“Who is he?” I still haven’t seen the guy in question.
“His name’s Jacob Buznardo,” Margo says. “He’s in the Governor’s Suite.”
“Should I know him?”
“You will,” Axelrode says. “He just inherited more than half a billion dollars.”
chapter two
Back out in the lobby, I search for Gritch’s newspaper. He’s behind it, sitting over by the big ferns like HumptyDumpty with his neat little feet barely touching the floor. I head for the office, and he gets up and follows me down the hall.
“Guest just checked into the Governor’s Suite,” I say over my shoulder.
“Guy in the paper. Maybe twenty-five, thirty,” Gritch says, right behind me, “blond hair down to his butt crack, hippie-dippie type, one beat-up leather bag, one new attaché case, Samsonite. Maurice took him up. Maurice got a nice tip.”
I turn on the lights in the office. Already my shirt doesn’t feel fresh. “Where’s Arnie?”
“Working his way down. Probably mooching leftovers at the wedding reception. He’s off at eight.”
“Maybe not,” I say. I find the phone number I’m looking for. “Maybe Arnie works overtime. Maybe we all work overtime.”
“What’s up?”
“There’s two hundred and fifty thousand cash in that briefcase.”
Gritch whistles a soft note. “Is that legal?”
“It’s his money.” I hand Gritch the card with the number on it. “Make a call, see if Dan Howard can come in.”
“Yeah, all right. Which number?”
“Don’t be a wise guy. Hey, you spot that bruiser with the ugly green sports coat?”
“What do you pay me for?” he says. “Name’s Axelrode.”
“We’ve been introduced.”
“Oh, yeah? They call him Axe.”
“Really? He was hassling Margo about the security arrangements.”
“Yeah, he’s a rent-a-cop these days. Used to be on the job. What’s his connection?”
“Not sure yet,” I say at the door. “When Arnie gets down, hold on to him.”
“Yo.”
I hear him pick up the phone and then I’m heading for the elevators. I turn when Gritch says my name.
“Joe?”
“What?”
“That guy Axelrode? If you get in a beef with him, don’t putz around. The guy’s not nice. He got retired from the job for excessive you-know-whats.”
I’m heading for the elevators when Margo catches up to me. “You on your way up to fifteen?”
“Yep.”
“There’s a rock band in the other suite,” she says. “We’ve had a couple of complaints about the noise.”
“I’ll mention it to them.”
“There’s a TV crew wants to set up shop on the mezzanine.”
“For the rock band?”
She shakes her head. “Mr. Buznardo says he’s calling a press conference for 9:00 a.m., but that Gagliardi person is trying to get an interview before then.”
“This man, Buznardo, has he got people with him?”
“Just his lawyer.”
“I’ll try to talk him into putting the money in the safe.”
“The way he’s handing it out it’ll be gone by morning.”
She heads back to the front desk. A young woman with a lot of responsibility. Holding up well.
The elevator arrives and a woman gets out. My age, or a bit older. Nicely turned out, raw silk suit, good bag, good shoes, not too much heel, nice legs walking away, heading for the staircase down to Olive’s. She gives me a look over her shoulder before the door slides shut. Or maybe she was just glancing back. Ash-blond hair, cool grey eyes. Out of my league.
The Lord Douglas elevators won’t be rushed. It takes a couple of minutes to get to the top floor. I press fifteen and stand in the corner watching the lighted numbers climb until they skip from twelve to fourteen. Back when the Lord Douglas was built, people didn’t like staying on a thirteenth floor — I don’t think they care as much anymore. According to Gritch, there is a thirteenth floor; you just can’t get there via these elevators. I study my shoes to make a change from watching the numbers, and on the floor I notice a crumpled- up bill. It’s a C-note, new, still crisp, but crushed once as if in someone’s fist and dropped or thrown away. I smooth it, fold it, and stick it in my pants pocket as the doors open on fifteen. Seems I got one, anyway.
There are two big suites on fifteen, at opposite ends of the building. The Ambassador’s Suite is 1529–1531 at the north end. I hear the music halfway down the hall — guitar and a synthesizer and some kind of drums.
A short guy with spiked hair that’s too young for his face opens the door and looks at me. He says, “Too loud, right?”
“There’s plaster falling on fourteen.”
“You the house dick?”
“That’s right. Look, there’s a rehearsal room down on the mezzanine floor you could book. It’s pretty good. Sound system, piano. Dwight Yoakam used it last year.”
“Now there’s a recommendation,” he says. “It’s okay. We’re gonna knock off, anyway. We sound like shit.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I tell him.
“Trust me.”
The Governor’s Suite is 1502–1504, on the west side of the building, at the end of a full city block of carpeted hallway wide enough for a compact car. The carpets on fifteen were recently replaced. Brighter than the old roses I used to tread but the distance is the same. It’s a long stroll. When I reach the other end, the door to 1502 is open and a man is taking his leave, talking to someone inside.
“No reporters, that’s all I’m saying. Anybody gets through you just refer them to me. Can you do that?”
I can’t hear the reply, and neither can the man because he bends farther into the suite. His comb-over lifts like a shingle when he leans sideways.
“Buzz, can you do that?”
I guess the answer is affirmative, because the man nods to himself without conviction and comes out into the hall where he spots me approaching and spreads his arms as if to bar the door. It’s a wide door. His arms are short. I admire his pluck. “Mr. Buznardo isn’t receiving just now.”
“That’s fine, sir,” I tell him.
“I just need a minute of his time.”
“He’s asked not to be disturbed.”
“The hotel will certainly honour that, sir. My name’s Joe Grundy, hotel security. I just want to ensure our guest is satisfied with arrangements.”
The man relaxes a little and sticks out his hand. “Oh. Good. I’m Alvin Neagle, Mr. Buznardo’s lawyer. I’m hoping to keep the lid on his whereabouts for a while.”
“How do you do, sir?” I shake his damp hand. “I think the word may have leaked out. We’ll try to keep your client from being bothered too much.”
“He’s