Body Blows (16 page)

“I'll drive you.”

“You don't have to do that,” she says. “I'll grab a cab.”

“I'd get another hour out of the deal.”

“Well, get a move on then. Miss that plane, you'll never get lamb chops again. Don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“All gooshy.”

“I'll miss you.”

“I'll be back.”

“While you're away I'll miss you.”

“Don't fret.” She touches Saint Christopher. “I'm in good hands.”

“Button your shirt,” I say. “The governor general's waiting.”

I stick around the airport until takeoff. One brief wave passing through security and she's out of sight. Still, I stay until the plane is safely airborne, and longer than that, sitting in the cafeteria, drinking poor coffee, looking out at arrivals and departures, aware of being alone. I've never minded being alone all that much, not for some time anyway, but tonight it's getting to me, just a little.

I stash the car in the parking garage and descend to street level. My mind is occupied with vague concerns about trans-Pacific air travel and hijackers masquerading as flight attendants. I need sleep. The wall clock in Connor's darkened diner says it's 3:38 a.m., the one in the brightly-lit Scientology reading room disagrees by two minutes. The street is empty. I barely notice the wasp whine of the approaching motorcycle until it's nearly on me. The rider isn't wearing a helmet. The bike disappears around the corner by the construction site and the noise quits. He's parked it. It's possible he's come back for his copy of
Conan the Barbarian
, but I wonder how he plans on getting in with his hacksaw still at the bottom of the excavation, or tagged in a police evidence locker.

I stay on the opposite sidewalk and make an effort to walk like an unconcerned pedestrian. I can see the bike stashed around the corner in the shadows but no sign of the man who rode in on it. No sign of anyone working on the padlocked gate. Then I spot him. He's on the roof of the walkway, taking the long way down. Agile, too, no wasted motion, no fumbling, a skilled porch-climber.

My choices are limited. I could follow him into the pit, but taking into account my dubious left knee and the possibility that he could be waiting in the dark with something more lethal than a pocketknife, it seems that the best plan is to wait near his Suzuki.

I don't have to wait long. I can hear him clambering across the roof directly overhead. He swings down like a trapeze artist, duffel bag slung across his back, spots me instantly and freezes, like a cat. A young man, in his twenties probably, close-cropped hair, black moustache and beard. A streetlight catches his dark eyes when he spins around to make sure we're alone. He sets his feet like a man who's fought before.

“Excuse me, you're Mr. Santiago, Jesus, is that right?” I begin politely. “I have something of yours. I think it's a Bronze Star.”

“Ten bucks and it's yours.”

“Someone was murdered Monday night, and you were close by. You need to answer some questions.”

“How about you answer one. Who the fuck are you?”

“Joe Grundy. I work at the hotel. I'm helping with the investigation.”

“Good. You do that. I've got other plans.”

“The police want a word with you as well.”

“I won't be around that long.”

I can see that he isn't going to cooperate and I'm too tired to spend the night arguing. I fumble in my pocket for the cellphone, pop it open and try to remember where 911 is on the miniscule keypad. “Hello, this is Joe Grundy at the Lord Douglas, corner of …”

Without actually seeing where it came from, I find myself looking at a very shiny blade, some kind of combat knife with brass knuckle accessories. The thing probably has a compass in the handle, too. He slashes the air a foot from my face. “You can fuck off or get cut, your call,” he says.

A person takes extra care when cold steel is waved in their face. I know I do. I drag off my jacket and start wrapping it around my left forearm.

“Wish I could,” I say, “but I really need some answers.”

“Yeah, life is just full of disappointments, isn't it?”

He knows how to use a knife, I can tell that much in a hurry. He slashes and darts and never stays in one spot for long. He's whipping slices at my face and lunges at my midsection. The only thing hampering him is how narrow the walkway is. The wooden fence and the sidewalk railing are keeping him from circling me and it's pretty much straight back and forth. In my case, mostly back.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” he yells.

I can hear desperation in his voice. Desperate men are dangerous. His next slash cuts through my jacket and I can feel hot wetness well up on my arm. Another article of clothing ruined. I duck as he makes a lunge at my eyes and bump backward into the Suzuki, barely managing to stumble around to the other side without landing on my butt. The bike tips over, whacking me on my bad knee. Well, he's got steel to work with; I might as well have some too. Good thing it's not a Harley, although with my adrenaline pumping the way it is I could probably lift that as well. I grab the bike by the front forks and the seat and charge straight at him. Now he's backing up, tripping, stabbing wildly, the blade catches somewhere in the motor mount and when he tries to wrench it free he goes down hard. The Suzuki crashes onto his chest. I club him twice on the side of his jaw with my good right fist. He's out cold. I'm bleeding, my knee hurts, but I'm very much alive. I resist the urge to bellow. I can hear a siren getting closer. A welcome sound. I could use some backup. I'm tired.

A very nice, very kind Korean doctor sews up my forearm, clucking disapprovingly with every stitch. There are thirty-six of them.

“Very deep cut,” she says. “Clean edges.”

“It was a sharp knife.”

“Tsk tsk.” She shakes her head.

“It's starting to hurt.”

“You gashed a muscle. It's supposed to hurt.”

“That's a comfort.”

She looks over her shoulder at the man in the doorway. “Last one,” she says.

“Take your time,” says Norman Quincy Weed. He yawns. “I'm not awake yet.”

“All done.” She snips the last knot. “Sit tight. A nurse will come in and dress it.”

“Thank you, doctor,” I say. “You sew a fine seam.”

“Watch out for infection,” she says. I can hear a few clucks as she heads for her next emergency.

Norman has a close look at the stitching. “Nice one,” he says. “I just love visiting you in the hospital.

Gets my day off to a sunny start.”

“Is he locked up?”

“More or less,” he says. “In the Infirmary, under guard. Someone hit him over the head with a motorcycle.”

“Just a small one.” Small or not, my shoulder muscles are sore, my hands are torn up and I've got grease on my shirt. “Is he conscious?”

“He's moaning a lot. You broke a few ribs.”

“He started it.”

“Yeah, well, be careful he doesn't sue you,” Weed says. “You bent his bike.”

I lift my arm gingerly off the table and rest it against my chest. It feels heavy. And useless.

“I don't think this can be repaired,” he says, holding up my jacket. The left sleeve is much darker than the right one. Weed sits in the vacated doctor's chair and looks at me for a long moment. I can see in his eyes that'd really like to smack me upside the head. “If I really felt like it, you know,” he says, “I'm pretty sure I could get you ninety days for being an all-round pain in the ass, but then we'd have to nurse you through your convalescence.”

“You talked to the Americans yet?” I ask.

“Time you took a vacation, Joe, my boy,” he says pointedly. “Before my detectives bust your ass, or before you get yourself killed.”

“Say what he was doing here?”

“I plan on asking him that very question when he stops bellyaching about his ribs.” He steps aside as a nurse comes in carrying a tray of bandages and tape. “And after I've had breakfast,” he says.

Almost noon. I'm outside now, and I have new visitors. Mooney's wandered off to watch ambulances arrive and depart while he talks to Weed on his cellphone. The questioning began inside some time ago — how do you know this guy? What were you doing there that time of night? — all of which I manage to deal with — Leo owns the property, I work for Leo, Santiago was trespassing.

Just doing my job.

Pazzano watches me fumbling to adjust the sling.

My left arm feels like a half-cooked leg of lamb.

“That's gonna mess up your jab for a while,” Pazzano says.

“Making a fist is not an option right now,” I say.

“Got stuck in the leg a few years back,” Pazzano says. “Infection, antibiotics, swollen up. Hate knives.”

He looks at me with something akin to tolerance. “Better hope he kept his blade clean,” he says.

“He kept it sharp,” I say.

“I hear you.”

It seems we're blood brothers. Temporarily, at least.

Mooney rejoins us. “He's awake,” he says, “pissing and moaning.”

“Let's go brighten his day,” Pazzano says. “Give him something substantial to moan about.”

As much as I hate to admit it, the arm is less painful when I leave it in the sling but it does tend to give the game away.

Gritch says, “What the hell happened to you?”

Rachel's reaction is somewhat more motherly. “Oh, Christ, Joe, now what have you done?”

“I was hoping for a ‘there-there, poor thing,'” I say.

“Is there any coffee?”

“I'll get it,” she says. “Is it broken?”

“No, no, just a few stitches?”

“How few?” She hands me a mug.

“I forget.”

“Bullshit,” she says. “What happened?”

“I bumped into that guy Santiago, the one who's been camped out next door. He had a knife.”

“He get away?” asks Gritch.

“In the hospital. Under guard.” The coffee has extra sugar. Rachel probably thinks I'm in shock.

“So?” Rachel is insistent. “When did this happen?”

“About four a.m.,” I say. “He was climbing out of the gravel pit. We had a scuffle, that's all. He nicked me. I knocked him down and called the cops.”

“Did he do it?” Rachel asks. “Raquel?

“That I don't know,” I tell her. I need to sit down. I'm spilling coffee. My hand is shaking. “I don't know. Truly. He had a knife. He was here that night. He's certainly capable …” Rachel takes the cup from my hand and helps me into her chair. It feels solid and supportive; there's an ObusForm insert to cradle my lower back. My hand is still shaking.

“You in pain?” she asks.

“Temporarily,” I say. “I've got some pills.”

“Have you taken them?”

“Not yet.”

“Gimme.”

“In my jacket.”

Gritch picks my jacket off the floor and locates the pharmacy package. He dangles the bloody rag. “Holy shit!” he says.

“Oh, God,” Rachel says. “Let me see.”

She gently pulls the sling aside. The bandage runs from my wrist to my elbow. It's somewhat stained with this and that.

“A few stitches,” she says. “How much blood did you lose?”

“Not that much. Didn't nick a vein.”

“Lucky bastard,” says Gritch.

“
Crazy
bastard, more like,” Rachel says. “Why didn't you just phone the police?”

“I did.”

“I mean
before
he cut your arm off.” She checks the label on the pill bottle and shakes out a pair. “Take these. Now.”

“I need to talk to Leo.”

“You need your head examined,” she says. “Take.”

I wash the pills down with lukewarm coffee and lean back in the chair. “This is a nice chair,” I say. “I should get one of these.”

I didn't finish the coffee. Rachel gave me orange juice instead and put me to bed, clucking like a Korean doctor. I must have slept a long time because when I wake up it's almost midnight, and the pills have worn off. My left arm is throbbing. My cellphone is ringing.

I'm still not used to getting calls on a device the size of a chocolate bar. That the caller is on the other side of the world, speaking from the future, is an aspect I wish I could exploit.

“So you can't actually tell me what happens tomorrow?”

“'Fraid not, big guy.”

“This international dateline nonsense is no use whatsoever.”

“You heading down to Olive's for your nightly brew?”

“I guess.” First I'd have to locate my pants.

“You sound a trifle groggy.”

“I just woke up.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No, no, I was stirring.” My arm woke me up but she doesn't need to know that.

“Just wanted you to know that Saint Chris and I made it in one piece.”

“Tell him he's still on the clock.”

“How about you? Get anywhere today?”

“Truth is, I slept much of it,” I say.

“Tomorrow is another day.”

“From where you are it's already yesterday.”

“I'll call again yesterday,” she says. “Go have your beer.”

After she hangs up I give some thought to making my late tour, but the idea of getting dressed defeats me. My arm feels hot. I give in and take two more painkillers and walk around my bedroom until I can feel them kick in.

This time the bedside clock reads 08:09. I'm stiff and sore and wouldn't stir except for the basic biological imperatives. I wash up as best I can without risking a shower. Wearing a clean shirt and a jacket with two intact sleeves makes me look semi-presentable. I leave off the sling and take two more painkillers.

The office is crowded; Gritch, Rachel, Roland, Brian, Margo, Maurice, voices hushed as a funeral home viewing. I certainly don't think my wound rates that kind of observance.