"That's
the same thing Mr. Reese asked."
"And?"
"No. Not
once Mr. Reese saw the red light flashing on his telephone and listened to the
message." She shrugged. "It automatically erases and starts
over."
I thanked her
and turned around to find Marty Conlan standing right behind me.
"Something I can help you with, Leo?"
Clapping him on
the back, I said, "Thanks anyway, Marty. We're running like a well-oiled machine."
"Yeah,"
he snorted. "Well oiled being the key phrase."
Standing over
by a pair of bellhops and a luggage cart was our boy Lance, his right hand
encased in a white plaster cast the size of a volleyball, his eyes locked on
mine in an open challenge.
"If your
boy doesn't stop looking at me like that, I'm going to wet my pants," I
said as I started back toward my position by the potted palms.
"Look at
him," Marty whined. "What else am I gonna do with his big ass?
Security is supposed to be discreet. Jesus, look at him."
"Paint the
cast with Day-Glo and have him hail cabs." "Very funny."
"I don't
know, man.. Just get him out of here, will ya? He sticks out like a sore
thumb." "Oh, har, har."
George was
waiting for me. "He took off on foot. I sent Red and Mary after him."
At eleven-ten,
the brass doors slid open and Drapeman stepped out.
"That's
one of the Meyerson security guys. His name's Francona."
"Should
I—" he started.
"No, let
him go. He's not going far without the rest of them."
Ten minutes
later, the rest of the Meyerson contingent left in a knot. Hill stepped out of
the elevator first, took a quick inventory and moved aside as Abigail Meyerson
led her brood across the floor. Hill brought up the rear. When I held up two
fingers, George nodded and followed them down.
It wasn't long
before he returned. "Had 'em a big stretch limo with the Francona fella
drivin'. I sent Earlene and Harold in a cab."
"Who's
left outside?"
"Ralphie,
Flounder and Hot Shot."
"The only
ones still upstairs are Jack Del Fuego, his driver and his girlfriend. They've
also got a limo in the garage. I don't see them splitting up much. We'll send
Flounder and Hot Shot after them. We'll keep Ralph around here in case
something comes up."
I walked over
to the concierge and arranged for Frank and Judy to be able to charge food to
my room. Then I went over to their table.
"You guys
go downstairs and have some lunch. George and I will take care of things
here."
They didn't
take a lot of convincing.
Forty minutes
later, they reappeared looking fat, sassy and, unless I was mistaken,
completely looped.
"My
mistake," I said to George as they slithered back to their table.
"From now on, it's room service."
"They're
all right," George assured me.
Jack came off
the elevator first. I checked my watch. Twelve-twenty, just like Rickey Ray had
predicted. Today's suit was four acres of baby blue over the same type of
ruffled tuxedo shirt he'd been wearing yesterday. Rickey Ray and Candace
trailed along behind him as he bounced across the lobby.
"Del Fuego,"
I whispered to George. "The girlfriend, the bodyguard."
George's eyes
were locked on Rickey Ray. "Jesus Christ, Leo, what happened to his
face?" "Car accident, I think."
"Jesus,"
he repeated as he started after them. "Bring Ralph back in with you."
I stood and
watched George glide down to the ground level.
I walked over
to Frank and Judy. "You guys okay?" I inquired.
"Okay,
shit, Leo. We're fantabulous," Judy slurred.
"Marvelous,"
Frank agreed with a bleary-eyed leer.
"I'm going
to take George and Ralph upstairs and get them some lunch. You two think you
can handle things for an hour or so?"
"Fantabulous,"
Judy said again.
"You
remember what everybody looks like?"
"Sure,"
they said in unison.
"So tell
me," I insisted.
And, by God,
they did. They ran down all the players in elaborate detail. Judy even included
several trenchant comments on what she called Dixie's May-December
relationship. I was pleasantly surprised.
"It's in
the bag," Frank assured me.
"That
makes three of you," George said from over my shoulder, his voice dripping
with envy. Ralph stepped in closer, hoping to soak up some of their fumes.
"Come
on," I said, walking toward the elevators. "Lefs get you boys a
little lunch."
I pushed the
button for nine.
"I'm going
up to see the client," I announced. "You guys have keys. There's a
room-service menu in the drawer under the phone. Order whatever you want."
I made sure I had eye contact. "Don't get shitfaced, okay? I need you
guys."
"Just a
phlegm cutter," George promised.
As I watched
them hustle down the corridor toward the room, I made a mental note to call
room service and arrange for no more alcohol to be charged to the account. I
then fished the security key out of my pocket, slid it into the slot in the
elevator wall, moved it one half-turn to the right and pushed sixteen. Up, up
and away.
Rowcliffe
opened the door. "Ah, Mr. Waterman, won't you come in, please," he
said as he stepped behind the door. He led me through the elaborate sitting
room, into the master bedroom.
Sir Geoffrey
was more or less where I'd left him. In bed. The burgundy silk sheets were now
slate-gray silk sheets and he was reading instead of eating, but otherwise,
everything was pretty much the same.
He folded The
Western Canon, by Harold Bloom, across his middle and looked out over his
half-glasses at me.
"Ah, Mr.
Waterman," he said, using his left hand to prop the book. "Have you
had the pleasure of reading Mr. Bloom?" he inquired.
When I allowed
how I hadn't, he let the book fall.
"A
pity," he said. "A most ambitious work. Unless I'm mistaken, Mr.
Bloom makes quite a credible argument against any and all ideology in literary
criticism. These days, a most unpopular notion, you know. Pluralism and all
that." He made that shooing movement with his fingers again. "And, of
course, his assertion regarding the loss of aesthetic and artistic standards is
obvious to all but the most purblind supporters of this wave of multicultural
jingoism." He said "multicultural" like he was saying
"stool sample."
I kept in mind
that this was the same guy who'd said that I was a PI of some renown, that
money was no object and that the ten thousand bucks was just to get the
operation off the ground. The rest was easy.
"Everybody
is out for the day," I said.
"Report,"
was all he said, so I did.
I gave him the
whole thing. Who left, how, and when.
When I
finished, he said. 'This evening should be easier."
"Are most
of them going to the opening ceremonies?"
"All of
them. Senor Alomar assures me that Mr. Reese and both contingents have
reservations at the banquet."
"Which
starts when?" "At nine."
He was right,
which was good. Once the quarry was back in the coop this afternoon, I could
let most of the crew go. This was ideal, because they tended to get drunker and
less responsible as the day went on. That way they'd have plenty of time to get
hammered, sober up and get back here in the morning. Timing is everything.
Sir Geoffrey
Miles picked up his book, adjusted his glasses and began to read. Years of
tiaining has taught me that when people begin reading in your presence, it's
probably time to go, so I headed out. "Bravo," Sir Geoffrey said to
the book as I cleared the doorway.
Rowcliffe
miraculously appeared at my side. The guy was scary.
George and
Ralph were at the far end of the room, mauling their room-service order. George
had removed his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves. Ralph had shucked off his
jacket and tucked a hand towel into his shirt as a bib. In a touching display
of responsibility, they'd ordered just one six-pack between them. A Les Schwab
tire commercial blared from the TV. Ralph, his mouth stuffed with cheeseburger,
waved a bottle opener at the screen. "Bel Fuero," he gargled.
"What about him?"
He chewed hard
and tried to swallow. No go. "Ob tb."
"He was on
TV?"
He nodded and
lifted two of the Heinekens out of the silver ice bucket. He opened one and
took a long pull. I watched a ball of food the size of a gopher move down his
throat and disappear.
George was bent
low over the table, a plate in one hand and a domed silver cover in the other,
his nose working like a bloodhound's. As he sniffed, his scalp reddened between
the rows of his pure white hair. He put the cover down and pointed at the
plate.
"Who
yakked on my fish?" he demanded.
"That's
pesto/' said Ralph, opening another beer. "You know, basil and olive oil
and stuff like—"
George pointed
with the sterling fork. "Hey, I want to hear from you, Drunken Hines, I'll
let you know."
It was not
surprising that George was getting a bit testy. He had, after all, been up
working since eight A.M. and was still sober at one-thirty in the afternoon, a
happenstance of such profound rarity as to rival the millennial appearance of
certain comets. He grabbed the dripping bottle from -Ralph and downed it in a
single gulp.
"Aaah,"
he murmured enthusiastically.
"And lots
of garlic," Ralph added.
George looked
disgustedly my way. "Like I'm gonna be takin' my culinary advice from Mr.
Mighty Dog here, right?"
Ralph's grin
grew wider. "And sometimes pine nuts, too."
"You hear
tins, Leo? The proud inventor of the Little Friskies Burrito is lookin' to
trade recipes with me. Pine nuts, my ass," he muttered. "Can you
believe that? Pine nuts."
"You don't
want it?" Ralph asked, reaching for the salmon.
George quickly
pulled the plate back. "I didn't say I wasn't gonna eat it, man. I just
wanted to know what that green stuff was." He peered at it again.
"Kinda looks like those little piles Flounder used to leave all over the
place."
"Remember
that time?" Ralph asked.
George leered.
"The teapot."
"And Jimmy
Young just added water."
"Said it
had an earthy flavor."
They shared a
touching moment of remembrance.
Ralph stuffed
the other half of the cheeseburger in his mouth and chewed contentedly;
suddenly his eyes grew wide.
"Bere
bere." He pointed.
It wasn't Jack
himself. It was that picture of Jack and Bunky from today's Post Intelligencer,
blown up into a life-sized cardboard cutout. It was Monday. It was Afternoon
Northwest with Lola King. Jesus.
Lola King was
our homegrown afternoon slime queen. Has your mom been giving it up to sailors?
Tune in today. Got gay grandparents into bondage? Next Monday. Women who love
men who love mastiffs? Check your local listings. Lola was a champion of the
public's right to know . . . whether they wanted to or not.
She was a
boilerplate blonde with a bony, washboard breastbone which, for some reason,
she had always been determined to share with the universe. She'd been on local
TV for all of my adult life, and during that time nearly everything she had
worn had pointedly emphasized this remarkably barren and ever-expanding part of
her anatomy. The annual expansion of chest acreage had, over the years, spawned
wide speculation, including omnipresent whispers that she was actually a he.
L-O-L-A Lola.
Bruce Gill, a guy
I know at KOMO-TV, claims that, because she received a number of unflattering
letters regarding her drooping cleavage back in the late seventies, she now
tucks her tits under her arms while she's on the air, a notion which I choose
to offhandedly dismiss, since the image of her winking out from behind is more
than my tortured psyche can bear.
She held the
mike in one hand while she patted Bunky's massive cardboard rump with the
other. "For those of you just joining us, we are here today and for the
rest of this week on a special mission of mercy." She then stepped to the
right and threw her free arm around Bunky's neck. "We are here on a
mission of mercy, a mission to save a life, a mission to save a heart,"
she intoned.
Without
warning, she slid down to the far end of the cutout.
"Yes,
heart, Mr. Del Fuego." The camera panned Jack's demonic countenance while
.Lola continued the narration.
"But you
wouldn't know anything about hearts, would you, now, Mr. Jack Del Fuego, because
you don't have one, do you? At least not in the sense that the rest of us have
a heart."