“Now that we’ve caught the bad guys and solved their case for them you’d think it’d be clear sailing, wouldn’t you?” says Gritch.
“Always a few last-minute details,” I say.
“They’ll smash the windows if they have to,” he says. “I’ve seen them do it.”
“They’re waiting on the tow truck.”
“Can we at least get out of here?”
“Not yet. We’re what’s keeping him boxed in.”
Dimi is refusing to leave the Mustang. He has the doors locked, and the CD player cranking out a particularly annoying collection of rock anthems with which he is harmonizing at the top of his lungs. Every few bars he throws the car into reverse, squeals the tires and gives the uncomplaining hotel vehicle another thump. There are six police units on the scene and at least a dozen of Vancouver’s finest trying to figure out a way of extricating the suspect without damaging either the Subaru Forester or the Saab 9000 on the other side.
Our street theatre has attracted a sizeable crowd of spectators who enthusiastically offer advice along the lines of, “Shoot the tires!” and “Bring out the Jaws of Life!” as well as warnings such as, “Scratch my paint and I’ll sue the ass off you!”
Theo is stranded on the sidewalk, huffing and puffing and refusing to answer any questions without the presence of legal counsel. Marcia Duhamel is spurning requests to open her front door despite numerous warnings from the constabulary that they are prepared to kick it in. Some wag in the crowd once again calls for the Jaws of Life.
By this time we have also attracted a few quick-footed media people. I can spot Dee, the videographer, climbing onto the roof of a Channel 20 van some distance away. I doubt she’ll be able to spot me from there. Larry Gormé, unhampered by heavy electronic equipment, is manoeuvring through the crowd in our general direction.
“Stick behind the wheel,” I tell Gritch, “in case they want this thing moved. I’ll be back.”
Gritch pulls the cellophane off a celebratory smoke. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “This is better than women’s beach volleyball.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Larry says when I reach him. “Let me guess, argument over a parking spot.”
“It isn’t entirely resolved,” I say.
“That’s the famous fugitive, Dimi Starr, AKA Dimitar Starryk, object of a massive six-day manhunt?”
“The same.”
“How’d you track him down?”
“Dumb luck.”
“I doubt that.”
“I was trying to talk to Theo’s girlfriend, excuse me, employee, one Marcia Duhamel, currently locked inside her townhouse. Turns out she had a houseguest.”
“My, my,” Larry says, while quickly scratching notes. “How do you spell that? Duhamel? And what’s the big fat eldest son doing here?”
“Driving her home from the airport. They’d been on a business trip.”
“He doesn’t look happy about the situation.”
“He’s going to be late for supper.”
“If he’s not careful he’ll miss breakfast, too.” Larry grabs a few shots of the tableau with his cellphone. “Get a chance to speak to the fugitive?”
“We had a chat.”
“What’s his story?”
“He says Raquel was dead when he got there.”
“Well, what else is he going to say?” Larry grabs a picture of Theo blustering at Mooney not far away. “Fatboy’s going to love this one,” he says. He turns back to me. “Dimi say if his li’l buddy Farrel was also a goner when he showed up?”
“On that subject he demanded a lawyer.”
“No doubt,” Larry says. “That one would be harder to explain.”
Mooney looks like he’s had enough of Theo’s guff for the moment and walks our way. Larry takes the opportunity to drift in another direction.
“Tow truck’s here,” Mooney says. “Your car still operational?”
“We’ll soon find out,” I say. “You going to arrest Theo?”
“I’d like to, but I know where to find him if his story doesn’t hold up. Right now he’s only guilty of taking a businessman’s holiday with his secretary.”
“Design consultant.”
“Besides, his wife will probably give him a harder time than we can.”
“I assume you’ll be letting my boss go now.”
“Possibly. No one’s being particularly cooperative.”
“No, but you can add two and two,” I say. “Dimi and Marcia, Marcia and Theo. Leo won’t figure into any scenario with those people.”
“He still has a connection to the dead one, Farrel Newton.”
“Who hated his guts.”
“Well, it won’t kill your boss to spend one more night at our convenience.” He takes note of the cruisers making room for the arrival of the police tow truck. “See if you can detach yourself from that rear bumper without running anybody down.”
“Where’s your partner?”
“This is Sunday. I expect he’s eating his mama’s lasagna.”
“How come you were available?”
“My mom lives in Wataskwin and can’t cook for sour apples.”
Gritch slides sideways when I open the door. “She’s a cutie. Isn’t she?”
“Who’s a cutie?” I ask as I turn the key.
“Young Officer Chan,” he says.
“She here, too?”
“Not anymore,” he says. “She and her partner are off to pick up Dimi’s bro.” He rolls down his window to break off two inches of ash and almost makes it before it lands on his tie. “They figure he’ll have a spare key for the Mustang.”
There is surprisingly little damage to the front of the hotel sedan. One of the uniforms gives it a quick check and pronounces it sufficiently sound to get us back to home base, although he does strongly suggest that, until the right headlight is replaced, we not drive it at night.
As I weave us carefully out of the traffic jam, I catch a glimpse of Marcia’s front door opening. It looks like she’s changed out of her travelling duds.
Olive’s is quiet, the jam is over, presumably all the scones have been eaten, too. The CD player is shuffling Olive May’s personal heroes from Tatum to Peterson, and the lady herself is ensconced in her private corner having an unlawful Winston to go with her rum and Coke.
“Beer, Champ?” Barney asks.
“Thank you, Barney, I believe I will. I almost deserve one.”
“Preference?”
“Cold, draft, you pick.”
“Coming up.”
“Good session?”
Barney shakes his head in wonder. “Somebody should have been recording,” he says. “It was like an all-star game. If she’d booked that band it would’ve cost a bazillion dollars.” He puts a coaster in front of me and caps it with a frosty pint. “Wall-to-wall heavyweights.”
“Sorry I missed it,” I say.
“Other fish to fry, I imagine.”
“I ran a tab here this afternoon,” I say, reaching for some money. “Martinis.”
“Stuck it on your weekly. You might break fifty bucks this time.”
“It’s a slippery slope.” The first swallow feels like victory quaff.
“Madam Queen’s waving,” says Barney.
All I can see of Olive is a portion of her right shoulder, with arm lifted and fingers waggling. “At you or me?” I wonder. She turns her Cleopatra profeel into the light and blows me a kiss.
“Both,” Barney says. “Two fingers is for a fresh one, the smile is all yours.”
“How you feeling, Joey darlin’?” Olive wants to know as I settle in across from her.
“Better and better,” I say, almost truthfully.
She offers me a ceremonial Winston, which I take. One a day. Our little ritual. She lights me up with the gold Ronson, inscribed WARM VALLEY, which I happen to know was a gift from Billy Strayhorn, and I inhale an illicit puff and sneak a quick peek for the Smoke Police — although, to my knowledge, no one has ever had the temerity to complain, not officially anyway. Olive’s dark corner is sacrosanct. A separate world. Not unlike Leo’s aerie except that here I have always felt entirely welcome.
“Your arm?” she asks.
“On the mend,” I say. “I’ll be playing the violin again in no time.”
“Saw your sweetie on the news tonight,” she says. “She looked good.”
“Happy, too, I bet.”
“She’ll be back.” Barney arrives with her fresh drink — rum over ice in a tall glass, and one of his precious green Coke bottles studded with crystals. “As always, your timing is impeccable,” she says to him.
Barney catches my eye and nods toward the far corner. “Lenny Alexander says they’re both comped. True?”
The last banquette, just before the mall entrance, Lenny Alexander and Roselyn Hiscox are sitting side by side, heads close together.
“It’s covered, Barney,” I say. “Put it on my tab.”
“You are definitely breaking fifty this week,” he says.
“Are they sober?”
“Not entirely,” he says, “but they ate well, and they’re pacing themselves. Well, he is anyway.”
“Old friends?” Olive asks.
“Family,” I say. “Lenny’s long-lost sister.”
“Aww,” she says, “that’s so nice. You got family, darlin’?”
“Just you folks,” I say.
“And your sweetie ’cross the sea.”
“And my sweetie across the sea,” I say.
She leans across the table and I do likewise. A generous woman’s kiss — warm, not entirely platonic, but within the bounds of propriety. Olive May is what the Spanish call un todo mujer, all that is woman. “It’s my family, too, Joey darlin’,” she says.
“Hey, Joe,” I hear Lenny’s voice lifted. “Come on over.”
Olive pats me on the back of my hand. I butt my unfinished Winston and pick up my unfinished beer. “Get some rest, hon,” she says.
“Hey, now.” Roselyn looks up at me from under an errant frond of blonde hair. She is obviously ‘shit-faced,’ as Morely Kline would have pointed out. “It’s the bodyguard,” she says. “Guarded any good bodies lately?”
Lenny, on the other hand, looks like a man who has had exactly as much as he requires in order to maintain a healthy glow. “Hey Joe,” he says. “Sit down for a minute. You’ve met my sister? We’ve been comparing notes.”
“Digging up bones,” she says.
“We’re going arm-in-arm into court tomorrow,” he says. “United front, show the flag, all that crap.”
“Don’t think it’ll get that far,” I say. “They’ll probably just turn him loose, maybe even with an apology. They arrested that limo driver.”
“Yeah? All right!” Lenny sounds genuinely happy about the development.
“Horseshoes up his ass,” says Roselyn. “If the old prick fell into a Port-A-Potty he’d find oil.”
“Want to help me get her upstairs, Joe?” Lenny asks.
Roselyn flops across the bed and pulls a pillow under her cheek. Lenny and I both consider the appropriateness of removing her clothes and settle for taking off her shoes, pulling a coverlet across her shoulders and turning out the light.
“That’s good they caught the guy,” Lenny says when we’re in the hall. “Where was he?”
“House-sitting,” I say. “Ever meet a woman named Marcia Duhamel?”
Lenny laughs. “The ‘design consultant’? Ha!” he presses the elevator button. “Sure. She’s been his steady for a couple of years.” The elevator arrives. I press L; he presses MM. “I’m having a nightcap,” he says. “After tomorrow I’m back to paying my own bar bill. Join me?”
“Phone call to make,” I say.
“She’s involved?” he wants to know.
“It looks like Marcia and the limo driver were trying to break into Leo’s safe.”
“Dearie me,” he says primly. “My fat-ass brother’s going to have some ’splaining to do.”
The doors open. “See you in the morning,” I say.
Lenny sticks out a hand to hold the doors open. “Hey, Joe?” he says. “It’s good you look out for the old man. He’s getting on.”
“It’s good you two are connecting.”
“Yeah, well, what the hell. Family is family no matter how fucked up it is.”
The early edition of the Monday Emblem is being stacked by the newsstand, and for a change we aren’t the top story. Larry’s scoop on the arrest of Dimi Starr and Marcia Duhamel is below the fold. The headline reads, JOURNALIST KILLED OUTSIDE KANDAHAR.
“Someone you know?”
“Jim Burrell,” Connie says. “He was family.”
“Aw, damn it, Connie, I’m so sorry.”
“Roadside bomb,” she says. “It was supposed to be a safe location.”
“It’s getting worse over there, isn’t it?”
“Certain spots are heating up.”
“I’m glad this China thing is almost over,” I say. “When are you heading back? Tomorrow night? Wednesday? That’ll be your Thursday, I guess.”
There is a moment’s silence, perhaps ten full seconds of dead air, and I know without a word being spoken what’s coming next.
“Joe,” she starts.
My heart sinks. “Oh, Christ,” I say.
“Don’t go all fatherly,” she says. “You know I have to grab this.”
“Of course I do,” I say. “You will understand if I worry. It’s my nature.”
“I know. And I love it. Don’t fret so much you lose your hair, okay?”
“And you’ll have body-armour, right?”
“And a helmet, and a vehicle, and an armed escort.”
I don’t bother to state the obvious — so did Mr. Burrell. I’m sure she’s far more cognizant of the situation than I. Stay positive. “When?” I ask as brightly as I can manage.
“Not sure,” she says. “Have to wind up this junket and get out of here. I might get a flight to Tokyo tonight, let them figure it out from there.”
“And you’ll have body-armour, right?”
“You did that already.”
“I know, but it’s sort of important.”
“And there’s Saint Chris, my bulletproof boyfriend. How many missions did Uncle Victor fly?”
“Twenty.”
“Missing you, big guy,” she says. “This would be a good night to get cuddled and such.”
Sleep is no longer an option. After we hang up, both of us reluctantly, I wander the lobby and mezzanine, walk the perimeter, check doors, and try to look like a man with purpose instead of helpless, forlorn, and on the wrong side of the world.