Body Blows Read Online Free PDF Page B

deserted, no squealing tires, no fading footsteps, nothing to do but make the long hike around to the side entrance. No more stairs tonight if I can help it.
    At the corner I meet Todd, another of Rachel’s hirees, clean-cut, competent, and confused.
    â€œJoe? Who am I supposed to be looking for?”
    â€œTodd, I have absolutely no idea. Nobody ran past you?”
    â€œNot a soul.”
    â€œOkay. There’ll be police showing up pretty soon. Give Gritch a call, he’s up in the penthouse, he’ll have to come down and escort them. Go ahead. I think I’ll take a look down the block.”
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    I don’t really want to tell him. “Call Gritch.”
    The backside of the Lord Douglas runs north-south. Across the street is the parking garage with a skywalk to the mezzanine directly overhead. To my left are the hotel’s loading docks, dumpsters, service entrances, and at the far end, the fenced construction site where the War-burton building once stood and where a huge hole in the ground has been waiting for Leo and his son Lenny to work out who will own what percentage of whatever they decide to build there some day. Leo has a controlling interest in the property but the hotel’s costly renovations have forced him to hold off on a start date.
    The covered walkway along the fence has grilled portholes for sidewalk superintendents to check on progress. Since the hole was excavated there hasn’t been much to look at. The giant crane which stood idle and wasting money for three months has long since been relocated to a going concern and now, except for sporadic pumping sessions to get rid of rainwater, the site is essentially abandoned and resembles an immense square-sided bomb crater with a wide ramping slope at the far end.
    And something or someone, in motion, near the top.
    I can’t see much through the narrow grill. Just a shadow, a shadow that shouldn’t be there, moving with some purpose, lifting something, or hiding something, or shifting a piece of machinery.
    My new size thirteen dancing pumps have given me a blister on my right heel and my left knee feels like it’s swelling up. Whoever is down there isn’t going to wait around for me to creep along. I was never much of a creeper anyway. Not a great runner either.
    The truck entrance is around the corner, wide chain-link gates, padlocks, and numerous signs insisting upon hardhats and safety shoes and absolving Streiner Construction of liability for injuries incurred by unauthorized visitors who are correspondingly threatened with criminal prosecution for unlawful entry.
    The gate is ajar, the chain hangs loose.
    I can hear him now; he’s near the top of the ramp. He’ll have to get by me if he wants to leave.
    I’m ready for just about anything except the sudden appearance of a motorcycle roaring up the ramp, scattering a roostertail of mud and gravel and heading straight for me. I make the mistake of trying to haul the rider off his saddle as he powers by and get knocked off my feet by a flying elbow to the side of my head.
    As I’m rolling down the muddy ramp I can hear the bike bouncing over the curb and howling away in the general direction of Stanley Park. I stagger almost to the bottom, shaking my head to clear it and manipulating the jaw sideways. Both actions are painful. I don’t think anything’s broken but I’ve taken left hooks from professionals that hurt less. Han Chuen Chu’s creation will need dry-cleaning.
    Almost pitch black down here. There’s a half-moon and scattered street lamps visible, and on the far side of the pit the north side of the hotel shows a few lighted windows, but precious little illumination makes it all the way down. The floor of the excavation has the look of a giant child’s construction project abandoned in favour of a trip to the circus. Random, bound stooks of rebar jutting from truncated concrete