Читать книгу Body Blows - Marc Strange - Страница 10

chapter three

A few hundred of Leo’s “closest personal friends,” most of who have had to introduce themselves, are spilling drinks and waiting for the dinner doors to open. So far I haven’t noticed Leo being particularly convivial with anyone, but I’m impressed by the restraint he’s showing with some puffed-up middle-management-type from the Fairmont chain.

“I hear you finally changed a fuse in that mausoleum of yours,” the guy says. “Ever get elevator three moving again?”

“Oh, sure,” Leo says. “Of course the people inside had long since starved to death, but we comped them anyway.”

Then I see his eyes light up at the approach of a pretty face. I’m almost certain I told Connie Gagliardi that I’d be working tonight and didn’t want to be distracted, nonetheless she’s put on an emerald gown which shows off her nice shoulders and she’s wearing the cheeky smile that always makes my face crease. I can feel Vivienne’s temperature drop as Connie sifts through the pre-dinner reception throng. I admire the way she dips those nice shoulders, like a running back weaving toward the end zone.

“Mr. Alexander,” she says. Touchdown. “How nice to meet you at last. I’m Connie Gagliardi, Channel 20.”

“You’ve smiled at me from your news desk often, Ms. Gagliardi,” Leo says, bending over her outstretched hand. “Be assured that I was smiling back.”

“Have you missed me? I’m on in the morning now.”

“And I thought you’d gone to Hollywood.” A charmer when he wishes to be.

“I’m hoping I can sit you down for an interview. At your convenience, of course.”

“Maybe we can discuss it over lunch sometime soon,” says Leo.

“Better make it quick,” I say. “She’s trying to hitch a ride to Afghanistan.”

Connie tilts her curly head in my direction. “Will he have to be there?” she wants to know.

Leo begins his acceptance speech with generous thanks to all concerned for the great honour. He even manages to look flattered by his profile in bas-relief on the mandatory brass plaque they’ve stuck him with.

“The Lord Douglas is one of the last, great, fully independent hotels,” Leo says, looking out at the audience of well-fed innkeepers. “I know that many of my peers and competitors look forward to the day when either old age or red ink forces me to become a link in some global chain …” (He pauses to allow for the expected chuckle) “but I advise them not to hold their collective breath. Autonomous innkeepers may be a disappearing breed, but we ain’t extinct. Hell, some of us aren’t even on the endangered list.” (Another chuckle.)

So far I haven’t seen a hint of anything suspicious or out of place. The affair has been catered like clockwork. The three-hundred-plus guests all received their prime ribs hot and their crèmes brûlée crunchy on top and creamy in the middle. Connie Gagliardi is at a table somewhere off to the side. She’s been chatting with a quarterback from the Seattle Seahawks who’s up here for some charity golf tournament. Drake something-or-other. It’s either Drake-something, or something-Drake, I forget. I’ve heard Connie’s wicked laugh ring out more than once. Even so, I’m staying focused.

And finally, after the applause and the benediction and another round of convivial schmoozing, the doors to the dance floor are opened and Leo Alexander and Vivienne Saunders get a chance to try out their moves.

“Not dancing?” A familiar voice at my shoulder.

“Hmm? Quarterbacks don’t dance?”

“Ho,” she chortles. “You were paying attention.”

“I’m working,” I say.

“Your boss is getting away,” Connie says. “Couldn’t you do a better job from the dance floor than the stag line?”

“He’s picked up some nifty moves, got to admit.”

“Come on,” she says. “We’ll head him off by the fountain.”

“I’m pretty rusty.”

“Where have I heard that recently?”

I don’t think I’m as good at this job as I once was, and it isn’t just my two-step that’s rusty. I’m losing my edge. I’ve been enjoying myself far too much.

After a while Connie says, “I think he’s flagging.”

“It’s the new hip,” I say. “It’s only good for an hour of ballroom.”

The dancers pause in place to applaud the last number (a mambo, I think, I’ve let Connie set the tempo and chauffeur me around) and we cross the parquet floor to join Leo and Vivienne.

“Isn’t he terrific?” says Vivienne. “I haven’t had this much fun since Argentina.”

“I’m about ready for a splash of brandy and a cigar,” Leo says. “Ms. Gagliardi, would you care to join us?”

“I’d be delighted,” she says.

“How many more are coming, sir?” I ask.

“Just us,” he says. “I haven’t met this many horse’s asses since the last time we went out together. See about getting the car, will you, Joseph? I’ll make a few obligatory good-byes.”

“Don’t like leaving you alone, sir.”

“Pish-tosh,” he says. “I have two lovely escorts. What do I need you for?”

I get the impression that Ms. Saunders isn’t completely thrilled that Connie has joined the select circle, but she smiles nonetheless, give her that. I head for the main entrance and tell the valet to order up Leo’s limo. I do all the tipping. Leo doesn’t carry cash either.

Leo’s obligatory farewells must include everyone in the ballroom because wherever he is it’s behind a wall of backs and heads. I start across the room toward the largest flock and one of the organizers comes running up, a man who introduced himself near the start of the festivities but whose name I’ve misplaced. He looks upset.

“Excuse me, you’re Mr. Grundy, is that right? Mr. Alexander’s assistant?”

“That’s right, ah, Mr. —” he’s wearing a nametag “— Trueller.”

“Tulley,” he says.

I should get contacts.

“What can I do for you, sir?” I ask politely.

“It’s … ah, most embarrassing. The … ah, memorial plaque, the bronze, rosewood frame, engraved —”

“Yes, I saw it. It’s very handsome.”

“It’s been defaced,” he says sadly. “Someone ruined it.”

“Where is it?”

He leads me back to the head table. The speaker’s lectern has an inner shelf where speeches and jokes and names to remember were kept, where Leo’s Hotelier of the Year Award is evidently still waiting to be picked up. The plaque has a big hole where Leo’s right eye used to be.

“Leave it,” I say. “Don’t touch it. Could be fingerprints.”

“Should I call the police?”

I leave him to decide that on his own time and give myself a mental smack on the head. I knew it. Happy-go-lucky, feeding my face, cavorting with the rich and semi-famous, forgetting what my job was. Where the hell is he? I’m crashing through a thicket of gowns and starched shirtfronts — “Excuse me, pardon me, let me through, please” — trying not to look like I’m panicked.

Finally. He looks safe enough, quite pleased with himself, in fact. Doesn’t look like he needs rescuing.

“Ah, Joseph,” he says. “There you are. Past my bedtime is it?”

“Car’s waiting, sir,” I say.

The ever-vigilant Connie Gagliardi has caught something in my face, or heard something in my tone. Maybe it’s the faint reek of dread still clinging to me.

“Hi there,” she says. “How’re ya doing, big guy?” It’s not an idle question.

“Just fine,” I say. “But it’s time we hit the road.”

Connie and Vivienne each take an arm and begin shepherding Leo toward the exit. I try not to bowl anyone out of our lane. There are smatterings of applause as we pass, a little bantering, an occasional mutter, genial farewells. Leo evidently has kissable cheeks.

The limo is waiting; our driver is holding the door. He has a moustache. He doesn’t have a stubby ponytail.