Sucker Punch

by Marc Strange

  “Oh, sure. I didn’t take it up.”

  “Who did?”

  “Phil Marsden. He said he’d take the coffee up to Gritch. That was fine by me. I was ready to go home.”

  “Phil Marsden took the coffee up?”

  “Sure did. That’s what I told the policeman on the phone.”

  chapter ten

  The doctor is a nice young man from Bombay named Ganesh. He says he thinks I’ll live. I’m not puking, I’m not seeing double, my pupils look normal, and I can stand on one foot without falling over, which apparently is a good sign. Gritch is in a bed in the hallway on the fifth floor.

  “Who’s minding the store?”

  “Half of Vancouver’s finest,” I say. “They making up your bed?”

  “I don’t even rate a room, that’s how critical I am. There are guys in here with life-threatening injuries — I’m causing traffic problems in the hallway.”

  He looks okay to me. “They pump you out?”

  “Nah. How you doing?”

  “Got one helluva headache,” I say. “You?”

  “Feh. Best sleep I’ve had in months. I can get you a pill. I’ve got pull with the nurse. He likes me.”

  “It’s easing up.”

  “Weed says you got sandbagged.”

  “I should be so lucky. This was hard. And cold. Weed was here?”

  “Oh, yeah. That old hound is all over this one. Let me see it.” I turn around, and he checks the back of my head without touching it. “Lucky you’re walking.”

  “What about you?” I ask. “They know what was in the coffee?”

  “Maybe. They aren’t telling me. I figure it was sleeping pills. I didn’t fall down. I just thought I’d put my feet up for a minute. That’s all I remember.”

  “I can’t figure it,” I say. “Somebody going in to shoot Buznardo, why go to all the trouble to drug you first? Why not shoot you, too?”

  “Thanks for the thought.”

  “Why so subtle dealing with you and then blow Buzz away and hit me with a brick?”

  “Doesn’t look like brickwork to me. More like a baseball bat.”

  “Point is, we’ve got three different approaches to the robbery. With you we get subtle, then we get what looks like a cold-blooded killing, and then I get mugged.”

  “You were the fly in the ointment.”

  “And then whoever put me down calls the front desk to tell Raymond I’m passed out by the service elevators.”

  “That was kind.”

  I probe the bump on the back of my head. “But it’s too kind. I just filled a guy full of holes and then I give a damn about some guy I just knocked out? It’s like he cares about the hotel employees but didn’t care for Buzz at all.”

  “Sounds like two guys.”

  “That’s what I think,” I say.

  “Who delivered the coffee?”

  “Nobody.”

  “What?”

  “I mean it, nobody. I’ve got the door half open, got a good angle on both doors to the suite, I’m reading the newspaper, a Seattle Post I grabbed at the newsstand, and I hear a tray hit the back of the door.”

  “No knock? No announcement?”

  “No. Just that. I recognize the sound, the spoon clattering in the saucer. I know it’s my coffee. I figure maybe you brought it up and went off to check something else. Anyway, after a minute, I go out in the hall and collect the tray and have a cup.”

  “It tasted all right?”

  “You know me. I don’t like coffee. I just drink it for the caffeine and to keep from drinking anything else. Three sugars, lots of cream. You could hide Listerine in there and I’d never notice.”

  “How long did it take you to pass out?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. I guess after the second cup I thought I’d put my feet up and watch the other door through the mirror. Then I thought it would be okay if I just kicked my shoes off and lay my head down for a bit. And that was it.”

  “You were on the floor when I found you.”

  “I think I tried to get up after a while. An alarm went off in my head, and I tried to get up.”

  Just then a burly male nurse with a broken nose and kind eyes comes along and starts checking Gritch over.

  “Stick around a few minutes, Joe. I think I’m getting outta here.”

  “Yeah, we’ve had about as much of you as we can stand,” the nurse says. He glances at me. “You look like you could’ve used a night in a hospital bed, too.”

  “I had things to do,” I say.

  “Mister Tough Guy,” Gritch says. “Wonder you don’t have permanent brain damage, all the hits you took.”

  “Who says I don’t have permanent brain damage?”

  Gritch and I leave the hospital and climb into the hotel car I appropriated. It’s nothing fancy, just a sedan we keep around for emergencies and errands. The streets are clean and shiny after last night’s rain. At a stoplight Gritch jumps out and gets a newspaper from the corner box. The tabloid Emblem has already hit the street with an extra. I bet they had a good time being a newspaper for a change. The front page is suitably garish: HIPPIE BILLIONAIRE SLAIN IN HOTEL ROOM. I spot Larry Gormé’s byline. There’s a colour insert of Buzz’s bagged body being loaded into the back of an ambulance over a half-page image of our very own Lord Douglas Hotel with a red X marking the suite where it happened. They’ve missed it by four windows.

  “I’ve got a couple of errands to run,” I say. “Want me to take you home? The Douglas?”

  “I’ll hang with you,” he says. “Where we going?”

  “Chinatown.”

  Randall Poy is about five feet, three inches tall and weighs around 124 pounds. He doesn’t wear lifts or heels. He does wear Hong Kong silk suits tending towards the electric end of the spectrum and Italian shoes to match. Randall is rumoured to hold black belts in several lethal martial arts forms, but I doubt that he troubles himself to do his own crippling these days. For that he has the brothers Chow, Marlon and Mikey, who don’t bother with Tai Chi Chuan niceties. Both are bonecrushers with anaconda arms and shoulders like oxbows.

  Poy isn’t hard to find. He doesn’t insulate himself from his clientele. Randall presides in the rosy backroom of the Noodle Palace on Alberni Street. He parks his blood-red Ferrari in the lane just outside the rear entrance. One of the Chow cousins, slightly smaller than Marlon and Mikey, has the job of guarding the vehicle. It’s a ceremonial position. No one would dare leave fingerprints on Randall’s fender. The Ferrari never moves. Randall has failed his driver’s test nine times. There are some things money can’t buy.

  The main dining room of the Noodle Palace is loud with the clatter of bowls and cups and enthusiastic diners, predominantly Chinese. The walls are decorated with menus as long as scrolls, the calligraphy like action paintings. The backroom is another world. There’s no evidence of food. Seven television sets carry satellite broadcasts of most of the sporting action currently taking place in North America. Randall has three cell phones, a BlackBerry, and a MacBook on the table. He’s plugged in.

  Marlon and Mikey sit at an adjacent table, close enough to empty Randall’s ashtray and refill his teacup.

  “Mr. Joe Grundy. Good morning, good morning. I hear you got knocked out again.”

  “That’s right, Randall.”

  “You should learn to keep up your left. That’s how Holyfield took off your head.”

  “I was done with the body shot he started with,” I say. “His last two punches were a formality.”

  “People lost money on you.”

  “Sometimes people don’t think things through.”

  “I didn’t lose money. I never bet on a white heavyweight.”

  “History will back you up.”

  “What can I do for you? You like football?”

  “I don’t gamble.”

  “Need money?”

  “I’m here to give you some money.”

  “Why?”

  “Dan Howard works for me
. He says he owes you eighteen thousand dollars. He says you want five thousand this week or you’ll hurt him.”

  “I would never do that.”

  Mikey and Marlon almost smile.

  “I’m glad to hear that. I don’t like things happening to my people.”

  “Your people shouldn’t lose so much money when they can’t pay their bills.”

  “I won’t argue with you there, Randall. Dan’s made some bad decisions lately. I’m hoping he’ll straighten himself out.”

  “How much money are you giving me?”

  “I have three thousand dollars in my pocket. I can get you another two thousand by, let’s say, tomorrow before lunch. That should square him for a week. After that you and I can work something out on the balance.”

  “Balances keep going up, Joe Grundy. There’s interest.”

  “I know, Randall. That’s why I’m hoping you can ease back on the implied threat of physical injury for a couple of weeks until I can help Dan get his affairs in order.”

  “Maybe his Thai girlfriend should get a job.”

  “That’s for her to decide, I guess. I’m mostly concerned with keeping Dan from getting himself damaged before he has an opportunity to sort our his personal problems.”

  Randall thinks it over for a minute. Marlon and Mikey watch the stock market crawl on one of the television sets. Mikey is pushing one flat palm against the other under the table overhang. Dynamic tension. I think his right hand is winning.

  “Okay, Joe Grundy,” Randall says. “Three thousand now, and two thousand tomorrow morning, okay?”

  I put the envelope on the table in front of him. He glares at me as if I’ve just urinated on his Ferrari’s Michelins. He says something to Marlon, who sweeps up the envelope with his left hand and pockets it inside his leather jacket. I get a brief glimpse of a shoulder rig. Marlon relies on more than dynamic tension. Also, Marlon is a southpaw.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’ll make sure you get the other two thousand before noon tomorrow. And I’ll keep you informed on how Dan is going to straighten things out.”

  “You his broker now?”

  “No, Randall, I’m his boss. He works for me. I need him to keep working.”

  “I don’t think people will go to your hotel anymore if they’re going to get murdered.”

  Randall laughs with genuine glee. Marlon and Mikey almost smile again. They’re having fun. I have other things to do with my day.

  “Okay then,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “That’s not necessary. Somebody will come around to see you.” He looks directly at me, gaze unwavering, a smile twitching the corner of his mouth.

  “I prefer not to conduct personal business inside the hotel. I’ll come to see you.”

  “Okay, but don’t be late.”

  “Randall,” I say in my most reasonable tone, “I know you’re a businessman, so let’s keep this businesslike. I’ll make another payment. You have my word on that. I’ll make sure Dan applies himself to the problem of getting square with you, and I’ll stay in touch until things get sorted out.”

  I move a step closer to Randall’s table. I can hear and feel both Mikey and Marlon gathering their feet under them, but I keep my eyes off them. I look at Randall instead. “Until this matter’s cleared up, I’d appreciate it if the people who work for you don’t make life difficult for the people who work for me.” “Who wants to make life difficult?” Randall says.

  “Good. Then we have an agreement?”

  “Have a nice day, Joe Grundy. Learn to keep up your left hand.”

  “Always good advice.” I nod to Randall, then glance at the Chow brothers, who are both watching me. They seem hungry. I wonder if they’re allowed to eat their noodles in here.

  Gritch isn’t in the car. He’s dodging traffic, coming back from the convenience store across the street where’s he’s replenished his supply of cigars.

  “How’s Randall doing?” he asks.

  “I made his day.”

  “Best noodles in Chinatown,” he says. “Steve Gorman and I used to come here, before your time, back when you could eat in the backroom.”

  “You hungry?”

  “Not for noodles. What’s next?”

  “Have to see a man about a bar tab.”

  chapter eleven

  Our next stop is a seven-storey purple stone office building propping up the corner of Dunsmuir and Hamilton. The cornerstone says it was inflicted upon the city in 1907. I know for a fact that it’s been slated for demolition for fifteen years, but the heart of the city keeps shifting and the price of the corner lot remains higher than anyone can be persuaded it’s worth. There’s only one operational elevator, the other having been sealed and abandoned years ago.

  AxeHandle Securities is listed on the lobby directory as having offices on the third floor. I haul my bulk up the two flights, figuring the exercise might loosen me up for any encounter, but when I get there, 303 is locked up tight. Through the pebbled glass I see a heavy accumulation of mail building up on the carpet inside the office door.

  I trudge back down to the lobby where Gritch is waiting.

  “Nobody home,” I tell him. “Doesn’t look like he’s been there for a while.”

  Gritch points at the directory. “You see who else lives here?”

  Alvin Neagle, Barrister & Solicitor, occupies suite 512.

  “If we can take the elevator, I’ll come with you,” he says.

  A woman carrying a cardboard box is heading our way as we walk down the fifth-floor hallway. I figure she probably came from 512 because the door is open and I can see Alvin Neagle standing in the outer office filling another cardboard box. Gritch lingers behind to help the woman with her cargo.

  “I don’t suppose that second elevator has ever worked,” he says.

  “Oh, it did,” she says, “for the first year we were here, but not since then.”

  The door slides open and he takes the box from her.

  “Oh, thank you.”

  “Moving office?” he asks.

  “Oh, it’s wonderful,” I hear her say as the elevator door closes, “broadloom, air conditioning, a wonderful view.”

  I head for Neagle’s office. “Mr. Neagle?”

  “You’ll have to make an appointment with my secretary. As you can see, I’m moving today.”

  “Oh, really? Where are you going to be located?”

  He looks up. “Do I know you?”

  “Joe Grundy,” I say, sticking out my hand. “Hotel security at the Lord Douglas. We met the day before yesterday when you came out of Jake Buznardo’s suite.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He shakes my hand without enthusiasm.

  “I’m not surprised you don’t remember me. You must have been busy.”

  “I’ve already spoken to the cops. They were here this morning.”

  “They’ve been busy, too,” I say. “I guess you couldn’t help them very much.”

  “I didn’t see it happen, if that’s what you mean.” He does a clumsy but secure tape job on the box he just filled, then glances up at me.

  “Did Mr. Axelrode manage to catch up to you last night?”

  “What?”

  “I understand you got into an argument with Jeff Axelrode in the bar last night and that he chased you down the street.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I have a number of witnesses. Five altogether.”

  “And what’s it got to do with you?”

  “A few things. Axelrode ran out on a bar tab. But then, technically, so did you. And he injured one of the servers, who may very well charge him with assault. I’d like to get the matter straightened out, but his office is locked up and it doesn’t look as though he’s been there for some time.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know where he is.”

  “Mind telling me what your connection is to him?”

  “I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

  “I suppose the poli
ce have been asking you the same thing.”

  “Look, I hired Jeff Axelrode to keep Buzz in line. Keep track of him, get him into court on time, like that. I never knew where Buzz was going to be. You can see what a pain in the ass that was. One time we had to drag him out of a rodeo in Big Creek. Then Buzz said no more, said he didn’t want Axelrode around. The big dork said something rude to Buzz’s sister or something. Anyway, I told Axe to stay out of sight. He was still on the job, just supposed to keep a low profile. He kept a low profile all right. Guy’s as subtle as a beer fart.”

  “He told our acting manager he represented Prescott Holdings.”

  “You know what private dicks are like, no offence. They’ll say whatever they have to say. He was working for me.”

  “What was your fight about?”

  “It wasn’t a fight. Expense money, whatever. There’s Buzz throwing around hundred-dollar bills, and Axe gets pissed off because I can’t give him walking-around money.”

  “You got any idea where he is now?”

  “No. And, frankly, I don’t want to know. Right now the more he stays away from me the better I like it.”

  “Will you be handling Buznardo’s estate?”

  Neagle makes himself busy, yanking and slamming filing cabinet drawers. “He died intestate. I’m looking at two, three years’ work to collect my fee.”

  The woman returns from her elevator ride. “Mr. Neagle, my car’s almost full.”

  “Right, right,” he says, “take this one and get them over there.”

  She lifts the box that Neagle just sealed and heads back down the hall. Gritch is waiting for her by the elevators.

  “I’m sure you’ll get paid,” I say. “Buznardo’s estate will have to go through probate, won’t it? Will you be handling that?”

  He grabs another cardboard box, puts it on his desk, and begins filling it with law books. “Look, Grundy, is it? I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. I’ve got a shitstorm of writs coming down on me, I’ve got cops crawling all over me, I’ve got a dead client who left his affairs in a mess, and unless you have some legal status or a subpoena or something, I’d appreciate it if you’d bugger off.”

  “Okay then,” I say. “Maybe we can talk again after you get resettled.”