Body Blows (27 page)

“He still has a connection to the dead one, Farrel Newton.”

“Who hated his guts.”

“Well, it won't kill your boss to spend one more night at our convenience.” He takes note of the cruisers making room for the arrival of the police tow truck. “See if you can detach yourself from that rear bumper without running anybody down.”

“Where's your partner?”

“This is Sunday. I expect he's eating his mama's lasagna.”

“How come you were available?”

“My mom lives in Wataskwin and can't cook for sour apples.”

Gritch slides sideways when I open the door. “She's a cutie. Isn't she?”

“Who's a cutie?” I ask as I turn the key.

“Young Officer Chan,” he says.

“She here, too?”

“Not anymore,” he says. “She and her partner are off to pick up Dimi's bro.” He rolls down his window to break off two inches of ash and almost makes it before it lands on his tie. “They figure he'll have a spare key for the Mustang.”

There is surprisingly little damage to the front of the hotel sedan. One of the uniforms gives it a quick check and pronounces it sufficiently sound to get us back to home base, although he does strongly suggest that, until the right headlight is replaced, we not drive it at night.

As I weave us carefully out of the traffic jam, I catch a glimpse of Marcia's front door opening. It looks like she's changed out of her travelling duds.

Olive's is quiet, the jam is over, presumably all the scones have been eaten, too. The CD player is shuffling Olive May's personal heroes from Tatum to Peterson, and the lady herself is ensconced in her private corner having an unlawful Winston to go with her rum and Coke.

“Beer, Champ?” Barney asks.

“Thank you, Barney, I believe I will. I almost deserve one.”

“Preference?”

“Cold, draft, you pick.”

“Coming up.”

“Good session?”

Barney shakes his head in wonder. “Somebody should have been recording,” he says. “It was like an all-star game. If she'd booked that band it would've cost a bazillion dollars.” He puts a coaster in front of me and caps it with a frosty pint. “Wall-to-wall heavyweights.”

“Sorry I missed it,” I say.

“Other fish to fry, I imagine.”

“I ran a tab here this afternoon,” I say, reaching for some money. “Martinis.”

“Stuck it on your weekly. You might break fifty bucks this time.”

“It's a slippery slope.” The first swallow feels like victory quaff.

“Madam Queen's waving,” says Barney.

All I can see of Olive is a portion of her right shoulder, with arm lifted and fingers waggling. “At you or me?” I wonder. She turns her Cleopatra
profeel
into the light and blows me a kiss.

“Both,” Barney says. “Two fingers is for a fresh one, the smile is all yours.”

“How you feeling, Joey darlin'?” Olive wants to know as I settle in across from her.

“Better and better,” I say, almost truthfully.

She offers me a ceremonial Winston, which I take. One a day. Our little ritual. She lights me up with the gold Ronson, inscribed WARM VALLEY, which I happen to know was a gift from Billy Strayhorn, and I inhale an illicit puff and sneak a quick peek for the Smoke Police — although, to my knowledge, no one has ever had the temerity to complain, not officially anyway. Olive's dark corner is sacrosanct. A separate world. Not unlike Leo's aerie except that here I have always felt entirely welcome.

“Your arm?” she asks.

“On the mend,” I say. “I'll be playing the violin again in no time.”

“Saw your sweetie on the news tonight,” she says. “She looked good.”

“Happy, too, I bet.”

“She'll be back.” Barney arrives with her fresh drink — rum over ice in a tall glass, and one of his precious green Coke bottles studded with crystals. “As always, your timing is impeccable,” she says to him.

Barney catches my eye and nods toward the far corner. “Lenny Alexander says they're both comped. True?”

The last banquette, just before the mall entrance, Lenny Alexander and Roselyn Hiscox are sitting side by side, heads close together.

“It's covered, Barney,” I say. “Put it on my tab.”

“You are definitely breaking fifty this week,” he says.

“Are they sober?”

“Not entirely,” he says, “but they ate well, and they're pacing themselves. Well, he is anyway.”

“Old friends?” Olive asks.

“Family,” I say. “Lenny's long-lost sister.”

“Aww,” she says, “that's so nice. You got family, darlin'?”

“Just you folks,” I say.

“And your sweetie 'cross the sea.”

“And my sweetie across the sea,” I say.

She leans across the table and I do likewise. A generous woman's kiss — warm, not entirely platonic, but within the bounds of propriety. Olive May is what the Spanish call
un todo mujer
, all that is woman. “It's my family, too, Joey darlin',” she says.

“Hey, Joe,” I hear Lenny's voice lifted. “Come on over.”

Olive pats me on the back of my hand. I butt my unfinished Winston and pick up my unfinished beer. “Get some rest, hon,” she says.

“Hey, now.” Roselyn looks up at me from under an errant frond of blonde hair. She is obviously ‘shit-faced,' as Morely Kline would have pointed out. “It's the bodyguard,” she says. “Guarded any good bodies lately?”

Lenny, on the other hand, looks like a man who has had exactly as much as he requires in order to maintain a healthy glow. “Hey Joe,” he says. “Sit down for a minute. You've met my sister? We've been comparing notes.”

“Digging up bones,” she says.

“We're going arm-in-arm into court tomorrow,” he says. “United front, show the flag, all that crap.”

“Don't think it'll get that far,” I say. “They'll probably just turn him loose, maybe even with an apology. They arrested that limo driver.”

“Yeah? All
right
!” Lenny sounds genuinely happy about the development.

“Horseshoes up his ass,” says Roselyn. “If the old prick fell into a Port-A-Potty he'd find oil.”

“Want to help me get her upstairs, Joe?” Lenny asks.

Roselyn flops across the bed and pulls a pillow under her cheek. Lenny and I both consider the appropriateness of removing her clothes and settle for taking off her shoes, pulling a coverlet across her shoulders and turning out the light.

“That's good they caught the guy,” Lenny says when we're in the hall. “Where was he?”

“House-sitting,” I say. “Ever meet a woman named Marcia Duhamel?”

Lenny laughs. “The ‘design consultant'? Ha!” he presses the elevator button. “Sure. She's been his steady for a couple of years.” The elevator arrives. I press L; he presses MM. “I'm having a nightcap,” he says. “After tomorrow I'm back to paying my own bar bill. Join me?”

“Phone call to make,” I say.

“She's involved?” he wants to know.

“It looks like Marcia and the limo driver were trying to break into Leo's safe.”

“Dearie me,” he says primly. “My fat-ass brother's going to have some 'splaining to do.”

The doors open. “See you in the morning,” I say.

Lenny sticks out a hand to hold the doors open. “Hey, Joe?” he says. “It's good you look out for the old man. He's getting on.”

“It's good you two are connecting.”

“Yeah, well, what the hell. Family is family no matter how fucked up it is.”

The early edition of the Monday
Emblem
is being stacked by the newsstand, and for a change we aren't the top story. Larry's scoop on the arrest of Dimi Starr and Marcia Duhamel is below the fold. The headline reads, JOURNALIST KILLED OUTSIDE KANDAHAR.

“Someone you know?”

“Jim Burrell,” Connie says. “He was family.”

“Aw, damn it, Connie, I'm so sorry.”

“Roadside bomb,” she says. “It was supposed to be a safe location.”

“It's getting worse over there, isn't it?”

“Certain spots are heating up.”

“I'm glad this China thing is almost over,” I say. “When are you heading back? Tomorrow night? Wednesday? That'll be your Thursday, I guess.”

There is a moment's silence, perhaps ten full seconds of dead air, and I know without a word being spoken what's coming next.

“Joe,” she starts.

My heart sinks. “Oh, Christ,” I say.

“Don't go all fatherly,” she says. “You know I have to grab this.”

“Of course I do,” I say. “You will understand if I worry. It's my nature.”

“I know. And I love it. Don't fret so much you lose your hair, okay?”

“And you'll have body-armour, right?”

“And a helmet, and a vehicle, and an armed escort.”

I don't bother to state the obvious — so did Mr. Burrell. I'm sure she's far more cognizant of the situation than I. Stay positive. “When?” I ask as brightly as I can manage.

“Not sure,” she says. “Have to wind up this junket and get out of here. I might get a flight to Tokyo tonight, let them figure it out from there.”

“And you'll have body-armour, right?”

“You did that already.”

“I know, but it's sort of important.”

“And there's Saint Chris, my bulletproof boyfriend. How many missions did Uncle Victor fly?”

“Twenty.”

“Missing you, big guy,” she says. “This would be a good night to get cuddled and such.”

Sleep is no longer an option. After we hang up, both of us reluctantly, I wander the lobby and mezzanine, walk the perimeter, check doors, and try to look like a man with purpose instead of helpless, forlorn, and on the wrong side of the world.

chapter twenty-five

“W
ow!” says Larry. “Did she luck out. Right place, right time. Crappy way to get the job, but there'll be no stopping her now.”

“Larry, she's going into a war zone.”

“Tell me about it. Doesn't get any better for an up-and-comer.”

Hattie brings coffee for both of us. “You sure no toast for you, Joe?”

“Not this morning, thanks, Hattie, my stomach's a little off.”

“She'd better get back here soon,” Hattie says. “You're showing the effects. You've got a crease between your eyes.”

“Journalists are rotated out of there every six weeks at most,” Larry says. “She'll be back soon.”

“She'd better be,” Hattie says. She heads to the other end of the counter to flirt with the man from Coffee Central. Larry pulls a copy of the
Emblem
out of his jacket pocket. I have a sip. It tastes sour. The morning tastes sour. I reach for the cream and sugar.

“I almost asked her to turn it down,” I say.

“She wouldn't have, couldn't have. Assignments like that don't come around every day.”

“Why couldn't she be one of the weather ladies?”

“Nah,” he says. “You like it that she's a battler. It's part of her charm. Hell, if you'd got a chance to fight Tyson would you have turned it down?”

“'Course not.”

“Even though he would have handed you your head?”

“Iron Mike didn't wear high explosives strapped to his chest.”

“She's in the best place,” he says. “Soldiers, armoured vehicles, medical personnel.”

“None of those words exactly calm my anxiety.”

“You'll be okay,” he says. “Just remind yourself that she's exactly where she wants to be. An assignment like that is a jump from single-A to the big show. She's playing for the Yankees, pal.”

“Thought you were a Jays fan.”

“Ask me again when they get over .500.” He looks at the front page. “Pisses me off that we got bumped. Guy's been a fugitive for six days, half the city's police force chasing him, you bust him, and you're not even mentioned.”

“Suits me.”

“I'm sure I stuck your name in here somewhere. Oh, yeah, here it is, ‘continued on page five'.”

“How'd your friend Gloria take it?”

“Generous, professional, swears she'll cut my throat next time she gets a chance.”

“Peer regard, can't beat it.”

“So,” he says, folding the paper and leaving it on the counter for someone else, “case all wrapped up? Leo getting out? Mission complete?”

“Still a few things to sort out.”

“Such as?”

I check my watch. It's still on the wrong wrist but at least I've managed to get it facing the right way. The fingers on my left hand are functional again. Sort of. “Weed's arranged for me to see Mr. Santiago.”

“How's he involved?” Larry asks. “Aside from trying to kill you?”

“Maybe he'll tell me this time,” I say.

Jesus Santiago comes into the visitor's room and takes a chair on the other side of a pane of glass. He's wearing prison garb and a black eye.

Cómo está usted hoy, Señor Santiago?
I ask.