Sucker Punch

by Marc Strange

  The Palm Court’s main kitchen is shutting down. An acre of newly wiped stainless steel. In a cloud of steam at the far end of the room, the last of the day’s pots and pans are being scrubbed. The laundry bins are stuffed with sweaty kitchen whites. One of the young line cooks offers me a bowl of the pasta he’s fixing for the staff. It looks pretty good, smells even better. Simple Italian fare, sausage and peppers and a solid hit of garlic. I still have people to deal with, so I settle for a slice of leftover roast beef and a cold dinner roll. The young cook tries to talk me into something less spartan, but I’m not really hungry. I just need fuel.

  The cell phone in my pocket starts ringing. Hotel property. It plays a song. I never know which button to push to make the music stop. The little lid annoys me.

  “Yep? I’m here.” Talking with my mouth full.

  “Hey, champ, it’s Barney. We had a D and D on a bar tab and one of the girls tried to stop the asshole and he pushed her.”

  The good thing about a cell phone, of course, is that you don’t have to hang up before you can start moving. I park the sandwich and head for the kitchen stairs.

  “She okay?” I ask.

  “She hurt her wrist.”

  Down one flight, around the corner, I hear the music. “I’m right there, Barney.”

  Barney spots me coming in and points to the far end of the bar, closer to the street entrance, where one of the servers is sitting at a table with her back to the crowd.

  “How bad is it?” I ask her. “It’s Laurel, right?”

  “Hi. Yes. It’s not too bad. I tried to stop myself from falling.”

  “This just happen?”

  “Like two minutes ago. He just went out there. He was chasing somebody.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Big, moustache, green jacket.”

  “I’ll be right back, Laurel. Sit tight.”

  On the street there’s no sign of Green Jacket in either direction.

  “Andrew?” I ask our doorman. “Big man, green jacket, just came out of Olive’s?”

  “He didn’t pass the front, Joe. Maybe he went the other way.”

  “Hey, Grundy.” Maxine has her cab parked third in line in front of the hotel. “You looking for somebody?”

  “Big guy, ran out on his bar tab.”

  “Went thattaway,” she says. “Chasing a little dude. All the way down and around the corner.”

  “Thanks.”

  All the way down and around the corner is the full length of the hotel plus the adjacent vacant lot where the Warburton Building stood until a year ago. A roofed walkway of plywood and scaffolding surrounds the lot, and the sidewalk superintendent windows look in on a hole in the ground and not much more. No sign of the man I’m searching for, or of the little dude he was after. Two blocks away a car runs a red light and gets away with it. I retrace my steps.

  Maxine gets out of her cab, holding a newspaper over her head to keep off the drizzle. “Long gone?”

  “Yeah, missed him.”

  “Hop in. We’ll chase him.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll find him when I need him.” Andrew is waving her forward from the steps. “You’re up,” I tell her.

  Andrew holds an umbrella over the ash-blond hair and grey silk suit of the woman now stepping off the carpet to the sidewalk.

  “Excuse me,” I say to her.

  She turns to look at me. Her eyes are pale, unwaver ing. “Yes?”

  “I work for the hotel. After you left the elevator earlier, I found this on the floor and I was wondering if you dropped it.” I take the hundred-dollar bill out of my pocket and show it to her without flashing it around.

  “Certainly not.”

  “My apologies,” I say. “One of the other guests must have lost it.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she says as she gets into Maxine’s taxi. Andrew closes the door for her. She doesn’t acknowledge either of us.

  “Do you know that woman, Andrew?”

  “No. Nice shoes, though.”

  Back inside, the trio has finished its set to distracted applause. Laurel is being helped into her coat by Barney, who is careful not to jar her arm.

  “I missed him,” I say. “Sorry.”

  “I just called my boyfriend,” she says. “He’s coming to get me.”

  “Let me take you in to Emergency. Get an X-ray.”

  “It’s not bad,” Laurel says. “I just can’t carry a tray.”

  “How much did he run out on?”

  “Wasn’t even that much,” Barney says. “Two beers, plus a bar Scotch for the little guy, then they started arguing about something and the little guy left in a huff and the big guy says something like, ‘I’m not finished with you, asshole,’ and chases after him.”

  Laurel says, “And I’m, like, excuse me, sir, and he pushes me out of the way and I put my hand out to grab the railing and bend it back a little. Ow!”

  “I think a doctor should look at it,” I say.

  “Petey’ll be here in a minute. He can take me.”

  When Petey arrives, I prevail upon him to make sure Laurel gets an X-ray. Petey’s a nice guy. He says all the right things about how if he ever sees the guy, and how he wishes he’d been here, and in the end he promises to get Laurel to Emergency to have it looked at.

  Barney is back behind the bar taking care of business. The jazz buffs are thinning out after the last set. I find an empty stool at the end nearest the door and wait for Barney to get a free minute.

  “Soon as he came in, champ, I spotted him as bad news,” Barney says. “Just had that look, you know. Two Buds, out of the bottle, sank the first one in two gulps. Carried the second one with him when he joined a table.”

  “This the little guy at the table?”

  “This was before. He takes his second beer over there, Kyra’s station, number thirteen. Nice-looking blonde sitting by herself, white wine. She didn’t touch it, though. So, oh, yeah, when he first comes in, he comes to the bar, drains the Bud, checks out your picture, asks what year it was. I told him it was the year you beat Olivera in six and won me a G-note. Then he gets the other Bud and carries it over to the table and stands there talking to the woman. I think for a minute maybe he’s hitting on her. She’s not smiling. He’s giving her static, she’s giving him the high hat. I figure she’s going to tell him to piss off, but he sits down and they have a conversation with him doing most of the talking. Anyway, he makes his point, I guess, and he gets up. That’s when the other guy shows up.”

  “Here’s where I say, what other guy?”

  “And I say, short guy, fifties, blue polyester, comb-over starting to unravel.”

  “Does he join them?”

  “No, him and the big guy grab a pair of stools at the bar. The little guy has bar Scotch and soda, the big guy’s still nursing the second Bud. They’ve got their heads together, so I don’t hear much with the sax player and the drummer doing their thing. But it’s the little guy who’s doing most of the talking, and the big guy doesn’t like what he’s saying. Then the comb-over takes off for the street door. The big guy yells something and takes off after him, and poor Laurel gets in his way.”

  “What did the woman do?”

  “She went out the other way, up to the lobby. She might still be up there.”

  “No, she got in a cab,” I say. “Give me the guy’s bar tab.”

  “Don’t worry about it, champ. Small potatoes. The D and D fund can handle it.”

  “I know, Barney, but it’s not just a dine and dash. He assaulted one of the hotel’s people. He’s going to answer for the assault, and he’s going to pay for any medical treatment and lost income.” Barney hands me the printout: $16.45. “And he’s going to pay his bar tab.”

  Kyra is the other server working this shift. Often she works the day shift behind the bar, but she makes more money working the floor. Kyra has soft brown hair down to her sacrum. Says it takes her two hours a day to keep her hair that gorgeous. I’m sure
it’s worth it.

  “She wanted to know what white wine we served by the glass,” Kyra says. “She went for the imported, but she wasn’t impressed. I don’t think she wanted a drink. She was waiting for somebody.”

  “The big guy in the sports coat?”

  “Not him. She wasn’t happy to see him. He was asking her stuff, and she was shaking her head. I heard her say, ‘Only if it comes to that.’ He says, ‘It’s not coming to that,’ whatever that is, and she says, ‘I hope not,’ and he goes off to the bar. Ten minutes later she still hasn’t tasted the wine, and I ask her if she’d prefer something else. She looks at me like she just woke up. She says no, it’s fine, and she has a sip. She says it’s fine, that she’s just listening to the music. Then that thing happens over by the door, and when I turn around she’s gone.”

  I find Olive May sitting at her little banquette in the dark corner around the far end of the bar. She has her usual rum and Coke, her pack of Winstons, and her gold lighter that says “Warm Valley.” She’s talking on the phone. “Friday night. Fri-day night. Don’t keep saying maybe. It’s Friday night. Well, what’s a booking to you? What does it mean to you?” She winks at me. “Same thing it means to me. It means someone’s booked. Friday night. He’s booked Friday night. I don’t care if he is unhappy as long as he brings his horn. Friday night. Yes, sir. Goodbye, sir.”

  She smiles across the table at me and offers me one of her Winstons. I take it. There’s no smoking in bars in Vancouver these days, but somehow it doesn’t seem to apply to Olive’s corner.

  “Who’s going to be here Friday night?” I ask as she lights me up.

  “He won’t be here. Been yanking my chain for a year.” She has a sip of her drink, mostly Coke and ice. “I keep after him. You’ve got to try. The fool will probably kill himself before the year’s out. Good player, but it costs him too much. How’s the kid?”

  “She’ll be okay,” I say, “but that wrist’s going to hurt for a while.”

  “We’ll look after her.”

  “Yes, we will.” I have a shallow drag on the Winston. Abstemious Grundy. One smoke a day, one beer a day. You’d think I was still in training. “Did you see it happen?”

  “You know me, Joe honey. I keep my back to the room.”

  “You have a good view of both entrances. You can see the staircase coming down from the lobby, and you can see the street door in that mirror.”

  “I didn’t say I was oblivious, darling, merely exclusive.”

  “There was a woman here wearing a grey suit.”

  “A statue. She didn’t belong.”

  “And you saw the man who talked to her.”

  “What was he, a cop?”

  “Used to be.”

  “Looked like a cop. Cop moustache. Kind of guy likes to push people around with his belly.”

  “He was working for someone, but I can’t figure out who.”

  “What is he, private eye, hired muscle?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I can’t help you, honey. Never saw him before. But I know the type.”

  “Me, too,” I say.

  “He was heeled.”

  “You saw it?”

  “His jacket button popped. He had a piece under his belt. Don’t know how he expected to get it out of there with his belly hanging over.”

  chapter six

  I check for messages when I’m back in the office, then pass through to the adjacent suite and into my bedroom to wake Gritch up. He comes to slowly, but he doesn’t grumble. He washes his face in the bathroom, then gargles with some of my Scope while I give Dan in 1507 a call.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “He came back.”

  “Alone?”

  “Just him.”

  “His sister still at the party?”

  “Bunch of them went down half an hour ago. She could’ve been one of them. What’s she look like?”

  “Redhead.”

  “I was watching the guy’s door, so I don’t know who was in the group.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Gritch is on his way up. You go straight home. I need you back as early as you can make it. Eleven would be good, ten would be better.”

  “All right, boss,” he says. “I’ll pack up.”

  Gritch comes out of the bathroom.

  “You okay for a few hours?” I ask.

  “Outstanding. I dreamed I had a pocketful of money. All in nickels. Couldn’t walk. Quiet night?”

  “Mostly. That guy Axelrode got into some kind of dustup with Buznardo’s lawyer down in Olive’s. Chased him out of the place.”

  “You chased him out?”

  “No. He chased Neagle out. Bumped one of the servers and hurt her wrist. Ran out on his bar tab.”

  “I’m telling you,” Gritch says, “that guy’s a stone shithead.”

  “Got his bar tab. I’ll collect in person.”

  “I’ll sell tickets.” Gritch heads out. “Have somebody send up a pot of coffee.”

  “You got it. I’ll see you in about four hours.”

  I order a pot of coffee sent up to 1507 and a wake-up call for me for 5:00 a.m. I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep, but I’ll give it a shot.

  My bedroom is connected to the office, but it was once a separate suite. I can get there by passing through what Gritch calls my “private space,” or by going one door farther down the hall. My private space is an inner office that rarely gets used. Louis Schurr’s old oaken desk takes up most of the room.

  On a corkboard above the wooden filing cabinet —also salvaged from Louis’s office — is a poster from my last fight. My picture isn’t on it. The main event that night was a middleweight championship. I’m at the top of the undercard: “Heavyweights: Joe Grundy vs. Ramón Vanez.” Fixed to the bottom of the poster with yellowing Scotch tape is a rough square of paper torn from a magazine. It reads: “By far the best scrap of the night was on the undercard, where dogged old warhorse Joe Grundy prevailed over ungraceful, heavy-punching Ramón Vanez in eight punishing rounds.” — Ring magazine.

  I remember Morley Kline showing the issue to me with some pride. “Ring,” he said. “We haven’t had a mention in Ring in three years. You should save this.”

  I did, but not for the reason he thought. The phrase “dogged old warhorse” landed like a heavy left hand. I was thirty-three. When exactly had I gone from being a “hard-hitting up-and-comer” to a “dogged old warhorse”? I remember holding the magazine and facing a simple truth: I’d gone as far as I was going to. I never put the gloves on again.

  I undress and climb into bed. My pillow smells of Gritch’s Brylcreem, and I have to get the spare one out of the bottom drawer where I’ve stashed my Gideon Bible and the.357 I haven’t carried in years. Without the pillow hiding them they look forlorn.

  The phone beside the bed starts ringing at 3:37, according to my clock radio, and it takes a few seconds before I’m hearing clearly. Something about someone pounding on a door, and then words begin getting through the fog in my head.

  “She’s yelling or something and pounding.”

  “What? Who’s this?”

  “It’s Raymond, Joe.” Raymond D’Aquino, the night manager.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Somebody’s pounding on 1502. A woman. She’s yelling. Woke a bunch of people up.”

  “Did you call Gritch? He’s in 1507.”

  “No answer, Joe. I let it ring.”

  “He’s probably with her.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve had two complaints. She’s making a big fuss.”

  “Okay, Ray,” I say. “I’ll get right up there.”

  I pull on some pants and a sweatshirt and dial 1507 for myself while I look for my shoes. No answer. No Gritch. Not good.

  The quickest way up to fifteen this time of night is via one of the service elevators on the other side of the main kitchen, which is closer than the lobby. I cut down the passageway behind the ballroom and into the kitchen, now da
rk and quiet for the night. The service elevators are through double swinging doors into the service corridor where the trolleys are parked for the night. One of the trolleys is sticking into the middle of the corridor, and as I barge through the double doors, I bang my shin in the dark, a sharp, stabbing pain that makes me hop on one foot for a second and spin around. And that’s when someone hiding in the shadows hits me with something heavy and the world disappears.

  I hate coming to. Hate it more than getting knocked out. I was kayoed three times in my boxing career, and I remember well the sick reeling wooziness of regaining consciousness. Blurry moon faces looming over you. People pestering, holding up fingers and demanding you count them. The moon face looming over me this time is the night manager’s. Raymond D’Aquino is a worried young man.

  “Mr. Grundy? Wake up. Joe? I’ll call an ambulance. Should I call an ambulance?”

  “What?” I gasp. “Ambulance? What?” Oh, Lord, I’m passing out again. No, I’m going to be sick, need to get on my feet.

  “Get me up,” I hear my voice say. Part of me is standing in a corner watching me flopping like a fish on the floor of the service corridor. “Get me up.”

  “Is that a good idea?” Raymond asks. “I don’t think you’re supposed to move.”

  “Who the hell told you that? That’s a crock. How many fights have you had? Get me up. At least sit me on something.”

  I hear him scramble around, hear the double doors swing, the lights go on and blind me. I feel as if I’m going to be sick, but instead I manage to roll away from the glare, face down with my forehead on the cool terrazzo floor.

  “I got a milk crate.”

  I hear him coming back from the kitchen and see the red plastic case he sets down beside my head.

  “Help me up.”

  Getting to your feet when you’ve been knocked out is a matter of pride and vanity and focusing on simple things; palms flat on the floor, right knee, left foot, don’t fall sideways. Raymond isn’t a big guy, but he’s stronger than he looks. A few grunts and one or two curses, and I’m sitting on the overturned milk crate with my back against the wall between two service elevators. I have a hard time focusing, but I see well enough to note the concern on Raymond’s face. He’s worried about more than my health.