a man who introduced himself near the start of the festivities but whose name I’ve misplaced. He looks upset.
“Excuse me, you’re Mr. Grundy, is that right? Mr. Alexander’s assistant?”
“That’s right, ah, Mr. —” he’s wearing a nametag “— Trueller.”
“Tulley,” he says.
I should get contacts.
“What can I do for you, sir?” I ask politely.
“It’s … ah, most embarrassing. The … ah, memorial plaque, the bronze, rosewood frame, engraved —”
“Yes, I saw it. It’s very handsome.”
“It’s been defaced,” he says sadly. “Someone ruined it.”
“Where is it?”
He leads me back to the head table. The speaker’s lectern has an inner shelf where speeches and jokes and names to remember were kept, where Leo’s Hotelier of the Year Award is evidently still waiting to be picked up. The plaque has a big hole where Leo’s right eye used to be.
“Leave it,” I say. “Don’t touch it. Could be fingerprints.”
“Should I call the police?”
I leave him to decide that on his own time and give myself a mental smack on the head. I knew it. Happy-go-lucky, feeding my face, cavorting with the rich and semi-famous, forgetting what my job was. Where the hell is he? I’m crashing through a thicket of gowns and starched shirtfronts — “Excuse me, pardon me, let me through, please” — trying not to look like I’m panicked.
Finally. He looks safe enough, quite pleased with himself, in fact. Doesn’t look like he needs rescuing.
“Ah, Joseph,” he says. “There you are. Past my bedtime is it?”
“Car’s waiting, sir,” I say.
The ever-vigilant Connie Gagliardi has caught something in my face, or heard something in my tone. Maybe it’s the faint reek of dread still clinging to me.
“Hi there,” she says. “How’re ya doing, big guy?” It’s not an idle question.
“Just fine,” I say. “But it’s time we hit the road.”
Connie and Vivienne each take an arm and begin shepherding Leo toward the exit. I try not to bowl anyone out of our lane. There are smatterings of applause as we pass, a little bantering, an occasional mutter, genial farewells. Leo evidently has kissable cheeks.
The limo is waiting; our driver is holding the door. He has a moustache. He doesn’t have a stubby ponytail.
We’re in a Yellow Cab, the first one in line at the taxi stand.
“What was wrong with the limo?” Vivienne wants to know.
“Joseph is overly cautious,” says Leo. “But I trust his instincts.”
That’s true enough. He didn’t protest or balk at being swung sideways, past the open limo door and into the back seat of a well-used Chevy. He’s tucked himself into the corner. I’m on one cheek in the middle, scanning through the rear window. Ms. Saunders is avoiding the imagined stains by sitting on the edge of her seat. Connie’s in front with our driver whose photo-ID declares him to be Josip Stanishevski. He looks like his photograph, and he drives like a cabby, and we’re out of there before the bon voyage crowd has stopped waving at the empty limousine.
“Did it break down?” Vivienne is trying not to be flustered.
Connie has the cellphone. She’s dialing Gritch for me.
“You should program the number,” she says. “You’d only have to push one button. Ringing … Here.”
She hands it back and I manage to find the flap where the sound comes out. “Gritch. We’re in a cab. We’ll be coming in through Olive’s. Check the street, check the lobby, post a Presbyterian, secure an elevator.”
“Somebody chasing you?”
“Make sure nobody’s waiting for us.”
“I’m on it,” he says.
“Seriously,” says Vivienne. “Are we in danger?”
“No, Ma’am,” I say. “I probably over-reacted to a change in chauffeurs. I’m sorry if you were startled.”
“Different driver?” Leo asks.
“Yes, sir.”
It’s ten blocks to the Lord Douglas. A high-revving Suzuki motorcycle zings by us and disappears down the street but I don’t spot anyone following us.
Gritch himself is there to open the cab door. Josip accepts two twenties with a smile. He was worth every penny. One of the Presbyterians, Roland is his name, a gentle soul, a bodybuilder, walks like he’s wearing armour plate under his blue suit, ushers the party to Olive’s front door. Gritch looks me up and down as I hit the sidewalk.
“Least you’re walking,” he says.
“I got spooked,” I say. “Gotta talk to the limo service, find out why they switched drivers.”
“I can do that.”
“Let’s get Leo upstairs first.”
But Leo has no intention of going upstairs in a hurry. He’s bought a round for the house, he’s greeted people he hasn’t seen in a while, and he has the sumptuous Olive May wrapped in a big hug. He looks right at home.
“I’d forgotten what a great place this is,” he says.
“I’ve got an elevator waiting, sir,” I say.
“Let’s stick around for a nightcap, shall we?” he says. “Olive’s going to play my favourite tune.”
“Which one is that, sugar?”
“Any number you sing will automatically become my favourite,” says Leo.
He commandeers a table near the bandstand, Vivienne returns from the powder room with her aplomb adjusted, Olive May and her bass player, the stalwart Jimmy Hinds, ease their way into a medley of Cole Porter perennials, and Connie Gagliardi is tugging my coat.
“Everything okay, big guy?” she asks.
“Looks like,” I say. “For now, anyway.”
“What spooked you?”
“Missing ponytail. Could’ve been a shift change. Probably a logical explanation. Maybe he had a haircut. Maybe he lost his rubber band. I didn’t need to find out.”
“I mean before that. When you came looking for us.”
“Bad practical joke.” I notice that I’ve started whispering out of the side of my mouth, bending closer. “Someone defaced Leo’s award.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” she says. “Graffiti, bad words, what?”
“A hole. Right through the eye.”
“Wow. Nasty.”
“Solid bronze. Must’ve used a drill press.”
“Or a .44 Magnum,” says Connie Gagliardi the nascent war correspondent. I worry about her. I’m going to buy her some Kevlar for Christmas. Maybe sooner than that.
Gritch returns from wherever he’s been. “Who’s got a .44 Magnum?”
“Dirty Harry,” she says.
“You find out anything?” I ask.
“Limo service says the guy hasn’t checked in yet. Name’s