Читать книгу Sucker Punch - Marc Strange - Страница 6

Back out in the lobby, I search for Gritch’s newspaper. He’s behind it, sitting over by the big ferns like HumptyDumpty with his neat little feet barely touching the floor. I head for the office, and he gets up and follows me down the hall.

“Guest just checked into the Governor’s Suite,” I say over my shoulder.

“Guy in the paper. Maybe twenty-five, thirty,” Gritch says, right behind me, “blond hair down to his butt crack, hippie-dippie type, one beat-up leather bag, one new attaché case, Samsonite. Maurice took him up. Maurice got a nice tip.”

I turn on the lights in the office. Already my shirt doesn’t feel fresh. “Where’s Arnie?”

“Working his way down. Probably mooching leftovers at the wedding reception. He’s off at eight.”

“Maybe not,” I say. I find the phone number I’m looking for. “Maybe Arnie works overtime. Maybe we all work overtime.”

“What’s up?”

“There’s two hundred and fifty thousand cash in that briefcase.”

Gritch whistles a soft note. “Is that legal?”

“It’s his money.” I hand Gritch the card with the number on it. “Make a call, see if Dan Howard can come in.”

“Yeah, all right. Which number?”

“Don’t be a wise guy. Hey, you spot that bruiser with the ugly green sports coat?”

“What do you pay me for?” he says. “Name’s Axelrode.”

“We’ve been introduced.”

“Oh, yeah? They call him Axe.”

“Really? He was hassling Margo about the security arrangements.”

“Yeah, he’s a rent-a-cop these days. Used to be on the job. What’s his connection?”

“Not sure yet,” I say at the door. “When Arnie gets down, hold on to him.”

“Yo.”

I hear him pick up the phone and then I’m heading for the elevators. I turn when Gritch says my name.

“Joe?”

“What?”

“That guy Axelrode? If you get in a beef with him, don’t putz around. The guy’s not nice. He got retired from the job for excessive you-know-whats.”

I’m heading for the elevators when Margo catches up to me. “You on your way up to fifteen?”

“Yep.”

“There’s a rock band in the other suite,” she says. “We’ve had a couple of complaints about the noise.”

“I’ll mention it to them.”

“There’s a TV crew wants to set up shop on the mezzanine.”

“For the rock band?”

She shakes her head. “Mr. Buznardo says he’s calling a press conference for 9:00 a.m., but that Gagliardi person is trying to get an interview before then.”

“This man, Buznardo, has he got people with him?”

“Just his lawyer.”

“I’ll try to talk him into putting the money in the safe.”

“The way he’s handing it out it’ll be gone by morning.”

She heads back to the front desk. A young woman with a lot of responsibility. Holding up well.

The elevator arrives and a woman gets out. My age, or a bit older. Nicely turned out, raw silk suit, good bag, good shoes, not too much heel, nice legs walking away, heading for the staircase down to Olive’s. She gives me a look over her shoulder before the door slides shut. Or maybe she was just glancing back. Ash-blond hair, cool grey eyes. Out of my league.

The Lord Douglas elevators won’t be rushed. It takes a couple of minutes to get to the top floor. I press fifteen and stand in the corner watching the lighted numbers climb until they skip from twelve to fourteen. Back when the Lord Douglas was built, people didn’t like staying on a thirteenth floor — I don’t think they care as much anymore. According to Gritch, there is a thirteenth floor; you just can’t get there via these elevators. I study my shoes to make a change from watching the numbers, and on the floor I notice a crumpled- up bill. It’s a C-note, new, still crisp, but crushed once as if in someone’s fist and dropped or thrown away. I smooth it, fold it, and stick it in my pants pocket as the doors open on fifteen. Seems I got one, anyway.

There are two big suites on fifteen, at opposite ends of the building. The Ambassador’s Suite is 1529–1531 at the north end. I hear the music halfway down the hall — guitar and a synthesizer and some kind of drums.

A short guy with spiked hair that’s too young for his face opens the door and looks at me. He says, “Too loud, right?”

“There’s plaster falling on fourteen.”

“You the house dick?”

“That’s right. Look, there’s a rehearsal room down on the mezzanine floor you could book. It’s pretty good. Sound system, piano. Dwight Yoakam used it last year.”

“Now there’s a recommendation,” he says. “It’s okay. We’re gonna knock off, anyway. We sound like shit.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I tell him.

“Trust me.”

The Governor’s Suite is 1502–1504, on the west side of the building, at the end of a full city block of carpeted hallway wide enough for a compact car. The carpets on fifteen were recently replaced. Brighter than the old roses I used to tread but the distance is the same. It’s a long stroll. When I reach the other end, the door to 1502 is open and a man is taking his leave, talking to someone inside.

“No reporters, that’s all I’m saying. Anybody gets through you just refer them to me. Can you do that?”

I can’t hear the reply, and neither can the man because he bends farther into the suite. His comb-over lifts like a shingle when he leans sideways.

“Buzz, can you do that?”

I guess the answer is affirmative, because the man nods to himself without conviction and comes out into the hall where he spots me approaching and spreads his arms as if to bar the door. It’s a wide door. His arms are short. I admire his pluck. “Mr. Buznardo isn’t receiving just now.”

“That’s fine, sir,” I tell him.

“I just need a minute of his time.”

“He’s asked not to be disturbed.”

“The hotel will certainly honour that, sir. My name’s Joe Grundy, hotel security. I just want to ensure our guest is satisfied with arrangements.”

The man relaxes a little and sticks out his hand. “Oh. Good. I’m Alvin Neagle, Mr. Buznardo’s lawyer. I’m hoping to keep the lid on his whereabouts for a while.”

“How do you do, sir?” I shake his damp hand. “I think the word may have leaked out. We’ll try to keep your client from being bothered too much.”

“He’s had a long day. He needs to relax.”

“I won’t keep him long.”

“All right, okay. I have to take off, but I’d like to talk to you later about arrangements for tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. You just tell Ms. Traynor, the assistant general manager, what you need and we’ll make sure you get it.”

“It’s going to be a madhouse however it’s arranged. I know it.”

“Excuse me, sir, have you arranged for extra security for your client?”

He throws up his hands. “He won’t hear of it. He thinks he’s invulnerable.”

Neagle takes a deep breath and heads off in the direction of the elevators, shaking his head and muttering. A small round man in a blue polyester suit patting his shingle back into place and facing the fact that he’s now in the eye of a hurricane.

“It’s open,” a voice from inside 1502 says.

The best suite in the hotel. Four big bedrooms, reception room, private lounge, full kitchen, and real some of it, anyway. I hear the shower —antique furniture running in one of the bathrooms and I have a look around. On the desk is a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills fanned out. I call out to the bathroom. “Mr. Buznardo?”

“There’s money on the desk, man. Help yourself.”

I go to the bedroom door and talk to the bathroom.

“My name’s Grundy, Mr. Buznardo. Hotel security. Like to talk to you for a minute.”

He comes out of the bathroom wearing a towel — a skinny blond Jesus. “Out there on the desk. Take as much as you need.”

“Before we get to that, maybe we could talk a bit.”

There’s another knock.

“Yo,” he says.

“Room service.”

I recognize the voice. It’s Phil Marsden.

“Bring it on in,” Buznardo says. “Help yourself to a tip. It’s on the desk.”

I step back into the sitting room. Phil is holding a silver bucket with a magnum of Veuve Clicquot up to its shoulders in ice. He has two champagne glasses in his other hand. He’s staring at the cash on the desk.

“It’s okay, Phil. Take one.”

He glances at me and blinks. “Yeah?”

“That’s what the man says.”

Phil puts down the bucket and glasses, then selects one of the bills from the fan as if he’s choosing a card. “Would you like me to open this for you, sir?” Phil asks Buznardo.

“I want to talk to him,” I say.

“I’ve got to get that thing signed.”

“I think he’s good for it.”

Phil heads for the door. He still hasn’t pocketed the C- note. “Okay. I’ll pick it up later.” He turns at the door. “He wants anything else, tell him to ask for Phil.”

Phil shuts the door as Buznardo comes out of the bedroom. He lifts the champagne bottle out of the ice and peers at the label. “Want a glass?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“It’s a celebration.”

“I guess it is.”

“I wasn’t going to get this fancy. Alvin arranged things. I don’t usually hang in places like this.”

“I guess your life’s about to change a bit.”

“Sure,” he says. “Some of the day-to-day details, for a while, anyway, but in the long run not so much.” He puts the champagne back in the bucket. “Not so much.”

I hand him the bill. “Room service will want you to sign this.”

“You bet.” He finds a hotel pen in the desk drawer and bends to scrawl his name. His towel drops to the floor. He doesn’t bother to pick it up. “Should I add a gratuity to this?”

“I think you already gave him a generous tip.”

Buznardo puts the pen and signed chit on the dresser alongside the fan of fresh hundred-dollar bills. He stares at himself in the mirror, pale and naked, his eyes flatly curious, as if contemplating a drawing. Picking up one of the bills by its corner, he shows it to his mirror image, studying the effect it makes on the composition. “How about you?”

“That’s not necessary, sir. I found one of your hundred- dollar bills in the elevator. Someone must have dropped it.” I hold it out to him.

He raises his hands as if he doesn’t want anything to do with a bill that isn’t smooth. “It’s gone. That one’s left my hands. I’m not responsible for it anymore. You keep it, or find the owner. Whatever.” He finally picks up the towel and wraps it around his bony hips. “Hotel security, that’s like a detective, right?”

“More like a watchdog. I understand you have a large amount of cash with you.”

“Want to see it?” He grabs a new Samsonite attaché case from behind the couch and pops it open. Hundred- dollar bills in hundred-bill packets with tight paper bands. Twenty-four freshly wrapped plus the broken one on the desk makes two hundred and fifty thousand, give or take.

“That’s a lot of money. The thing of it is, Mr. Buznardo —”

“Call me Buzz ’cause everybody does.” He makes it sound like a nursery rhyme.

“Okay, Buzz, the thing is the hotel’s a bit worried about having that much cash lying around. Wouldn’t you feel more secure with that case in the hotel safe?”

“No, I need it with me. As soon as the banks get their act together, I’m getting more.”

“Mind my asking what you need it for?”

“I’m not here to buy dope or anything.” He closes the case and puts it back behind the couch. As good a stash as any, I suppose.

“We’re just concerned that someone might try to steal it.”

“Aw, man, they’d be welcome, if they want it bad enough to do something like that. I don’t think of this money as mine. Not now that it is mine, and I can do what I want with it.”

“Which is?”

He lets the towel drop again and begins pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, but no underwear. The shirt says CONFOUND THE PREVAILING PARADIGM — whatever that means.

“I’m going to give it away.”

“All of it? The whole briefcase?”

“All of it. The whole six hundred and eighty-eight million dollars.”

He smiles at me again, but he doesn’t look demented or drugged or as if he’s kidding. He seems like a skinny blond Jesus with a long wet ponytail and a neatly trimmed beard and a face suffused with holy determination.