Sucker Punch

by Marc Strange

  “Hundred-dollar bills in there.”

  “Shot the fucker.”

  “I just heard about it.”

  “Everybody settle down,” the uniform in charge says. “There’s no hundred-dollar bills and there’s no free money. You just all head on home or wherever you’re going. There’s nothing to see, nobody’s getting inside. I’m serious. Let’s start breaking it up, people.”

  “Not doing nothing, just standing on the sidewalk,” someone mutters. “Law against that now?”

  Two camera trucks arrive. Channel 20 and Channel 13, competing local news specialists. A few flashes go off. The city papers are represented. I hear my name called and spot a grey fedora with a red feather in the band. A guy named Larry Gormé from the Emblem is waving his hat. He’s stuck on the edge of the mob. He really wants to talk to me. I give him a shrug and a complicated gesture that I hope conveys regret, a vague promise of personal attention at some unspecified later date, and an urgent need to be elsewhere. More uniforms arrive, and it looks as if things won’t get out of hand. It’s too damp and chilly for a riot. There’s no catalyst, the goose is dead, nothing left but gawking and grumbling. And picture-taking. Won’t be the most flattering images taken of the stately Lord Douglas facade.

  Inside the lobby we have guest problems. At least ten people are checking out. The quality of the grumbling is more refined in here. It has a self-righteous tone and an undercurrent of recrimination. Someone in the party is a lawyer.

  Margo is handling things pretty well, considering. She has Melanie locating other suites in the hotel, other hotels in the area. Raymond D’Aquino is still on duty, hearing complaints, adjusting bills. Lorraine, the hotel operator, is handling calls with her usual aplomb.

  In Lloyd Gruber’s office, Margo takes a moment to look me up and down. “Can you shower? Can you put on a suit?”

  “Right away. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  “The police won’t let people check out until they’ve been questioned. Not just the people on fifteen, but anybody who’s checking out. And the cleaning staff want to get home, but they’re taking names, asking questions.”

  “They have to.”

  “Can you just put on a suit and take over some of that.”

  “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  “Joe?” She looks worried. “Did we do it? Somebody from the hotel? Please God say it wasn’t somebody on staff.”

  “I’ll find out, Margo.”

  “First put on a suit.” Then she slaps her forehead. “What am I thinking about? Go see a doctor. Immediately. You could have a concussion. You could suddenly fall over.”

  I take Margo’s advice about the shower and the suit and I don’t fall over during either procedure. I’m even managing to tie a decent knot in my best tie when Dan comes in looking shaky, not well rested at all. He glances around as if expecting to see a bunch of cops.

  “They drag you out of bed?” I ask.

  “Seven-thirty. Pounding on the door.” He looks around. “Just you?”

  “Gritch is in the hospital. He’s going to be okay. You already talk to Weed?”

  “Weed, his partner, big-haired pain in the ass. He thinks I did it.”

  “That’s just cops. They think everybody did it until they’re sure who did do it.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re pretty sure I did it. Told me to sit tight in here. They’d get back to me. They like me for it.”

  “Because of the gambling debts?”

  He stares at me, sighs deeply, scratches himself, then studies the corner where the walls and ceiling meet in shadow. “Well, yeah, sure, because of the gambling debts, like I owe Randall Poy about eighteen thousand plus the interest, which compounds, like, hourly, and he’s already threatening my knees, and I could definitely use a suitcase full of cash right now.”

  “What colour suitcase?”

  “What?”

  “What colour was the suitcase with the money in it?”

  “How should I know?”

  “So you told Weed you didn’t take it?”

  “Yeah, I told him, but I don’t think he believed me, and his big lard-ass partner with the Elvis hairdo sure as shit doesn’t believe me, and I can’t say I blame them, except when they get around to checking things out they’ll come up dry because I still owe Randall Poy eighteen K and counting and he’s going to break a kneecap for me on Wednesday if I don’t make a substantial payment, which I’d be inclined to do if I had some cash to avoid getting a kneecap busted, which doesn’t sound like a lotta laughs.”

  He looks disgusted and scared — with himself and of Randall Poy, I’m guessing.

  “Want me to talk to Randall?” I ask him.

  “What could you do, boss? Randall’s just a businessman doing business. That’s how he does business. I know the rules. Shit, I should. I’ve been trying to bend them all my life.”

  “I could talk to him about a schedule of payments.”

  “Won’t work, boss. You know how it is. The only way out is forward. I can’t pay him back in installments. I couldn’t even keep up with the vig that way. I need a score. A trifecta, aces over kings and everybody calls, a small miracle.”

  “How much is the vig for Wednesday?”

  “I can keep my knee for five K.”

  “I can maybe work something out for Wednesday.”

  He looks at me, and I can see he’s grateful but still disgusted with himself, and still scared. “You think? Buy me a week. Something might turn up.”

  I pull my chair up closer to my side of the desk and lean across the blotter pad to get as close to him as I can. “Okay, we’ll work it out somehow, but you’re going to have to tell me some stuff you don’t want to tell me and probably didn’t tell Weed and his partner.”

  “Like what stuff?”

  “Like about the other apartment.”

  “What other apartment?”

  “The one on East Sixth.”

  “My mother’s place? I pay half the rent.”

  “Dan, your mother has been phoning your wife, complaining about the rent situation and asking her if she has a new refrigerator and if she has her own car. Your mother and your wife have been getting real chummy on the phone, talking about Bangkok and how to get citizenship papers and which one of them should dump you first.”

  Dan looks back up at his favourite corner in the room and shakes his head. “Aw, shit, she got so demanding.”

  “The thing is, Dan, when Weed finds out about the apartment on East Sixth, and he’s going to, because he’s a good cop, and if he doesn’t, then I’ll be telling him because I have to, then he’s going to go over there and meet the woman. What’s her name?”

  “Prana.”

  “He’s going to meet Prana and find out she isn’t your mother, that she isn’t a legal resident, and that’s she been nagging you for a car and a new refrigerator. All of that’s going to give them a whole new set of ideas of where the money is, or where it went.”

  “They won’t find it there, either, and they won’t find a new refrigerator or a new car, and if they throw her out of the country, they’ll probably be doing me a big favour because she’s not the same woman I brought over.”

  He pushes back his chair, stretches his legs, and puts his hands behind his neck. “They change so fast. Couldn’t do enough for me. Cooked me special meals, did stuff. You don’t need to know that angle, but I’m telling you, that woman could do stuff, not anymore but back then. Now all she does is complain because I’m not as rich as she thought I was.”

  “Probably not a smart move trying to keep two households going on what you make.”

  “Two years ago I was rolling in it. I was ahead fifty thousand. People owed me money. That’s when I took my trip to the Orient to check out the action. I told Doris. What’d she care? I gave her a pocketful of dough. I’m not cheap, Joe. When I have it, I spend it.”

  He gets up and goes to the window that looks out on the back street and across at Conn
or’s Diner and the Scientology Reading Room. “What goes up must yada yada, as they say. She’s like I brought bad luck back with me from Thailand. Two months after I get Prana set up on East Sixth, I’m scrambling to make my nut and getting deeper and deeper into Randall Poy.” He turns to look at me. “If I had the guts, Joe, I would have hit the Buznardo kid for some cash, but I know my luck too well. I know when I’m on a roll and when I can’t catch a card to save my ass. I’d never get away with it. You know it and I know it. I’m not smart enough or cool enough. Not even desperate enough, come right down to it. I’ve been here before. I’ll dodge this bus. I always do.” He sits back down and rubs his face. “That’s a pisser about Prana and Doris being in touch with each other. She’s a cool one that Doris, I tell you.”

  “She loves you, Dan.”

  “Weird, eh?”

  chapter nine

  I keep a personal stash in the hotel safe. It builds up. I don’t have a lot of expenses. I put three thousand in cash in a hotel envelope. I’ll have to liquidate a few of my accumulated paycheques to get more, but I figure it can wait a day at least. I’m sure Randall Poy will be reasonable.

  I’m on my way to the hospital with good intentions, but I really need a cup of coffee and an order of toast. I interpret feeling hungry as a positive sign that I’m not about to drop dead from my injury. Molly MacKay is in the Lobby Café, sitting at the counter and dipping a tea bag up and down in the metal pot. She glances up as I come through the lobby door and watches me without a hint of recognition as I approach.

  “Ms. MacKay?” I say. “We met last night. I’m Joe Grundy.”

  “I remember. You were warning Jake about the dangerous people in the world.”

  “I suppose you’ve had to tell the police about last night so many times you’re fed up.”

  “I’m just tired, Mr. Grundy, and I’m waiting until I can get my little suitcase and go home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Roberts Creek on the Sunshine Coast.”

  “I know it. It’s on the way to Sechelt. You’ve got a ferry ride ahead of you. Do you have a car?”

  “I took the bus. There’s one at noon, if they’ll let me leave.”

  “I’ll talk to the detective in charge. He’s not a bad guy.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hattie brings me toast and coffee and withdraws just far enough to be polite. The toast is great. Heavy with butter, crunchy around the edges, just what I need. I try not to talk with my mouth full. “Could you fill me in a little bit on what happened after I left the party?” I ask.

  “More music. Then some of the record executives started talking about going somewhere to hear a group that decided —I always called Buzz Jake —was playing. Jake he’d had enough for one day, but told me to go along.”

  “About what time was that?”

  “After midnight, I guess, getting on to one o’clock. Anyway, I went, and it was fun. The drummer made a pass at me, but he wasn’t the guy I was interested in. I kind of liked that big roadie guy, Bubba, but he disappeared. I didn’t get back until after two and the room was locked. Jake wouldn’t wake up, so I got scared and went down to the front desk.”

  “Jake didn’t give you a key?”

  “He meant to. We left in a hurry. I was having such a good…” She pours tea from the metal pot into her cup and has a sip. “He was too good for this world.”

  “Your brother?”

  “He wasn’t a saint, you know. I mean, he did things when he was younger — sold weed, that kind of thing. But he was always … sweet. Sweet-natured. Generous. Shirt off his back. That kind of person. And generous with himself. Always time to listen to your story or help you fix whatever needed to be fixed. Never in a hurry. Why do you think that rich man left him all his money? He wasn’t a stupid man. He wasn’t someone who could be conned. He left the money to Jake because he saw the goodness in him.”

  “How did they meet?”

  “An accident, really. Prescott had a lodge on Harrison Lake. He’d pretty much moved there after he found out. And Jake was just travelling, on the road.”

  “After he found out what?”

  “Parker Prescott was dying. He had some kind of inoperable cancer or something, and they’d given him a year or so to live. Jake stayed with him.”

  “For a year?”

  “Five years. Jake got him an extra five years.”

  “How?”

  “Diet, meditation, exercise. I don’t know the details. Jake was into alternative medicine, herbs and like that. But mostly he was into peace of mind, meditation. He took Prescott on canoe trips, camping trips, got him out under the sky where he could think and feel and start to understand what was coming. Jake said that at the beginning Parker was really angry about everything, but by the time he started to go he was at peace.”

  “He must have been very grateful to Jake to give him so much.”

  “He loved Jake. He made him his son. Adopted him legally. That’s why the will couldn’t be broken. He made Jake his legitimate heir.”

  “I want you to know, Ms. MacKay, that I’m very sorry about what happened.”

  “You couldn’t have done anything. You saw what he was like. He wouldn’t carry an umbrella. He believed in karma and taking what came along. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Somebody’s to blame.”

  “Jake would say, ‘That’s their karma. They’ll have to deal with it.’”

  “Well,” I say, “I’ll be poking around, seeing what I can find out. After all, I didn’t do my job very well last night.”

  She glances at the clock on the wall. “Do you think you could talk to your cop friend about me getting home?” Nodding, I go off to look for Weed and find him talking to a couple of his detectives on the mezzanine landing.

  “Like to talk to one of your boys again,” he says. “Dan Howard. Found out he’s got a serious gambling debt with one of our more efficient money changers.”

  “Talk to him,” I say. “I told him to come clean.

  “You heard from the other one — McKellar?”

  I shake my head. “He’s usually late, but he’s really late today.”

  “I know he is,” Weed says.

  “I can’t see Arnie McKellar involved in anything requiring more than a knife and fork.”

  “His estranged wife hasn’t seen him, and his girlfriend doesn’t know where he is. That makes him missing. Puts him at the top of my list.”

  I remember why I sought Weed out. “Molly MacKay’s wondering if she can go home.”

  “What?” he says, distracted, checking a list of interviews that will take most of the day. “Yeah, she can take off. Her suitcase is in the lobby. We’ve got her address and phone number.”

  “You satisfied she was where she said she was?”

  “Oh, yeah, they cut a wide swath through the clubs late last night. That Redstone bunch attracts a lot of attention.”

  “Redhorn.”

  He smiles. “That’s what I said.”

  “So she can go?”

  “I told her she should get some protection.”

  “What for? Oh…” The apprentice sleuth has grasped one more obvious element. “Now it’s hers.”

  “She may have a claim, that’s for sure. Could make her life interesting.”

  I fetch Molly MacKay’s suitcase and escort her and the bag outside to the first cab in line, negotiating through the small knot of reporters still hanging around. Andrew has the cab door open when we get there. He takes the case from me and walks it around to the other side of the taxi. The reporters crowd around, and the cabdriver, Maxine, gets halfway out.

  “Keep your hands off the vehicle,” she tells the mob. “People trying to earn a living here.” She turns to look me over. “Got knocked out again, eh, Grundy?”

  “Story of my life. You camp out here all night?”

  “My cab. I can run it 24/7 if I feel like it. Anyway, more action here.” She grabs my chin and turns my
head gently to study the bump. “Now that’s seriously gross. You okay?”

  “I’ll live.” I point at Molly. “I think she’s going to the bus station.”

  “Six blocks, whoopee!” Maxine says. She opens her door, and I come around to her side.

  “Hey, Max,” I say. “Remember that fare you got about eleven-thirty last night? Woman, forties maybe. Very classy.”

  “I get better tips from winos. Rich people are cheap.”

  “Remember where you took her?”

  “Sure. Shaughnessy. Where else?” She gets behind the wheel. “Watch your back, Grundy.”

  “Too late,” I say.

  Molly doesn’t look up as they drive away.

  The reporters shout a few questions at the departing taxi. I can’t believe they expect the cab to stop and Molly to give them an interview. I’m not sure what they’re hoping for at this stage of the game. The big story was all filed before 8:00 a.m., and the smart scribes went off looking for representatives of the Prescott Corporation. As Grundy, ace hotel dick, enters his place of business, he mulls over the crux of the matter. There’s more than half a billion dollars up for grabs again.

  The hotel hasn’t quite settled back to its regular rhythm. The staff is maintaining, the guests are wary, their conversations hushed, there’s a hum. Andrew the doorman is deigning to exchange whispered words with Maurice the bell captain. That they are talking at all when they can’t abide each other under normal circumstances is a clear indication that things are unbalanced.

  I walk back to the kitchen to have a look at the room-service order book. When I ordered coffee for Gritch last night, it was handled by Wallace O’Ree at 1:48 a.m. Wallace is at home, and I have to call him there, but he doesn’t mind.

  “Hi, Mr. Grundy,” he says. “No, I’m just looking at a catalogue. Trying to decide do I really need a Shop-Vac or not. Sure would come in handy.” Wallace makes clocks out of wood.

  “Have the police talked to you yet, Wallace?”

  “Just on the phone. They said somebody’d be around later.”

  “I need to know something about one of your last orders last night. A pot of coffee for Gritch in 1507. It was after one-thirty.”