Body Blows

by Marc Strange

“Goes without saying.”

  “You don’t think I’ll do it,” she says. “Do you?”

  “I think it’s highly unlikely,” I say. “Anyhow, it’s Sunday. You can’t quit until tomorrow at the earliest.” I stick out my good hand. “Five bucks says you don’t quit.”

  “You’d have to cash a paycheque.”

  “I can’t lose,” I say. “I’ve got twenty-four hours.”

  chapter twenty-two

  The Beachcomber Suite is on the ninth floor, northwest corner, far from any beach.

  “Oh, hey, it’s you, Joe. Come on in. I just ordered some food. You hungry?”

  “No, thanks. Wanted to let you know, things are straightened out with Margo.”

  “Not a bad-looking woman, if she wasn’t wired so tight.”

  “She’s been under the gun this week.”

  “I wasn’t worried. Had a good talk with the old man. We’re cool.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s all right. Got a list of stuff he needs for court tomorrow. He wants to look sharp.”

  “He wants me to bring it over?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he says.

  “When will you be heading back?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll show up for the court appearance in the morning. See if he wants me to do anything, take care of anything.”

  “Happy to see you?”

  “Ha! Yeah. Surprised the shit outta me. Swear to God, Joe, I think the old bastard shed a tear. I can’t be sure but he looked like he was about to.”

  “It’s good you went to see him.”

  “Yeah, I think so. We’re never going to be best buds, but he’s all right, I learned a lot butting heads with him. I sometimes got the feeling he was doing it on purpose, to see if I was tough enough, if I was really his son. He sure as shit doesn’t think a lot of his first-born.”

  “What about his third born, he ever mention her?”

  “Lorraine’s kid? Never talks about her. I think she’s in the loony bin.”

  “Actually, she’s in 1214.”

  “Here?”

  “Your sister now goes by the name Roselyn Hiscox.

  She’s a writer, doing a biography of your father.”

  “No shit? Is she okay? I mean, is she crazy?”

  “Seems quite sane to me.”

  “She killed her mother you know.”

  “She did?”

  “That’s the story we heard through the family grapevine.

  That’s why she was sent to the cookie factory. Leo pulled some strings, got her committed. She was a basket case after it happened. At least that’s the way I heard it. Police didn’t have any real evidence. She was like eight or nine, just a kid, very unstable. They let it slide. Family tragedy.”

  “Found some other things upstairs. Your birth certificate, change of name, adoption papers.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Have you spoken to your mother since you’ve been here?”

  “All the secrets coming out, are they? Yeah, we had breakfast. It’s not something she likes to broadcast.”

  “She calls herself Mrs. Dineen. Was she married to someone else when you were born?”

  “Nah, she’s never been married. That’s just a little fiction. She wears a ring. Keeps the staff in line.”

  “Are you two close?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Joe. My mother’s not the warmest person in the world, but to give her her due, she made sure I didn’t get screwed. I was going to get my share, even if we had to fight for it.”

  Gritch is sitting in my personal space in the company of a chunky man wearing a Guinness windbreaker and a Blue Jays baseball cap. He looks like a cop. They’re both smoking budget cigars. Gritch stands up. “Somebody I want you to meet,” he says. “Ben Kaufman, Joe Grundy.”

  The man stands up and sticks out a meaty paw. “How do?”

  “Hello, Ben,” I say.

  “I was going to bring him downstairs, but he hates jazz,” says Gritch. He sits back down. “Ben here’s an investigator for Texada Underwriters,”

  “We handle the insurance for Ultra Limousine’s fleet,” Ben says.

  “Hold on a sec,” I say. I return to the outer office and crank up the smoke extractor full blast. Then I roll Rachel’s new chair across the floor. “I’m definitely getting one of these,” I say.

  “Something the matter with one of the castors on this one,” Ben says.

  “Texada’s on the hook for the two stolen limos,” says Gritch.

  “Just one, so far,” Ben says. “The cheque for the second one’s still in my boss’s desk. Further investigation was deemed prudent.”

  “What can you tell me about it?”

  “A bit more’n a year ago, year and a half, say, they had a car stolen. Big limo, special attachments, whatever, it’s like a hundred and fifty thousand or something. It was being driven by one of the mechanics. Your dead guy, Farrel Newton. He’s supposed to be taking the thing over to a specialty place to get a camera put in or something. He takes it for a ride, stops someplace to get a coffee or take a piss, and when he comes out the limo’s gone. He comes back to the office, they call the cops, file a report, thing’s supposed to have some kind of locator gizmo but it’s not working, so yada yada, one of my pals looks into it, can’t find anything fishy, my boss shuffles papers for a few weeks then coughs up the money.”

  “What’s different about the second one?”

  “Law of averages. Insurance companies live off them. Two limos, both driven by the same mechanic? Doesn’t compute.”

  “That’s when the Fraud Squad stepped in?”

  “They find out the owner, Theodore Alexander, didn’t replace the first limo. He pocketed the hundred and fifty. Now he’s looking to collect on a second one …?”

  “Already sounds wonky,” Gritch says.

  “Not my department,” Ben says. “His company, his accountants, as long as he’s square with the taxman, no harm no foul.”

  “Then Farrel Newton lost another one.”

  “Yeah. Now this Newton mug is loopy, goes haywire from time to time, pounding walls with his head, that kind of stuff, plus he’s got the IQ of a Hallmark card. Losing the Queen Mary in a parking lot isn’t outside the realm of possibility, but it smells anyway. After the first one, who’s gonna trust this jerk with another big asset? The second limo’s worth even more than the first one. Armoured vehicle, drug lords and Russian Mafia guys just love that shit. So I start poking around, along with a Fraud guy I knew back on the Job.

  “Grand Theft Auto’s all over it too but they can’t find it. Car like that’s probably on its way to Shanghai or Moscow. They aren’t much interested in individual cars anyway; they want the outfit that’s moving them. Has to be professionals. They figure the limo is long gone, but they want the gang.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Oh, yeah, they busted this big outfit a few months back. Very slick. Won’t touch anything but expensive shit. Theft Auto rolled them up. No sign of the first limo, of course, but here’s the thing — these guys are caught dead to rights so they’ve got no reason to bullshit about one vehicle. They say they had nothing to do with boosting the second one.”

  “Inside job.”

  “What it looks like.”

  “Dimi Starr.”

  “Me and my pal find out this Dimi has a brother who’s a used-car dealer. Already it sounds promising. But his lot and showroom are clean, can’t find another property in his name. Nobody’s making any moves. Whole thing is dead quiet.”

  “Getting nervous with all the cops and dicks around,” Gritch says.

  “Then this Newton dude shows up seriously dead right next door to the third missing limo, so all bets are off. My boss says ‘fuck ’em,’ cheque stays in the drawer until the cops figure out what’s going on.”

  “You still working the case?” I ask.

  “Nope,” he says. “Murder investigation now. Have to let Homicide handle thing
s. But, same guy three times?

  No way it isn’t connected.”

  “Did you talk to Farrel Newton’s mother?”

  “The first guy tried. She ran him off. Told him to stop picking on her poor little Newt.”

  “I’ll have to pay her a visit,” I say.

  “Good luck.”

  Time to change my dressing. Gritch wanders in as I’m packing the cut.

  “How’s it doing?” he asks.

  “Healing from the bottom up, just like the Doc said. Not that I spend a lot of time looking in there, but it isn’t as deep as it used to be.”

  “Everlast is safe for another week.”

  “Or a month,” I say. “Newton’s mom is leaving messages on Leo’s machine. Wants to talk to him right away. Sounds like a person with issues.”

  “Met anybody who doesn’t have issues with Leo?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Wouldn’t think a guy spent the last eight years in a tree-house could stir up that much crapola.”

  The woman who answers the door was pretty at one time, say, twenty years ago, before sadness and mounting losses caught up with her. Her hair is an artificial shade of cherry red with pale roots visible, her rouge is vague as to where the cheekbones lie, her watery eyes are blue, unfriendly.

  She leaves the chain on. “Yeah, what?” she asks.

  “Mrs. Newton? Hello. My name’s Joe Grundy. Leo Alexander passed on your phone messages and asked me to drop by, see if I could be of any help.” When did I get to be such an accomplished liar?

  “He’s still in the slammer? All the lawyers he’s got? Christ, he must really have stepped in it this time.”

  “He’ll be back tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll want to speak to you then. In the meantime …”

  “Meantime nothing. What do you do? You write cheques? Here to negotiate?”

  “I’m not exactly sure what I’d be negotiating.”

  “Leo didn’t tell you shit, did he? You even come from him?”

  “Of course. Here’s my card.” I pass my ID through the narrow space. “JG Security, Lord Douglas Hotel. That’s me. I’ve worked for Mr. Alexander for eight years.”

  She takes her time reading it. “Doing what?” she asks. “Cleaning up his messes?”

  “Hotel security,” I say.

  She hands it back, keeps the door on its chain. “So what are you doing here?”

  “Leo wants me to find out who killed Raquel Mendez, someone he was very close to.”

  There is a moment of quiet and the door closes. I hear the chain being cleared and the door reopens. “She was his girlfriend, right?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  She nods her head, accepting another inevitable cuff from life. “How old was she? There was a picture in the paper but I couldn’t tell.”

  “I don’t know exactly, Mrs. Newton. In her thirties, I imagine, possibly forty, I suppose.”

  Young enough to bear a child, old enough to consider it a miracle.

  “That’s about right for him. Thirty years difference, give or take.” She leaves the door open and walks away. I take it as an invitation to follow. “He doesn’t much care for old broads,” she says. “’Course he never sticks around long enough to see them fall apart. He’s Lo-ong Gone Leo before that ever happens.” She stops in the kitchen and looks around, trying to remember what she was doing before I showed up.

  “The message said that you’d been trying to contact Theo Alexander. Can I ask what that’s about?”

  “I just want to make sure Far’s final paycheques come through on time,” she says. “That fat bastard’s so tight he squeaks.” She opens the refrigerator door and takes out a Pepsi. She doesn’t offer one to me. “And I’m sure as hell not paying for the funeral. That’s the limo company’s responsibility. I’ll sue them if I have to.”

  “Raquel was killed the same night, maybe the same hour as your son,” I say. “Possibly by the same person. I thought we might be able to help each other find out who did this.”

  “Who did this?!” She sits at the kitchen table holding the soda can in both hands as though wringing a neck. “I know who did this. Dimi asswipe did this. No goddamn mystery. Dimi, or his asshole brother, George, or that fat prick he works for, both fat pricks he works for. My moron son got mixed up in their shit. Got himself murdered. Dimi’s the murderer. End of story.”

  “Mr. Starr is who I’m trying to find.”

  “When you do, kick him in the groin for me.”

  “You don’t have any idea where he is?”

  “I would’ve told the cops. Happy to help. Pick him out of a lineup, witness for the prosecution, pull the switch if they’d let me fry his ass. You know this asshole?”

  “I saw him once, briefly.”

  “He’s a Communist.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh, yeah. Big Commie. Him and his Commie brother. Far didn’t know what they were talking about. Farrel wasn’t too bright. Not exactly retarded, but slow. He kept coming home saying stuff like, did I think he was a slave. I told him, Far, you’re lucky to have a job. If it didn’t have sparkplugs he was lost. Easily lead around. Dimi tied him up so tight he didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “Do you know what they were doing that night?”

  “Stealing another car.”

  “Okay, I heard that maybe there was some of that going on, but I’m wondering what they were doing at the hotel later on. The cars had already been switched. If they were only stealing a car they could have taken it somewhere.”

  “Sure, to Georgie’s.”

  “Dysart Motors? The used-car place.”

  “He’s got more than one place.”

  “You told this to the police?”

  “I told them everything I know, which is more than those Ultra pricks thought I knew.”

  “Would you tell me?”

  “After the insurance company paid up for that first car, over a hundred thousand, Dimi hears from his brother, the Commie car-dealer, that whoever stole it walked away with fifty thousand, in cash.”

  “How would he know that?”

  “Hey, they’re all crooks. Some guy George knows brokered the deal. So Dimi says, hey, why don’t we steal one of our own? Theo gets his money from the insurance company, he’s happy, we put the blame on Farrel Dummy here, he won’t get fired because Theo has to keep him on. So they do it again. They work it so Far does something stupid, the kind of thing he’s likely to do, run out of gas, get lost, whatever, and he comes back to the office, by bus, and he tells Goodier, ‘Hey, guess what, somebody stole my limo.’ Again. Only this time it looks a bit suspicious. Duh. Do ya think?” She has a drink. “The insurance company sends around an investigator, the police are nosing around, questioning poor Far who can’t spill anything because Dimi and George didn’t tell him the plan. He’s the perfect idiot. ‘I don’t know, one minute it was there, the next minute it was gone. Duh.’ Meanwhile, the limo’s sitting in Dimi’s brother’s junkyard somewhere down in Steveston. It’s not going anywhere until things quieten down.” She has another sip. “When they finally manage to unload the thing they get shit.”

  “They did sell the second one?”

  “Not for what they wanted. They only got thirty thousand. They were supposed to split it three ways, but fatass Goodier said he wanted a piece to keep his mouth shut. Far only got two.”

  “He told you?”

  “He had money he shouldn’t have had. Two thousand dollars. Left it in his work pants, it nearly went through the wash. Two thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills. I said where’d you get this? He said ‘It’s my share.’ Your share of what? So he told me the story. Or at least what he knew. They give Far two thousand and all he has to do is say it’s his fault. He won’t get fired. Theo’s not allowed to fire him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Leo says so.”

  “Leo?”

  “You really don’t know shit, do you?”

 
“Can you tell me why your son would have defaced the award Leo got last Tuesday night?”

  “He did?”

  “He drilled a hole through it, through Leo’s eye.”

  She laughs. “Oh, God bless him, the poor little guy.” The laugh turns into a sob. “He did that for me.”

  “Why?”

  “He hated Leo. Leo drowned his father.”

  “Where would he get that idea?”

  “From me, damn it! Doesn’t matter any more, does it?” She pushes the empty Pepsi can away and holds her face in her hands. “After Yarnell drowned, Leo wouldn’t see me any more. He blamed himself. He couldn’t look at me.”

  “Was he to blame?”

  “It was his boat. He was the captain. It was his responsibility.” She wipes her eyes, shakes her head sadly. “But it wasn’t his fault. They ran into a fogbank, right in the middle of a bunch of trawlers. Leo’s boat got broadsided. Broke it in half. Fishing boats are made of steel. Those guys call sailboats ‘Tupperware.’” She sighs.

  “Anyway, they never found Yarn. Big search, Leo was out there every day, but they never found his body.” She looks up at me, her eyes reddened, her losses mounting. “After that he wouldn’t come near me. I hated him for that. He broke my heart.”

  “Leo was giving you some support?”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, he made arrangements, got Farrel his job when he couldn’t get anything else, made sure he hung onto it, sent me a few bucks from time to time.”

  “You think that will stop, now that your son is dead?”

  “How should I know? That’s what I want to talk to him about.”

  chapter twenty-three

  Gritch is waiting in the car with the door open, puffing on an El Ropo.

  “Enjoying your day off?” I ask.

  “Reminds me why I can’t stand the East End.”

  “You live in the East End.”

  “Tell me about it. I could be shifting furniture six blocks away.”

  “Virginia Newton thinks Dimi killed Farrel. Or possibly his brother George did it. They’re both Commies by the way, according to her. She expects Theo to pay for her son’s funeral. And she wants to talk to Leo about money. He’s been supporting her for a while.”

  “Out of the goodness of his heart, I suppose.” Gritch sounds dubious.