with two fingers for his after-dinner panatela, and I saw him spot someone over my shoulder, saw a change come over his face. With my left arm I swept Leo to the side as I swung around. Sharp snapping sounds. I took a bullet through my left trapezius which clipped my collarbone, another went through the fatty layer of my left exterior oblique muscle, and a third scorched across my chest and tore Leo’s cigar case to shreds an inch from my fingertips. There were two other shots fired but by this time I was down, dragging Leo with me. I heard screams and shouts and turned just in time to see a dark figure disappearing over the terrace wall. Leo hadn’t been hit. I’d been very lucky by about half an inch. Manny Bigalow’s suit was ruined.
That was our last date.
I spent some time getting well, then went to work full time for Leo as head of security for the jewel in his crown, the Lord Douglas Hotel. Leo stopped going out. He sequestered himself in the penthouse suite. He says he likes it up there. It’s comfortable enough, and it requires a special key to visit. The shooter was never apprehended.
Neither of Leo’s sons hastened to our aid.
Rachel Golden helps me with the bow tie.
“You can get ones that clip on,” Gritch says. “It’s the latest thing.”
“Pay no attention,” says Rachel. “He’s jealous because he wasn’t invited.”
“Are you going home soon?” Gritch wants to know.
Rachel took over as manager of JG Security a while back and since then things have run smoothly. Rachel looks like the chairperson of a PTA committee, but she’s ex-Army and I’ve seen her escort a large drunken man onto the street by merely taking his hand. She had two of his fingers pointing in an unnatural direction at the time and he was trying not to blubber, but you get the picture. Hiring Rachel has made my life a lot easier. She handles the details I was never good at, and a few I used to think I’d be good at but never actually attended to. I still make my grand tour mornings and evenings, still handle complaints when a measure of beef is indicated, still keep my uncashed paycheques in the hotel safe, but I’ve become more of a presiding entity than a day-to-day administrator.
Even Gritch grudgingly allows that Rachel is much better at running the operation than I ever was. Still, her presence rankles. “The Presbyterians,” as Gritch insists on calling her four new staffers, are excessively well-groomed and polite for his taste. He was more comfortable when the Lord Douglas had ashtrays in the lobby. Gritch is an indispensable part of the security system but doesn’t fit any designation that Rachel is familiar with. He’s not part of any shift, he sets his own hours, and he refuses to acknowledge her authority. Except on the subject of cigar smoke in the office — Gritch can’t light up until she clocks off for the night.
“There,” she says. “You look like a million bucks.”
“As long as you’re wearing clean gonch for the trip to Emergency,” Gritch says.
“Okay, Grinch,” she says. “I’m heading home to suburbia. You can fire up that thing. Remember to turn on the ventilator.”
“Thanks for the bow,” I say.
“You look great,” she says. “Don’t get chicken-ala-king down your frock.”
“Prime rib,” I say.
Rachel heads out and Gritch waits the obligatory five seconds then lights his cigar. Gritch doesn’t smoke the same brand as Mr. Alexander. No one on a salary does.
“You going upstairs or waiting for him down here?” Gritch asks.
“I’m invited for a drink,” I say.
“This is a big step for him,” Gritch says. “Been seven years, almost eight.”
“Eight exactly,” I say. “This time eight years ago a doctor was explaining how fortunate I was.”
“He say why, now?”
“He says he wants to try out his tango lessons.”
“He has a date?”
“Oh, yes,” I say.
Leo’s date is a woman some years his junior, closer to my age. She has diamonds at her throat. Leo introduces her as Vivienne Griese but she corrects him immediately and explains that she’s reverting to her pre-divorce name of Saunders. Vivienne Saunders is wearing a gown the colour of black roses. It rustles as she crosses the room.
“I’ve just heard all about you,” she says. “Leo says you used to be a prizefighter.”
“Sometimes he tells people I was an astronaut,” I say.
Leo hands me a small whisky, which he knows I won’t drink. Forget about the fortune in Italian wool I’m wearing, I’m on the job. He can refer to me as his Executive Officer, or his good friend, or an astronaut if he wants. I’m still what I was the last time we went to a party — the large presence at his back.
“Sometimes I embellish,” Leo admits. “Telling the same stories over and over can be a bad habit at my age.”
“Hiding up here for so long was a bad habit,” says Vivienne. “I’m thrilled you’ve decided to rejoin the human race.”
“I guess the timing was right,” says Leo, with a puckish smile. I can’t be certain but he may have winked at me.
“My divorce was final as of yesterday,” she says to me sideways.
“I’m never sure,” I say. “Are congratulations appropriate?”
“In this case, definitely,” she says.
“Be a shame to waste half a bottle of Veuve Clicqot,” says Leo. “How are we for time, Joseph?”
“It’s your night,” I say. “It can’t start until you show up.”
Leo refills Vivienne’s flute and his own with the flourish of a man handy with champagne. I take my half-finger of whisky and retreat a few steps. Three’s a crowd. Vivienne is telling Leo about a tango club in Buenos Aires. I notice that Raquel, Leo’s housekeeper, is preparing canapés in the kitchen.
She smiles at me. “Muy bien, Señor Grundy,” she says. She lowers her voice. “He looks fine tonight, does he not?”
“Very fine.”
“It is good to see him like this,” she says.
“I didn’t know he was taking tango lessons.”
I’m almost certain I catch the flicker of a smile as Raquel turns to check her mis en place. There are serving dishes and shiny glasses standing by.
“Are guests coming back here after?” I ask.
“He says it is possible. If there is anyone he is still friends with. You know how he talks. I have things prepared.”
“Then I’ll see you later,” I say.
She holds up one finger and looks around the corner to make sure Leo is occupied. She gestures me closer.
“Could you do something for me?”
“I’d be happy to,” I say.
“I have bought a little gift for Señor Alexander,” she says. “I wonder, could you pick it up for me? It’s a secret. I don’t want him to know until his birthday.”
“Where do I go?”
“The cigar store on Robson. You know the one? Austin & Davies?”
“That’s