Читать книгу Sucker Punch - Marc Strange - Страница 8

I stop off on fifteen and Arnie is watching the same thing Leo was watching.

“You’re supposed to be watching the door,” I say.

“Shit, they’re in for the night. Just had four pizzas delivered.” He sounds envious.

“They came back from 1529?”

“No, they’re still down there. It’s a party.”

“Did they take an attaché case with them? Sam sonite? Black?”

“What? To the party? No. Him and the woman took a couple of bottles of wine.”

“Arnie, just watch the door. There’s two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in a briefcase, give or take a few hundred-dollar tips, and if somebody decides to steal it, I’d like it if you could give me a description.”

“I didn’t know about the money.” He still wants to see what’s going on with the football game.

“Turn off the TV, Arnie.”

I go back down the hall to the Ambassador’s Suite and knock. Somebody’s playing a guitar inside, not too loud, kind of folkie. The same young guy with the old face opens the door.

“This can’t be too loud, man. This is a solid old building, thick walls, we’re in a suite.”

I hold up my hands in innocence. “No, sir, no problem. It sounds really nice. I just wondered if I could speak with one of your guests for a moment. Hotel business. Mr. Buznardo.”

“Hey, sure, come on in, Detective.”

“I don’t want to disturb your party, sir. I could talk to Mr. Buznardo in the hall.”

He grabs my arm and pulls me through the doorway. “Screw that. Come in. Welcome. This is Bubba, our road manager, Mr. Carno from Yolanda Records…” I’m introduced as “the house dick” and everybody seems cool with that.

There are about a dozen people in the room. Furniture has been rearranged to form a group circle with two tables of pizzas and wine in the middle. A lingering herbal sweetness hangs in the air. As long as it doesn’t filter into the hall, we don’t comment anymore. This is a smoking suite. A guy with a handlebar moustache is finger-picking a nice old Martin guitar and singing an Appalachian murder song in a sweet tenor voice. “Down by the banks of the Ohio…” His name is John-John. He doesn’t stop picking while introductions are made by my host, but he nods in my direction and smiles when he sings, “I held my knife against her breast, while into my arms she pressed. She cried ‘O Lord, don’t murder me, I’m not prepared for Eternity.’” I smile at the pure relish of his delivery.

It’s a celebration. The people in the room have just finished a two-month recording stint and will soon launch three guys and —a new CD. The group is called Redhorn a couple of studio musicians who aren’t part of the group but play on the new CD. The disc was produced by the man sitting at the end of the sofa, a guy named Barnett Sharpe, who’s supposed to be the best record producer on the West Coast, according to one of the studio musicians, who offers me a slice of pepperoni, double cheese, which I decline with thanks. There are women who could be girlfriends or backup singers. One of them has long silver hair and a haunting soprano voice. She harmonizes with the guitar player when they reach the refrain: “And only say that you’ll be mine, and in no other arms entwine…”

There are a couple of older people wearing suits, record people, I’m told. The guy who looks like a biker is as big as me but has more hair. He slaps a can of Coors in my hand and claps me on the shoulder. His name is Bubba, he tells me again. “Welcome, friend.”

The young guy with the old face is named Sandy Washburn. He plays keyboards and writes most of their stuff. I wind up staying half an hour. They play a couple more tunes, including one of the new songs that’s on the CD. I drink the beer.

Jake Buznardo’s face displays unabashed emotions rapture at the sounds, sadness at the story. When he — sees me, he grins with immediate recognition and makes room for me at his end of a couch. I fit myself in between him and his companion. Her name is Molly MacKay, Buznardo tells me, pronounced “Mack-eye,” he’s careful to enunciate. Molly has a thick tangle of red hair, freckles, and green eyes. She’s his sister.

“This is my first trip to the city in four years, Mr. Grundy, and Redhorn’s giving us a private concert.” Like her brother, she’s open in her pleasure. Her eyes are wiser than his, or sadder, which might be the same thing.

“And your brother just won his court case,” I offer. On-the-job Grundy.

“Sheesh, am I glad that’s over. It took forever.”

“Mr. Buznardo?” I lean close so as not to interfere with the music, but I’m thinking it’s time I did what I came to do.

“Call me Buzz, please, man. It’s my name, really.”

“Okay, Buzz. It’s just that you left all that money behind in your room and the hotel really can’t assume liability if someone should take it.”

“Oh, right. That’s what you’re worried about. I can dig it. But really, I wouldn’t hold the hotel responsible. Tell him, Molly.”

She shakes her head and smiles like an older sister. “He wouldn’t. Not his philosophy of life. Doesn’t blame, doesn’t judge, doesn’t hate, and definitely doesn’t give a shit.”

Buzz reaches behind me and fluffs her hair. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“You did say it yourself,” she says. “I’m just repeating the Buzz words.”

“Well, okay, sir. That’s reassuring. Still, I’ll have someone keep an eye on your room, if you don’t mind. Robbers aren’t usually gentle souls like yourself.”

“You do what you think is right, man,” he tells me. “That’s all we can do.” He closes his eyes, tilts his head back, smiles his seraphic smile, and lets the music wash over him. His sister with the thick red hair gazes at him with patient love and baffled wonder. I feel old and cramped in my worries and responsibilities.

I stand and salute the gathering, now listening to Redhorn rocking gently on “Long Black Veil.” I hand Bubba my empty beer can and take my leave, wishing I could stick around. A warm room of friendly people and I haven’t been part of one of those for — good music many years. When Bubba opens the door for me, Connie Gagliardi and a woman aiming a TV camera are standing in the hall.

Bubba says to her, “I don’t think he wants to talk to anybody.”

Behind him, Washburn gets up. “It’s okay, Bubba. She’s expected.”

Connie Gagliardi lifts her chin and looks up at me as she passes. She has dark eyes. I see Buzz getting off the couch to greet her. When he stands, he winces and reaches for his sister’s shoulder. His smile never wavers. Bubba gently closes the door in my face.

Walking down the hall, I spot Dan Howard standing near the elevator. He’s talking to a big man in a green jacket.

“Hey, boss,” Dan says, “what’s up?”

I check my watch. It’s 10:05. I was listening to music longer than I thought.

“Mr. Axelrode,” I say, “have you taken a room on this floor?”

He measures me. I know the look. He’s considering what would happen. I know what would happen. “Checking arrangements,” he says.

“Check elsewhere.” I press the down button, and we wait in silence until No. 6 arrives. Axelrode steps inside. He nods at me as the door closes.

“You know that guy?” I ask Dan.

“Jeff Axelrode. He’s got a security company. I used to work for him a few years back.”

“What did he want?”

“Hey, I don’t know. I don’t even know what’s going on. There’s some rich dude we’re babysitting?”

“You have enough sleep, Dan?”

“What? Yeah, I guess.”

Dan doesn’t seem well rested. He looks as if he’s had a long day.

“You had much to drink?”

He shakes his head. “No. I thought I had the night off. I was going to have a few pops to ease my troubled soul, but I’m here now.”

In a good light, and when he smiles, Dan Howard regular features, — gives a handsome first impression blue eyes, a fine head of hair. It takes a moment to note that the corners of his mouth are perpetually soured as if by a bad taste on the back of his tongue. Dan has legendary rotten luck.

“Okay,” I say, “you give me four hours, until 2:00 a.m. Can you do that?”

“Sure. What’s going on?”

When we get to 1507, Arnie is eating a box of McNuggets and watching detectives sift through garbage. He snaps the television off when we come in. “All quiet, Joe. I had the door wide open. Nobody went down the hall.”

“Where’d you get the McDonald’s?” I ask him.

Arnie looks guilty. “Maurice sent ’em up for me.”

“Anybody come up the fire stairs? Service elevator?”

Arnie glances over at Dan and changes the subject. “What took you so long?”

“Go home, Arnie,” I tell him. “Get some sleep. Get back by 9:00 a.m.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says. He collects his McNuggets and his large Coke and waddles out.

After Arnie goes, I tell Dan what’s going on.

“It’s just sitting in there?”

“Just sitting in there. I don’t want anyone taking it. I don’t know if the hotel would be liable or not, but it would sure make the front pages if it went missing, and Leo Alexander wouldn’t like that.”

“Bet his kids would,” Dan says.

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t like it, either. I’ll carry the cell phone with me. Let me know what’s happening whenever it happens. I’ll have Gritch relieve you at 2:00 a.m. If you start getting sleepy, tell me. And let me know when Buznardo and his sister get home from the party down the hall.”

“Don’t worry about it, Joe. Knowing how much money is lying around is going to keep me wide awake.”

Standing in front of the elevators, I hear traces of music sifting down the hall from 1529, but I don’t want to go back there anymore.