by Marc Strange
She shakes her head. “It’s not over for you, is it?”
“I still need to know who shot a hotel guest and who helped a hotel employee to depart the world.”
“Not to mention Alvin Neagle.”
“Alvin’s not part of my job description. If it turns out that the same person who killed Buzz and Arnie killed Alvin Neagle, as well, fine. But it’s outside my commission.”
“You think Axelrode did it?”
“It’s possible. Maybe somebody got to him — Hubble or Gowins. Maybe both told him he was working for pocket change and then gave him a way to pick up a big chunk of dough by getting rid of Buzz.”
“Crude tactics for men like that.”
“And then there’s Grace Ingraham,” I say. “The Heritage Architectural Preservation Society hasn’t received a nickel in over two years. Grace is selling off expensive pieces of the collection.”
“You honestly think a woman like that would hire someone like Axelrode?”
“She’s a big loser in this thing, too. She needs money. And she hated Buzz. She believes he stole Parker Prescott away from her, robbed her of those last precious years they could have had. Buzz took everything from her.”
“Is it possible to work three sides of the street?”
“Poor bastard,” I say.
“Who?”
“Did anyone think he was sane, or serious, or motivated by simple, genuine goodness?” I stop in front of a travel agency and study a poster of a warm beach far away. “Why is it so hard to believe there’s a purely good person walking among us?”
“You’d like to believe he was a saint, wouldn’t you?”
“Not really. Just a guy who knew he didn’t have long to live and wanted to do something nice before he checked out. But it begs the question — what would a saint do with half a billion dollars? Seriously. I’m asking you.”
“She’d give it away.”
chapter forty
Olive is onstage with Jimmy Hinds, her bassist, and a wispy guitar player who sometimes comes down on Friday nights. His name is Arlen, he works in a guitar store, and he practises about eight hours a day. His fingers dance like raindrops up and down the neck of his favourite Gretsch guitar. Olive loves the way he plays so much that she’s content to cradle his inventions in her rich open chords. Jimmy Hinds is, as are all good bass players, the sure and nurturing heartbeat that keeps it all alive.
Connie and I have a table, the same one we had two nights ago, beside and below the little bandstand, with Olive above us, smiling down because she sees me with a date. And it seems to me that she’s giving us a little extra something.
“In the wee small hours of the morning
While the whole world is fast asleep
You lie awake and think about the boy…”
“You finally look comfortable,” Connie says.
“Wild boar, eh?”
“Too rich?”
“It was good.”
“I have to get some sleep,” she says. “Tomorrow will start early.”
“Of course it will. I don’t want to keep you up.”
She smiles sweetly. “I mention that in case you were concerned about how we were going to say good night.”
“It’s been on my mind.”
Her laughter is genuine and in perfect time with Olive’s intro to “It Could Happen to You.” I look up to see Olive beaming at us. Now I know she’s arranging the set to the mood.
A little later we leave Olive’s and I walk Connie to her car.
It’s getting on to midnight. She says she’ll need at least four hours’ sleep not to look like a frump in front of the camera.
I can’t see how that would be possible. Without thinking too much about it, I take her elbow as we step off the curb.
“Hey, Grundy, what’s this?” Maxine is climbing out of her taxi and heading in our direction.
“Maxine, this is Connie.”
“Hi, there,’ Maxine says. “This is a first.”
“Really?”
“I’ve never seen Grundy on a date before. He cleans up pretty good, don’t you think?”
“Quite presentable,” Connie says.
“Connie has to get home. She’s on camera early in the morning.”
“Your pal Weed was around earlier looking for you,” Maxine says.
“He say why?”
“Something about Danny boy’s girlfriend.”
“What?”
“What’s her name? The one from Bangkok he doesn’t think anybody knows about?”
“Prana. What about her?”
“Yeah, her,” Maxine says. “She got worked over pretty good, Weed says. She’s in the hospital. Looks like one of Danny boy’s chickens came home to roost. They can’t find him, either.”
“Oh, Lord!” I say. “I think this is my fault. I was supposed to deliver some money to somebody to keep them off his back. Damn! Can’t keep two things in my head at the same time.”
“Punchy,” Max says.
“Look, Connie, Max can run me over to Chinatown. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“Not a chance,” Connie says. “I’ll drive you.”
“You’re hijacking my fare,” Max says.
“It’ll be a short run, Max,” I say. “Not worth your while.”
“Where are we going?” Connie asks me as she opens her car door.
“The Noodle Palace,” I say.
“Maybe we should have eaten there instead of Umberto’s. I hear the noodles are great.”
“Next time,” I say.
She smiles at that.
When we get to the Noodle Palace, I say, “Drop me off in the lane by the Ferrari. I’ll be fine. You head home. I’m sorry things have ended so abruptly, but that seems to be the way it goes.”
“I’ll wait here,” she says. “I want a good-night kiss and I’m willing to stay up another twenty minutes to get one.”
“I won’t be that long.”
“Good.”
Entering the Noodle Palace from the alley means negotiating a narrow corridor past a storeroom filled with Oriental smells. I hear noises from the dining room beyond — laughter and food orders being shouted. The main room is crowded with late diners, theatre-goers, and students. The room behind the beaded curtain is empty except for the man I’m looking for. Randall Poy is talking on his cell, happy about something. He glances up as I enter, then looks around quickly. Mikey and Marlon aren’t there. He terminates the conversation and stands. “Joe Grundy. It’s very late. What do you want?”
“I’m sorry I’m late, Randall. A bunch of things came up.”
“I’ve heard all the excuses in my life. Don’t bother.”
“All right.” I reach into my jacket pocket and take out the envelope with two thousand dollars in it. “This is the two thousand dollars I said I’d give you.” I toss it onto the table in front of him. He doesn’t look down.
“Okay, fine.”
“I don’t ever want you sending people into the hotel again. Do I make myself clear?”
“You don’t show up, Joe Grundy. What am I supposed to think?”
“I don’t know, Randall. But whatever you thought, it was wrong.”
“I can’t let things like this happen. It’s bad for my business.”
“Your business include beating up women?”
“I don’t beat up women, Grundy. I don’t need to do things like that.”
“You get one of your goons to do it for you?”
“What woman are you talking about?”
“Dan’s girlfriend. One of your people paid her a visit tonight.”
“Wasn’t me. Why would I bother? She doesn’t have any money. Check one of Dan Howard’s other creditors.”
“I’ll be talking to her soon. She’ll be able to give me a description.”
Randall sneers. “I think they’ll send her back to Thailand pretty quick. Anyway, what do you care? Dan Howard doesn’t work for you anymore. He told me.”
“When did you see Dan?”
Then someone kicks me in the head. From behind. That definitely gets a person’s attention. I turn around to look at the guy who’s smiling at me. The family resemblance is apparent. Marlon and Mikey have a cousin who goes by the name of Jason. Jason is a few years younger, about four inches shorter, and at least thirty pounds lighter than the smaller of the brothers, which places Jason in the cruiserweight division. Jason has pretty much a full-time job guarding Randall Poy’s Ferrari in its private parking area behind the Noodle Palace, but with both Chow brothers currently on the injured reserve list, Jason has apparently been upgraded to muscle. It’s a position he’s long coveted, and he’s prepared himself for this moment. Mikey and Marlon can take the rest of the year off if they want to.
The first thing he does is stick his foot in my face four, five times in a row, straight, snapping kicks, like a good jab with a hell of a reach. While I’m fending those off and trying to figure out a way to deal with this machine, I take a boot across the bad knuckle and it opens up. I’m getting blood on the Burberry. Then he comes at me with fists, straight, hard punches like pistons. I cover up, start to work on some countermeasures, and he steps back and kicks me again. This one catches me on the ear, the next one straight in the chest, and I slam back into the table and send chairs flying. I definitely don’t want to fall down with this guy.
He finally leaves himself open for a counterpunch. Unfortunately, I have to use my right hand. It lands nice and solid and his head snaps back, but I feel a cracking pain from my fist to my elbow. If that knuckle wasn’t broken before, it probably is now.
In 1991 I fought a man one-handed. He was shorter than I was, built like an anvil, hard to hit. I bounced an awkward right hand off his head in the first round. After that it was jab and dance, jab and clinch. I was lucky. He had short arms. Jason doesn’t have short arms.
I’m getting the worst of this round. On any judge’s scorecard you’d have to give Jason Chow a big edge for punches thrown and landed. I’ve only tagged him once, and it cost me the use of my right hand. He knows it, too. He figures he’s got me on the run. I see it in his eyes. He’s feeling stronger, more confident. He’s winning this round and there’s no timekeeper. The round will go on until somebody’s out.
But he can’t put me away. Jason punches hard and sharp, but he can’t put me down. He’s not big enough, and he doesn’t have a knockout punch. It’s one of the things you can tell right away. There’s no weight to his punches, just speed. I’m going to get hit, that’s a given, but he’ll have to pay for the privilege. It’s time to go to work.
I crowd him back across the room, cutting off the ring, taking his shots on my forearms and shoulders, bobbing my head, getting in closer and closer, inside the circle where he can’t use his feet, into a corner where he can’t escape. I’m back where I used to earn my money, infighting, head to head and not playing by the rules. My right elbow works just fine at this distance. He tries to spin away, and I get a good left hook into his kidney that makes him sag. When he slumps, his left side is open for a split second, and everything I own is delivered through my right hand to make him go down.
The hand, my hand, is swelling, bleeding, useless, and hurts so bad I can’t see straight. I turn around and blink until I can focus on Randall Poy.
“Randall,” I say, “if I were a vindictive man, I’d go outside into the lane and customize your Ferrari. Now I want you to take this two thousand dollars that I said I would pay you. I’m sorry it’s a bit late, I got called away, but here it is. You’ll have to make any further payment arrangements with Dan Howard. He doesn’t work for me any longer.” I spy Jason trying to rise. “Tell him if he gets up off the floor I’ll kill him.”
“You think I’m the only one Dan Howard owes money to?” Randall Poy says. “He owes money to the whole world. I’m not the only one looking to collect.”
“It’s not my business anymore.” I grab one of the table napkins as I head for the door, clattering the silverware rolled inside to the floor, and wrap it carefully around my hand. The napkin is red which, under the circumstances, is handy.
“Joe Grundy?”
“What do you want, Randall?”
“Why don’t you ask Dan Howard how he paid off Ivan Doncheff yesterday? He gave him ten thousand dollars.”
Through the beaded curtain I see fifty faces turned in my direction. “Did he?”
“There are many things you don’t know, Joe Grundy.”
“Always meant to come here,” I tell him, “for the noodles.”
Outside, I ask an alarmed Connie, “Could you drive me back to the hotel?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“I’ll go later. I need to get to the hotel. I have to see Gritch about something.”
“And then you’ll go?”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll go. But the doctor can’t do much. I don’t want a cast on it. It’ll immobilize the hand and I won’t be able to get the flexibility back. I’ll just have to live with it.”
“You’ve got more than a broken hand to fix up.”
“The other stuff is cosmetic.”
She gives me a critical appraisal. “It’s a look, I suppose.”
“Don’t take me to the front door. I don’t want to walk through the lobby looking like this.”
“I don’t blame you.”
She turns the corner onto Carrall Street, the rear face of the Lord Douglas. The Scientology Reading Room is closed for the night, but they have lights on and inspirational slogans illuminated for passersby. Connor’s Diner has been closed for many hours.
“There’s a fire entrance,” I say. “Right here, under the walkway.”
“Where will I find you?”
“There should be a place to park out front. The night manager will be on. His name’s Raymond. Just ask for Gritch. He’ll bring you back to the office.”
“And you’ll be there?”
“I’ll be there. I’m just going through the back way. I don’t want to upset the guests.”
She drops me off, waits until I get to the fire door. I can’t drag my passkey out with my right hand, so I go back to the car. “Would you mind reaching into my pocket and grabbing my keys?”
“Is that what they called it in your day? Anything else you want, as long as I’m in there?”
“That’ll do for now,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, sailor.”
chapter forty-one
“It’s an open stairwell, like an enclosed fire escape, and you can see a long way up. I have to climb a few flights to get to a door I can open. The mezzanine looks to be my best bet. Three flights from here. I can make it. No trouble. There’s a railing on my left side, which is handy because my left hand is more or less intact, though throbbing a bit. Bless Morley Kline. The left jab kept me alive tonight. Hurts like hell, though. Left forearm, too. I’m a mess.
But I’m climbing, dragging myself up by the railing one step at a time. Dogged old warhorse, that’s me. One step at a time. Head down, every muscle aching. Had I been looking up I might have seen the mass that crashes onto me like a falling piano and knocks me back down the steel stairs. I feel my broken hand smash itself redundantly against the railing, and a searing pain reaches as high as my skull. My legs are twisted under me, I’ve done something bad to my left knee, and there’s a huge dead weight on my chest. Jeffrey “Axe” Axelrode.
The man weighs a ton. He’s been shot, and he’s dead, and it’s lucky for me he was bouncing off the railings on his downward journey. Had he come straight down he would have killed me.
Crawling out from under Axelrode costs me dearly. I have to use those parts of my right arm that still work, muscling him aside with elbow and shoulder, gaining inches, trying to keep the moans down. Finally, I manage to roll him aside. His body slides down a few more steps and comes to rest on a landing.
I start to climb again. Slower this time. My le
ft knee is swelling. Cruciate ligament, feels like. Torn, probably. That can’t be good. I keep going up, past the mezzanine door.
“Don’t come any closer, Joe,” Dan says, his voice echoing down the stairwell. “I’ll shoot you. I swear I will.”
“Where are you, Dan? I’m coming up.” I keep climbing but can’t see him in the gloom. “Stay where you are, okay?”
“I’ll do it. I just don’t give a shit anymore.”
“If you don’t care anymore, Dan, why shoot me?”
“Because that’s what you have to do!” He sounds drunk. Falsely hearty, even mirthful, on the ragged edge. “Once you start, you can’t just walk away from the table. Not while you still have some chips. And I’ve got chips, baby. I’ve got fucking chips!”
“They’re no good to you anymore, Dan. It’s all over. Just think about it for a minute.” I pass the fourth-floor fire door, rest for a minute, listening, puffing, keeping my weight off my left leg, touching nothing with my right hand. “Dan, talk to me. Come on, Dan. We’ve got to work this out.”
“Nothing to work out, Joe.”
I can see him now. He’s two landings above me, sitting on a top step, leaning through the railing, staring down at me. He’s holding a gun. I keep climbing.
“I’ll shoot you, Joe. I mean it. What have I got to lose?”
Closer now. I’m at five. He’s directly above me on six. He doesn’t have much of an angle from there.
“We have to talk, Dan. Really, you should talk this out.”
“You want to talk, Joe? Sure. Why not? Come on up to my office.”
“Where is it?”
“You figure it out. It’s your hotel. Personally, I don’t think you can make it, boss.”
I hear him climbing again, pounding up the stairs at a rate I’ll never match. I listen, trying to count floors, listening for the slam of a fire door, hearing nothing but Dan’s footfalls echoing, and the faint ringing of metal against metal — his gun against the railing, jacket buttons? — an odd, unsyncopated accompaniment to the fading drumbeat of his ascent.
Come up to my office? What did Gritch say? There are a hundred places in this hotel where he could camp out and no one would ever know he was there. Places, he’s happy to point out, of which I’m still ignorant despite seven years in charge of hotel security. Prop rooms from when they used to hold pageants, kitchens that aren’t used anymore, cloakrooms, private meeting rooms. The thirteenth floor.
