Hard Winter Rain

by Michael Blair

  “I’ll just be a few minutes,” she said, tapping at her computer keyboard. Her voice was soft and surprisingly deep, but not at all masculine.

  “We’ve got plenty of time,” Shoe said. The concert didn’t start until nine. He dropped into the casual chair beside her desk. “How was your weekend?”

  “You know what he had me doing?” she said. “Nothing. Not a damned thing. But he had me doing it here. Just in case.”

  “You shouldn’t let him take advantage of you,” Shoe said. Muriel had worked for Hammond Industries for sixteen years, not as long as Shoe, but longer than anyone else in the office save Bill Hammond himself. For eleven of those years she’d been Hammond’s executive assistant.

  “I’m well paid,” she replied. She shrugged and grinned, black eyes mischievous. “Besides, it’s not like I have a husband to go home to, is it? How about it, Joe? You know what they say about Chinese women, especially the old-fashioned kind. They make the best wives.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Shoe said. “In case I ever meet one.” She wrinkled her nose at him.

  Muriel was about as old-fashioned as the computer on her desk. She’d never married, but until about a year ago had been more or less permanently engaged to an engineer from Hong Kong. Shoe didn’t know why it had ended and wasn’t going to ask.

  “Is that a new jacket?” she asked.

  “I bought it this afternoon,” he said. “Along with the shirt and the tie. I would have bought new slacks, too, but they didn’t have time to make the alterations. The girl in the store said I looked very dashing.”

  “She has excellent taste,” Muriel said. She shut down her computer. “I really appreciate this, you know.” Her date for the concert, she’d told him, had had to beg off at the last minute.

  “I like Bach,” Shoe said.

  “It’s Brahms.”

  “Oh?” Shoe said. “Forget it then.” Muriel made another face at him. Shoe gestured with his chin toward the closed door to Hammond’s office. “He’s still here?”

  “Oh, yes,” Muriel replied. “But I wouldn’t go in if I were you. He’s in a truly pissy mood. Charles is with him.” She stood. Shoe stood with her. “Give me a couple of minutes to change,” she said. “Then we can go.”

  A lean, flint-faced man came into the reception area.

  “Good evening, Miss Yee,” he said.

  “Good evening, Mr. Tilley,” Muriel replied.

  He turned to Shoe. “Mr. Schumacher,” he said coolly.

  “Mr. Tilley,” Shoe replied.

  Del Tilley was Hammond Industries’ Chief of Security. In his mid-thirties, he was of average height, which made him at least a head shorter than Shoe, but he held himself so stiffly erect that he seemed taller. He had close-set yellow eyes, his hair was buzz-cut to within an eighth of an inch of his scalp, and his ears stuck straight out from the sides of his head like the handles of Shoe’s mother’s consommé bowls. He wore custom-made black cowboy boots, the high-heeled kind, not the flat-heeled city boots. Shoe thought they might have had lifts in them.

  Two years ago, shortly after Del Tilley had joined the company, acquired along with a building security and maintenance firm Hammond Industries had taken over, Shoe had been working out on the treadmill in the small exercise room the company provided. He was almost done when Del Tilley had come in with one of his massive security gorillas, a former BC Lions line-backer named Ed Davage. Both men wore judo gis. Tilley’s had a black belt. Davage’s belt was green. The two men did some stretches, followed by some formalized routines, then began to spar. Davage, not as tall as Shoe but broader, looked slightly embarrassed whenever he let his boss throw him. Still, Tilley’s martial arts prowess was impressive.

  When his half-hour was up, Shoe shut down the treadmill and started toward the shower. Del Tilley disengaged from his sparring partner with a bow.

  “I heard you used to be a cop,” he said to Shoe. He kept his distance so he wouldn’t have to crane his neck to look Shoe in the eyes.

  “A long time ago,” Shoe said.

  “You must still remember some of your cop training,” Tilley said.

  “I suppose I do.”

  “Would you care to spar?”

  Shoe looked at Ed Davage. His dark face was impassive. His bulky musculature was imposing. “No, thanks,” Shoe said.

  Tilley’s jug-handle ears had reddened. “Not with him,” he’d said stiffly. “With me.” A grin, quickly gone, had tugged at the corners of Davage’s mouth.

  Shoe had felt his face colour. “Sorry,” he’d said. “Some other time, perhaps.”

  Ever since then, Del Tilley had treated Shoe with stiff formality bordering on contempt.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Tilley?” Muriel asked.

  “No, thank you, Miss Yee,” he replied. He looked at Shoe. “However, since you’re here, Schumacher, perhaps we could take the opportunity to discuss some organizational changes I have in mind.” Keeping his expression carefully neutral, Shoe waited for Tilley to explain exactly what sort of organizational changes he had in mind. Finally Tilley said, “In light of Mr. O’Neill’s resignation, I’m going to suggest to Charles Merigold that your responsibilities be transferred to my department.”

  “Your department?” Shoe said.

  “Yes,” Tilley said. “Despite your rather grandiose title, your duties are essentially investigatory in nature and as such fall more properly into my bailiwick.”

  “Your bailiwick?” Shoe said.

  “Security,” Tilley responded. “And I think Mr. Merigold will agree with me.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Shoe said amiably. “There’s one little problem, though.”

  “Oh? And what is that?”

  “I don’t work for Mr. Merigold. I work for Mr. Hammond.”

  Tilley’s face hardened. “I was under the impression,” he said tightly, “that you reported to Mr. O’Neill. He was VP of Corporate Development, after all.”

  “An understandable error,” Shoe said, smiling. “Given my rather grandiose title. But an error nonetheless. However, don’t let that stop you.”

  “I won’t,” Tilley replied. He turned on his heel and stalked off down the hall toward his office.

  Shoe looked at Muriel, who shrugged eloquently. Picking up a small overnight bag, she said, “Mind the fort while I change.” She headed toward the women’s washroom.

  Shoe was minding the fort when Hammond’s office door opened and Charles Merigold came out. Merigold was Hammond Industries’ Managing Director. He was a handsome, somewhat effeminate man in his late fifties, whose suit looked as though it had been made an hour ago. Did he ever sit down? Shoe wondered.

  “Hello, Charles,” he said.

  Merigold nodded. “Is Muriel still here?” he asked in his smooth, modulated voice. Shoe said she was. “Mr. Hammond would like to see her.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Shoe said.

  “Thank you,” Merigold said and went into his own office.

  Shoe wrote the message on a sticky-note and put it in plain sight on Muriel’s phone. He then knocked on William Hammond’s office door and went in without waiting for an invitation.

  “What are you doing here?” Hammond growled from behind his big, marble-topped executive desk. “Where the hell’s Muriel?” With a gnarly, liver-spotted hand, he lifted a tall crystal tumbler and drank a third of its contents. He’d lately developed a liking for Bloody Caesars.

  “She’s getting changed,” Shoe said.

  “Humph,” Hammond said and set his drink down with a hard chink of glass against stone.

  “How are you?” Shoe asked. “You look tired.”

  Hammond grunted. “I haven’t had a decent crap in weeks,” he said. “And every morning it seems to take longer to piss. On top of that, I don’t have any fucking backpressure anymore, dribble all over the god-damned floor. I’m going to have to start sitting down to piss, for crissake.”

  “Sorry I asked,” Shoe said.
He sat in one of the black leather wingback chairs facing Hammond’s desk. It was still warm from Charles Merigold’s body heat.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” Hammond said. “I thought you were taking a couple of weeks off.”

  “Muriel and I are going to a concert,” Shoe said.

  “Humph,” Hammond said again.

  “Are you all right?” Shoe asked. “I could cut my vacation short if you like.”

  “What do you mean? Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Patrick’s resignation must have come as a shock,” Shoe said.

  “Bah,” Hammond said, waving aside Shoe’s concern. He cocked a raggedy eyebrow. “Have you spoken to him?”

  “Not since Friday,” Shoe replied. At a little past five on Friday, Patrick O’Neill had stuck his head into Shoe’s office and said, “Got time for a quick one downstairs?” When they were seated in the bar of the restaurant on the ground floor, Patrick with a vodka and tonic, Shoe with a club soda, Patrick had said, “I just thought I’d warn you, before the shit flies, that I’ve resigned.” Shoe had known Patrick was unhappy, but he hadn’t expected it to come to this. When he’d asked him when he was leaving, Patrick had looked at his watch and replied, “Fifteen minutes ago.”

  “He didn’t even have the gumption to tell me to my face,” Hammond growled. “He wrote me a god-damned letter.”

  “Would you have accepted his resignation if he’d given it to you in person?” Shoe asked.

  “No,” Hammond replied. “I still don’t.”

  “I don’t know that you have much choice.”

  “We’ll see about that. Talk to him. Find out what he wants to come back.”

  “You know what he wants,” Shoe said.

  Hammond growled inarticulately, then said, “I’ll bet she put him up to it, just to spite me.”

  Shoe sighed. “I don’t think she knew anything about it,” he said. “He told me on Friday he was worried about how he was going to break the news to her.”

  “He hadn’t told her?” Hammond said.

  “Apparently not,” Shoe said.

  “How long have you known?” Hammond asked.

  “Just since Friday.”

  “You mean he hadn’t told you either?” Hammond said. “You’re his best friend, for crissake.”

  Shoe shrugged. “Victoria’s his wife.”

  Hammond waved that fact aside. “There are times when it’s best to keep wives in the dark,” he said. “Saves a lot of trouble, believe me. But not telling your best friend, that’s different.”

  Shoe reserved comment.

  “You’re a goddamned fool, you know,” Hammond said.

  “Thank you,” Shoe replied.

  Hammond grunted. “She’d’ve married you, you know, if you’d asked.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I didn’t ask,” Shoe said.

  “You’re probably right,” Hammond agreed sourly. “You might be big and tough, but she’d’ve eaten you alive.”

  “Can we change the subject, please?” Shoe said.

  “Sure,” Hammond said. “What would you like to talk about? Let’s see. Are you enjoying your vacation? What are you doing to keep yourself busy?”

  “Nothing much.” Shoe replied. “Working around the house.”

  “Sounds exciting,” Hammond responded.

  The door opened and Muriel came into the office. She had changed into a plain red silk Chinese-style dress that covered her from throat to ankles, perfectly cut to fit to every line and curve. The skirt was slit almost to her hip, exposing an immodest length of silk-sheathed thigh.

  “About goddamned time,” Hammond grumbled. “Abby’s hosting the monthly meeting of the board of directors of one of her damned charities. Bunch of cackling hens with egg salad between their teeth. I’m going to spend the night here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Muriel replied, glancing at Shoe. “But why don’t I get you a hotel room? It would be more comfortable?”

  “What’s it matter to you where I sleep, for crissake? Just make up the goddamned bed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Muriel replied.

  Hammond finished his drink and thrust the empty glass in Shoe’s direction. “Fix me another, will you?”

  Shoe went to the liquor cabinet. He caught Muriel’s eye as she squatted to take bedding from the bottom drawer of a similar cabinet next to the long leather hide-a-bed sofa. The move seemed contrived to cause the slit of her skirt to part high on her thigh. She winked at him and he felt the heat rise in his face. He returned to Hammond’s desk and handed him his drink.

  Hammond watched Muriel as she removed the cushions from the sofa and opened it into a queen-sized bed. Shoe recalled Muriel once telling him that Hammond liked to watch her whenever he thought she wouldn’t notice. “Although I don’t think he really cares if I notice or not,” she’d said. “It stopped bothering me a long time ago. In fact, from time to time I give him a little show. What can I say? I’m an exhibitionistic hussy. I’d faint dead away, though, if the old bugger ever called my bluff and did anything about it.”

  Hammond sighed suddenly and slumped back in his high-backed chair. Shoe was shocked at how old he looked. His balding pate was a sickly and scabrous yellow and the flesh of his face was creased and folded and sagging. His hands protruded from the sleeves of his suit coat like bundles of bent sticks.

  “Why don’t you take some time off?” Shoe said. “Take Abby on a cruise over the holidays. Charles can handle things around here.”

  Hammond grunted. “Charlie Merigold can’t jerk himself off without someone to hold his hand,” he said. Across the room, Muriel chuckled. “Anyway,” Hammond went on, “Abby hated that cruise we took three years ago. So did I.”

  When Muriel had finished making up the bed, she said, “Can I get you something to eat before we go?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Hammond said.

  “You should eat something.”

  “All right. Anything to stop your goddamned nagging. A sandwich.” He tasted his drink, then held it out to Shoe. “Put some damned vodka in this,” he said.

  The telephone in the outer office began to ring. Muriel went out to answer it.

  “Perhaps this isn’t the best time to bring this up,” Shoe said as he added a splash of vodka to Hammond’s drink, “but I’ve been thinking about retiring.”

  “Eh?” Hammond said. “What’s that?”

  “Not right away. Maybe not even soon.” Shoe passed Hammond his drink. “But it’s something I’ve been thinking about.”

  “You’re what, fifty?” Hammond said. “No one retires at fifty, for crissake.”

  “And maybe I won’t,” Shoe said. “I don’t want to work for Del Tilley, though.”

  “Eh? What are you talking about? You don’t work for Del Tilley. You work for me.”

  “Tilley thinks that despite my ‘grandiose title,’ as he put it, I should be working for the security department,” Shoe said.

  “Your job is to investigate companies we’re thinking of buying. What’s that to do with security, for crissake? Forget Tilley.” Hammond’s eyes suddenly sharpened. “Unless you want his job. You’re as qualified as he is to run security around here, maybe more so.”

  “I like the job I have,” Shoe said.

  “So what’s all this blather about retirement then?”

  “As I said, it’s just something I’ve been thinking about.”

  Muriel came back into the office, expression troubled. “That was the security desk in the lobby,” she said to Hammond. “The police are downstairs.”

  “Eh? What do they want?” he asked.

  “They want to talk to you.” She gestured to the phone on his desk. “Shall I tell security to send them up?”

  “I suppose so,” Hammond said. Muriel picked up the phone. “See what they want,” he said to Shoe.

  chapter two

  Shoe met the two uniformed cops in the outer office. One was a big, raw-boned redhead in
his twenties whose nametag read “A. Callahan.” The other was a sturdy, olive-skinned female constable in her forties. Her nametag read “T. Minnelli.”

  “Mr. William Hammond?” Constable Minnelli asked.

  “No. My name is Schumacher. I work for Mr. Hammond. What can I do for you?”

  “Is Mr. Hammond here?”

  “Yes, but he’s indisposed at the moment,” Shoe said.

  The redheaded cop smiled knowingly, misinterpreting the expression, but Minnelli was all business. “Do you know a Patrick O’Neill?” she asked.

  A point of coldness formed in the middle of Shoe’s chest. “Yes,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” Minnelli said, her voice tonelessly professional, “but Mr. O’Neill was shot to death a few minutes before four this afternoon, in a restaurant near the Waterfront SkyTrain station.”

  The point of coldness in Shoe’s chest expanded. Adrenaline rushed through him like an electrical current, making the surface of his skin tingle with hyper-sensitivity. “Shot?” he said disbelievingly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Has his wife been informed?”

  “Yes,” Minnelli said.

  Muriel came out of Hammond’s office. The cops looked at her, the redhead’s eyes widening slightly. Shoe’s voice was hollow as he said, “This is Miss Yee, Mr. Hammond’s assistant.”

  The cops nodded.

  “Joe?” Muriel said, stepping close to him. “What is it?” She placed her hand on his arm.

  Shoe repeated what Minnelli had told him, almost word for word.

  “Oh, god,” Muriel said, staggering as if she’d been struck. Shoe took her arm, afraid she might fall, but she was made of sterner stuff than that. She leaned against him for a second, though, while tears formed in her eyes.

  “I think you should get him,” Shoe said to her, hand still on her arm.

  She nodded, took a breath, and went into Hammond’s office.