Sucker Punch

by Marc Strange

  “When’s he coming in?”

  “Rachel’s got him down for 2:00 p.m. He should be here when you get here.”

  “Did you talk to Randall for me?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure I did. Randall said, ‘Tell Joe Grundy the clock is ticking.’”

  “Did you say I’d consider it a personal favour?”

  “Randall said he doesn’t do personal favours.”

  chapter twenty-six

  The ferry pulls into Horseshoe Bay at 2:08, and it’s another ten minutes before I’m on the Upper Levels Highway heading for Park Royal and the Lions Gate Bridge into Vancouver. I still can’t get the cell phone working. I think I’m doing it wrong.

  At 2:45, more or less when I said I’d be there, I wind my way up to Parking Level C and hunt for the hotel’s reserved space near the skywalk. The parking garage has open sides, the wind is funnelled down the row of cars, and I can feel the air compressed and swirling as I climb out of the Ford. The parking garage echoes with chirping tires and beeping horns, and over those expected sounds I hear a human voice, familiar, talking fast, a note of pleading.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute, this was all supposed to be straight … wait … no, I’m not going down there. Wait, goddamn it!”

  There’s an automatic entrance to the skywalk that slides open when motion is detected. The door is opening and closing and opening again as three figures, two of them large, one of them skittish, dance back and forth across the range of the sensor.

  I see them now. It’s Dan Howard trying to avoid the Chow brothers.

  “Hey, Mikey,” I say loud enough to reach them. “Hey, Marlon. Hold on a minute.”

  The Chow brothers turn to face me, and Dan makes a break for it through the sliding door to the skywalk, running for the hotel. Marlon and Mikey turn to follow.

  “Don’t go in there, fellows,” I say as firmly as I can. They don’t listen. Both of them chase Dan into the passage, and I have to go after them.

  On the mezzanine level there’s no sign of them. Then I hear a clatter from one of the banquet kitchens.

  There are no cooks in the kitchen. It’s empty except for Mikey and Marlon and Dan Howard, who’s lying on the floor between a stainless-steel prep table and the big double sinks. Marlon looms over him. Mikey stands back a few feet, waiting to be entertained.

  “Mikey, Marlon,” I say in my most reasonable tone, “leave him alone. I don’t want any of this brought into the hotel. Tell Randall I’ll be over this afternoon. I got held up, but I’ll be there shortly. Go tell him.”

  That’s when Mikey pushes me.

  My record is an honest one: thirty-six wins, eleven losses, and two draws. Twenty-three of my wins were knockouts. Three of my losses were also knockouts. I got out-pointed six times and was robbed twice. One of the draws I should have won; one of the draws I should have lost. It was a career of sorts. I always gave an honest account of myself, came into my fights in good shape, trained hard, treated it like a job of work, and went to work every day for fourteen years.

  My first manager/trainer, Morley Kline, gave me a decent jab to work behind. It kept me alive a lot of nights.

  My right hand hurts people when it hits. I never fought for a title, but I kept them honest on their way up, on their way down, or on their way up a second time. “Get Grundy,” the promoters used to say. “He’ll give you an honest undercard. The crowd likes him.”

  That was me, “Hammering” Joe Grundy. Honest heavyweight of reputable credentials. And while I may not have been able to handle Evander Holyfield, most men, even large ones who practise dynamic tension and lift heavy things, aren’t really equipped to deal with a trained professional going to work. Left jabs splatter their noses and right hooks bruise their livers, and yes, I’ll admit it, an occasional head butt and elbow does ancillary damage.

  Mikey tries hard to get me wrapped up, but his arms are too short and heavy. I break his jaw and close his left eye while I’m slipping out of his clinch. When he pauses to consider his next move, I drop him with an overhand right that no professional would have let me get away with, but Mikey’s left ear is so inviting I have to do it. I feel the other side of his jaw go soft, and he hits the kitchen floor hard enough to rattle some pots.

  Marlon, meanwhile, is taking out his gun. I think his leather jacket is too tight, or maybe it’s a new rig, but he doesn’t get it unholstered in time. I relieve Marlon of his pistol. It’s a nice one, a Glock. Mikey doesn’t have a gun.

  As I help the two of them find their way back to the parking garage, I give them a message. “Tell Randall I’ll deliver his installment. I’ll pay him a visit real soon.”

  I got off lucky. The skin over the big knuckle on my right hand is split and will probably take a month to heal, but the fingers all move the way they should. I take the clip out of the Glock and check the chamber, then stuff the components into separate pockets.

  I’m back in the kitchen as Dan gets up from behind the prep table. He looks at me and says with wonder, “Both of them?”

  “Forget them, Dan. Are you okay? Kneecaps all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, they just threw me down. They hadn’t really got started.”

  “That’s good. Get cleaned up. Use the bathroom in my office. Don’t go through the lobby.”

  I locate the first-aid kit in the kitchen. Chefs always keep a good supply of Elastoplast around. I find a bottle of peroxide and a patch that will fit over my knuckle, then go to a sink and rinse out the split. The peroxide foams and stings, cold water washes off the blood, a clean paper towel dries my hand. I fumble with the bandage to get the backing off. My hands are shaking from the adrenaline. Dan takes the bandage from me and covers the split knuckle.

  “Both of them?” he repeats.

  “Don’t make a big deal out of it, Dan. Just get yourself straightened out.”

  “But Jesus…” he says.

  “Randall made a mistake sending them here.”

  “Randall’s going to be pissed.”

  “He’ll think a bit about his next move, and I’ll pay him another visit before he comes to a decision. I don’t like personal business interfering with the operation of the hotel.”

  “I’m sorry, Joe.”

  “No. That’s okay. I told Randall how it was. He chose not to listen.”

  When Dan and I enter my office, Gritch asks, “What did you do to your hand?”

  “He kayoed the Chow brothers,” Dan calls out from the bathroom. “Both of them.”

  “Is that so?” Gritch says.

  “I was provoked,” I say, emptying the clip, dropping the bullets into a hotel envelope, and sealing it. I pull Marlon’s Glock out of my other pocket and slip it, the empty clip, and the package of cartridges inside a heavy brown envelope. I scrawl “Sergeant Weed” on the outside with one of Rachel’s Magic Markers and throw it in the office safe. My hand feels as if it’s stiffening up. “I’ve got to grab a shower. You fit to work, Dan?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, coming out of the bathroom.

  “What time did you get here?” Gritch asks.

  “I was just pulling into the parking garage when they jumped me. Maybe fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Means you were half an hour late,” Gritch says. “Rachel had you down for two.”

  “I had a fight with Doris,” he says.

  “Sergeant Rachel runs a tight ship,” Gritch says. “Don’t be late again.”

  Dan looks over at me. “Rachel Golden running things now, Joe?”

  “Dan,” I say, “if you look on the wall beside the desk, you’ll see a shift schedule. It’s got your name clearly marked and underlined and the days you work and the time you’re supposed to be here. If you want the job, do the job. And I’d appreciate it if your personal life didn’t leak into the Lord Douglas every day.”

  Dan hangs his head. “I just asked if she was in charge.”

  “Go to work, Dan,” I say. “Save your money, pay your debts, straighten out your
life.”

  Dan slouches out of the office to start his shift. Gritch marks him down on the schedule as “in” and also “late.”

  “You usually cut him more slack than that,” Gritch says. “You going Presbyterian on me?”

  “It’s the adrenaline wearing off. Makes me cranky.”

  My right hand hurts like hell. Fingers stiffening, knuckle swelling. I flex my fingers and make an involuntary noise.

  “Let me see that,” Gritch says. “You sure it’s not broken?”

  “It’s not broken. It was a straight shot. I didn’t hit a tooth or anything. It’s just split right on top of the big knuckle. It pulls open every time I make a fist.”

  “Stop making a fist,” he says.

  “Get me a bucket of ice, will you? I’ll grab a shower.”

  Half an hour later I’m showered and sweet-smelling, and my right hand is buried to the wrist in a tub of crushed ice.

  “Black Jack gets back from his fishing trip on Monday,” Gritch says. “That’ll ease things.” The phone rings, and Gritch answers it. “Security.”

  I pull my wounded paw out of the melting ice and dab it dry with a fresh hotel towel. The split looks clean enough. The swelling has gone down, but not all the way.

  “Dan’s working, Doris,” Gritch says. He looks at me, waggles the phone. “You talk.”

  I pick up the other phone with my cold right hand. “Doris, it’s Joe Grundy. Can I help you?”

  “Where is the son of a bitch?”

  “He’s working, Doris. I can have him call you when he takes a break. Is it important? He said you two had a fight or something.”

  “I haven’t seen the bastard for two days.”

  “Oh.” The best I can come up with.

  “He’s been staying with his other wife.”

  “That’s not what he told me,” I say.

  “Dan lies like other people breathe, Joe. Haven’t you figured that out yet? You tell him his suitcase will be on the front porch. Don’t bother to knock. The locks have been changed. I’m going to stay with my sister in Edmonton until I decide whether to divorce him or cut off his dick.”

  She hangs up. I hang up. I look at Gritch. Gritch hangs up.

  “We may need another guy,” Gritch says. “Danny boy’s getting to be more trouble than he’s worth.”

  “Let’s give him until the end of the week,” I say. “See if he can get his act together.”

  “You don’t listen to me a helluva lot, do ya?” Gritch says. “I warned you about Arnie, I told you to call Weed —”

  “You’re the voice of good sense.”

  “Damn straight I am.”

  “I should listen once in a while.”

  “I got the solution,” Gritch says. “Tell Rachel to give Danny boy the gypsy’s warning, and if he screws up again, she can fire him and you can continue to be the easygoing dunderhead we know and love.”

  “Yeah, all right. Tell Rachel Dan’s on probation.”

  “Thin ice is more like. She won’t stand for any of his bullshit.”

  “I’m going to grab a sandwich,” I say. “I had a bowl of chowder on the ferry, but I didn’t finish it. My guts are all annoyed.”

  “Finding dead bodies will do that to you.”

  chapter twenty-seven

  “Before I make it to the Lobby Café, I check in with Margo Traynor.

  “I hear you found the boat,” she says.

  “Yep.”

  “So that’s the end of it.”

  “I guess.”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  “I don’t know, Margo. I didn’t search the place. I called the Mounties and they took over. I’ll ask Weed when he gets back. He’s gone over to talk to them and have a look at the scene.”

  “Lloyd’s cabin,” she says.

  “Big cabin. Must be two thousand square feet. Right on the water. Very nice.”

  “Yes, Lloyd’s going to be so glad to get back. A murderer, on the hotel payroll no less, breaks into his two-thousand-square-foot cabin and commits suicide. Cops all over the place. He’ll love that. Plus we’re getting sued.”

  “Who’s suing us?”

  “I don’t know yet. But somebody. Theo was on the phone earlier. He wants my head, your head, Lloyd Gruber’s head, maybe even his father’s head.”

  “Leo says this stuff blows over. Just do your job.”

  “I’m doing my job, damn it! You do yours for a change!”

  “Point taken,” I say, turning to leave.

  “Wait.” She opens a drawer. “I cashed those cheques for you.” She holds out the envelope. “What’s the matter with your hand?”

  “It’s fine. Just a scratched knuckle.”

  “I told you not to be big-shot hero guy.”

  “This was unrelated.”

  “Go away now,” she says. “I have work to do.”

  “This will blow over.”

  “All the same, I’m getting my résumé updated. If I don’t get fired, I may quit.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Go away now.”

  Leo listens to my report. “Why would he burn the money?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “They might have cut him some slack if he returned the money.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Assuming he hadn’t killed anyone.”

  “I think that might be difficult to prove now.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Leo says. “My sons are making the most of things. They’d like to take the Lord Douglas off my hands.”

  “They honestly think they can run the place better than you?”

  “They don’t want to run the place, Joseph. They want to tear it down. The Lord Douglas is worth more as a hole in the ground than it is standing. It’s a big footprint. Almost a full city block. Prime midtown real estate. The land it sits on is worth, conservatively, a hundred million dollars. The building that would replace the Lord Douglas, should it disappear, could be twice as high. It could hold a multiplex cinema, a shopping mall, a parking garage, a million square feet of retail space, and it could generate a yearly gross income of over fifty million dollars. Naturally, Theo and Lenny want to get their hands on it. Theo already owns the parking garage across the street. My sneaky boy Lenny has also bought himself a sizable interest in the vacant lot to the north of us. You see, my sons already have the Lord Douglas sandwiched. And they’re tired of waiting for me to die.”

  “But you own it.”

  “We’re being sued for a hundred million dollars, Joseph. I don’t think the case has merit, but that kind of hit would stake me out for the tigers.”

  “Should I be getting a lawyer of my own?” I ask.

  “Wait a while, see what it looks like when the dust settles. My opinion, this is posturing. Nobody knows how any of this will resolve itself. It could take years.”

  “Who exactly is suing us, sir?”

  He laughs. “Everybody. Prescott Holdings, Alvin Neagle, Molly MacKay, the Horizon Foundation. It’ll take months to decide who gets first kick at the cat. Oh, yeah, also, what’s the name of that musical group, Joseph? Redstone?”

  “Redhorn.”

  “Is that it? I don’t know who they are.”

  “What are they suing us for?”

  “Publicity, what else? It’s a circle dance. Everyone’s suing everyone else. Neagle is suing for negligence, malfeasance, half a dozen other nuisance claims. Mostly he wants to recover his fee for handling Buznardo’s case for two years. He’s also suing Prescott Holdings. And Molly MacKay is suing Prescott Holdings as well as us.”

  “What do our lawyers say?”

  “It varies. They’re trying to determine if Arnold McKellar was an employee of the hotel or an employee of JG Protection — that’s you. If the latter, you can expect to be sued, as well.”

  “How serious do you think it is, sir?”

  “Our law firm is going to earn its retainer for a change.”

  “If JG Prote
ction can take the load, it will make things easier on the hotel.”

  “You want to stop another bullet? No, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. This should all be very interesting. We’re going to have a ringside seat, but we’re not the main attraction. There’s still a half-billion-dollar estate up for grabs. Prescott Holdings wants to muddy the water.” Leo lights a cigar. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Don’t worry, Joseph. I’ve been sued by bigger gonifs than this crew.”

  “Is there anything I can do about the lawsuits?”

  “Get a good seat. Prescott Holdings is claiming they lost money. They’ll have to prove that. That means they’ll have to open their books. If they come after me, I’ll have Aaron Kuperhause, the accountant from hell, probing their corporate colons like an alien proctologist. I don’t think they want that. In fact, I don’t think their books can stand a great deal of scrutiny right now.”

  “Then why hit us?”

  “Counterattack. They didn’t have much choice. Miss MacKay has filed for probate. She claims her brother left her everything before he was killed. Prescott Holdings can’t fight it off the way they did the last one. Buznardo won that round and was declared the heir. They can’t refight that. It’s up to Ms. MacKay to prove her claim in probate court. Alvin Neagle strikes again.”

  “Does she have a will?”

  “I don’t know what she has. If she’s his sole living relative, she has a case.”

  “Neagle’s handling it for her?”

  “Neagle’s going to get a fee out of this thing if it kills him. Meanwhile, Wade Hubble is sitting on a land mine. He can’t get off or it’ll blow up.” Leo takes a deep, satisfying puff on his panatela. “And don’t you worry about the hotel, Joseph. The Lord Douglas is a rock. Wade Hubble is just the tide coming in.” He smiles. “I want to see what flotsam he drags in with him.”

  When I get to the elevator, Raquel is getting off. She’s carrying a half-dozen crisp white shirts on hangers. “Muy buenas tardes, Señor Grundy. ¿Cómo está?”

  “Muy bien, gracias, Raquel. ¿Y usted?”

  Bien, gracias. You have a good accent.”

  “I used to travel with a welterweight named Angel.”