Body Blows (20 page)

The bright-eyed schoolgirl in the picture has a tiara in her dark hair. “She's nine. Smart, pretty, plays the piano. She's the only one I wanted to come home for.”

“She's lovely.”

“Looks like I'm gonna be one of those weekend dads. Twice-a-month. Seen those poor bastards? Trying to do everything in one afternoon? Done it twice so far.”

I'm out of platitudes. What he's going through is beyond my empathic range.

“Oh, what the hell,” he says, “I'll find a place, downtown, no more driving across that damn bridge every night to the same old crap. Little joint in the west end, looking out over the water. I don't give a shit, doesn't have to be a penthouse. She's the one with all the needs. ‘Oh, we need a house in West Van,' well here's a hot flash, Duchess, I can't afford a house in West Van. You married the wrong Alexander.”

“What about the Warburton site?”

“
That
clusterfuck?! Jeezuss!” It's either a laugh or a sneeze, but beer comes out of his nostrils and he has to grab a dishtowel to wipe his face. “Ha! My big score. Thought I'd bought myself a piece of something huge that time, supposed to be ten, twenty stories taller than the old man's penthouse. I wanted to stand on my balcony and lob used fruit onto his patio.”

“What happened?”

He laughs with a kind of rueful admiration. “The old man snapped up most of my partners' options,” he says, “winds up with a controlling interest, and I'm left holding nine percent of a hole in the ground. Prick knows how to play the game. No argument there. ” He looks at me. “You gonna drink that beer or what?”

I drain the first bottle, aware that I've only had coffee, painkillers, and a slice of maiden cake so far today. He opens another one for me. “Bring it up on deck,” he says.

“I'll put on my Commodore hat and act like I belong here.”

The shadows of masts and flagpoles are lengthening over the marina and the sky to the west is getting rosier by the minute. There will be a pretty sunset before long.

Lenny faces the setting sun, his yachting cap pulled low, shading his eyes. He swigs his beer and motions me to grab a seat in the stern.

“He's just making me sweat,” he says. “trying to break me. He knows everything I have is tied up in that latrine.” He opens his mouth and bellows across the water, “Well, FUCK HIM!”

The epithet echoes for a few seconds. There is no reply from the passing sloop easing into the marina.

Lenny turns away from the railing and joins me in the stern. He lowers his voice.

“Yeah, fuck him, thinks
he's
tough,
I'm
tough. I bet he's stretched pretty thin with all those dumbass renovations. Maybe he'll be the one looking to sell before long.” He looks at the bottle in his hand, perhaps considering what to do with it — replace it with a full one or heave it at the twenty-two-million-dollar yacht across the water. “Oh, hell,” he says, “I suppose I'd better go in and see the old prick. Not sure he'd do the same for me, but I owe him that much. He tossed me a few crumbs.” He looks at me. “You driving?”

“Sure,” I say.

“Give me a minute, I'll pack a toothbrush.”

“Kinda stupid, hunh?”

“What's that?”

“Living on a yacht and riding the ferry to Vancouver. Can't drive the damn thing anyway. I'd probably hit an iceberg the way my luck's been going.” He throws his spoon down in disgust. “Chowder gives me the heaves. Don't know why I order it, it's always the same crapola.”

“BC Ferries signature dish.”

“Yeah, people come from far and wide,” he says. He turns to the window and sees his face staring back at him. Beyond are varying degrees of blackness, retreating land, water, sky.

“You ever meet Raquel?” I ask.

“Couple times. I don't speak Spanish.”

“She spoke English.”

“Oh, yeah? We never talked.” He shakes his head. “I figured she was another one of his bimbos.”

“She wasn't.”

“She was pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“That's rough,” he says. “He knew about it?”

“They'd been trying for some time.”

“Gotta hand it to the old fart. He's a stud horse.”

There's a note of grudging respect in his voice. “Trust me, when the old man goes, there'll be claimants popping up all over the map.”

“He was going to acknowledge the child's paternity.”

“More than he did when I showed up.”

He pushes away from the table and heads out on deck. I clean up for the next group and throw the uneaten chowder in the garbage. The arm feels hot. My painkillers are back at the hotel and I wish I had a couple with me.

I find him standing on the upper deck looking back at the ferry's wake. He swivels his head as I get close.

“What's up with the arm?” he says.

I've slung it across my chest inside my buttoned jacket.

Manny Bigalow wouldn't approve of what it's doing for the suit but it feels better that way. “A little stiff,” I say.

He takes me at my word, looks out at the water.

“Old man got an alibi?”

“He was with me.”

“So, what's his problem?”

“They're trying hard to connect him. Because of the other one.”

“Lorraine. The second Mrs. Alexander. Yeah, that one's still out there.” He says. “Better it stays there.”

“Who was the first?”

“That would be Theodore's dear old mum, Dorrie, who's still alive, far as I know, remarried to some English twit with a seat in the House of Lords. Theo wants to get rich enough to buy a chair for himself.”

“You know where your brother's been this past week?”

“Haven't got a clue. Couldn't give a shit. Theo's a blowhard and a bully. Didn't stop pushing me around until I was seven.” He laughs at the warm memory. “I broke his fucking nose. Fat prick. He was porker when he was ten.”

“You grew up together?”

“Hell, no. Theo was legit. I was, let's say, semi-legit. My visits were few and far between. Suited me.”

“You have the same name.”

“Had to fight like a son of a bitch to keep it. My old lady, who he never got around to marrying, stuck the Alexander on when I started school. I grew up, got my driver's licence, paid taxes, married, all as an Alexander, then one day he comes after me with his suits and says I'm not entitled. Ha! One battle he lost. I threatened to take the son of a bitch to court. Blood tests, affidavits, depositions, whatever. Had him by the nuts that time.”

“You two have been butting heads for a while.”

“Since I could walk.” He waves off any resentment. “I wasn't supposed to happen. Messed up his first marriage.” He turns to lean back on the railing, spreads his arms as if accepting the inevitable. “Divorce runs in the family.”

“Your brother, too?”

“Theo, Christ, he's got so much on the side he might as well have seven wives by now.” He shivers, as if suddenly aware that it's chill and windy on deck. I'm feeling it now.

We start back toward the warmth. “Cheaper his way in the long run. Set her up in a condo, lease her a company car, put her on the books as consultant or some such bullshit title, take her along to ‘conferences' where the sun shines once in a while.” He stops, looks through the cafeteria window at bright lights and family outings. “Here's the weird thing, Joe,” he says quietly. “I wasn't the one who was fooling around. It was her. It was Jaqueline. It was Jackie.” He shakes his head. “She should be the one out on her ass, seeing the kid, kids plural, but I'm such a stunned asshole I say, ‘fine, don't want me around? Fine, I'll pack a suitcase.'

What an idiot.” He looks at me. “You feeling okay?”

“Few hours sleep will help.”

“Figure the Douglas can comp me for a couple days?”

“Of course.”

He opens the cafeteria door. “Tell you one thing,” he says, “the old man gets charged with murder, some people are going to want their IOUs attended to.”

Olive's is almost deserted when I show up. One couple in a far corner, heads close together, perhaps planning their future, one man at the end of the bar idly stirring his drink, maybe pondering his past. Ms. May herself is nowhere to be seen, Jimmy Hinds' bass is on the stand but in its case, Barney is checking cash and receipts. He immediately notes that I didn't come in from my usual direction.

“Late tonight, Champ,” Barney says.

“Ferry from Victoria,” I say.

“Beer?”

“No, I've had my quota. Quiet, for a Saturday,” I say.

“Joint was rockin' till just a little while ago,” Barney says. “That street-corner drummer was here, you know the one, Baba Ram-Dis, plays plastic tubs and tin pots?”

“Never heard him.”

“He's a hoot. Olive loves him. They did a ninety-minute set.”

“Sorry I missed it.”

“Fresh coffee, Champ? Take but a minute.”

“Passing through, Barney. Force of habit.” I lean on the bar for a moment and pinch the worried crease between my eyes. “I think I was going to say goodnight to Olive.”

“They took Baba out for moo shu pork, she and Jimmy.” He pours peppermint schnapps into two ponies and pushes one toward me. “Trust me,” he says. “Perk us both right up.”

If Barney doesn't know, who would? We click glasses and knock them back. My nostrils open to a Christmas morning and I inhale deeply. For a moment I feel as if I've just awakened.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Your friend Weed was looking for you earlier.”

So much for Christmas morn. “I bet he was,” I say.

“He said you got your arm carved up.”

“It's not too bad,” I say. I'm lying. “What did he want?”

“Didn't say. Heck, everybody except my Uncle Fred was looking for you tonight. Gritch, Larry Gormé, that blonde with the fingernails, those other two cops — the sad-face one and Rocky three-and-a-half — and ... and ... oh, yeah, Leo's lawyer, Arnold whatshisname …”

“Köenigsberg.”

“That's the guy. Left his card. I think they all left cards.”

“Let's pretend I haven't seen those yet.”

“Yeah, they're somewhere, they'll turn up.” He gives me a careful look. “You okay, Champ? Anything I can do?”

“I wish,” I say. “Too much information and not enough useful information.”

“About?”

“Things that don't connect to what I'm supposed to be doing.”

“Which is?”

“Someone killed Raquel.”

“Someone
not
Leo.”

“That's the basis on which I'm functioning, Barney.”

I make a concerted effort to stand up straight, button my jacket, breathe deeply, trying to recapture that whiff of a winter morning. “I'd better grab a few hours sleep,”

I say. “I have to go to church in the morning.”

Gritch is snoring on the office couch. He has an afghan over his shoulders and his shoes are lined up neatly. I try not to wake him as I check for messages and memos from Rachel.

“You gonna make coffee?” He asks without opening his eyes.

“I was going to bed,” I say.

“What time is it?”

“2:17,” I say.

“Is that all? Feels like I've been out for hours. You just get in?”

“Yep.” I sit in Rachel's new, extremely comfortable and supportive desk chair. “This is a great chair,” I say. “You ever sit in this chair?”

“She'd brain me.”

“Very … embracing.”

“So? You find out anything?”

“Oh, sure. Let's see, Lenny Alexander's in the house, he came back with me. He's been living aboard his father's yacht. And Leo has a daughter named Rose, by his second wife, the murdered one, and she's married to Buffalo Bill.”

“So the trip wasn't a total loss.”

“I got two beers and a slice of maiden cake.”

“You watch yourself around Madge, like I said? She has the hots for you, I'm telling you.”

“She's practically got a shrine set up over there. The Leo Alexander Library.”

“She was a cutie, back in the day.” His head swivels sharply in response to an inadvertent groan from my direction.

“I think I could use a couple of those damn painkillers,” I say.

“Let me see it.”

“Nothing to see, it's just sore.”

“Let me see it.”

He peels off my jacket.

“Oh, craps,” he says. “It's leaking.”

“I might've popped a stitch.”

“You think?” he says. “I'm waking up Doctor Dickhead.”

“I'd rather not.”

“Who cares what you'd rather not? You've got shit for brains.” He grabs the phone. “Raymond? It's Gritch.

Get Doc Dickerson out of bed, will you? We have a small emergency. No, not a guest, it's our resident caveman.

Tell the good doctor we may have to amputate.”

Doctor Lionel Dickerson has been a fixture at the Lord Douglas longer than even Gritch has. A tidy little man, fastidious, well-groomed, and unfailingly polite, even when hauled out of bed at three a.m. Most of his professional expertise is applied to making certain the hotel isn't liable for lawsuits, although he has delivered at least a dozen babies over the years, and prevented more than few overindulgent guests from choking on their own vomit.

“It's infected,” he says. “Those stitches have to come out.”

“Can you sew it back up?”

“No, it'll have to heal from the bottom up this time.”

“Oh, Lord,” I say, “how long will that take?”

“Couple of weeks, I guess. What have you been doing?”

“Nothing. Driving, seeing some people.”

“Well, you tore it loose somewhere down the line and it started bleeding inside. That was a deep cut.”