she says. “Nice little suite, not wild about the wallpaper, but then I wasn’t consulted.”
“I really don’t have much I can give you,” I say.
“You’d think he was Sicilian,” she says, “the way people clam up around here.”
Roselyn Hiscox is a long-legged blonde with a flawless manicure. She isn’t taking notes and I don’t see a tape recorder.
“Truth, Ms. Hiscox,” I say, “not many people in the hotel really know him. He hasn’t been seen below the fifteenth floor for quite a while.”
“Is he like Howard Hughes up there, growing his fingernails and saving his urine?” She laughs, stylishly, but without mirth.
“Not at all,” I say. “He lives a very comfortable, normal life.”
“Comfortable, yes,” she says. “Normal? People with money and power live on a somewhat more elevated plane than the rest of us.” She inspects the olive. “He’s been a major player in some very big deals.” She has good teeth; the olive pit is immaculate when she produces it. “But careful to stay in the shadows.” She smiles.
“I will go on record as saying that Leo Alexander is a good boss and I’m happy to be in his employ. How’s that?”
“Very helpful.” She stares off into space and I see something in the set of her jaw, determination perhaps. “This isn’t a hatchet job, Mr. Grundy,” she says, not looking at me, still watching something playing out in her mind. “Your boss has had a very interesting life. I have material that goes back as far as 1959. The only section that’s skimpy is the time that he’s been hiding out in his hotel.”
“I think he’s just enjoying the fruits of his labour,” I say. “A comfortable semi-retirement.”
“Fine,” she says. “I just want some details — what’s the penthouse like, state of his health, people he’s still in contact with.”
“Why don’t you give him a call?”
“I told you,” she says, “it’s going to be a surprise.”
“One thing I can tell you without breaking any confidence,” I say, “Leo doesn’t much care for surprises.”
Gritch had a turn with her as well.
“I told her he was up there changing lead into gold and plotting world domination,” he says. He’s following me through the lobby. I’m headed in the general direction of our offices and my personal quarters on the far side of Accounting.
“More interesting than the story I gave her,” I say.
“Yeah, well you were probably trying to be gracious. It’s one of your failings.”
“I’m not telling her what brand of soap he uses, even if I knew, which I don’t.”
“She’s not the first,” he says. “Your pal Gormé’s paper tried to do a piece on him a few years back. I think the Emblem got a case of libel chill.”
That stops me briefly. “A piece about the hotel?”
“Nah, something to do with his ranching days. Before your time.”
“Everything’s before my time,” I say. I’m trying to decide whether I need to check into the office or forego the pleasure in favour of a hot shower. “If it doesn’t involve the hotel, I don’t want to know.”
“Invincible ignorance,” Gritch says. “Can’t beat it.”
“It’s invincible,” I say.
“And ignorant.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I need a shave and a shower.”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, “you’ve got a big date.”
Leo’s tailor is a man named Han Chuen Chu who is about the same age as Leo and has been making fine suits in Vancouver for forty years. I have three presentable suits in my closet but Han Chuen Chu didn’t build them and it’s easy to tell the difference.
About a month ago Mr. Han measured me for a tuxedo. He did it at the same time he was measuring my employer. Leo and I stood side by side, in his penthouse high atop the Lord Douglas Hotel, in our underwear, while Mr. Han called out measurements to an assistant. Leo insisted that our outfits be of the same quality. Not the first time he’s done that. I’ve learned to be careful about complimenting Leo on anything as it usually means that the same model, in my size, will be delivered within twenty-four hours.
“We’ll be sitting at the head table, Joseph,” Leo explained. “Can’t have my XO looking like he doesn’t belong.”
“At least I’ll be wearing the right uniform,” I said.
“Never underestimate the power of good tailoring,” he said. “A Han Chuen Chu tuxedo is as potent as four stars on a general’s epaulets.”
“Five stars,” said Mr. Han.
My “soup and fish,” as Morley Kline used to call evening wear, arrives in a royal blue garment bag with a gold chop which probably translates as “if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.” Maurice brings it back to my office personally. Maurice has been recently elevated from bell captain to concierge and he’s taking a while to settle in to his new position. As bell captain, he knew a hundred ways of skimming the surface of anything flowing his way. Learning how to exploit his new title to its fullest extent will take him a while. I’m sure he’ll figure it out.
“Hope that thing came in a Brinks truck,” says Gritch. He’s sitting in the corner fondling an unlit cigar and counting the minutes until Rachel Golden goes off shift and he can light up.
“Two of them,” says Maurice. “I just took the other one up to the old man. Tonight’s the night, right?”
“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