by Marc Strange
Redhorn performs a song. The guitar sounds out of tune. The camera moves around the musicians but always returns to Buzz and Molly on the couch. Buzz leans forward, nodding his head to the beat. Molly relaxes against the back of the couch at an angle halfway behind her brother’s shoulder. I can’t see her face.
With June’s help I fast-forward to the interview. It was taped in Redhorn’s second bedroom. Buzz sits on a chair. CONFOUND THE PREVAILING PARADIGM is readable across his chest. Molly is partially visible on a vanity bench. I glimpse the back of her head reflected in the mirror as she brushes hair back from her face. Music comes from the other room. Every now and then Buzz pauses for a moment, his gaze getting distant as he listens to the tune. Or maybe he’s eavesdropping on the music of the cosmos.
Connie’s voice is audible off-camera. “Why do you think Mr. Prescott left you all his money?”
“I’ll have to ask him when I see him,” Buzz says, and he chuckles.
“What are your plans now that the courts have ruled in your favour?”
“It’s no secret,” he says. “Park asked me one day, ‘What would you do if you had half a billion dollars?’ I told him I’d give it away, and Park said, ‘All of it?’ I said I’d give it away to anybody who asked me, for any reason. I wouldn’t even ask why, I wouldn’t make them tell me a story, I’d just keep handing it out until it was gone.”
“What was his reaction?”
“It cracked him up. He thought I was nuts. He said I didn’t understand what money could do. He said he already funded charities to the tune of fifty, sometimes as much as a hundred million dollars a year, that the money went to all kinds of good causes. That he had set up his entire financial structure so his good works would carry on after his death.”
“But you didn’t agree with that system?” Connie asks.
“Hey, I thought that was a pretty good idea, too. I didn’t try to talk him out of it. The way he set up his companies makes a lot of sense.”
“Then why change things?”
Buzz takes a deep breath, and his gaze elevates a few degrees as if he’s standing on a lookout watching a particularly interesting sunset. “I see this vast financial structure of Prescott Holdings, and the vast administrative structure of the Horizon Foundation, and I see eleven million dollars a year in overhead, and salaries, and bonuses in the tens of millions per annum. I see an army of departmental heads, and accountants, and overseers, and expensive legal talent, and I see that barely twenty-three percent of the profits of Prescott Holdings actually gets to the people it was meant for. Sometimes less. I see that a substantial portion of the funds that do get handed out is going to support the arts and heritage projects.”
“You think the money’s being wasted?”
Buzz shakes his head and laughs. “Sometimes I think most money gets wasted.”
“What would you do differently?”
“Give people a good meal, or a pair of jeans, or a few bucks to get them through the weekend. I can’t fix the world. I won’t make judgments about whether someone needs money more than someone else.”
“How do you intend to do that?”
“Starting tomorrow, I’m going to begin giving away Park Prescott’s money to anyone who gets in line to take some. I won’t be giving away much at a time, and I’m not interested in listening to hard-luck stories. Everybody has a hard-luck story. I won’t get into who’s more worthy than someone else. I’m just going to hand it over. I’ll do it on the street if I have to.”
“Gonna be a long lineup,” Molly says. She leans forward into the frame and pats her brother on the chest with the palm of her left hand. Her head is tilted with love and bemusement, as if listening to the cooing of an infant.
Buzz is serious. “I can give a hundred dollars to each person I meet so they can get themselves a new coat, or buy their kid a week’s groceries. Rich people won’t bother lining up to get a hundred dollars. It won’t mean anything to them, but it’ll mean something to someone who’s broke or behind in his electric bill.”
The music stops in the other room. A phone is ringing. Someone knocks at the door. Buzz stares at something off-camera. At that point the interview is cut off. There are a few clips of Connie taping her reaction shots, and then blank tape.
When I look up, June is standing in the doorway. “More water?”
“No thanks. Which elevator do I take to get to Studio 3?”
“Connie says I should take you there.”
June tells me she’s hoping to get into production. She’d like to direct. At the moment she’s working on a low-budget movie with a bunch of film students.
“We shoot on the weekends,” she says. “The director wrote the script. It’s way loony, but it’s good experience. You want to be in a movie? You’d be great.”
I decline with thanks as the cell phone in my pocket rings.
“You’ll have to turn that off before we go in,” she says.
“That’s okay. I’ll wait out here until Connie finishes. Thanks for getting me here.”
“You sure you don’t want to be in a movie? You could play one of the alien soldiers. I don’t know if we have a costume that would fit you, though.”
“Hello? Who’s that — Gritch?”
“Joe? It’s Larry Gormé.”
When last seen, Larry was waving his fedora at me.
“So you give interviews out at Channel 20 and you won’t talk to me?”
“I wasn’t avoiding you, Larry. Yesterday was kind of busy.”
“How about today?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got things to do today, too.”
“Like hanging out with the little bingo caller? Watch your back, big guy.”
“She did me a favour.”
“Meet me for lunch and I’ll pull the knives out for you.”
“All right,” I say. “Give me half an hour. That place across from your place.”
“Not there,” Larry says. “Too many assassins. Go to Buckles. You remember where that is? On Davie?
“I can find it.”
Connie comes out of Studio 3. She glows and hums like a tiny reactor. I’ve seen the same look on good athletes. She has her game face on. “You made it.”
“I had a guide.”
“Step into my parlour.” She holds the studio door open for me, and I take two steps forward. “Sit right there.”
I look around. The chair she’s offering me is beautifully lit from three directions. There is a camera pointed at it. There’s a clip-on microphone attached to a cord draped over the back of the chair. “Oh, Lord,” I say.
“Come on, I did you a favour. You do one for me. It’ll only take a minute.”
“I don’t take good pictures.”
“That’s so lame. You look fine. You’re wearing a nice tie and you haven’t dribbled butter on it. Sit down.”
A young woman who smells of warm sandalwood powders my face and does something to my hair, a young guy with a headset clips the microphone to my lapel, Connie sits in an identical chair in a somewhat warmer pool of light and arranges herself in her element.
“Any time, Felicity,” she says.
Red lights go on, a buzzer sounds, and I catch a glimpse of my face on a monitor off to the side. I don’t look like a mass murderer. More like a moose caught in the headlights.
Connie looks directly at one of the cameras and starts right in. “The shooting death of Jacob Buznardo in the early hours of Tuesday morning was a tragic final curtain to a courtroom drama that had raged for nearly two years. In an exclusive interview recorded just hours before the shooting, Buzz, as he preferred to be called, told this reporter that he intended to give away the entire fortune, conservatively estimated at half a billion dollars and possibly higher.” She turns to look at me. “I’m talking with Joe Grundy, who is chief of security at the Lord Douglas Hotel. Thanks for coming in, Joe.”
“I was in the neighbourhood,” I say.
“You discovered Mr. Buznardo’s b
ody, is that right?”
“Yes, I did.” I’m sitting tight, like a kid waiting to go to confession. I attempt to appear more relaxed by crossing my ankles, but that feels stupid.
“One of your staff at the hotel, Arnold McKellar, is high on the list of suspects, is he not?”
“You’d have to talk to the police about how high on the list he is.”
“You can confirm he went missing the morning of the shooting at the hotel?”
“That’s right. We haven’t seen him since then.”
“But he’s been in touch with you by phone on two separate occasions since then?”
I smile. “You do get around, Ms. Gagliardi.”
“But is it true? He has called you?”
“I’ve spoken to him, yes.”
“Can you tell us anything about what he said?”
“I don’t think I can say much. The police have all the information I could give them. I don’t suppose I’d be breaking confidence if I told you he says he didn’t do it.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I hope he’s telling the truth.”
“Do you have any idea where he is?”
“Not a clue.”
“Do you have any theories about what happened to Mr. Buznardo?”
“I’m not much of a theory guy, Connie. I don’t think it was too smart of Arnie to run off, no matter what he did or didn’t do. I hope he’s smart enough to turn himself in. I hope he’s okay.”
“You have any reason to suspect he might not be okay?”
“No. I’m merely speaking as his boss. I feel a certain measure of responsibility for him.”
“And, of course, a certain responsibility for what happened at the hotel.”
“Well…”
“After all, as head of security, it was your job to watch out for Mr. Buznardo, wasn’t it?”
“Technically, no. It wasn’t. Once a guest rents a room it legally belongs to him for as long as he occupies it. We weren’t acting as his bodyguards.”
“But you were keeping an eye on the situation?”
“The hotel was concerned about the large amount of cash he had in his possession. We thought it might attract unwanted attention.”
“And, as it turned out, it did. From one of your employees.”
“That’s what it looks like,” I say. I’m trying not to squirm, trying not to let my annoyance show.
“Was there anything in Mr. McKellar’s background check that indicated he might have been capable of something like this? Robbery, possibly murder?”
“Nothing I’m aware of, Ms. Gagliardi. And, as the investigation is still ongoing, and charges haven’t been laid, I don’t think public speculation is appropriate.”
“Are you involved in the ongoing investigation?”
“No, I’m not. I have no legal authority to operate outside the hotel.”
“How about inside the hotel? Are you cleaning house?”
“Things are pretty much back to normal.”
“Except that one of your employees is a fugitive.”
I’m not sure that a response is either appropriate or particularly warranted. I look her straight in the eye with what I hope is an unwavering and guileless gaze. Her eyes are brown, dark, almost black, like her hair. Her firm chin is uplifted, her expression expectant. I have nothing to offer her.
She glances over her shoulder. “Cut.”
Red lights blink out, a buzzer sounds, the pools of light are doused around our chairs, and for a moment I can’t see much. When things are in focus again, I see her face about a foot below mine, smiling at me with what seems like approval.
“You handled that pretty well,” she says.
“Considering I was ambushed.”
“Aw, you were warned. I told you I wasn’t finished bugging you.”
“You also said it would be old news by today.”
“It is, but you never know. Once they catch up with your boy it could get interesting again.”
We weave our way past cameras and lights, stepping over cables and dodging technicians as they ready the space for what might be a cooking show. There are food smells in the air. My stomach rumbles.
“Let me buy you lunch,” she says when we make it to the corridor. “You got breakfast. The cafeteria isn’t bad.”
“I’d like to, but I have a job to get back to.” I give her my most charming smile. “Housecleaning.”
She smiles back. “Some other time then.”
“Thanks for letting me see the tape. I noticed right at the end there was a phone call or something and somebody knocked on the door. You remember what that was?”
“Buzz’s lawyer showed up. He wasn’t happy we got the interview and didn’t want it on the air. He wanted Buzz to hold off making any announcements.”
“What did Buzz say?”
“He said it was a done deal.”
chapter twenty
Larry Gormé drinks his Molson from the bottle, holding the neck with his thumb and three fingers, pinkie raised like a man sipping tea. He sits at the counter with his fedora on the stool beside him, saving me a space.
“So? You a TV star yet?”
“Do I look like one?”
“You’re wearing makeup.”
“Had my hair professionally combed, too.”
“A beer?”
“Just a cup of coffee, Larry. I have to get back to the hotel.”
He signals the counterman, who cracks him another cold one and gives me a cup of caramelized coffee. What I really need is a sandwich. Something to keep me going through the rest of the day. Pastrami would be good. I have a look at the menu.
“So, Joe, can I ask you a few things? On the record?”
“I hate being quoted in the paper. I always sound like an idiot.”
“Bullshit. When I was doing sports, you were good for a quote.”
“I sounded like an idiot all the same, and that was something I knew something about.”
“You know something about this Buznardo business.”
“Wish I did.”
“Come on, you were there. When did you get so cagey?”
“Since everyone in the world started taking shots at the hotel.”
“No shots at the hotel. Scout’s honour. I like the Douglas. I used to drink in the Press Club back in the old days, I was there the first night Olive May came to play. I don’t take shots at the Douglas.” He sips his beer. “What’s happening with Arnie?”
“He’s made himself scarce, Larry. That’s all I know.”
“I hear you got in to see Wade Hubble. I haven’t been able to.”
“I’m wearing my good trench coat. I pretended I had an appointment.”
“What did Hubble say? Off the record.”
“Off the record? He said get away from me, scum of the earth. I paraphrase.”
“Piece of work, isn’t he? Hubble? Thinks he’s Rupert Murdoch. Must piss him off that he can’t wheel and deal with the big boys.” Larry looks disgusted. “Hated to see that Buznardo kid go down.”
“Yeah, I liked him, too.”
“Liked? Shit! He was my big ticket!” He turns to me, his eyes intense, like those of a frustrated terrier whose excavation has hit a sewer pipe. “I was on that story for two years. Not all the time. It wasn’t that kind of story. But every time they showed up in court, every time somebody made a statement, I was there. I heard all the testimony, know all the players. Now that it’s a big murder, certain hot shots on the city desk think it should be their private hunting preserve. Fuck ’em. I’m the one with the files.”
There’s no pastrami on the menu. I see a hamburger heading for the other end of the counter, but I’m not tempted.
“The story was just about to get really good,” he says. “I was going to ride it like an express.”
“The Big Giveaway Story?”
“That was just the catalyst, the opening salvo. The serious action was going to be when the kid got a look at Prescott
Holdings’ real set of books.”
“Why? What’s going on there?”
“We may never know now that your idiot pal Arnie McKellar stopped it in its tracks.”
“He says he didn’t do it.”
Larry peers at me. “You talked to him?”
“He’s called me. Twice. Connie Gagliardi knew all about it.”
“She’s got a friend at headquarters.”
“She’s a charmer.”
“At least she can write. If she weren’t so pretty, she could work for a newspaper.”
“It’s a real drawback.”
“So what did he say?”
“Not much.”
“Come on. I bet you told her what he said.”
“That’s what I told her. He says he didn’t do it. Wouldn’t tell me where he was. I told him to turn himself in. Said he needed time to think things through.”
“Shithead! Robbed me of a great story.” He takes a deep swig, pats his pockets reflexively like a former smoker, has another pull on the bottle. “You believe him?”
“Believe who, Larry?”
“Arnie McKellar, Wanted Man. I thought he’d be good for a cycle or two yet. Today he’s below the fold. Tomorrow he’ll be on Page 3 unless they catch him. So you believe him? Did he do it?”
“Off the record?”
“Aw, shit, man, I’m a reporter.”
“And I’d be speculating,” I say, “which is something I’m not particularly good at, and I don’t want to read my infantile spit-balling as considered opinion. I’m swimming in sharky waters here. I don’t know any of the players and they’re probably all ten steps ahead of me, brushing out their tracks.”
“Sharks don’t leave tracks.”
“Let’s move to a table,” I say.
“Have a beer.”
“All right. It’s got to taste better than this coffee.”
“People don’t come here for coffee.”
I grab a corner booth with windows at my back and to my left. The street outside has lost its shadows, the sky is getting lower, darker, and a wind is making dust and litter swirl along the sidewalk gutters. Larry slides in opposite with bottles clanking in one hand and two bags of Planter’s salted peanuts for sustenance.