by Marc Strange
“You’re doing great,” I tell her.
“Tonight’s an unusual situation.”
I’m back in my office when Arnie calls down from 1507.
“He’s got a visitor. Some girl showed up. They kissed, hugged, jumped around. Happy to see each other.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all. Dan here yet?”
“No. He’s not here in half an hour, I’ll send Gritch up to take over. That okay? You can hang in that long?”
“I guess.”
“That’s nice he got a visitor.”
“Good-looking, too. Redhead. Hold it, they’re coming out. I’ll get back to you.”
“Coming down the elevator?”
“Wait a sec.” There’s a pause while he steps out into the hall to check, then he’s back. “No, they went right by it. All the way down the hall. Knocked on 1529. Invited inside. Visiting the neighbours.”
“Okay, I’ll come by in about twenty minutes.”
I hang up and check my watch: 9:05. Leo will be watching television. I might have to watch a repeat of Frasier or something. Gritch comes in from the lobby and looks around for his cigar stub.
“It’s long gone, partner,” I say.
“I was getting to the good part.”
“Those things don’t have a good part. What’s happen ing with Dan?”
“Danny boy’s on his way in. His wife says he just woke up. If you believe that, I’ve got a deal for you on some swampland.”
“I’m going up to talk to the old man. When Dan gets here, send him up to relieve Arnie, then you grab some sack time in my room. I’m going to need you when Dan takes off.”
“Like what, you figure — 1:00 a.m.?”
“Yeah, like that. One, one-thirty. Dan’s got to grab some sleep and get back here as early as he can. We’re going to have to pick up a couple of people for tomorrow. Maybe from Moonlight.”
“Those guys make me nervous,” Gritch says.
“They’re like Mormons, with their black suits and short haircuts. I keep expecting them to hand me a tract.”
“I know. Neat, polite, professional. Helluva way to run an operation.”
I get back on the elevator. Up and down. Half my life. I need the special elevator key to rise all the way. Leo lives on top, high above the fifteenth floor. Has for the past seven years. His apartments are in the dome. The view used to be better before all the high-rises and skyscrapers cut off some of his sightlines to the harbour, but it’s still an impressive aerie. I think it’s the main reason he won’t sell the place.
Leo Alexander is seventy-two now. Retired since that night seven years ago. Gave control of most of his business to his two sons, Theo and Lenny, fifty and forty-six respectively, with the proviso they leave the Lord Douglas alone. Neither one lives at the hotel and they don’t speak to each other unless they have to. Leo doesn’t much care for either one of his offspring, but he’s done okay by them. They can’t sell the Lord Douglas while Leo is alive.
There’s an NFL game on tonight. I’d forgotten about that. The New York Jets are at home to the Oakland Raiders. It’s running late. It’s past midnight on the East Coast.
“Ever been to Oakland, Joseph?” Leo asks.
“Yes, sir. Twice.”
“How did you do?”
“I won.”
“Both times?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The city has good memories for you.”
“I don’t remember the city. I remember a short guy who hit me so hard I wet myself inside my cup.”
“Fumble!” Leo says.
Leo wears a track suit to watch sporting events. This evening’s garment is navy blue velour with a thin burgundy stripe. It’s very handsome. I won’t compliment him on it. If I do, he’ll buy me one.
“Can’t anyone catch a pass? That’s twice he’s been open.”
End of the third quarter. There’s a break in the action and the television screen is taken over by new cars, great beers, discounts on long-distance calls, more new cars. Leo lights a cigar. “Want one?”
“No thanks, sir.”
He mutes the TV with his remote and turns to look at me. He’s still got all his hair, keeps it short, that’s how much he has. And he’s in good shape for a man his age — skinny but not feeble. His hands don’t shake, his eyes are clear, and his voice is strong. Don’t know why he doesn’t get out more, but I guess that’s his business.
“So, Joe, how are things?”
“We have a bit of excitement tonight. Margo’s a little concerned.”
“Miss Traynor? Always liked that girl. She started what, eight years ago?”
“Something like that, sir.”
“Nice girl, brown hair, the same shade as my first wife’s, bless her heart. What’s she worried about?”
“Security for a guest with a lot of cash.”
“You can handle it.”
“She was just wondering if there was anything more you wanted her to do.”
“Tell Miss Traynor I have the utmost confidence in her.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll tell her.”
“Want to watch the last quarter?”
“I’d better get back, sir. I’m bringing in an extra man for the night.”
“Good, you do that.”
I head for the door. One of the maids, Raquel, I think, is turning down his bed. Leo probably gets two chocolates.
“Our guest with all the cash?”
“Yes, sir, it’s a Mr. Buznardo. He inherited a lot of money.”
“He did more than that. He’s got a hundred charities scared witless they’re going to lose their funding. He’s putting at least a thousand people who’ve been nursing at the Prescott Holdings teat for twenty years out of a job, and he made Wade Hubble look like a grifter in front of the whole country.”
“All that?”
“Took him two years in court against some of the highest-priced legal talent in the city.”
“He must have had a good lawyer.”
“Buznardo? Ha! He had Alvin Neagle handling it.” Leo shakes his head. “I remember when Alvin was chasing ambulances. I guess some people rise to the occasion when they know they might win the big one.”
“Maybe I’d better get some rent-a-cops. Sounds like Buznardo might have made a few enemies.”
“Well,” the old man says, reaching for his brandy, “you can’t be responsible for a man with a half-billion dollars. People like that have to learn to insulate themselves.” He spreads his arms to indicate his own comfy fortress. “Come on up on Sunday. Green Bay’s playing the 49ers.”
“I’ll try to make it, sir, thanks.”
“We can have a pizza.”
“Sounds good,” I say, heading for the door. “Good night, sir.”
Raquel, I think it’s Raquel, is running his bath now.
chapter four
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 b
e 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.
chapter five
“Grab some sleep,” I tell Gritch when I get back to the office. “Dan’s good for four hours. I’ll wake you at one-thirty.”
“Arnie didn’t fill out his report,” he says. “Just hauled ass out of here.”
“I don’t want to fire him until Lloyd gets back.”
Gritch sits down to untie his shoes. “Are they real brothers-in-law? He and Lloyd?”
“I don’t know how it works. Arnie’s wife is Lloyd’s sister-in-law. There’s some kind of connection.”
“Not enough of one to put up with his crapola,” Gritch says.
“I have to eat something. Any of that chicken left in the fridge?”
“See?” Gritch says. “That’s what I’m talking about. He goes through the fridge like a cucaracha convention. Never leaves anything for anybody else, never buys anything.”
“I’ll get something in the kitchen,” I say.
Gritch has located an abused cigar stub in his ashtray on the second desk. He rummages in the desk drawer and finds a pack of matches, which seems to cheer him up. “Not to mention Dan Howard, the world’s worst gambler,” he says. “We’ve got some serious staff problems around here, slugger.”
“I know.” I open the window to move some fresh air inside. The street below is beginning to shine. A light rain is falling. Connor’s Diner closed hours ago. In the Scientology Reading Room next door, a dozen or more well-groomed young people are discussing something important, something they’re all sure about. I wish I knew what it was.