Philip Kerr - Gridiron

Grabel smiled weakly. 'Yeah, thanks a lot, Charlie. Have a nice day now.'

He went into the bedroom, and dropped on to the bed. He glanced at the date on his watch and groaned. A six-day bender. That was what it amounted to. He felt like Don Birnam in The Lost Weekend . What was the first line again? 'The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot.' Something like that, anyway. Well that was what he had been having, right enough, a spell of riot. There had been other times, of course, but never as bad as this.

Closing his eyes he tried to remember some of what had happened. He remembered walking out on his job. He remembered sleeping on the campbed at the Gridiron building. There was something else too. But that was like a terrible nightmare. Had he only imagined it? He had dreamed he was Raskolnikov. The back of his head was aching. Had he fallen? There was something about Mitch's car. Maybe he had a concussion.

He was so tired he felt like he was dying. It was not a bad feeling. He wanted to sleep for ever.

Tony Levine was feeling undervalued. Allen Grabel had been an associate partner in the firm, just one step below the coveted full partnership status of Mitchell Bryan, Willis Ellery and Aidan Kenny. When Grabel resigned Levine had assumed that he would be promoted. Not to mention getting more money. Considering what he was called upon to do as project manager on the Gridiron, the biggest project of his career so far, Levine believed that his compensation fell far short of what some of his friends were making. He had said it before, but this time he meant it: if it didn't happen this time he was going to quit.

Levine had gone into the office early to get Richardson alone. He had planned what he was going to say, and had repeated the words to himself in the car that morning, like an actor in a movie. He would remind Richardson of the way he had motivated the team and set the whole tone of the project. Of the enormous amount of responsibility he had taken. He found Richardson in the far corner of the studio, his Turnbull and Asser shirt sleeves already rolled up, scribbling notes in one of the shiny silver-covered sketchbooks that accompanied him everywhere. He was facing the scale model of a $300 million police training facility in Tokyo.

'Morning, Ray. Have you got a minute?'

'What do you think of this, Tony?' Richardson asked sourly.

Levine sat down at the table and looked over the model, a competition-winning entry for a site in the unglamorous Shinkawa area of the city, close to Tokyo's financial centre. Even by Tokyo standards the building looked futuristic, with its concave glass roof, and, at the building's heart, a stainless steel clad volume that contained gymnasiums, a swimming pool, teaching facilities, a library, auditorium and an indoor firing range.

Levine hated it. It looked like a silver Easter egg in a perspex box, he thought. But what did Richardson think of it? He adopted what he thought was a thoughtful expression and tried to read Richardson's neatly boxed-in pencil notes upside down. When this proved unsuccessful he looked to find a neutral form of words that would cover him either way.

'It certainly takes a radically different aesthetic approach from anything else in the surrounding area,' he said.

'That's hardly surprising. The surrounding area is being completely redeveloped. Come on, Tony do you think it sucks or not?'

Levine was relieved that Richardson's videophone rang at this moment. He would have time to consider his reply: he looked over at Richardson's notes, but was disappointed to find that they were little more than doodles. He cursed silently. Even the man's doodles looked clean and efficient, as if they actually meant something.

It was Helen Hussey, and she looked anxious.

'We've got a problem, Ray,' she said.

'I don't want to hear about it,' Richardson said flatly. 'That's why I pay you people. So I don't have to waste time fixing every fuck-up myself. Talk to your project manager, Helen. He's sitting right beside me.'

Richardson twisted the screen so that the small fibre-optic camera was pointed at Levine and returned to boxing in his pencilled scribbles, as if somehow even these idle doodles needed the preservation offered by a protective border.

'What's up, babe?' Levine said, eager to have the opportunity to offer a cool and correct judgement of what was to be done and to solve her problem in front of the boss. 'How can I help?'

'It's not that kind of problem,' said Helen, trying to conceal her instinctive loathing of Levine. 'There's been another death. And this time it looks like someone's been murdered.'

'Murdered? Who? Who is it that's dead?'

'The overnight security guard. Sam Gleig.'

'The black guy? Well gee, that's really awful. What happened?'

'Someone beat his brains out last night. They found him in an elevator this morning. The police are here right now.'

'My God. How awful.' Levine was painfully aware of knowing that he had no idea what to say to her. 'Do they know who did it?'

'Not yet, no.'

'My God, Helen. Are you OK? I mean, someone should be with you. The trauma, y'know?'

'Are you crazy?' Richardson hissed, twisting the screen away from him. 'Don't give her ideas like that, you asshole, or I'll have another fuckin' lawsuit on my hands.'

'Sorry, Ray. I just…'

'We can't afford to have the LAPD prevent our construction workers from working, Helen,' barked Richardson. 'You know what they're like. Police lines out front. Close a stable door after the horse is bolted. We can't lose a day on this.'

'No, I already spoke to them about that. They're going to let workers in.'

'Good girl. Well done. Any damage to the building?'

'Not as far as I know. But it looks as if Gleig might have let the guy who killed him walk through the front door.'

'Well, that's just fucking great. We're just a few days off completing and this sonofabitch has to get himself killed. What kind of smart building is it that lets some shit-for-brains fucker just ignore the security systems and let someone through the front door? Are the media there yet?'

'Not yet.'

'What about Mitch?'

'Any minute, I guess.' Richardson sighed bitterly.

They're going to piss all over us on this. Especially the Times . OK, here's what to do. Dealing with City Hall is Mitch's thing. He knows who to sweet talk in order to limit damage. You know what I'm saying? As soon as he shows up tell him to make sure that the cops give the right story to the media. Got that?'

'Yes, Ray,' Helen said wearily.

'You did right calling me, Helen. I'm sorry I snapped at you.'

That's — '

Richardson's finger stabbed a button to end their conversation.

'Mitch'll sort it out,' he told Levine, almost as if he was trying to reassure himself. 'He's a good man in a crisis. The kind of guy you can depend on, who makes things happen. As you get more experienced you'll learn that that's what this job is all about, Tony.'

'Yes,' said Levine, feeling that the moment had now passed when he could have mentioned his own promotion, 'I'm sure I will.'

'So. Where were we? On yes, you were telling me what you thought about our design for the Shinkawa Police Academy.'

There were only three cars in the Gridiron's parking lot. Curtis guessed that the new Saab convertible belonged to Helen Hussey. That left him an old blue Buick and an even older grey Plymouth to choose from in deciding which one belonged to Sam Gleig, and for a moment it was like being a real detective. Just checking which car fitted the set of keys he was carrying would have been cheating. The Buick sported a bumper long sticker — 'I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate'. Curtis frowned. What the hell did that mean? The Plymouth looked an easier shot with the KLON 88.1 FM window sticker. The tiny piastic saxophone on Gleig's key-chain made Curtis figure Gleig for a jazz fan. He was pleased to find that he was right, and that the key turned in the Plymouth's lock. It was not exactly Sherlock Holmes, but it would do.