Roberts, white-faced, stalked away with Cindy Lou following.
And here was Harry, dripping wet, holding two drinks on a small tray. “Your San Pellegrino, signorina.” He bowed.
“Bravissimo.”
She reached up and gave him a big kiss, remembering at the last minute to be careful of his lip. “You’re a hero, Harry.”
Harry shrugged off the compliment, but now he felt a lot better about having taken the sucker punch in the lip.
Over at the other side of the pool, two plainclothes security men and a hotel manager were talking with the roller-skater who was sitting in a chair now, swaddled in hotel towels. One of them was taking notes. Rachel Rose was still hanging in there, explaining 90 miles a minute how it all happened, while her mother was trying to tear her away. The skater said something, and the three men broke up laughing. Then one patted the boy on the shoulder, closed his notebook. It looked as if they knew him. Another was reaching for his walkie-talkie, speaking into it.
“Maybe they’ll send for the cops, arrest that Kurt Roberts for attempted manslaughter,” said Sam.
“I doubt it. It’d look bad for the hotel. They’ll call it an accident, since nobody was hurt.”
“He’s
such
a creep.”
Harry read her face carefully. “Did he say something to you, Sammy?”
She looked at his bruised lip and then at his hand, which he’d scraped on the bottom of the pool. He hadn’t even noticed it was bleeding. No, she didn’t need to tell Harry that Kurt Roberts came on to all the ladies. Not today.
Over at the other side of the pool a woman Sam had met joined the security men, the manager, and the youngster. Sam watched them over Harry’s shoulder for a minute and then said to him, “You know what happens when you save somebody’s life, babe?”
“They live.”
“The Chinese believe you’re responsible for them forever. So I guess old Malachy Champion’s responsible for me and you’re responsible for that young man.”
“No way. Besides, I didn’t do that much. If I hadn’t jumped in, someone else would have.”
“I don’t think Gloria thinks so.”
Harry turned to see what Sam meant and came nose to nose with Big Gloria, who grabbed him up in a bear hug.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she cried. “You’ve already been so generous—” Her voice broke. “And now saving my Junior’s life. But I will repay you! I will!”
4
Wayne loved sitting in his studio in front of all the monitors. The third floor of the Monopoly, Action Central, that’s what he called it.
He had eight screens going. On a table in front of him, three double cheeseburgers were lined up along with a large order of fries and a half-gallon of cola. Wayne really loved pop. And a super-large box of Cracker Jacks. He couldn’t wait for the prize, but work came first.
He’d already reviewed the stuff from that morning through early afternoon. There hadn’t been anything useful. The cameras were triggered by motion in the rooms. So there were the maids, making beds, cleaning bathrooms. That was a waste. But he couldn’t rig to timers, because you couldn’t tell when the guests might pop in and out.
In 1801, the man was shaping up to be a player—the one he’d punched in the mouth. Wayne grinned at the memory of his fist connecting. The room was registered originally to the tall brunette. The little dog and the boyfriend were extra. She was worth watching, for sure. But the dog was a real pain in the ass. Twisting, turning, twitching even in his sleep, setting off the camera. There he went, up for a drink of water, over to the floor-length window. Short little sucker, what did he think he was gonna see? A Mighty Dog train pulling into town? Wayne laughed at his own joke. Now the dog was rolling over. Licking himself. Bor
ing
.
Then, uh-oh, middle of the afternoon, here comes the brunette. Had the boyfriend told her somebody had been fiddling with their room? Naw, she didn’t have that look about her, like she was afraid, paranoid, checking things out. Nope, she swooped in, big smile on her face, talking to that stupid little dog, kissing him, then talking to herself in the mirror. Kind of strutting back and forth like
she
was Miss America.
A little old, honey. Not bad, but hidey, hidey, ho. What was she up to? All
right!
Changing clothes. Off with the skirt, the blouse, keep going. Not bad. Absolutely not bad at all for a broad with a couple years on her.
Oh,
yeah!
Now,
that
was more like it. Off, off, take it all off, honey. Bonanza! Uh-huh. What now? Want to parade around a little while? Nope. Into the bathroom. No problem. Wayne punched a button and the bathroom camera switched in. There she was, turning on the shower. No time for a long soak in the big tub, honey? Too bad—and too bad about the shower door. It was clear, not frosted, but the water and the steam clouded it just enough so he couldn’t get a clear shot.
Then out, toweling, baboom, baboom, slipping into that pretty red swimsuit. Gonna knock ’em dead at the pool, honey. Go get ’em. Why don’t you take that squirmy little dog out there with you?
A little while later, there’d been some even better stuff in 1803.
A twofer: 1803 and 1805.
Not combining their suites. They
could
have if they’d had the keys to the door between them. But rooms wasn’t what they were interested in joining.
They did it in 1803, his room. He stormed in first, slamming the door open. He was mad as hell about something, but not saying a word. Eighteen oh five jawing a mile a minute. “Kurt, honey.” Wayne could read her lips. He could have turned the volume up and heard every word. But he had the audio recorded anyway.
It was a little game Wayne liked to play, watching with the sound turned off, trying to figure it out. He was pretty good at it, usually. Especially when the actors, that’s how he thought of them, actors playing out scenes just for him, were really into it. When they weren’t talking about something dumb, like the stock market.
There was nothing like that on 1805’s mind. No sirree. She was a real tall, pretty woman, nice set hanging out of her little blue bikini top, pleading with 1803, “I didn’t mean it. I was just joking.” She followed him into the bedroom.
Eighteen oh three was playing the tough guy. Quiet. Not a word. The Sly Stallone part. She pulled on his arm. He flung her off and gave her a stiff arm, just to make sure. She landed on the bed. Big boo-hoo. Sly stepped into the head and slammed the door.
Wayne flicked on the bathroom camera, just to make sure. There was nothing happening, except that Sly wasn’t the least bit upset, playacting in the bedroom, checking himself out in the mirror. He got up real close so he could see his pores. Gave himself a big smile. Looked this way and that, right profile, then left. He ran his hand over his jaw, feeling a couple of days’ growth. Winked at himself, deciding to leave it. Then he peeled off his white trunks and headed for the shower. Wayne switched back to the bedroom.
Miss Boo-Hoo had gotten ahold of herself. She was over at the dresser with her big bag, pulling out her makeup. Pat pat, slick, lick. Polishing herself up.
That was the one thing you noticed about these people this week. All of them were good-looking, well, almost all of them, and dead set on staying that way. Wayne could understand the girls, that’s why they were there, but the judges? Go figure. Maybe whatever the girls had, it was catching.
Anyway, Miss Boo-Hoo finished with her lipstick. Checked her teeth. Fluffed up her hair. Adjusted herself in her swimsuit. Got ’em just how she wanted ’em, checked herself out back and front, looked down, picked up 1803’s red judging binder. Flipped through a few pages. Flopped down in a chair to take a closer look.
Wayne zoomed in. He wanted to look too. It wasn’t every day you saw something like this.
Wasn’t this great? He could read every word: Homecoming queen. Graduate nursing school. 23, 5′7″, 117.
Now here came trouble slouching back into the bedroom like Mr. Cool. He was wearing a towel and carrying something in one hand, kind of hidden behind him. Wayne couldn’t quite see it from this angle.
Damn! There was 1801 and that stupid little mutt. Now 1801 was making a phone call. Should he listen in? Nawh. The tape’d get it.
But back to 1803. They were lying across the bed. Hadn’t pulled the covers back. He had her all snuggled up. They were flipping through the red binder.
Look at
that
dog, he was saying. Ahwooooo! Flipped a couple more. Now,
that’s
more like it. Who’s this blonde? Miss New Jersey. She looks a little like you, Cindy Lou. He reached over and gave her boobs a lift. Or like you
used
to.
She swatted him one. She does not!
Then they were fooling around too much for him to read their lips. This could be important. Wayne flipped the volume up.
Sly was still turning pages, looking at girls.
I
like
her, Cindy Lou said, pointing at a titian-haired beauty with big brown eyes. I think she’s got it. I gave her a 10 in the interview.
Sly shook his head. No way.
Old Cindy Lou wasn’t giving up. Listen to me, Kurt, she said. I
know
what I’m talking about. This girl’s got it. She tapped the picture again.
He still wasn’t buying it. Give me a break. The state’s had too many winners. And look at that mole.
Cindy Lou rolled her eyes. It’s a beauty mark. Don’t you know anything? Don’t you know that model Cindy Crawford, Madonna? Beauty marks are
in.
He grabbed her by the arm. Don’t tell me, you stupid twat. Modeling? You’re talking about my business. And you don’t know diddle. I wouldn’t vote for this girl if she were the last piece on earth. You like her? Then
I’m
giving her all ones. Cancel you out. She’ll never make 10.
Cindy Lou pouted. It looked to Wayne like something she had practiced a lot. I don’t think that’s fair, Kurt. And I don’t think that’s any way to talk about a lady. In front of a lady. Especially a lady who made 10 herself.
Kurt almost fell off the bed laughing. Lady? Lady! Then he pounced on her. It didn’t take but about two seconds for that little blue bikini to hit the floor.
Red lights were flashing on the monitors of 1804, 1806, 1807. Everybody was coming home. Forget ’em, thought Wayne. They could shower, get dressed for dinner by themselves. Tape would get ’em. Wayne wasn’t leaving
this
picture show.
Damn. While he looked away, Kurt had already spread-eagled her across the bed, doing it to her. Bam. Bam. She was rolling her head back and forth, saying something. Wayne flipped up the volume some more.
“No, no, no, no. You’re hurting me, Kurt.”
“You don’t know what hurt is, baby. Making a fool of me out there, you sticking your chest in that kid’s face like I wasn’t even there.”
“That was nothing! It was—”
Then he really put it to her. The man was a jackhammer.
“Stop it! Stop it! Let me go!”
“I
told
you I wasn’t in the mood. I
told
you I’m into the room downstairs for 10 big ones—” For emphasis, Kurt slapped her with the back of his hand. Cindy Lou’s head rolled. “—I don’t have. Guy I usually borrow from, I’ve already tapped for two.
He’s
leaning on me. I’m bleeding to death here, Cindy Lou.” He slapped her again. “Dice table’s killing me. I gotta get out of here. And I
don’t
need any more crap from you.”
“It’s not
my
fault. It’s not
my fault
.”
She was screaming at the top of her lungs. Cindy Lou was losing it.
“Yeah, and it’s not my fault that my building back in New York needs a new elevator either, but who’s gonna pay for that?
Somebody’s
got to.”
“But not
me,
Kurt. Not me.”
Kurt was still inside her, still putting it to her, his hands atop her wrists like straps. He leaned his face down real close to hers. “What a disappointment you’ve turned out to be, Miss Ohio. Miss Used-to-Be. Miss Washed-Up.”
That
really
hurt. Cindy Lou started to wail big time, calling Kurt things Wayne had never even heard of. Misogynist? What kind of curse word was that? Mother raper—now, there was one he knew.
That’s when Kurt reached behind him and pulled out the thing Wayne couldn’t see before. A razor strop. Kurt let her have it good a couple of times before she got her bearings, started fighting back.
And she was a
big
girl. Easily as tall as old Kurt. He probably didn’t have 10 pounds on her, if that. And she was pretty broad-shouldered. She was giving it to him good.
Wayne was jumping up and down now, shoveling Cracker Jacks so fast he almost ate his prize. Oh boy oh boy oh boy. Wayne knew he’d done good.
Kurt had said exactly the kind of thing Mr. F wanted to know. Wayne was going to hustle it up to him right then. And now this! The man was absolutely going to
love
this show.