by Marc Strange
chapter twenty-eight
“At 9:30 I’m back in the office. The Presbyterians are on the job. Gritch still hasn’t gone home.
“If you’re crashing here tonight, use the little room,” I say. “My bedroom smells of Brylcreem and cheap cigars.”
“Don’t need your room. I took a lease on the infamous Room 704B.”
“There is no 704B.”
“Son, there are places in the Lord Douglas no one but me and the long-dead architect know about. I could sleep in a hundred spots in perfect comfort and absolute anonymity and no one would have a clue where I was. You’ve been here, what? Seven years? You still don’t know where the thirteenth floor is.”
“It isn’t,” I say. “It’s one of your ‘lore of the Lord Douglas’ tales.”
“You go on believing it, pal. 704B isn’t even my first choice. It’s just the only one with a phone jack.”
“What do I dial?”
“Dial 7004.” Gritch starts unwrapping a fresh package of foul cigars. He has a smug look on his puss.
“Okay, I’ll bite.”
“What?” he says, all innocence.
“The thirteenth floor. Where does it hide?”
“Between twelve and fourteen, naturally.”
“There is no ‘between’ twelve and fourteen.”
He shakes his head sadly. “You know how twelve and fourteen have that short side by the service elevators?”
“No.”
“You’ve been here seven years and you’ve never noticed there’s a wall beside the service elevators on twelve and fourteen?”
“Okay, yeah, this is an irregular building. I figured air shafts or something.”
“It’s the thirteen floor, which you can only get to by a back stairway from the eleventh floor. There used to be private ‘meeting’ rooms up there. It’s been closed off for twenty years at least.”
“Closed off how?”
“They blocked off the stairwell.”
“Private meeting rooms, huh?”
“Some of our more illustrious city fathers had private meetings there, and not with our city mothers.” He scratches a match, prepares to befoul the room. I blow out the flame. “Hey.”
“Here. Leo sent you a cigar.”
“Beauty.” He sniffs it. “What’s he say about the fifty lawsuits?”
“We talked about it. He says he’s not worried.”
“Lenny’s worried. There’s a message on the machine.”
I click it on.
“Grundy? This is Lenny Alexander. This whole shitty situation is your frickin’ doing, you know that? You understand that? I want you outta there. I want that bowling ball asshole buddy of yours outta there. I’m going to shut down the whole cheesy amateur night in Hooterville bullshit —”
I click off.
“Bowling ball asshole — that’ll be me,” Gritch says. “It goes on like that a lot more.”
“How about the other brother?”
Gritch snorts. “Hell, Theo’s laughing. Anything that makes the old man look bad makes Theo happy.”
“Theo only thinks he’s smart. He’s no match for his dad.”
“How much we being sued for altogether?”
“Millions. I’ve just heard about them, I haven’t seen any papers. Leo says we may get sued, too. I mean, JG Security. Technically, Arnie wasn’t a hotel employee. He was working for me. I’m incorporated. They can come after me if they feel like it.”
“You got ten million?”
“A few paycheques I haven’t cashed yet.”
“That should cover it,” Norman Weed says. He’s standing in the office doorway. His purple tie is loosened.
“Want some coffee, Norm?” I ask.
“No, I want a drink. I’m off-duty. I want to go downstairs, listen to Olive May sing ‘Bye Bye Blackbird,’ and have at least three rum and Cokes.”
“Go ahead, Joe,” Gritch says. “I’ve got an expensive cigar to smoke. The boys from Moonlight are marching under the banner of good behaviour. I know where to find you.”
Weed leans over the bar to scrutinize the shot of me in my trunks with my dukes up. He looks at me and smiles slyly. “You look like you could still go a few rounds.”
“Rum and Coke for the sergeant, Barney. Coffee for me.” Barney puts the beverages in front of us. He serves the Coke in a separate glass bottle. Barney keeps several vintage green Coke bottles on ice, mostly for Olive and preferred customers, fills them fresh from the gun, and serves them with ice crystals clinging. He’s old school.
Barney moves away to provide for a couple farther down the bar. Weed adds most of the Coke to his rum and ice, gives it a stir, has a taste. Olive is making her entrance from the backroom. A sudden patter of applause is heard from two tables near the stage.
“Wore it just for you, sugar,” I hear her say to a man who appreciates her blue silk shirt. Her bass player, Jimmy Hind, is already on the stand. As Olive makes her way to the piano, he gives her a walking beat. The pattering applause grows around the room as other patrons respond to the strong tempo from the stand-up bass. Olive slides onto the piano bench, and her right hand runs a silver ribbon around the time signature. The three instruments, bass, piano, and Olive’s dark, beguiling voice, become one beaming chord.
“Where would you be without me, mister?” she sings. “Where would you be without me?”
“Mercy,” Weed says.
We listen for a while, and when the conversation resumes, we pitch it below the level of the music.
“Seen Randall lately?” Weed asks.
“Had a chat with him yesterday morning.”
“Everything straightened out? Him and Dan?”
“We’ve come to an arrangement. Dan’s working it out.”
“What happened with his girlfriend?”
“Not really any of my business,” I say. “He’ll have to pull up his socks.”
“That’s a bandage on your right hand.”
I turn to him with the most inscrutable expression I can muster. “And I’ve got a Glock nine-millimetre in the office safe in an envelope with your name on it for whenever you want to pick it up. I don’t know if it’s registered.”
“Marlon’s?”
“Only if it’s registered.”
“You see Olive’s new CD cover?” Barney is back. He picks up a plastic jewel box from the CD collection beside the sound system and puts it in front of Weed. Olive is sultry in a red dress and red fingernails, her left hand touching her hair, her right hand caressing piano keys.
“Songs in the Key of Ellington,” Weed reads. “She sell them here?”
“You keep that one,” Barney says. “Early Christmas present.”
Barney moves to the other end, Norman Weed listens to the music, his fingers tap the plastic case. He keeps terrible time.
“You haven’t asked about my trip,” Weed says.
“You eat the chowder on the ferry?”
“What ferry? People of my rank fly in helicopters.”
“So?”
“So, unofficially a suicide. They haven’t signed off on it yet, they’re having too much fun. They’re going to process the ashes from the fireplace to get an estimate of how much money got burned. They have a lab that just loves to run tests like that. Last I saw they were vacuuming the fireplace.”
“I saw a hole in the top of his head,” I say. “What did he do — stick it in his mouth?”
“Under his chin.” Weed points to a spot below his jawbone.
“Straight up?”
“Angled. Right to left.”
“And you saw the blood on the ceiling fan?”
“They’ve got the ceiling fan down.”
“Same gun used on Buznardo?”
“That we don’t know yet, but we will soon. Looks like the same size — a.32.”
“What was in the McDonald’s bag?” I ask.
“Oh, that. Ah … let’s see. Two Big Macs, large fries, milkshake.”
�
��It was still stapled shut?”
“Yeah. He didn’t get around to eating it. It was all still wrapped up.” Weed signals Barney for a refill. “I guess he wasn’t as hungry as he thought he was. Probably got there, started drinking —”
“Made a fire, don’t forget. Must have got a pretty good fire going to burn up the case that much.”
“Right. He gets there, makes a fire, sits down, starts drinking —”
“‘Makes a fire’ means getting wood from the woodpile outside, kindling, getting it started.”
“He was lighting it with hundred-dollar bills.”
“That takes a while.”
“So?”
“So, he probably bought the Big Macs in Nanaimo. There’s no McDonald’s on Gabriola. He doesn’t eat them on the ferry, he doesn’t eat them in the car, he breaks into Lloyd’s cabin, starts a fire, and starts drinking bourbon and burning paper money.”
“So?” Weed says again.
“So that takes a while. From the time he buys the food in Nanaimo until the time he shoots himself has to be two hours.”
“So?”
“So, Arnie was a glutton.” I sip some coffee. “He weighed over three hundred pounds and he was five-nine, no more than that. He ate all the time. You don’t think that between Nanaimo and the ferry ride and the cabin and the booze and the burning he would’ve reached into the bag and helped himself to a little sustenance?”
“How should I know? He was running scared, he was living on booze and fear. Maybe he lost his appetite.”
“The car was full of wrappers and empties. He’d been living in it for thirty-six hours. Looked like he’d been eating the whole time.”
“Maybe he was full.”
“Arnie was never full.”
“What are you trying to work out?”
“It just strikes me as odd that there was an unopened bag of food between his feet when he shot himself.”
“He was being Egyptian,” Barney says. “Wanted to take some grub for his journey into the next life.”
He places Weed’s fresh drink in front of him and wipes the bar. Then we all listen to Olive for a moment: “You and me against the world. Sometimes it feels like you and me against the world…”
Weed tests his drink, nods, rubs his face with the palm of his hand. His voice is weary. “People do weird things when they reach the end of the line.”
“And he didn’t leave a note,” I say.
“How do you know that?”
“Did he leave a note?”
“No. Didn’t find one. So? Lots of them don’t leave notes.”
“Arnie was a whiner,” I say. “And a complainer. The world was against him. People were always screwing him over. I’d expect him to leave a manifesto.”
“I’ll inform Corporal Riggins of your concerns when I speak to him in the morning,” Weed says. He’s starting to sound tired of this. He came for the music.
“When will you get autopsy results?” I ask.
“Hell, we’re still arguing over who should get the body. I say he belongs here. The Mounties think he’s all theirs. Higher ranks will negotiate.”
“Find out for me if he drank a full bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon, will you?”
“Already got a prelim on his blood. He had a two-point-seven.”
“Jesus,” Barney says. “Sounds like a full bottle to me.”
“That’s good shooting,” I say, “for a drunk, I mean. One bullet straight up. He could’ve messed the whole thing up with a load on like that, wouldn’t you say?”
“Also had a mess of those things he gave to Gritch,” Weed says. “Lorazepam.”
“So he’s not only shit-faced, he’s asleep,” I say.
“Maybe it was taking too long,” Barney says. “The alcohol and the pills. Maybe he didn’t want to wait any longer.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, “somewhere in his car will be a ferry ticket from Nanaimo to Gabriola. It’ll say what time he went over. That McDonald’s bag had a register check stapled to the top. That’ll say when he bought it.”
“Yeah?” Weed says.
“I’m just thinking out loud. I’m sure the Mounties are all over this stuff. They’ll have an inventory — what was in the car, what he had in his wallet, what was stapled to the McDonald’s bag.”
“I’m sure they’re being very thorough,” Weed says.
“Okay, then, so you’ll know in a day or two. And you’ll have a post-mortem on what he ate and when he ate it.”
“I’ll let you know,” Weed says.
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Oh, yeah,” Weed says, “on the subject of autopsies.
We got the full report on young Mr. Buznardo.”
“And?”
“And he was a very sick young man.”
“How sick?”
“Cancer. Pancreatic and liver. He was going out fast. Pathologist said he had maybe a month, maybe six weeks. Not long. He’d had it for a while. Years maybe. But it caught up with him.”
“He must have known about it.”
“No way he couldn’t have.”
“Thanks for the exclusive, slugger,” Larry Gormé says, sliding onto the stool next to Weed. “A heads-up would’ve been nice.” He’s had a few.
“And you know, Larry,” I say, “it was the first thing that popped into my head after the Mounties were done with me. Gee, I should call Larry Gormé. I just can’t seem to make my damn cell phone work.”
“What’s with him?” Larry asks.
“He’s grumpy,” Weed says. “He broke his knuckle.”
“It’s not broken. It’s split.”
“On which one?” Larry asks. “Mickey or Marlon?”
“He’s not copping to it,” Weed says.
“Guy I know works Chinatown says the Chow brothers are a little bent out of shape,” Larry says. He waves at Barney in a sign language Barney obviously understands, because he immediately starts drawing a pint of something. “The Mighty Chows ain’t mighty anymore.”
“Let’s not shout it from the rooftops, okay, Larry?” I say.
But Larry’s warming to his theme. “Mikey has his jaw wired shut. For obvious reasons he’s not talking about what happened. Marlon has his hand in a cast. His left hand. He’s a southpaw, isn’t he?”
“I believe he is,” Weed says.
“Story is he got three fingers caught in the door of the Ferrari.”
“Can we change the subject, please?” I say.
“He is grumpy,” Larry says.
“I’m not grumpy. Okay, I am a bit grumpy. Half of my day shift is either dead or being harassed by hostile collection agents who have the gall to start beating up my employees inside the hotel, plus the Lord Douglas is getting sued by everybody and his uncle, plus … a very nice kid was shot on my watch. Yeah, I’m grumpy.”
Barney delivers Larry’s pint in a frosty glass, raises an eyebrow at Norm, and gets a nod in return. Then he gives my coffee carafe a quick shake to make sure I’m adequately supplied and turns away to grab the rum bottle and a fresh glass. Olive is exploring the possibilities of “Satin Doll.” The street entrance opens and in walks Connie Gagliardi. She smiles at me from the landing.
“Bet he doesn’t grump at her,” Larry says.
I cross the room to greet her. Her hair is jewelled with raindrops and her cheeks are pink. She smells of ozone and negative ions and West Coast weather. “Hello” is about the best I can manage.
“You look happy to see me,” she says.
“I do?”
Her coat is wet when I help her out of it. I hang it in the cloakroom off the landing on a wooden hanger, brushing droplets off the shoulders. I glance up to see her watching me.
“Raining?” Lame.
“Just started,” she says.
“Would you like to sit at a table?”
“Hell, no, I want to sit at the bar with you guys.”
I escort her to the bar. “Norman Weed you’ve met, I know. Connie G
agliardi.”
“Hello, Sergeant. Hi, Larry.”
I shift down one stool so she can sit between me and Norm. She orders a glass of house red. Norm and Larry are giving her the bulk of their attention, but both manage to shoot me a glance of speculation.
“I hear it’s been ruled a suicide,” she says.
“It’s not official yet,” Weed says. He looks sternly at me. “There’ll be an inquest. That could take a while.”
“But it puts a capper on the Buznardo case?” Connie asks.
“Works for me,” Weed says. “Grumpy here probably isn’t finished beating himself over the head.”
“Are you grumpy?” she says. “You don’t look grumpy.”
“He’s putting on a happy face because he thinks you brought a cameraman,” Larry says. “He looks good on television, don’t you think?”
“Oh, Lord,” I say. “Was I on?”
“Six o’clock news,” she says. “The man who found both bodies. Of course you were on. I had an exclusive interview. We ran it. Some of it. The part where you squirmed was good.”
Olive finishes up her set to a rolling wave of appreciation. Weed claps his hands together as enthusiastically as the rest, even though he missed most of the set. Poor bastard had to listen to me root through other people’s trash without a clue what I was looking for.
“And now I must be off,” Weed says. “Helicopter lag, you know. Ms. Gagliardi, nice seeing you again.”
“And you, Sergeant Weed.”
“Call me Norman, please.”
“Connie,” she says.
Weed tosses cash onto the bar.
“I’ve got it,” I say.
“Nah,” Weed says. “I didn’t have a good enough time to let you pick up the tab. Now I’m going to be thinking about Mickey D’s all night.” Weed salutes Barney, blows a kiss to Olive, and heads up the three steps to the street entrance.
“What about Mickey D’s?” Connie says.
“Arnie’s last meal,” I say.
“Oh.”
“Well, children,” Larry says. “I, too, must leave you now. And I’ll let you pick up my tab, slugger, because I had a fine time. No wait. That was in 1983.”
Larry leaves, doesn’t blow kisses to anyone.
“Boy, I sure know how to brighten a room, don’t I?” Connie says.
“I wasn’t very good company.”
“Want me to leave?”
