“And you’re armed.”
“Does it show?”
“Not particularly. But I’m a detective.”
“I heard that rumor. You seem touchy today, Merle.”
He lifted an upright finger. “It’s this bridal shower on the twenty-seventh floor at four p.m. You’re handling security, I understand.”
“That’s right. Could be that’s why I’m armed.”
Teeth blossomed in the smile but his eyes remained ice. “You’re always armed, Mike. I just don’t understand why Mr. Borensen and his fiancée needed to bring you in. We offered to provide security ourselves. Aren’t we good enough?”
“You know, Merle, when I got the call, I probably should have said, ‘Never mind paying me a grand and a half, Mr. Borensen. You’ll do just fine with hotel security.’”
His face fell, and the smile went with it. “You’re getting fifteen hundred for a couple of hours work? That’s highway robbery.”
“It’s the indoor variety Borensen is concerned about.”
I explained my client’s thinking, but also admitted that I was a kind of celebrity attraction. Part of the entertainment.
Allison had cooled down. “Well, you always were more entertaining than me, Mike. I guess I don’t begrudge you turning a dollar. Even fifteen hundred of ’em.”
“Big of you.” I put on a friendly face. “Listen, buddy, I could use a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“This affair today is being catered by the hotel. Will there be any help brought in, or will it be strictly staff?”
“Staff.”
“You know them all?”
“Enough to recognize. This hotel has more employees than guest capacity, you know.” He shrugged in false modesty. “But I stay on top of hirings and firings.”
“Good. I’m going up to brief them right now. Would you tag along, and make sure there are no unfamiliar faces?”
Merle agreed to that, and as we went up in the west tower elevator, he asked me how I’d managed to get shot at twice in one week. He didn’t mean to pry.
“It’d be prying,” I said, “if you asked how it felt to kill two guys in one week.”
“How does it feel, Mike?”
“A hell of a lot better than being dead.”
In the suite, we moved across a light-green marble floor through an entryway bordered by Grecian busts on white pillars, a faux antiquity touch at odds with the otherwise modern furnishings.
By the side wall to my right, two facing coral-leather couches were perpendicular to a white marble fireplace over which hung a big room-doubling mirror. A low-slung glass-topped table perched between the couches, all positioned on a white throw rug as fluffy as egg whites on their way to being meringue. At the far end of this high-ceilinged living room, a triptych of windows presented a panoramic Manhattan skyline. Nearby, on the right wall, a door would lead to a bedroom, assuming this was set up like similar Waldorf suites I’d been in.
But all of this was somewhat lost in the flowers, so many flowers, roses, lilies, tulips, some yellow, some white — the bride-to-be’s colors — on tabletops, on the mantel, elaborate arrangements on virtually every surface except cushions designed for backsides.
Velda was already there. She’d wanted to be on hand as the help arrived. Right now she was in the dining room, where — off to the left, filling much of the space — chairs were arranged in groups of four or five at small linen-covered tables, enough to accommodate the fifty guests who’d soon be arriving. The tables and chairs faced a white baby grand in front of another Cinerama window onto the city. I viewed all this from just inside the open French doors.
The dining room table, draped in linen and arrayed with presents, had been moved closer to the facing wall. A fair number of gifts bore the light blue, white-ribboned boxes that whisper-screamed Tiffany’s. The rest were mostly wrapped in yellow and white, to go with the floral arrangements much in evidence here, as well.
Velda, in a black cocktail dress with bare sleeves and a rather full short skirt, had positioned herself near the gift table. Meanwhile, scattered on chairs at the little tables, primed by Velda, the party’s staff sat waiting to get a pep talk from me. On the young side, mostly in their twenties and early thirties, they seemed to be college kids needing a part-time job or former college kids who needed a job period.
I counted ten of them — five male, five female, attractive, slender, all in black trousers, ruffled white shirts and bow ties — and two more, a woman and a man, unattractive, heavy-set, in cook’s whites. The latter pair worked the little kitchen, prepping platters of hors d’oeuvres and trays of martinis.
A few of these staffers nodded to Merle, seeing him at my side. The well-dressed house dick scanned the room slowly, gave me a nod that they were all legit, and took his leave.
I gave them their special instructions. I explained that I would be in the living room where I could keep an eye on the door while Velda would watch the gift table.
One young man had already been assigned to greeter duty, which included taking coats and depositing them on the bed in the bedroom, as if this high-society bridal shower were a suburban house party.
“As far as any attendee is to know,” I told them, “Miss Sterling is just another guest, an out-of-town friend of Miss Foster’s.”
A kid in back raised a hand as if in class.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Mr. Hammer, is there anything we should be doing differently? How seriously do you take the threat of a robbery?”
“Unless you see something really suspicious, just do your job. Miss Sterling and I will take care of the rest.”
“What would you consider ‘really suspicious?’”
“A guest, after the gifts are opened, slipping something into a purse. One of you trusted hotel employees turning out to have pickpocket skills, helping yourself to a nice diamond bracelet, would be another.”
Some of them smiled at that, others looked alarmed.
“Anything like that you might see,” I said, “report to me.”
Nods all around.
“And while it’s not likely,” I said, “if armed robbers should burst in here — and Miss Sterling and I don’t nip it in the bud — just do as they ask. And encourage our guests to do the same.”
A young woman, her voice quavering, asked, “Mr. Hammer, we aren’t in danger of being in the middle of... of some kind of... shoot-out, are we?”
“We won’t endanger anyone,” I said.
“That’s a promise,” Velda said.
No one had any further questions.
With the conclusion of my spiel, they rose from their chairs at the guest tables and lined up at the back of the room, a little army ready for further orders. It was three-thirty now.
A few minutes later, Gwen Foster showed up on the arm of Leif Borensen. She was in a bright yellow cocktail dress with a simple strand of pearls, very chic, but looking too young for her own party. Borensen was in a light yellow sweater and tan slacks, expensively casual. He looked too old for the party. Also the wrong sex.
As they came in — Gwen had a key — Borensen grinned at me and held up his hands in surrender.
“I know I’m not supposed to be here,” the big Viking said, “but I just wanted a quick look at the place... So many flowers, honey!”
She was holding his hand tight, her big blue eyes wide, dominating her delicate, pretty features. “I know! So wonderful. Doesn’t it smell like a garden? I hope none of my girl friends has hay fever.”
They took a quick tour, still hand-in-hand, and stopped to take in the table of gifts.
“What a haul you’re making, honey!” he said to her.
Velda had slipped up at my side. “She really is,” she whispered to me.