Читать книгу Body Blows - Marc Strange - Страница 8

chapter one

The fifty-million-dollar renovation of the Lord Douglas Hotel is complete, only nine months behind schedule and twelve million dollars over budget, which, I’m told, isn’t all that bad these days. With the scaffolding gone, the venerable inn once again faces the public with dignity and grace. An elegant awning shelters the arriving guests, a new red carpet paves the way to the famous brass doors (not new, always gleaming), and it’s even better inside. All the SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE signs have been removed, the Gabriola Ballroom has been reopened, Floor Eleven has a new floor, the Champagne Baths swimming pool, spa, fitness, and pampering centre is now fully operational, PROVIDING RELAXATION AND REJUVENATION — 24 HOURS. The elevators are swifter, the rooms are Internet-friendly, and the Lower Mall has added a six-screen Multiplex, a Gap, a dojo, and a chiropractor. The Lord Douglas has reclaimed her time-honoured reputation as a bastion of refinement while adding those embellishments so vital to the modern traveller. That’s a direct quote. There are brochures everywhere.

It is in recognition of this effort that Leo Alexander will receive the Hotelier of the Year Award — an honour that isn’t necessarily bestowed every year. The tribute is overdue but Leo keeps a very low profile and has managed to avoid personal publicity for some time. This evening’s arrival at the Royal Lotus Ballroom on the other side of town will mark his first public appearance in eight years, at least as far as I know. Wallace Gritchfield is happy to point out that I don’t know everything, but if Gritch has other information, he isn’t saying. On the subject of our boss we all tend to be discreet.

There is a Toronto woman, very stylish, name of Hiscox, who’s been trying to get some of the staff to open up about Leo Alexander. She claims to be writing a biography.

“Authorized?” I ask her when she finally tracks me down.

“It’s meant to be a surprise,” she says. We’re sitting in the Street Level Sports Bar; she’s drinking a martini. She would have been better off having Barney make it for her down in Olive’s. Barney is a traditionalist; his martinis are stirred, not shaken.

“So Leo doesn’t know about it.”

“Not yet.”

“Are you a guest of the hotel?” I ask.

“Oh,yes,” she says. “Nice little suite, not wild about the wallpaper, but then I wasn’t consulted.”

“I really don’t have much I can give you,” I say.

“You’d think he was Sicilian,” she says, “the way people clam up around here.”

Roselyn Hiscox is a long-legged blonde with a flawless manicure. She isn’t taking notes and I don’t see a tape recorder.

“Truth, Ms. Hiscox,” I say, “not many people in the hotel really know him. He hasn’t been seen below the fifteenth floor for quite a while.”

“Is he like Howard Hughes up there, growing his fingernails and saving his urine?” She laughs, stylishly, but without mirth.

“Not at all,” I say. “He lives a very comfortable, normal life.”

“Comfortable, yes,” she says. “Normal? People with money and power live on a somewhat more elevated plane than the rest of us.” She inspects the olive. “He’s been a major player in some very big deals.” She has good teeth; the olive pit is immaculate when she produces it. “But careful to stay in the shadows.” She smiles.

“I will go on record as saying that Leo Alexander is a good boss and I’m happy to be in his employ. How’s that?”

“Very helpful.” She stares off into space and I see something in the set of her jaw, determination perhaps. “This isn’t a hatchet job, Mr. Grundy,” she says, not looking at me, still watching something playing out in her mind. “Your boss has had a very interesting life. I have material that goes back as far as 1959. The only section that’s skimpy is the time that he’s been hiding out in his hotel.”

“I think he’s just enjoying the fruits of his labour,” I say. “A comfortable semi-retirement.”

“Fine,” she says. “I just want some details — what’s the penthouse like, state of his health, people he’s still in contact with.”

“Why don’t you give him a call?”

“I told you,” she says, “it’s going to be a surprise.”

“One thing I can tell you without breaking any confidence,” I say, “Leo doesn’t much care for surprises.”

Gritch had a turn with her as well.

“I told her he was up there changing lead into gold and plotting world domination,” he says. He’s following me through the lobby. I’m headed in the general direction of our offices and my personal quarters on the far side of Accounting.

“More interesting than the story I gave her,” I say.

“Yeah, well you were probably trying to be gracious. It’s one of your failings.”

“I’m not telling her what brand of soap he uses, even if I knew, which I don’t.”

“She’s not the first,” he says. “Your pal Gormé’s paper tried to do a piece on him a few years back. I think the Emblem got a case of libel chill.”

That stops me briefly. “A piece about the hotel?”

“Nah, something to do with his ranching days. Before your time.”

“Everything’s before my time,” I say. I’m trying to decide whether I need to check into the office or forego the pleasure in favour of a hot shower. “If it doesn’t involve the hotel, I don’t want to know.”

“Invincible ignorance,” Gritch says. “Can’t beat it.”

“It’s invincible,” I say.

“And ignorant.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I need a shave and a shower.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, “you’ve got a big date.”

Leo’s tailor is a man named Han Chuen Chu who is about the same age as Leo and has been making fine suits in Vancouver for forty years. I have three presentable suits in my closet but Han Chuen Chu didn’t build them and it’s easy to tell the difference.

About a month ago Mr. Han measured me for a tuxedo. He did it at the same time he was measuring my employer. Leo and I stood side by side, in his penthouse high atop the Lord Douglas Hotel, in our underwear, while Mr. Han called out measurements to an assistant. Leo insisted that our outfits be of the same quality. Not the first time he’s done that. I’ve learned to be careful about complimenting Leo on anything as it usually means that the same model, in my size, will be delivered within twenty-four hours.

“We’ll be sitting at the head table, Joseph,” Leo explained. “Can’t have my XO looking like he doesn’t belong.”

“At least I’ll be wearing the right uniform,” I said.

“Never underestimate the power of good tailoring,” he said. “A Han Chuen Chu tuxedo is as potent as four stars on a general’s epaulets.”

“Five stars,” said Mr. Han.

My “soup and fish,” as Morley Kline used to call evening wear, arrives in a royal blue garment bag with a gold chop which probably translates as “if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.” Maurice brings it back to my office personally. Maurice has been recently elevated from bell captain to concierge and he’s taking a while to settle in to his new position. As bell captain, he knew a hundred ways of skimming the surface of anything flowing his way. Learning how to exploit his new title to its fullest extent will take him a while. I’m sure he’ll figure it out.

“Hope that thing came in a Brinks truck,” says Gritch. He’s sitting in the corner fondling an unlit cigar and counting the minutes until Rachel Golden goes off shift and he can light up.

“Two of them,” says Maurice. “I just took the other one up to the old man. Tonight’s the night, right?”

“Limo at the front door, eight p.m.,” I say.

“He’s going out through the lobby?” Maurice is surprised.

“Yeah,” says Gritch. “Might want to cover the roulette wheels.”

“Is he going to want some acknowledgement?” Maurice wonders. “Line up some of the staff, show him out the door with ceremony?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “He’ll be happy if his house is running the way it’s supposed to.”

“Probably be a few people want a look though. Most of them have never seen him.”

“Line ‘em up,” says Gritch. “They can sing ‘Hail to the Chief’ as he walks by.”

Maurice goes off to check the parade route and I carry the fancy garment bag through to my bedroom to hang it up. On the bed are laid out the other elements for tonight’s costume — shirt, studs, links, suspenders, bow tie (I may need some help with that).

“Nice material,” says Gritch. He’s followed me. He does that.

“I could have rented one,” I say. “Leo wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Host the Oscars in a tux like that.”

“I’ll try not to get gravy on the cuffs.”

“They’re letting you eat?”

“I’ll be sitting at Leo’s table. They have to put a plate in front of me. It wouldn’t look right.”

“Will the tiny perfect newswoman be there?”

“Not at the head table. I did promise to acknowledge her existence, should our glances meet.”

“Big of you.”

“She thought so. Don’t know what she’ll be doing there. No sectarian violence, no bullets flying.”

“Don’t be too sure. Last time you took the old man on a date you got more than gravy on the outfit.”

I remember.

Eight years ago, almost exactly. I remember it was spring and it wasn’t raining, and I was working for Louis Schurr at the time. He called me into his office, cluttered room with two desks and one chair with a wonky castor, and he said, “Got a dark suit?”

Louis was always a sharp dresser but he wasn’t well that spring, the thing that was killing him had left him frail. His own dark suit was much too big for him.

“The one I wore yesterday,” I said.

“No, that won’t do,” he said. “Take a walk over to Manny Bigalow’s on Granville and tell him I sent you. Tell him you need an outfit.”

“What do I need an outfit for?”

“You have to watch somebody’s back for a few days, there’ll be functions and receptions. The guy travels in some classy circles. You don’t want to look inappropriate.”

“Heck, no,” I said.

I went to see Manny Bigalow. He’s not with us any more. Neither is Louis Schurr come to that. Two of a kind in a way. They both had strong opinions about shirts and shoes and appropriate lapels. My new suit had the proper lapels. Manny held up a few ties against a few shirt collars and made certain I was supplied with enough haberdashery to cover a week of bodyguarding among the rich and famous. He told me to hang the suit up every night. I promised him I would. I haven’t always lived up to that one either. Manny Bigalow impressed upon me how important a well-made, unwrinkled suit was to how the world perceived me. “First impression is everything,” he told me. “You show up at Leo Alexander’s office looking good, he’s going to be reassured.”

So, one spring morning I went to meet Mr. Alexander, wearing a fine dark suit of medium-weight wool, a shirt that fit around the neck and a silk tie that was far too good for me.

Eight years ago Leo ran his various interests from a suite of offices with a view of the water. His two sons, Theo and Lenny, had offices in the same building but on separate floors. They didn’t like each other very much, even back then. Alexander and Co. (not Alexander and Sons you will note) had framed architectural renderings on the walls, and models of buildings in glass cases. Leo favoured the look of growth they suggested. He was equally fond of model sailboats.

I had to cool my heels in the outer office for half an hour. I was told that Leo was in a meeting. The meeting was loud enough for me to overhear a few words from time to time. “Take responsibility —” was clear enough, as was the instant retort, “— take the damn clamps off!” It went on like that for a while. I pretended to be fascinated by a drawing of a shopping centre.

The man who eventually stomped out of Leo’s office looked like a well-fed politician; his waistcoat snug across a barrel chest, his cheeks and nose rosy from frequent liquid lunches, his eyes small and mean. He reminded me then, as he does now, of a prize Berkshire hog. He glared at me as he passed by but didn’t bother to compliment me on my choice of neckwear.

Leo was sitting behind a splendid walnut desk, a yachting magazine open in front of him. He seemed entirely unruffled by whatever had just transpired. He looked me up and down and I got the impression that Manny Bigalow’s merchandise was being scrutinized as much as I was.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Grundy,” he said.

“Quite all right, sir,” I said. I think he approved of the tie.

“That was my son,” he said. “Theodore,” he added. “He doesn’t think his allowance is generous enough.”

“He looks quite successful.”

“He eats too much,” Leo said. He took a last look at whatever sailing vessel he’d been thinking of buying and closed the magazine. “Louis Schurr tells me you’re someone I can rely on,” he said.

“What would you want me to do, Mr. Alexander?” I asked him.

“Stay close, not too close, close enough to see who’s heading in my direction and get a read on them.”

“Would I be looking for anyone in particular, sir?”

“No one I could point out.”

“You could ask for police protection,” I said. “I mention that because I’m only licensed to carry a gun if I’m protecting money or valuables, current provincial law doesn’t believe humans qualify.”

“I don’t think a gun will be necessary,” he said. “I’d rather just have a large presence at my back. All right if I call you Joseph?”

“Of course, sir.”

Leo was, and still is, one of those men who appear taller than they are; it’s a matter of bearing, and attitude. Leo is a patrician, silver hair, deep-set steel grey eyes, the weathered face of an ocean racer, or a cattleman, both of which he was reputed to have been at one time or another. And a very sharp dresser. Manny Bigalow’s suit was good; Leo Alexander’s suit was the best.

He was such a man-about-town in those days that he needed a social secretary, a buoyant woman named Madge Killian — Betty Boop lips and a permanent perm. Madge made itineraries and kept Leo’s dance card organized. He was much in demand. He was a bachelor, he was rich, he was charming, and he knew which fork to use. An unattached man who doesn’t drink out of the finger bowl is an attractive option for someone making up a guest list. The suit paid for itself the first week I worked for him. We went to the opera and the reception after the opera. We went to a gala fundraiser with an orchestra and dancing. I wasn’t required to dance, although I was asked. We even went to a garden party where my new dark suit wasn’t quite appropriate, but I stayed in the background with the caterers and parking attendants and didn’t stand out too much.

Leo never told me why he was expecting trouble. I got the impression that it was a recent development and that prior to hiring a bodyguard, he had functioned quite comfortably with only Madge to tell him where his next meal was coming from, and if he was expected to send flowers.

On the ninth day of my employment we were to attend a thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner supporting the candidacy of a man running for federal office. Leo bought me a place at his table. He was flanked by attractive women on either side, neither of whom looked like they wanted to harm him. The gentleman beside me was an inebriated gasbag and the twitchy younger man on his right was trying to avoid a scene. Neither looked to be a threat.

Both of Leo’s sons were in attendance, albeit not at their father’s table, nor seated within twenty paces of each other. I hadn’t detected much paternal pride or filial warmth when he introduced me. I felt he was establishing his perimeter rather than being polite. Theodore, whom I’d already encountered, was accompanied by his wife whose name I learned somewhat later was Gloria. She looked tiny and apprehensive beside her walrus husband. I couldn’t blame her. Theo looked like he squashed things without thinking much about it.

His greeting was curt. “Hiring muscle, Pop?”

His wife wasn’t given the opportunity to shake my hand or say hi.

Leo’s other son, Lenny, was a different sort. He had the look of a man who’d risen from the ranks. Although a head shorter and fifty pounds lighter, he braced me with a pugnacious scowl and a nod that said “I back down from nobody.” I believed him.

His wife, Jackie, as it turned out, was cute and flirty. I don’t think her fluttering endeared me to Lenny.

When coffee was served Leo excused himself to do some mingling and I rose to accompany him. Not too close: a large presence at his back.

Leo schmoozed his way through the gathering with elegance and nimble feet. He didn’t have a date that evening and felt free to lavish charm on the neglected wives he encountered, never lingering long enough to start a rumour, just pausing sufficiently to earn a flattered titter from a matron or a proprietary glance from a preoccupied husband.

People were standing now, moving from table to table, a small orchestra began tuning up across the dance floor. Leo pointed at, and then started moving toward the French doors leading onto a terrace. He wanted a cigar. I had the cigar case in my Manny Bigalow jacket pocket. Leo didn’t want his silhouette to bulge.

I was two steps behind him as we passed through the French doors, reaching inside my jacket for Leo’s cigar case. Leo turned, already gesturing with two fingers for his after-dinner panatela, and I saw him spot someone over my shoulder, saw a change come over his face. With my left arm I swept Leo to the side as I swung around. Sharp snapping sounds. I took a bullet through my left trapezius which clipped my collarbone, another went through the fatty layer of my left exterior oblique muscle, and a third scorched across my chest and tore Leo’s cigar case to shreds an inch from my fingertips. There were two other shots fired but by this time I was down, dragging Leo with me. I heard screams and shouts and turned just in time to see a dark figure disappearing over the terrace wall. Leo hadn’t been hit. I’d been very lucky by about half an inch. Manny Bigalow’s suit was ruined.

That was our last date.

I spent some time getting well, then went to work full time for Leo as head of security for the jewel in his crown, the Lord Douglas Hotel. Leo stopped going out. He sequestered himself in the penthouse suite. He says he likes it up there. It’s comfortable enough, and it requires a special key to visit. The shooter was never apprehended.

Neither of Leo’s sons hastened to our aid.