“His jacket button popped. He had a piece under his belt. Don’t know how he expected to get it out of there with his belly hanging over.”
chapter six
I check for messages when I’m back in the office, then pass through to the adjacent suite and into my bedroom to wake Gritch up. He comes to slowly, but he doesn’t grumble. He washes his face in the bathroom, then gargles with some of my Scope while I give Dan in 1507 a call.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“He came back.”
“Alone?”
“Just him.”
“His sister still at the party?”
“Bunch of them went down half an hour ago. She could’ve been one of them. What’s she look like?”
“Redhead.”
“I was watching the guy’s door, so I don’t know who was in the group.”
“Okay,” I say. “Gritch is on his way up. You go straight home. I need you back as early as you can make it. Eleven would be good, ten would be better.”
“All right, boss,” he says. “I’ll pack up.”
Gritch comes out of the bathroom.
“You okay for a few hours?” I ask.
“Outstanding. I dreamed I had a pocketful of money. All in nickels. Couldn’t walk. Quiet night?”
“Mostly. That guy Axelrode got into some kind of dustup with Buznardo’s lawyer down in Olive’s. Chased him out of the place.”
“You chased him out?”
“No. He chased Neagle out. Bumped one of the servers and hurt her wrist. Ran out on his bar tab.”
“I’m telling you,” Gritch says, “that guy’s a stone shithead.”
“Got his bar tab. I’ll collect in person.”
“I’ll sell tickets.” Gritch heads out. “Have somebody send up a pot of coffee.”
“You got it. I’ll see you in about four hours.”
I order a pot of coffee sent up to 1507 and a wake-up call for me for 5:00 a.m. I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep, but I’ll give it a shot.
My bedroom is connected to the office, but it was once a separate suite. I can get there by passing through what Gritch calls my “private space,” or by going one door farther down the hall. My private space is an inner office that rarely gets used. Louis Schurr’s old oaken desk takes up most of the room.
On a corkboard above the wooden filing cabinet —also salvaged from Louis’s office — is a poster from my last fight. My picture isn’t on it. The main event that night was a middleweight championship. I’m at the top of the undercard: “Heavyweights: Joe Grundy vs. Ramón Vanez.” Fixed to the bottom of the poster with yellowing Scotch tape is a rough square of paper torn from a magazine. It reads: “By far the best scrap of the night was on the undercard, where dogged old warhorse Joe Grundy prevailed over ungraceful, heavy-punching Ramón Vanez in eight punishing rounds.” — Ring magazine.
I remember Morley Kline showing the issue to me with some pride. “Ring,” he said. “We haven’t had a mention in Ring in three years. You should save this.”
I did, but not for the reason he thought. The phrase “dogged old warhorse” landed like a heavy left hand. I was thirty-three. When exactly had I gone from being a “hard-hitting up-and-comer” to a “dogged old warhorse”? I remember holding the magazine and facing a simple truth: I’d gone as far as I was going to. I never put the gloves on again.
I undress and climb into bed. My pillow smells of Gritch’s Brylcreem, and I have to get the spare one out of the bottom drawer where I’ve stashed my Gideon Bible and the.357 I haven’t carried in years. Without the pillow hiding them they look forlorn.
The phone beside the bed starts ringing at 3:37, according to my clock radio, and it takes a few seconds before I’m hearing clearly. Something about someone pounding on a door, and then words begin getting through the fog in my head.
“She’s yelling or something and pounding.”
“What? Who’s this?”
“It’s Raymond, Joe.” Raymond D’Aquino, the night manager.
“What’s wrong?”
“Somebody’s pounding on 1502. A woman. She’s yelling. Woke a bunch of people up.”
“Did you call Gritch? He’s in 1507.”
“No answer, Joe. I let it ring.”
“He’s probably with her.”
“I don’t know. I’ve had two complaints. She’s making a big fuss.”
“Okay, Ray,” I say. “I’ll get right up there.”
I pull on some pants and a sweatshirt and dial 1507 for myself while I look for my shoes. No answer. No Gritch. Not good.
The quickest way up to fifteen this time of night is via one of the service elevators on the other side of the main kitchen, which is closer than the lobby. I cut down the passageway behind the ballroom and into the kitchen, now dark and quiet for the night. The service elevators are through double swinging doors into the service corridor where the trolleys are parked for the night. One of the trolleys is sticking into the middle of the corridor, and as I barge through the double doors, I bang my shin in the dark, a sharp, stabbing pain that makes me hop on one foot for a second and spin around. And that’s when someone hiding in the shadows hits me with something heavy and the world disappears.
I hate coming to. Hate it more than getting knocked out. I was kayoed three times in my boxing career, and I remember well the sick reeling wooziness of regaining consciousness. Blurry moon faces looming over you. People pestering, holding up fingers and demanding you count them. The moon face looming over me this time is the night manager’s. Raymond D’Aquino is a worried young man.
“Mr. Grundy? Wake up. Joe? I’ll call an ambulance. Should I call an ambulance?”
“What?” I gasp. “Ambulance? What?” Oh, Lord, I’m passing out again. No, I’m going to be sick, need to get on my feet.
“Get me up,” I hear my voice say. Part of me is standing in a corner watching me flopping like a fish on the floor of the service corridor. “Get me up.”
“Is that a good idea?” Raymond asks. “I don’t think you’re supposed to move.”
“Who the hell told you that? That’s a crock. How many fights have you had? Get me up. At least sit me on something.”
I hear him scramble around, hear the double doors swing, the lights go on and blind me. I feel as if I’m going to be sick, but instead I manage to roll away from the glare, face down with my forehead on the cool terrazzo floor.
“I got a milk crate.”
I hear him coming back from the kitchen and see the red plastic case he sets down beside my head.
“Help me up.”
Getting to your feet when you’ve been knocked out is a matter of pride and vanity and focusing on simple things; palms flat on the floor, right knee, left foot, don’t fall sideways. Raymond isn’t a big guy, but he’s stronger than he looks. A few grunts and one or two curses, and I’m sitting on the overturned milk crate with my back against the wall between two service elevators. I have a hard time focusing, but I see well enough to note the concern on Raymond’s face. He’s worried about more than my health.
“What