Sucker Punch

by Marc Strange

“How many?”

  “Prescription was for thirty. I put in about half. Maybe fifteen.”

  “Lorazepam is…?”

  “A sleeping pill.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Gritch blurts, breaking radio silence. “You didn’t even measure the damn dosage?”

  “Gritch? Hey, man, those pills aren’t that strong. I figured you’d just nod off. I only needed a minute.”

  “So let me get this straight,” I say. “You wait for Gritch to drop off, then you grab the case from under the bed…”

  “Then I go down the fire stairs, back of the big kitchen.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I don’t know, maybe two, two-thirty.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I had something to eat.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense,” Gritch says. “Steal a quarter-million, deke downstairs and have a sandwich.”

  “I needed some time to figure things out. I think better when I’m eating.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Gritch says. “What did you eat?”

  “Mayonnaise. And bread. Bread and mayo. First things I found.”

  “Yeah, that’s what all the big thinkers munch on,” Gritch says.

  “Then what?” I ask.

  “I was in the kitchen, trying to think of a safe place to stash the case. I was thinking there should be a good place around the pantry maybe, and then I heard voices and got nervous, so I grabbed the case. I heard somebody running and I tried to duck behind a door, and then —”

  “What did you hit me with?”

  “I swear, Joe, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t know who it was. It was dark and somebody was running, and then you crashed into the trolley and I’m just behind the door and I didn’t even think. I just swung.”

  “Swung what?”

  “The attaché case. I think I hit you with the corner. I’m really sorry.”

  “Now we need to talk about the gun.”

  “Joe, I swear to Jesus, man, I never had a gun, I never saw the guy, I never shot the guy. I didn’t even know he was shot until I heard it on the tube.”

  “Where’s the money now?”

  “Just talk to the cops, Joe. Tell them I didn’t shoot anybody.”

  “You have to come in, Arnie. You can’t run.”

  “I need time to think this through.”

  I refrain from telling him he should have done that yesterday. “Nothing to think about, Arnie. You need to turn yourself in. I’ll come with you. It’ll be okay.”

  “I just need some time to figure —”

  “It’s not enough money, Arnie,” I say. “If you’re thinking of running, it won’t get you far enough. You won’t get out of the country. You start spending hundred-dollar bills and they’ll be on your trail in no time.”

  “Time. I need a little time.” And he hangs up.

  “Prick,” Gritch snaps.

  “He’s running scared,” I say. “He’s got to be going somewhere.”

  “Why? You think he has a plan? You think this was a planned thing?” Gritch’s contempt bubbles over. “Here’s a guy never put two consecutive thoughts together in his life. He runs in and grabs a suitcase full of money and hides it under a bed across the hall.”

  “Semi-brilliant, so far,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, after that it gets a little messier.” Gritch begins spreading his late lunch over the desk — ashtray, lit cigar, two cans of Canada Dry ginger ale. “He gets his girlfriend’s prescription filled, which the cops are bound to track down once they figure out what’s in the coffee. He takes the coffee pot from Phil and says he’ll deliver it personally, which takes two minutes to find out, even for us. He bops you on the head, which isn’t a good plan no matter how you slice it, then runs away into the night like a purse snatcher.” Bits of onion and relish spill off the tinfoil onto the desk blotter. “It’s the crime of the century,” he adds with his mouth full. “Nobody will ever figure this one out.”

  I unwrap my BLT. Hattie knows how I like it: bacon crisp, tomatoes thick, lots of mayo. It looks as appetizing as Gritch’s ashtray. I take a bite because I know I need it.

  “It wasn’t a well-thought-through plan,” I say. “If Arnie could have just taken the money at ten o’clock, it wouldn’t be so complicated. The fact that he had to come back after one to collect the suitcase puts him there at a bad time. Is one of those ginger ales mine?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I got it for you.” He laughs. “So you got kayoed with a quarter of a million. That’s almost as much as you got for Holyfield, isn’t it?”

  Gritch munches, dribbles, slurps, puffs cigar smoke, burps onion. I can’t handle any more. I wrap up most of the BLT and file it with the wastepaper. My side of the desk is tidy. I try not to look at his side. My head hurts. And for the life of me I can’t figure out how the thing went down.

  “Why would he take a gun with him the second time?”

  I ask. “I can’t make any sense of it. Why would he go back into 1502 if the money’s under the bed in 1507?”

  “What if the first time in, he sees the money on the side table. Over seven grand maybe. That would be a good score for Arnie.”

  “Okay, so he grabs it and beats it back into 1507 before I get back from the singalong and before Dan shows up.”

  “Right,” Gritch says. “So there he is, seven thousand or so in his pocket, free and clear.”

  “Where’s the suitcase?”

  “Still in 1502.”

  “Then?”

  “Then he gets greedy. He remembers about the suitcase. Or he didn’t have time to grab it the first time because he heard something and chickened out, or people were in the hall, whatever. He left it behind, and now he’s kicking himself because all he got was a measly seven thousand and there’s still almost a quarter of a million sitting in the room. So he goes back to get it.”

  “And he figures he might need a gun this time?” I say.

  “He might. He’s stupid enough.”

  “Okay, then you tell me how it goes down. Does Buzz attack Arnie, try to stop him from leaving with the money? No, he probably tells him to take it and be happy.”

  “So Buznardo stands there and says, ‘Hey, man, go ahead, help yourself,’ and someone shoots him five times point-blank.”

  “That’s pretty cold,” I say.

  “That’s pretty accurate, but it’s not the work of somebody like Arnie, who’s all twitchy and furtive. He’d be more likely to shoot himself in the foot.”

  Gritch finally starts cleaning up his picnic. He doesn’t do a very good job of it. Thank God for maid service, even if our office suite at the back is usually last on their list. Gritch burps more onion and heads for the bathroom. He’s got mustard on his chin. I hope he spots it. I don’t like giving grooming tips.

  “Don’t forget,” he yells from the bathroom, “there’s an army of people who couldn’t give a radioactive rat’s ass about a suitcase full of hundred-dollar bills. These are guys concerned about the real legacy which, if memory serves, is half a billion.”

  “Six hundred and eighty-eight million.”

  “See?” Gritch says. “Now that’s serious money. That’s the kind of money people do cold-blooded murders for. And you don’t know half the players.”

  I sip my ginger ale and have a look at my neglected paperwork.

  “Did you get hold of Rachel?” he calls out.

  “She’ll do the evening shift with Dan. She’ll be in at four, she says. When’s Dan coming in?”

  Gritch comes out of the bathroom, more or less presentable. “Dan’s not coming in till six. It’ll work out.”

  “I don’t think Arnie shot anyone,” I say. “Is there Aspirin in there?”

  “Tylenol.”

  “That’ll help.” I pass him as I go into the bathroom. When I open the medicine cabinet, I don’t remember any of the stuff that’s there. Razors and Q-Tips.

  “All right,” Gritch says, “I’ll give you
that decisive action doesn’t sound like the Arnie I know.”

  “Think about it,” I say. “First of all, with what? A.32-calibre pistol? Where does he come up with one of those between 11:00 p.m., and what, 2:00 a.m.?”

  “Okay, that’s one. He’d have a hard time getting a piece.”

  “A very hard time. He couldn’t have left the hotel, or if he did, he couldn’t have gone very far. And who does he go to? He doesn’t have a lot of friends in the neighbourhood. He drops into the Scientology recruiting centre and says, ‘Can somebody lend me a gun for the evening?’ I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe he had it all along,” Gritch suggests. “Maybe he carries a piece and we don’t know about it. Maybe somebody else in the hotel has a gun and Arnie knows who it is, or where they stash it. He borrows it, steals it, and the owner won’t report it because they’re not supposed to have one in the hotel, either.”

  “That’s nice,” I say. “The list of suspects just went from one to five hundred and thirty-three.”

  “And that’s just our guys.”

  “I’m only concerned with our guys. My territory ends at the sidewalk. If somebody out there did the murder, that’s their business. I’m hoping one of our guys didn’t do a murder.”

  I phone Weed and tell him about Arnie’s call. Weed says if Arnie calls again I should tell him to make it easy on himself.

  “They think he did it, the murder?” Gritch asks when I hang up.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Well, who else?”

  chapter fourteen

  Gritch and I spend the next couple of hours quietly making the rounds, checking people’s whereabouts, asking as delicately as possible if anybody knows about any guns kept in the hotel, not that there would be any recriminations, we’re careful to emphasize. We tell them we’re just wondering. Nobody knows anything about any guns. I figured as much, but you never know. It’s a big hotel, and there are people on staff I don’t know well.

  Rachel Golden shows up at four o’clock. She looks like a soccer mom — suburban hair, smart slacks. She was an MP in the army for the full twenty years, then retired with rank, a stack of commendations, and more than a few medals. Rachel knows how to handle herself, definitely knows how to handle other people. She says she’ll work until midnight. She’ll come on full-time until we hire someone to replace Arnie. I should have had her guarding the money. She has a pension.

  Dan comes in at 6:15. Says he spent the day dealing with domestic issues. Says I don’t want to know, and I’m sure he’s right about that.

  “Thanks for coming back in, Dan,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

  “Jesus, Joe, what you’re doing for me, I’ll work all night if you need me.”

  “Just until midnight,” I tell him. “Take tomorrow off.”

  “I was hoping to stay far away from both domiciles for a while.”

  “You have to face the music sometime,” I say. Like I have a clue about marriage.

  “I’ll be facing the music for some time, boss. You can count on it.”

  “That’s your business, Dan. You take tomorrow off. Rachel Golden’s going to work out a new shift rotation. You know her. She doesn’t gamble, she’s immune to your charm, and she doesn’t need a new refrigerator. She’ll give you a call about Thursday. I’ll try to make it a late shift.”

  He tries not to look over his shoulder, but hunches his back defensively as he leans in closer. “Talk to Randall Poy, by any chance?”

  “Saw him this morning. He’s okay for this week. We’ll talk about our next move after I get the hotel business sorted out. It’s on my list. Promise.”

  “I appreciate it, Joe. I really do. I’ll make it good.”

  “There’ll be some extra hours here for a while. That’ll give you a few extra bucks. Gritch needs to go home, and I need some sleep. You and Rachel stay on top of things until midnight, then I’ll be back. Maybe this house will be safe for a few hours.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing, boss. Get some shut-eye.”

  I leave Dan and take the elevator up to Leo’s aerie above the top floor. The Skyrocket says it’s 7:05. Seinfeld reruns. Leo’s very big on Seinfeld reruns. He’s seen every episode at least a dozen times. When I let myself in, he’s eating the kitchen’s best steak with Béarnaise sauce and stuffed mushrooms and sipping a glass of the cellar’s best Burgundy. On the wide-screen Sony, George Costanza is trying to get an extension on his unemployment benefits.

  “This is the one with Keith Hernandez in it,” Leo says. “The ballplayer.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “World Series is coming up. We should watch a ball game together.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d like that.”

  “Sit down, Joseph. You want some of this steak?”

  “No, thank you, sir. I just had a BLT from the Lobby Café.”

  “Hattie still there?”

  “No, she’s closed up for the night.”

  “I mean, she still runs the place?”

  “Oh. Yes, sir. Hattie’s still there.”

  “That’s nice. I hired her mother. Can you believe that? Woman name of Ellis, Ellis what? Maureen Ellis. Hattie’s mother. You ever see her around?”

  “I think Hattie told me her mother was in a nursing home now.”

  “Really? Nice-looking woman, I recall. Friendly.”

  “Yes, sir. It must run in the family. Hattie’s a very friendly person, too.”

  “You tell Hattie I asked after her mother.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”

  Leo pours the last of the wine into his goblet, tosses the linen napkin onto the table, and leans back to allow me a better view of the Sony.

  “I had a phone call from Arnie McKellar,” I say.

  “Did he do it?”

  “He says he didn’t, sir. He admits taking the money.”

  “He did? That’s unfortunate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Most unfortunate.”

  “But he says he didn’t shoot anybody.”

  “I hope that’s true.”

  “So do I, sir.”

  “I’d take it as a personal favour, Joseph, if you could make sure of that. The stealing is bad enough, but we can deal with that. A murder wouldn’t be good for the Lord Douglas, not right now.” He looks around. “Hand me that humidor, would you?”

  Leo opens the walnut chest, bound with brass, lined with cedar, and starts rummaging among his riches. “Still police all over my house?”

  “No, sir. They’ve wrapped up the investigation. We can get back into the suite tomorrow. We’ll need to change the carpet.”

  “We had two guys from California get shot in the Palm Court back in ’53,” he says. “Did you know that? Before your time, I suppose.”

  “A bit.”

  “And just a year after that some poor schnook got caught with a hooker by his wife and she emptied a Colt six-shooter at them — a damn cowboy gun like Wyatt Earp carried. Blew a hole through the door as big as a window. Missed her husband, but she shot off the poor hooker’s big toe. That caused a ruckus. We had to replace more than the rug.”

  “Theo and Leonard want to bring in an outside company.”

  “Joe,” he says, “Theo and Lenny don’t make the rules in the Lord Douglas. They don’t hire, they don’t fire, and if they give you a hard time, just smile and go about your business. This hotel has seen murders before, and it may very well see them again. It’s a hotel. We invite a thousand strangers a day into our house and we don’t ask them what they plan to do here. They bring their troubles in with them. They take them with them when they leave. Our job is to give them a good night’s sleep.”

  “But it’s not our job to rob them.”

  “True. That’s bad. Most of the robberies in here are on

  Rolf’s wine list. Two hundred and seventeen dollars for this bottle. He’ll hear about it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This will blow over. We’ll weather the st
orm just fine.”

  “I’ll keep you up to speed on the Arnie McKellar business, sir. In my opinion, he’s not the kind of person who could do a murder.”

  “I hope you’re right. I don’t like to give my offspring any free ammunition.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good night, Joseph. Remember, the World Series is coming up.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll watch a game together. I look forward to it.”

  “As do I, Joseph.” He turns his attention to George Costanza, who is lying on the floor with his pants around his ankles.

  As I let myself out of the suite, Raquel, I’m sure it’s Raquel, comes in with a pile of fresh towels and a basket of toiletries. She smiles at me.

  ¿Cómo está noche, Señor Grundy?” she asks.

  “ “Muy bien, gracias,” I reply. Definitely Raquel.

  chapter fifteen

  Eventually, I get some sleep. Dreamless, heavy, lumped in one position so that when I swim up from the deep, my frame aches and my right arm is dead. The clock radio reads 11:47. That’s p.m., I presume. It’s dark outside. The street is dry for a change. Connor’s Diner is closed, but earnest discussion is still going on in the Scientology Reading Room next door. No panic phone calls have disturbed me. I slept almost five hours — okay, four and a bit, but it should keep me going for a while.

  The phone rings. It’s Arnie.

  “Joe? Is that you?”

  “Where are you?” I hold the phone in my left hand, flexing my dead right arm to get the tingle started. “You have to tell me where you are. Nothing good can happen if you keep running. They’ll find you, Arnie.”

  “Joe, I need your help.”

  “I’ll help you, Arnie. I’ll come and get you and we can walk into the police station together. I won’t let anything happen to you. Just tell me where you are right now and I’ll come.”

  “Wait. Wait. I’m still trying to work out something.”

  “There’s nothing to work out.”

  “There’s something.”

  My right arm is now buzzing happily, and the fingers of my right hand are flexible enough to hold the receiver to my better ear. Somewhere on the other end of the line I hear a PA announcement, unintelligible, as usual, and then the distinct sound of a BC Ferries whistle.