Body Blows (2 page)

“Limo at the front door, eight p.m.,” I say.

“He's going out through the lobby?” Maurice is surprised.

“Yeah,” says Gritch. “Might want to cover the roulette wheels.”

“Is he going to want some acknowledgement?” Maurice wonders. “Line up some of the staff, show him out the door with ceremony?”

“I don't think so,” I say. “He'll be happy if his house is running the way it's supposed to.”

“Probably be a few people want a look though. Most of them have never seen him.”

“Line ‘em up,” says Gritch. “They can sing ‘Hail to the Chief' as he walks by.”

Maurice goes off to check the parade route and I carry the fancy garment bag through to my bedroom to hang it up. On the bed are laid out the other elements for tonight's costume — shirt, studs, links, suspenders, bow tie (I may need some help with that).

“Nice material,” says Gritch. He's followed me. He does that.

“I could have rented one,” I say. “Leo wouldn't hear of it.”

“Host the Oscars in a tux like that.”

“I'll try not to get gravy on the cuffs.”

“They're letting you eat?”

“I'll be sitting at Leo's table. They have to put a plate in front of me. It wouldn't look right.”

“Will the tiny perfect newswoman be there?”

“Not at the head table. I did promise to acknowledge her existence, should our glances meet.”

“Big of you.”

“She thought so. Don't know what she'll be doing there. No sectarian violence, no bullets flying.”

“Don't be too sure. Last time you took the old man on a date you got more than gravy on the outfit.”

I remember.

Eight years ago, almost exactly. I remember it was spring and it wasn't raining, and I was working for Louis Schurr at the time. He called me into his office, cluttered room with two desks and one chair with a wonky castor, and he said, “Got a dark suit?”

Louis was always a sharp dresser but he wasn't well that spring, the thing that was killing him had left him frail. His own dark suit was much too big for him.

“The one I wore yesterday,” I said.

“No, that won't do,” he said. “Take a walk over to Manny Bigalow's on Granville and tell him I sent you. Tell him you need an outfit.”

“What do I need an outfit for?”

“You have to watch somebody's back for a few days, there'll be functions and receptions. The guy travels in some classy circles. You don't want to look inappropriate.”

“Heck, no,” I said.

I went to see Manny Bigalow. He's not with us any more. Neither is Louis Schurr come to that. Two of a kind in a way. They both had strong opinions about shirts and shoes and appropriate lapels. My new suit had the proper lapels. Manny held up a few ties against a few shirt collars and made certain I was supplied with enough haberdashery to cover a week of bodyguarding among the rich and famous. He told me to hang the suit up every night. I promised him I would. I haven't always lived up to that one either. Manny Bigalow impressed upon me how important a well-made, unwrinkled suit was to how the world perceived me. “First impression is everything,” he told me. “You show up at Leo Alexander's office looking good, he's going to be reassured.”

So, one spring morning I went to meet Mr. Alexander, wearing a fine dark suit of medium-weight wool, a shirt that fit around the neck and a silk tie that was far too good for me.

Eight years ago Leo ran his various interests from a suite of offices with a view of the water. His two sons, Theo and Lenny, had offices in the same building but on separate floors. They didn't like each other very much, even back then. Alexander and Co. (not Alexander and
Sons
you will note) had framed architectural renderings on the walls, and models of buildings in glass cases. Leo favoured the look of growth they suggested. He was equally fond of model sailboats.

I had to cool my heels in the outer office for half an hour. I was told that Leo was in a meeting. The meeting was loud enough for me to overhear a few words from time to time. “Take responsibility —” was clear enough, as was the instant retort, “— take the damn clamps off!” It went on like that for a while. I pretended to be fascinated by a drawing of a shopping centre.

The man who eventually stomped out of Leo's office looked like a well-fed politician; his waistcoat snug across a barrel chest, his cheeks and nose rosy from frequent liquid lunches, his eyes small and mean. He reminded me then, as he does now, of a prize Berkshire hog. He glared at me as he passed by but didn't bother to compliment me on my choice of neckwear.

Leo was sitting behind a splendid walnut desk, a yachting magazine open in front of him. He seemed entirely unruffled by whatever had just transpired. He looked me up and down and I got the impression that Manny Bigalow's merchandise was being scrutinized as much as I was.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Grundy,” he said.

“Quite all right, sir,” I said. I think he approved of the tie.

“That was my son,” he said. “Theodore,” he added. “He doesn't think his allowance is generous enough.”

“He looks quite successful.”

“He eats too much,” Leo said. He took a last look at whatever sailing vessel he'd been thinking of buying and closed the magazine. “Louis Schurr tells me you're someone I can rely on,” he said.

“What would you want me to do, Mr. Alexander?” I asked him.

“Stay close, not too close, close enough to see who's heading in my direction and get a read on them.”

“Would I be looking for anyone in particular, sir?”

“No one I could point out.”

“You could ask for police protection,” I said. “I mention that because I'm only licensed to carry a gun if I'm protecting money or valuables, current provincial law doesn't believe humans qualify.”

“I don't think a gun will be necessary,” he said. “I'd rather just have a large presence at my back. All right if I call you Joseph?”

“Of course, sir.”

Leo was, and still is, one of those men who appear taller than they are; it's a matter of bearing, and attitude. Leo is a patrician, silver hair, deep-set steel grey eyes, the weathered face of an ocean racer, or a cattleman, both of which he was reputed to have been at one time or another. And a very sharp dresser. Manny Bigalow's suit was good; Leo Alexander's suit was the best.

He was such a man-about-town in those days that he needed a social secretary, a buoyant woman named Madge Killian — Betty Boop lips and a permanent perm. Madge made itineraries and kept Leo's dance card organized. He was much in demand. He was a bachelor, he was rich, he was charming, and he knew which fork to use. An unattached man who doesn't drink out of the finger bowl is an attractive option for someone making up a guest list. The suit paid for itself the first week I worked for him. We went to the opera and the reception after the opera. We went to a gala fundraiser with an orchestra and dancing. I wasn't required to dance, although I was asked. We even went to a garden party where my new dark suit wasn't quite appropriate, but I stayed in the background with the caterers and parking attendants and didn't stand out too much.

Leo never told me why he was expecting trouble. I got the impression that it was a recent development and that prior to hiring a bodyguard, he had functioned quite comfortably with only Madge to tell him where his next meal was coming from, and if he was expected to send flowers.

On the ninth day of my employment we were to attend a thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner supporting the candidacy of a man running for federal office. Leo bought me a place at his table. He was flanked by attractive women on either side, neither of whom looked like they wanted to harm him. The gentleman beside me was an inebriated gasbag and the twitchy younger man on his right was trying to avoid a scene. Neither looked to be a threat.

Both of Leo's sons were in attendance, albeit not at their father's table, nor seated within twenty paces of each other. I hadn't detected much paternal pride or filial warmth when he introduced me. I felt he was establishing his perimeter rather than being polite. Theodore, whom I'd already encountered, was accompanied by his wife whose name I learned somewhat later was Gloria. She looked tiny and apprehensive beside her walrus husband. I couldn't blame her. Theo looked like he squashed things without thinking much about it.

His greeting was curt. “Hiring muscle, Pop?”

His wife wasn't given the opportunity to shake my hand or say hi.

Leo's other son, Lenny, was a different sort. He had the look of a man who'd risen from the ranks. Although a head shorter and fifty pounds lighter, he braced me with a pugnacious scowl and a nod that said “I back down from nobody.” I believed him.

His wife, Jackie, as it turned out, was cute and flirty. I don't think her fluttering endeared me to Lenny.

When coffee was served Leo excused himself to do some mingling and I rose to accompany him. Not too close: a large presence at his back.

Leo schmoozed his way through the gathering with elegance and nimble feet. He didn't have a date that evening and felt free to lavish charm on the neglected wives he encountered, never lingering long enough to start a rumour, just pausing sufficiently to earn a flattered titter from a matron or a proprietary glance from a preoccupied husband.

People were standing now, moving from table to table, a small orchestra began tuning up across the dance floor. Leo pointed at, and then started moving toward the French doors leading onto a terrace. He wanted a cigar. I had the cigar case in my Manny Bigalow jacket pocket. Leo didn't want his silhouette to bulge.

I was two steps behind him as we passed through the French doors, reaching inside my jacket for Leo's cigar case. Leo turned, already gesturing with two fingers for his after-dinner panatela, and I saw him spot someone over my shoulder, saw a change come over his face. With my left arm I swept Leo to the side as I swung around. Sharp snapping sounds. I took a bullet through my left trapezius which clipped my collarbone, another went through the fatty layer of my left exterior oblique muscle, and a third scorched across my chest and tore Leo's cigar case to shreds an inch from my fingertips. There were two other shots fired but by this time I was down, dragging Leo with me. I heard screams and shouts and turned just in time to see a dark figure disappearing over the terrace wall. Leo hadn't been hit. I'd been very lucky by about half an inch. Manny Bigalow's suit was ruined.

That was our last date.

I spent some time getting well, then went to work full time for Leo as head of security for the jewel in his crown, the Lord Douglas Hotel. Leo stopped going out. He sequestered himself in the penthouse suite. He says he likes it up there. It's comfortable enough, and it requires a special key to visit. The shooter was never apprehended.

Neither of Leo's sons hastened to our aid.

chapter two

R
achel Golden helps me with the bow tie.

“You can get ones that clip on,” Gritch says. “It's the latest thing.”

“Pay no attention,” says Rachel. “He's jealous because he wasn't invited.”

“Are you going home soon?” Gritch wants to know.

Rachel took over as manager of JG Security a while back and since then things have run smoothly. Rachel looks like the chairperson of a PTA committee, but she's ex-Army and I've seen her escort a large drunken man onto the street by merely taking his hand. She had two of his fingers pointing in an unnatural direction at the time and he was trying not to blubber, but you get the picture. Hiring Rachel has made my life a lot easier. She handles the details I was never good at, and a few I used to think I'd be good at but never actually attended to. I still make my grand tour mornings and evenings, still handle complaints when a measure of beef is indicated, still keep my uncashed paycheques in the hotel safe, but I've become more of a presiding entity than a day-to-day administrator.

Even Gritch grudgingly allows that Rachel is much better at running the operation than I ever was. Still, her presence rankles. “The Presbyterians,” as Gritch insists on calling her four new staffers, are excessively well-groomed and polite for his taste. He was more comfortable when the Lord Douglas had ashtrays in the lobby. Gritch is an indispensable part of the security system but doesn't fit any designation that Rachel is familiar with. He's not part of any shift, he sets his own hours, and he refuses to acknowledge her authority. Except on the subject of cigar smoke in the office — Gritch can't light up until she clocks off for the night.

“There,” she says. “You look like a million bucks.”

“As long as you're wearing clean gonch for the trip to Emergency,” Gritch says.

“Okay,
Grinch
,” she says. “I'm heading home to suburbia. You can fire up that thing. Remember to turn on the ventilator.”

“Thanks for the bow,” I say.

“You look great,” she says. “Don't get chicken-ala-king down your frock.”

“Prime rib,” I say.

Rachel heads out and Gritch waits the obligatory five seconds then lights his cigar. Gritch doesn't smoke the same brand as Mr. Alexander. No one on a salary does.

“You going upstairs or waiting for him down here?” Gritch asks.

“I'm invited for a drink,” I say.

“This is a big step for him,” Gritch says. “Been seven years, almost eight.”

“Eight exactly,” I say. “This time eight years ago a doctor was explaining how fortunate I was.”

“He say why, now?”

“He says he wants to try out his tango lessons.”

“He has a date?”

“Oh, yes,” I say.

Leo's date is a woman some years his junior, closer to my age. She has diamonds at her throat. Leo introduces her as Vivienne Griese but she corrects him immediately and explains that she's reverting to her pre-divorce name of Saunders. Vivienne Saunders is wearing a gown the colour of black roses. It rustles as she crosses the room.