Sucker Punch

by Marc Strange

  “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.

  chapter three

  When I get back to the office, Gritch is odourizing the room with cigar exhaust and Arnie McKellar is squatting at the second desk, filling out his report and bitching about the “special ushers” handling security on Floor Eleven for the civic function.

  “They don’t ask me for ID. I ask them for ID. Where do they get off?”

  “Why bother with Floor Eleven in the first place?” Gritch says. “Not your responsibility.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m entitled to check it out without getting hassled by assholes in red jackets. Where do they hire these guys?”

  “Leave Floor Eleven alone,” I say as I come in. “And leave your report. You’re going out again.”

  Arnie doesn’t want to go. “I gotta eat something.”

  Gritch snorts cigar smoke. Arnie McKellar is obese. A furtive eater, never satisfied, always hard done by, as if somebody stole his lunch pail.

  “Just stand in the hall on fifteen where you can see the doors to the Governor’s Suite.”

  “How long?” he asks. “I was going home.”

  “Just stand in the hall until I can think of a better plan. I’ll send you home as soon as I can.”

  Arnie puts on his jacket and slouches out. Gritch shakes his head. He thinks I should can Arnie. I’d like to. I cut Arnie extra slack as a personal favour to Lloyd Gruber, keeping him on staff long past the point I would have fired someone without an in-house connection.

  “While he’s mooching around on Floor Eleven looking for free hors d’oeuvres, Maurice has probably ushered three working girls up the back way,” Gritch says.

  “You get hold of Dan?” I ask him.

  “His wife says he’s sleeping. I think he’s playing cards somewhere or trying to hitch a ride home from the track. She says he’ll call as soon as she can wake him up, which means track him down. I should have told her to try his mother’s place.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Not me, pal.”

  I pick up the phone. “Melanie, Joe Grundy. We need a room on fifteen. Can you move somebody? Give ’em a better view or something? I’ve got Arnie standing in the hall up there, but we don’t need that all night. Yeah, I’ll be here.”

  “So?” Gritch isn’t satisfied with the way his cigar stump is drawing.

  “He’s going to give it away.”

  “Who what?” He’s looking for matches.

  “The kid upstairs. He’s handing it out to anybody who shows up.”

  “That’ll make him popular.” He locates a forgotten Bic lighter in the second desk and fires up.

  “The whole six hundred and eighty-eight million.”

  “Is he nuts?” Gritch has it going again.

  “I don’t think so. He’s kind of a sweet guy. That’s how he comes across. But we’ve got a problem. He’s holding a press conference in the morning. Once word gets out…”

  ”?“He’s going to hand it out here

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll go watch the lobby.”

  “Maybe you should get some sleep,” I suggest. “Use my bed. I’m good for four hours or so. I’ll wake you up.”

  “I’ll go doze in the lobby with one eye open.”

  “Yeah, okay, but not with that thing.”

  He takes a last blast off the cigar and leaves it behind to die a natural death in the ashtray.

  Melanie calls back as soon as I’ve flushed the cigar stub down the donniker. “Mel? What did you get?”

  “You can have 1507,” she says. “I moved the Bryants to the corner suite on nine. It’s a better room. They’re happy. You want 1507 made up?”

  “Leave it messy. It’ll be fine. Tell Margo I’ll keep somebody in there all the time with the door open a bit. Keep an eye on who goes in and out. I’ll come see her as soon as I set it up. You’re the best.”

  When I get back up to fifteen, Arnie is leaning against the wall near the elevators like a guy who wants to sell reefers to kids. I open 1507. Melanie’s got us a good base camp. With the door open a foot or so, you can see both of the Governor’s Suite’s doors, 1502 and 1504. I move a chair over beside the door.

  “Keep the lights on, but don’t play the television,” I tell Arnie. “Just watch until Dan gets here, maybe an hour, then you can go home. But I’ll need you back by nine in the morning.”

  “I’m supposed to get a day off.”

  “You’re going to get double time for the extra hours, Arnie, and all you have to do is sit up straight and pay attention. If that’s too tough for you, then you can walk. Permanently. You hear what I’m saying?”

  “I’m just saying —”

  “You’re just complaining, Arnie, which is what you do most of the time when you aren’t filling your face. Normally, I don’t mind a whole helluva lot, but tonight I’d appreciate it if you’d just do the job.”

  Arnie doesn’t bother to argue anymore. He plunks himself in the chair like a kid who’s been cuffed on the back of the head, then fumbles inside his jacket pocket for a bag of M&M’s. “What am I looking for?”

  “Trouble,” I tell him. “We don’t want any.”

  I go back down to the main floor again where I find Margo in Lloyd’s office, looking beleaguered. She tilts her head when I walk in. Axelrode is still there, sitting in the corner. Margo’s eyes shift to indicate the guy and then back to me with an eyebrow jump that tells me she wants him out of there.

  “Mr. Axelrode,” I say, “is there anything else we can do for you, sir?”

  “I still think you’re going to need some professionals,” he says. “You’re going to have big problems when he starts shooting off his mouth on TV. You’re going to have every freeloader on the coast lined up with their hands out.”

  “Are you associated with Mr. Buznardo, sir?”

  “I have an interest in his security and the security of the cash he’s carrying.”

  “You with a bank?”

  He looks annoyed. He doesn’t like explaining himself. “No, I’m not with a bank.” />
  “Oh,” I say. “Because if you don’t have any official relationship with Mr. Buznardo, perhaps you could worry about his welfare somewhere else. Ms. Traynor has a big hotel to run.”

  He stands again. I think he’s used to things happening when he stands. “I’m not at all satisfied things are being attended to.”

  “There’s a good jazz club down one flight.” I’m crowding him towards the door. “Or you could wait in the lobby. For a while.”

  Axelrode stops, glares at me, doesn’t like people in his face. He stretches his neck to show me how ready he is. “If anything happens to Mr. Buznardo, I’ll be asking some serious questions.”

  “Why don’t you go and talk to Mr. Buznardo yourself and tell him how concerned you are? He seems like a nice enough guy. Very welcoming.”

  He sneers. “He’s an idiot, and I wouldn’t piss on him if he caught fire. But it’s my job to keep an eye on him until they can clean up the mess he’s made.”

  “And who would ‘they’ be, sir?”

  He gives me a scowl he probably saves for lower life forms and stalks out.

  “Thanks,” Margo says.

  “How long has he been here?”

  “He went out for a while, said he had to make some calls, then waltzed back in and started telling me what’s wrong with our operation. He was pretty thorough.”

  “You know where he fits into this?”

  “He says he works for Prescott Holdings. Up until this afternoon Prescott Holdings controlled more than a half-billion dollars of the late Parker Prescott’s money.”

  “I guess it’s hard to let go sometimes.”

  “How many people have you got, really?”

  “It’s thin,” I tell her. “Black Jack’s taking his week. He’s fishing the Kispiox. No way to get him. Arthur Blomquist went to work for NightWatch.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Good man. I couldn’t match what they were offer ing him.”

  “How much were they offering?”

  “The company, more or less.”

  “Maybe we should call the police,” Margo says.

  “We’ll be okay for tonight. There’ll be three of us rotating. I’ll line up some replacements in the morning.”

  “Will you talk to Leo? With Mr. Gruber not here I’m feeling a bit exposed.”