”

  “That just means he didn’t get to it.”

  Tyrannous off Cape Flattery swings away from the wall at a touch.

  “Got the combination?” Gritch asks.

  “Yep.”

  “You’re kidding me. Why would he give that to you?”

  “I don’t know, he trusts me.”

  “Want to open it?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Part of your commission, isn’t it? Dig where you have to dig. If Dimi and the partner-who-thought-he-could-fly were up here to steal something, it was probably in there.”

  “Where would they get the combination?”

  “Be a pretty short list,” he says. “But I could see the brothers being in on it.”

  The combination is an easy one to remember; it’s my professional record: 36 (wins) — 11 (losses) — 2 (draws). Leo set it that way so I’d never have to tax my memory circuits. “Strictly for emergencies, Joseph,” he told me over seven years ago. “In case I’m incapacitated. Or worse. A man who would stop a bullet for me can be trusted to see my wishes are carried out.”

  “I can see something that would motivate an intrepid cat-burglar,” Gritch says. “There seems to be a whack of cash money in there.”

  The only other thing in the safe, besides the ostentatious bales of currency, is a large manila envelope.

  One of those inter-office envelopes, with a flap held closed by red string, a series of holes down the sides, and a column for the signatures of the people who received it and passed it on. There are nine signatures; three of them are Leo’s. Leo had this envelope returned to him each time it went out. The other six signatures are those of Lenny Alexander, Theodore Alexander, Winston Mikela, and again, Lenny Alexander, Theodore Alexander, and Winston Mikela. Whatever’s inside is family business.

  The first thing that falls out is a stack of postcards held together with an alligator clip. Postcards. The notes on the back are brief. The first ones are printed in block letters, all caps. Later they switch to cursive script, becoming more fluid and confident as they progress.

  Seven of them. The return address is Toronto. The stamps are standard Canadian postage but the cards are images of exotic places. Whoever sent them didn’t mail them from Tahiti, Honolulu, or Paris. Maybe they just collected postcards. I sort them by date. One each year for seven years.

  DEAR DADDY

  THANK YOU FOR THE XMAS PRESENTS.

  I AM OK. I HOPE YOU ARE TO.

  ROSE (1975)

  DEAR DADDY

  MERRY XMAS. DID YOU GET THE

  PACKAGE? MISS YOU.

  LOVE, ROSE (1976)

  Daddy,

  School is fine. I’m trying out for clarinet.

  Rosie (1977)

  Dad,

  The coat is very nice. I’ll grow into it.

  Happy New Year.

  Rose (1978)

  Merry Xmas and Happy New Year,

  I played a solo in the concert. I’d like

  to go to the Conservatory of Music if

  that’s okay.

  Love

  Rosie (1979)

  Dad,

  Music isn’t for me I’m afraid. I’m doing

  better in other areas. Thanks for

  the money.

  Rose (1981)

  “She skipped a year.”

  Happy New Year,

  I’m getting my own place. I know you

  won’t approve but I need to be on my

  own for a while. I’ll send you a letter

  when I know where I’ll be. Don’t worry.

  Rose (1983)

  “Skipped another one.”

  That’s it for father-daughter communication, at least at this end. If she was nine when her mother was killed and she was placed in the care of others, then she was seventeen or eighteen when the postcards stopped. A bit young to have left home. And they’re sparse and not particularly warm, but for the first few years at least she stayed in touch. No doubt prompted by the folks who were looking after her.

  “Anything else?”

  “‘Last Will and Testament ~ To be opened in the event of my death’. It’s signed. That one I won’t be opening.

  Marriage certificates, divorce papers. ‘Dorothy Linden.’

  That would be Theo’s mother. Birth certificate, Theo.

  Birth certificate and adoption papers, ‘Leon Malcolm Dineen, born to Vera Maud Dineen.’ Legal change-of-name to Leon Malcolm Alexander.”

  “You’re making that up,” Gritch says.

  “That’s what it says.”

  “Mrs. Dineen is Lenny’s mom?”

  “I’m just reading what’s on the papers. ‘Lorraine Cox.’ Marriage certificate, death certificate. Roselyn’s mother. Basic legal stuff. Private matters, but not secrets. Marriage, birth, death, divorce, adoption.”

  “Anything in there worth stealing?”

  “Winston Mikela probably has copies. Doesn’t look to me like Leo was running away from anything. He acknowledged Lenny’s paternity, legally adopted him. He was keeping some sort of contact with his daughter. Paying for her upkeep, sending money, at least until she was eighteen or so.”

  “I vote the cash-as-motive ticket,” Gritch says.

  “Leo’s emergency money,” I say. “A little cash on hand, he calls it.”

  “Lock it up,” he says. “I just saw myself with a walk-in humidor.”

  “Okay. They were after money,” I say. I put the postcards back into the envelope and close the steel door, spin the dial.

  “They’d need inside information,” he says. “The combination. Or nitro, or a cordless drill.”

  “That drill wouldn’t have scratched this thing,” I say. I swing the painting back into place. It looks like Leo’s grinning at me. “Inside information,” I repeat. “Very short list, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’m still trying to get my head around Mrs. Dineen being Lenny’s mother,” he says.

  chapter twenty-one

  The monthly “Scones with Jam” afternoons at Olive’s are justly famous. They take place on the “middle Sunday” of eve
ry month (the dates are often arbitrary but Vancouver jazz buffs always seem to know whether she meant the 11th or the 18th) and headliners on tour make a point of dropping by. Many a chronicled concert began with the unheralded arrival of someone whose appearance elsewhere the previous night had been sold out for months. A visit to Olive’s is a pilgrimage, and being invited to sit in is both an honour and a dare.

  The mood is delicate and exploratory as I check in.

  Olive and Jimmy are on the stand with Olive’s favourite guitarist, Arlen, the kid from Fretsarus music store. The trio is flipping through a medley of old MJQ classics, “Fontessa,” “The Golden Striker,” “Cortege.” The room is half-filled, people drifting in, room at the bar for me to park my troubles two stools down from Norman Weed, who pretends I’m not in the vicinity and faces the stage, nodding, out of rhythm, but with enthusiasm. I let him have his serene moment. It’s early.

  There’s very little chatter on Sunday afternoons. Not while the music’s playing. Respectful murmuring, sighs of appreciation, an occasional “Yeah.” They came to listen.

  Barney wipes the bar and leans close. “What’ll it be, Champ?”

  “Coffee, Barney. Thanks.”

  “You got it. Want me to shuffle someone so you can sit with your friend?”

  “Let’s leave him in peace,” I whisper.

  Barney nods, disappears. Coffee appears. Olive launches into an impromptu fugue and variations on “No Sun in Venice” and then I see her face light up as she spots someone coming through the door, a man in a black fedora, wearing shades and carrying a trumpet case. Things are starting to get interesting.

  “Is that who I think it is?” asks the guy sitting between Weed and me.

  “Definitely,” says Weed.

  The guy and his drink move to a spot nearer the stage and I take the opportunity to sidle a notch closer to the Sergeant of Detectives.

  “I suppose I have to ask,” Weed says in a grumpy whisper, “how’s the arm?”

  “On the mend,” I say. “How’s the prisoner?”