Northwest Passages Page 7

  “There’s that word again.”

  “Yeah, it kind of comes up naturally where Raymond’s concerned.” She was silent, as if trying to decide what to say. “You know I do night audit two nights a week? Well, the three nights when Raymond’s on audit and I’m on desk, I can’t help noticing that he . . . well, he seems to spend a lot of time in The King’s Arms. Now hang on”—seeing the expression on Mark’s face—“I don’t say he’s got a drink problem, but I kind of think that . . . well, that maybe he did, once.”

  The silence stretched out for what seemed a long time. Finally Sylvia continued, although now her eyes did not meet Mark’s; instead, her fingers played over the edges of her book and her gaze was fixed on the bird on the cover. “My dad had a drinking problem,” she said finally, in a low voice. “It got worse as the years went on, and when I was about—oh, eleven or twelve—things really got bad. I don’t know what happened in the end—my mom’s never talked about it—but she walked out and took my sister and me with her. We lived with my grandparents for a few weeks, and I remember my dad coming round to see my mom, and them talking for a long time while my grandma took us for a walk or something. I guess they finally reached an agreement, and Dad went on the wagon. He was out two or three nights a week; afterwards I realised it was AA meetings. It worked; I mean, things weren’t brilliant, but it was okay. Better than it had been, at least.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, what I’m getting at is that I see the signs in Raymond. My dad hasn’t taken a drink since then—far as I know—but sometimes we’ll be at a restaurant or a family gathering or something, and there’s some booze there, and Dad’ll just get this look on his face, kind of half-scared, half-longing.” Sylvia shrugged. “It’s hard to describe; I guess you have to live through it. But I see that—or think I see it—in Raymond. When he was training me on audit I saw him standing there in The King’s Arms, looking at the bar and all the bottles, and I saw that same look on his face that Dad has sometimes.”

  “I see.” Mark was silent for a moment. “So you think Raymond spends too much time in the bar?”

  “Yeah. No . . . I mean, what’s ‘too much’? All I know is that it takes me about five minutes, tops, to clear the machine in there, and he’s in there for twenty at least. And if you’re wondering why I’ve never said anything, it’s ’cause it doesn’t seem to matter. He gets the job done, right? So he likes to hang out in the bar; well, we hang out here, so what’s the difference? Except I can’t see why anyone’d want to hang out in there, especially after it’s closed. Place gives me the creeps.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t like it in there after it’s closed. The cleaners don’t, either.”

  “Don’t they?”

  “Nah. That’s why they’re always there soon as it closes, to give it the once over while Joe’s still in there cashing out and getting things put away. I talked to Sunita about it one night.”

  “What did she say?”

  Sylvia shrugged. “Just that they don’t like it in there. Too many shadows.”

  “What on earth does that mean?”

  “Just what she says. C’mon, you say you saw it yourself tonight. That corner, over in the back, near the machine. It’s like there’s someone there, just out of sight. Sometimes I think that if I look out of the corner of my eye I’ll actually see whoever it is.”

  “Have you?”

  “No. I’ve never tried.”

  There was silence then. Sylvia looked at her watch, sighed, and picked up her book.

  “C’mon, Mr. Duty Manager, time to get back to work, or we’re gonna be in trouble. Danny’ll be sending out a search party. We’ve got us a hotel to run.”

  V

  The truth was, the hotel pretty much ran itself at night, something that the graveyard shift workers never really admitted to anyone else. Yes, the hours were crap; but apart from that it was a great job, as Mark had to admit.

  As November turned into December and the countdown to Christmas began, he found himself watching Raymond with—curiosity was too strong a word, more a mild interest. There was nothing in the man’s demeanour or behaviour to excite such curiosity; he seemed the same as always, quiet, hard-working, and competent. Still, Mark found himself mentally keeping tabs on what the auditor did during his shift, and realised quickly that Sylvia was right: he did seem to spend more time in The King’s Arms than the work demanded. He refrained from saying anything, however. The man did his job, and gave no cause for complaint. Whatever he did in there wasn’t hurting anyone.

  Mark also tried to draw the other man out about himself, but quickly found that Raymond was not forthcoming. He answered questions politely, yet with a bare minimum of information that almost verged on curtness but stayed just the right side of the line. It was if he felt that any information he volunteered about himself came with a price, and that he had spent many years ensuring that he kept the books balanced.

  One evening in mid-December they were in their usual places: Raymond at the far end of the desk working on the Sales and Labour report, Danny off collecting menu cards, Bob on his rounds, and Sylvia sorting keys from the drop box into the wooden slots in the drawers in the desk. It was nearly 3.00 am, and somewhere far off Mark could hear the dim buzz of a vacuum cleaner as the night cleaners went about their business. A car drove slowly past on Hastings, headlights causing shadows to skitter across the lobby floor. Mark watched it disappear from view.

  “Wonder what they’re doing here this time of night,” he said, more to break the silence than anything else.

  Sylvia looked up. “That’s what they call a rhetorical question, isn’t it?” Mark looked puzzled. “C’mon, you’re not that innocent. There’s only one thing people come down here for at this time of night. Well, two things, really.”

  “Oh, I know that.” Mark looked back out at the now quiet street and shook his head. “You can’t really imagine it, though, can you? That kind of life. It’s like another world out there. You walk out there in the daytime, it’s all—I don’t know—normal people, shopping, catching buses, going to work, all that everyday stuff we all do. But when you go out there at night. . . . Jesus, you wonder where these people are all day. Hidden away, like vampires, waiting for the night.”

  “They’re not that hidden in the day,” Sylvia pointed out. “You just have to know where to look; or where not to. But yeah, it’s a lot worse at night. On Thursday I got propositioned twice walking here from the bus stop. Never happens during the day. And if you even think about making a joke about that comment I’ll throw a tray of keys at you.”

  Mark stared at her. “You get propositioned?”

  Sylvia put on an air of mock anger. “Don’t sound so surprised. And I did say it only happened at night. Seriously, yeah, happens all the time.”

  “What do you say?”

  “Depends. If they ask how much I charge I tell them they can’t afford it, and if they ask me if I’m available I tell them that I will be at 8.00, when my shift at the police station is over. Usually does the trick, no pun intended.”

  Mark shook his head. “I can’t believe it.” Seeing Sylvia’s look, he added hastily, “I don’t mean it that way, I mean that . . . you don’t look like a prostitute, that’s all.”

  “What’s a prostitute look like?” Sylvia countered. “I mean, they’re women, same as me. They don’t all wear skirts up to here and tops down to here and fishnet stockings. Anyway, I get the feeling that the guys who proposition me don’t even see me, if you get what I mean. They just see a woman, and figure if a woman’s down here at this time of night, on her own, there’s only one reason for that. Far as they’re concerned, we’re all interchangeable. I bet that five—no, two—minutes after a guy propositions me, he couldn’t tell you what colour my hair was, what I was wearing, or anything. I’m just a piece of meat to them. You’re shopping for dinner, looking at steaks in a grocery store, they all look pretty much the same. That’s why stuff can happen to thes
e women and no one makes a fuss. They’re interchangeable. One of them disappears, who knows? Who cares? There’ll be another one to take her place. That’s how that guy—what’s-his-face, Sutton—could get away with it. No one cared.”

  “Bob said pretty much the same thing to me once.”

  Sylvia nodded. “Well, he’s right. There’s Sutton, killing all these women, and no one even noticed they were gone until some of the families began kicking up a fuss, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Even then no one suspected there was a serial killer on the loose.” She dropped a key into its slot, checked the inside of the key drop box, and closed the drawer. “Anyway, there’s no reason you’d ever have to think about things like getting hit up on the street; you’re a guy, you’ll never have to worry about someone rolling down their car window and asking you how much you charge. Unless you’re on the asking end,” she added, “and I can’t picture that, somehow, unless you were plastered. No telling what stupid things otherwise nice guys’ll do when they’re drunk.”

  There was a clatter and a muffled curse from the far end of the desk, and Sylvia and Mark turned to look. Raymond was scrabbling with a bottle of white-out which had dropped to the counter; as they watched, a small pool of milky white spread out across the half-completed report he had been working on. Sylvia grabbed a box of Kleenex from under the desk and hurried down, but Raymond almost pushed her away.

  “It’s fine. I’ll clean it up. I don’t need any help.”

  “Are you sure? Here’s some Kleenex, let me . . . ”

  “No! Leave me alone!” This time he did push out, and Sylvia backed away, holding up the Kleenex box like a shield. It would almost have been funny in other circumstances, but there was not a trace of humour in the situation. Raymond drew himself upright with a hissed intake of breath and seemed about to say something; then he turned away from Sylvia, carefully picked up the report, and deposited it in the garbage can by his side before pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbing at the small puddle of white left on the counter. Then he began gathering together papers with hands which, Mark saw, trembled slightly.

  “I’m going to take this into the back office,” he said in a voice that sounded strained. Before Mark could say anything, Raymond had opened the door beside him and disappeared.

  “Well.” Sylvia watched the door swing back into place. “There’s something you don’t see every day.” She moved back to her station and put the box of Kleenex back under the desk. “Was it something I said?”

  “Maybe. You were talking about getting drunk.”

  “Yeah.” She looked at Mark, eyes wide. “Jeez, I didn’t even think, it just sort of came out.”

  “I don’t think that’s what got him upset. I was watching him while you were talking about Sutton; he was looking kind of . . . ” Mark stopped, trying to think of the right word to describe the look on Raymond’s face, and it came unbidden. “Haunted.”

  Sylvia stared, puzzled. “But why would that bother him? It’s ancient history; the guy’s in prison. Raymond couldn’t possibly . . . ”

  “I don’t know.” A fragment of conversation came back to Mark. “Bob says that Raymond works—volunteers—at some shelter down on Cambie. Maybe—I don’t know, it’s a long shot, but maybe he knew one of the women who was killed.”

  “Jesus.” Sylvia looked pale. “Maybe I should go and say something, apologise.”

  “For what? ‘Sorry for making conversation’? Besides, he’s the one who should be apologising to you. Let it go.”

  It was easy advice to give, but Mark found it hard to take. For the rest of the night Raymond stayed in the back office, head down, working at his reports. To say he was ignoring the others would not have been accurate, as outwardly he seemed the same as always. Twice, however, when Mark went through the office, he saw the auditor sitting, staring at the desk, only resuming work when he realised that Mark was there. Raymond’s hands, Mark noticed, were still shaking slightly.

  “I think maybe Raymond’s coming down with something,” he said later to Sylvia, as the first of the morning team began coming on shift. “He doesn’t look well. Thank God he’s only got one night to go before the weekend; with luck he’ll get it out of his system over the next few days. Even if he’s not getting sick, it’ll give him a chance to cool down, and things can go back to normal.”

  Mark was to remember those words, with something like regret, less than twenty-four hours later.

  VI

  Saturday was never Mark’s favourite night of the week; the prospect of dealing with rowdy drunks coming out of The King’s Arms always depressed him. But he had little time to think about that the next night, for within half an hour of arriving he received a phone call which put all other thoughts out of his mind.

  “Just had a call from Air Canada at the airport,” he informed the night shift. “They’re shut down out there; bad fog. They had hoped it would clear, but no luck; nothing’s taking off. All the hotels in Richmond are full, and they’re sending a bunch of people our way. About a hundred, from what I gather, but it could be more. Too bad we didn’t know about this half an hour ago, we could have kept some of the evening shift on.” He thought for a moment. “Sylvia, I need you to set up a group name, start blocking off some rooms, get reg cards made up. Danny, keep an ear out for the switchboard and give Sylvia a hand with keys; I want them in envelopes with all the reg cards for when the guests get here. Raymond, I need you to start getting meal vouchers ready. They’re too late for dinner, but they get $8.50 a person for breakfast. Here.” Mark fished a couple of pads of vouchers out of a desk drawer. “Start writing. When you get finished you can help Sylvia with the reg cards.”

  Raymond stared at Mark as if he had started speaking in Greek. “But what about the night audit?”

  Mark shook his head. “Forget night audit right now; we need to get as much sorted out as possible before the buses arrive. We’re going to have a hundred tired and pissed-off people here inside of”—he looked at his watch—“twenty minutes. When they get here, they’re going to want to get checked in and get to their rooms. The easier we make that process, the easier our lives will be. Get busy.”

  The first bus arrived at 12.30, with another hard on its heels, and a third one arrived soon after. The stream of people seemed never-ending, and although Mark, Sylvia, and Raymond worked as fast as they could, the line-ups didn’t seem to get any less long, while tempers, in contrast, got shorter as the minutes ticked by. Sylvia kept a cheery smile on her face, but Raymond checked his watch every other minute, or so it seemed to Mark, until he wanted to shake him. Joe had long since closed up The King’s Arms by the time the last of the guests were checked in, and Raymond had been ordered to go and sit by the switchboard to take the steady stream of wake-up call requests while Sylvia got the check-ins processed. This he did with a bad grace that pushed Mark’s already frayed temper almost to the breaking point; when he emerged from the switchboard just after 2.00 and headed for the door, Mark snapped.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “The bar.” Raymond nodded his head in the direction of the pub. “I have to go and clear the machine in there.”

  “No. There’s still work to do here. We need to get all these charges posted so we can start update, otherwise there’ll be hell to pay when people start checking out. You can help Sylvia.”

  “But . . . but we need to clear the machines!”

  “Yes; after we get the charges posted.”

  “But you don’t understand . . . ”

  “I understand, Raymond, that I’ve asked you to do something. Just do it. Sylvia, hand me those bar bills, I’ll give you a hand.”

  Sylvia handed Mark a stack of bills, and he walked to a computer midway down the desk. For a time there was silence as the three of them worked, but it was a strained, uncomfortable silence, and Mark was relieved when the last of the charges had been posted. He stretched, looked at his watch, and turned to Raymond, who looked ne
rvous and twitchy.

  “Right. Machines. You can go and do the restaurant and the lounge. Sylvia can do the bar.”

  “What?” Raymond and Sylvia’s words echoed each other; only whereas Sylvia looked puzzled, Raymond looked almost panicked.

  “You heard me. Go and get those machines cleared; Sylvia, take the key and go clear the machine in The King’s Arms. We’re way behind; we don’t need anyone lingering in the pub tonight.”

  Raymond’s head jerked back as if he had been hit; then, without a word, he turned and headed out from behind the desk, in the direction of the restaurant. Sylvia started to say something, but took one look at Mark’s face and thought better of it.

  She was back quickly, trailing a roll of machine tape behind her. Mark thought she looked pale. Not surprising, he told himself, and thought no more of it.

  The rest of the night—or what was left of it—went by in a blur. There was no time even to go and get a cup of coffee; Danny brought them sandwiches around 4.00, but they were left largely untouched. It was well past 8.00 by the time they had finished everything, and by then the morning shift and senior management had arrived, a steady stream of guests was checking out, The Palace had shrugged off its night-time air of darkness and silence, and become once more a bustling downtown hotel.

  Mark and Sylvia went for a bite of breakfast in the hotel restaurant; one of the perks of the graveyard shift. They ate in silence for the most part; a not uncomfortable silence, thought Mark, who was happy enough to let his mind wander. He was brought back to his surroundings by a sudden question.

  “Why did you make me go and clear the machine in the bar?”

  “Why . . . what?” He shook his head. “I don’t know, I just wanted it done fast. If Raymond’d disappeared in there we wouldn’t have seen him for ages. And to be honest, he was pissing me off, looking at the time every few seconds, like we were keeping him from something important.”