Sucker Punch

by Marc Strange

  “What happened, Raymond?”

  “Oh, shit, Joe. I don’t know what’s going on. Somebody called the front desk, said you were passed out in the kitchen, then the woman came down from fifteen and started screaming that something’s happened to her brother. She’s hysterical. Gritch won’t answer the phone…”

  I get a very bad feeling. Gritch is as reliable as a railway watch. I reach around and ring for a service elevator, and the doors to my left open.

  “What should I do about the woman?”

  I slide my milk crate backwards into the cab and press fifteen.

  “Go back to the front desk. Keep her there. Tell her I’ll check things out.” I stick out my hand to keep the doors open. “Who called?”

  “What?”

  “Who told you I was lying in the kitchen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Man.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Call Margo.” The doors close on his worried face, and I ride up to fifteen sitting on my milk crate with my forehead pressed against a brass panel, grateful for the cold pressure above my eyes, wondering who was worried enough to let Raymond know they had just knocked me out.

  The service elevators are on the east side of the building, and it’s a long walk around to the central corridor. All the doors are closed, but I hear a few voices from inside a room, guests awakened and unable to get back to sleep. There will be some early checkouts this morning. I’m walking okay. Maybe lurching is a more accurate description. But I’m making progress. I don’t know what I look like. I check for blood, but there’s nothing sticky around the lump on the back of my head. Merely pain.

  Inside 1507 there’s no sign of Gritch. Room-service coffee Thermos on the desk, no cup, two newspapers on the floor.

  I cross the hall to 1502 and stand for a moment with my head against the wall. I really don’t want to go in there. I give one sharp knock for the sake of form and then use my passkey.

  And it’s as bad as I feared. Jake Buznardo is on his back near the opposite wall. He’s wearing the T-shirt he had on earlier; the words Confound and Paradigm have been obliterated by deep red stains and small dark holes. Five of them. He’s dead.

  Steadying myself on the back of the couch, I look down to make sure I’m not standing in blood. The Samsonite attaché case is gone, and when I turn my throbbing head, I see that the money on the desk is gone, too.

  I back out of the room quietly, close the door, and make sure it’s locked. Then I go back inside 1507 and call the police.

  “Hello, it’s Joe Grundy,” I say to the woman who answers, “hotel security at the Lord Douglas. One of our guests has been shot. Dead. Room 1502. Yes, I’ll wait right here. Could you tell them not to use their sirens? This all must have happened an hour ago. Yes, I’m sure he’s dead. Yes. Thank you.”

  I call the desk and hear Raymond’s cautious voice.

  “Is that you, Mr. Grundy? What’s going on?”

  “Where is the woman now, Ray? Still with you?”

  “I put her in Mr. Gruber’s office.”

  “Good. Keep her there. Don’t say anything for a minute. I’ve just called the police, and there should be at least a patrol unit here in a minute. Send them up to 1507, okay?”

  “Police?” He has the presence of mind to whisper the word. “Why?”

  “There’s been a shooting, Ray. Did you call Margo?”

  “Not yet. I was waiting for word.”

  “Call her. We have a situation.”

  “What about the woman?”

  “Her name’s Molly MacKay. Somebody will have to tell her that her brother’s dead. But wait until the police show up, okay?”

  “Really dead?”

  “I’m afraid so, Raymond.”

  And then I see Gritch because his leg moves and I catch the movement in the mirror over the desk. He’s on the floor between the bed and the window.

  “And, Raymond?” I say. “Call an ambulance, too. I just found Gritch.”

  chapter seven

  First the uniforms show up. I let them into the suite. Two young men, one tall, one with shoulders like Joe Frazier. They’re wearing Kevlar and nine-millimetre Glocks. They tell me to wait in 1507. Gritch is groggy but awake when the paramedics show up a few minutes later. I have to convince them that Gritch isn’t the one who’s been shot. They seem disappointed. Gritch wants to walk out on his own two feet, but they take him away on a gurney. I tell Gritch I’ll be down to see him as soon as I can.

  “I think it was the coffee,” he says.

  After the paramedics leave, I lie back on the bed and feel a sudden stabbing pain when the lump on my head hits the pillow. The smell of Brylcreem. The room starts to waltz. I struggle back to a sitting position as the door opens all the way and a detective comes in, someone I know.

  Norman Quincy Weed is moving towards retirement. I met him when I got shot seven years ago. He’s a sergeant of detectives now. I guess this case rates one of the big guys. He’s a heavy-set, rumpled man who wears brown shoes with a blue suit and has bad taste in ties, too. He’s wearing a wide yellow-and-green-striped job tonight, and I feel a prompt attack of nausea.

  “How you doin’, Joe?” he asks. “You look like shit. Who hit you?”

  I shake my head, which is a mistake. “From behind. Felt like a baseball bat.”

  “That’s what I’d use on a guy your size to keep you from turning around.”

  “Didn’t even hear him. I was in a hurry, banging through the doors down there, and I hit my knee. There was a trolley in the middle of the hall.”

  I’m sitting on the bed and I pull up my pant leg to have a look. I must have hit something edge-on. There’s an abraded welt straight across the shinbone just below the knee.

  “Paramedics didn’t want to take you in?”

  “Yeah, they did. If I feel nauseous or dozy, I’ll go. I think I’m okay. Not the first time somebody put my lights out.”

  “At least you had a fighting chance the other times.”

  “Not against Holyfield,” I say.

  “What happened to Gritch? He wasn’t drinking, was he?”

  “Not a chance. Hasn’t had a drink in fourteen years. He’d just had a three-hour nap in the office, and for Gritch that’s like hibernation. He thinks there was something in the coffee.”

  “That pot?”

  “Yeah, the cup’s on the floor. I didn’t touch them.”

  “Good. What was he doing in here?”

  “Watching the door to 1502.”

  “You were in there?”

  “Just long enough to see the man was shot. Didn’t touch anything there, either, except the back of the sofa and the doorknob.”

  “So what about this Buznardo guy?”

  “He had money with him. A lot of cash.”

  “Yeah, I heard. How much cash?”

  “Almost two hundred and fifty thousand. All hundreds. Bank wrappers.”

  I stand and fight my knees to stay that way. “Little holes in him, right?”

  “Yeah,” Weed says, “five of them. Only one of them.25, maybe.32. Nothing — came out the back. Popgun bigger than that.”

  “Professional?”

  “Bit exuberant for a pro,” he says. “But, hey, who knows? Must have had at least one enemy.”

  “I think you’ll find quite a few people who weren’t happy with him.”

  “You were keeping tabs on him?”

  “Doing a real fine job,” I say, remembering not to shake my head. “I had somebody in here from the time he checked in, keeping an eye on the door. I talked to him a couple of times, over there, and down the hall in the other big suite. He wasn’t having a wild celebration considering he was suddenly richer than God. Very quiet, room service for him and his sister, glass of wine with the musicians down the hall. Came back to the room before 1:00 a.m., according to Dan. His sister went out for a while with the band. I don’t know when she got back, exactly, but she was pou
nding on the door at around three.”

  Weed shakes his head and pulls out a pen and a folded piece of paper. He starts scribbling little notes to himself. “Okay, so who do I have to talk to from this outfit?”

  I’m finding it difficult to make my brain work, but Weed is a patient guy. “Dan and Arnie, that’s Dan Howard and Arnold McKellar. And Gritch when he wakes up, and the people who were at the party down the hall. I can remember some of them. Washburn is the name of one of the musicians. The sister, Molly MacKay. Let’s see, Phil Marsden from room service was in once at least. Maurice the bell captain carried Buznardo’s bags. Oh, yeah, his lawyer, Neagle…”

  “Alvin Neagle, the legal beagle? My, my.”

  “Won the case.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “There was a man named Axelrode around for a while. He ran out on his bar tab.”

  “That’s a different squad.”

  “No, he was up here. He was all over, giving Margo a hard time about security arrangements, nosing around my guys. He was up to something.”

  “Big guy? Almost as tall as you? Cop moustache, big chest, big gut?”

  “He was carrying a gun.”

  “Was he now? That definitely puts a star next to his name.”

  “I want to talk to him. Personally.”

  “If he’s involved in this thing, you steer clear,” Weed says.

  “This is an unrelated matter. He assaulted one of the bar staff.”

  “File a complaint.”

  “I’d rather complain in person,” I say.

  “Anybody else?”

  “There’s a TV reporter in the hotel. Connie Gagliardi.”

  “The cute one from Channel 20 with the curly black hair?”

  “That’s her. She was trying to get an interview. I don’t know if she got lucky.” All this thinking is making my head hurt. I allow myself a restrained moan. “I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

  “Hey,” Weed says, “you’re lucky one of you guys didn’t get killed. This was one determined shooter. Drugged your partner, sandbagged you, put five shots into somebody staring straight at him, and got out of the place with a quarter of a million in cash.”

  “Could have been a team maybe.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Seems dumb to me.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “I mean, two hundred and fifty thousand is a lot of cash, but this man was worth more than half a billion. And they wouldn’t have had to kill him for the suitcase, anyway. He said if somebody wanted it bad enough to steal it, they were welcome to it. I’m serious. He was planning on giving it all away. The whole six hundred million and change.”

  “And he said that out loud?”

  “He made no secret of it.”

  “I bet some people wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  “I should call Margo, see how she wants to handle things for the hotel. Check on Gritch.”

  “Listen, don’t be an idiot. You’ve got a concussion. You look like shit. Go see a doctor pretty quick.”

  “I’m okay,” I say. But I’m lying. I feel like he said.

  Weed leaves to check on his investigators, and I call down to the front desk. Margo has arrived. I can hear a woman crying in the background.

  “Joe? He’s really dead?”

  “Yes, yes, he’s dead, Margo. I’m sorry.”

  “And Mr. Gritchfield?”

  “I think he’s fine. It looks like somebody drugged his coffee.”

  “Or he was drinking.”

  “No, he wasn’t drinking.”

  “And the money?”

  “It’s all gone.”

  “What a mess. Lloyd’s going to be so pleased with me. He won’t take another vacation for ten more years.”

  “Margo, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “I don’t know about fault, but I sure as hell know it was my responsibility.”

  “Is there anyone with Molly MacKay?”

  “Yes, there’s a policewoman sitting with her. What’s happening up there?”

  “Investigation. They’ll take their time. It could be a while before they move the body.”

  “I’ve got to go and find rooms for all the guests at that end of fifteen. Some of them want a different hotel, some of them want to be comped for tonight. Call me with any news.”

  “Will do.”

  “Oh, Lord, Joe, I completely forgot about you, Raymond says you were knocked out.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You have to see a doctor.”

  “Soon as they finish with me.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah, you bet. I’ll get checked out when I go down to Vancouver General to see about Gritch. I’m fine. Really.”

  All that lying. What a tough guy. I don’t feel fine. I have a monster headache. I keep shuffling around 1507, shrugging my shoulders as if I’m throwing shadow punches, scuffing the carpet, building up enough static to give myself a shock when I open the bathroom door. The face in the mirror is looking old this morning. I splash cold water on it and hold a wet washcloth to the back of my head. The lump has topped out at walnut size.

  Weed comes back into the room as I’m coming out of the bathroom. “You still look like shit, only now you’re wet.”

  “You move him out yet?”

  “Nope. Still taking pictures.”

  “Want me to have a look? I was in there earlier. I might see something.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Better than I can lie down.”

  Weed escorts me down the hall to 1502–1504 and announces our entrance.

  “Coming through. Give us a little room. Wounded man here.”

  Buzz has been covered up.

  “There was a Samsonite attaché case behind the couch,” I say.

  “Nope,” Weed says.

  “Maybe he moved it into the bedroom.”

  “Nope.”

  “It had two hundred and forty thousand dollars in it. And maybe another nine thousand on the desk, give or take. He was handing out hundred-dollar tips. Don’t know how many, but they all came from a new stack. They were fanned out right here.”

  “Also gone,” Weed says. “Who knew he had that much cash?”

  “Practically everybody.”

  The door to Jake’s bedroom is open. There are cops inside. Uniforms and suits. The room is a shambles, drawers on the floor, mattress overturned, Jake’s duffle bag spilled on the box spring, journals and jeans, paperbacks.

  “You guys do this?” I ask Weed.

  “Nope. Somebody was looking for something.”

  Weed takes me back to 1507. I take the desk chair, which helps me sit straight.

  “I’ve got to talk to those musicians,” Weed says. “What’s the name?”

  “Redhorn,” I say. “Three guys, but there was a room visitors, other musicians, couple of suits —full of people from a record company, a big guy named Bubba, road manager for the group, four or five women. I didn’t get the ladies’ names, but three of them were singers on Redhorn’s latest album.”

  “CD,” he says, as if he’s up-to-date on things.

  “They played a tune from it, and the three women had their harmonies down like they’d done it before.”

  “Backup singers?”

  “I guess. They could sing.”

  Weed checks his notebook and releases a long-suffering sigh. “Geez, look at this. Have I got a list or what? At least twenty people roaming around this floor last night that we know about.”

  “It’s a hotel,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, get your guys lined up so I don’t have to go looking for anybody. And anybody else from the hotel — room service, cleaning staff, I don’t know what all. You line ’em up and we’ll get around to them after I talk to Horndog.”

  “Redhorn.”

  “I knew that,” he says, walking off down the hall.

  I’m about ready to get off this floor. When I get to the elevator, Connie Gagliardi is emergin
g. Her eyes are bright and she’s wearing makeup. The woman with the video camera is still following her. I can’t tell if she’s wearing makeup; she never takes the camera off her face.

  “Ms. Gagliardi?” I say. “I’m Joe Grundy, hotel security. This floor is closed.”

  “I just want a shot of the hall. Who’s in charge?”

  “Sergeant Weed. I’m sure he’ll talk to you as soon as he knows anything.”

  The camerawoman is taking my picture. I make a move to straighten my tie, but I’m wearing a damp sweatshirt, so I turn the reflex into a hair-straightening gesture and brush the bump on my head, which should make for a nice picture of a man trying not to wince.

  “Can you confirm the identity of the deceased? Jake Buznardo?”

  “I suppose I can do that.”

  “He was shot?”

  “Ms. Gagliardi, the police really want to keep this floor clear for a while. If you’ll wait downstairs, I’ll make sure they talk to you first.”

  “Mr. Grundy,” she says, giving me a twenty-five-watt smile, “I have maybe a fifteen-minute head start on the other channels and you can’t guarantee me anything.”

  Then she spots Weed coming down the hall from the other end, and she and the camera lose interest in me instantly. I figure I’ll let Weed deal with it and grab the elevator to the lobby. According to my old Rolex Skyrocket, it’s 6:16. I presume that’s a.m.

  chapter eight

  “Joe, I need you,” Margo says when I get down. “There’s a line of people halfway around the block. I think they’re all here for the money. You’re going to have to tell them there isn’t any.”

  The uniformed cops at the entrance have been keeping the great unauthorized at bay, but there’s grumbling on both sides of the yellow tape when I get outside.

  “We’ll get the horses down here if it gets any worse,” one uniform says. “Some of these guys are starting to get rowdy.”

  There are about fifty people, mostly men, a lot of them street people, but I can see a few suits and some kids who should be getting ready for school. The sky is still dark. The streets are wet, but it’s not raining now, just damp and unfriendly on the sidewalk.