Boldt (13 page)

“That wouldn't worry me any,” I tell him. “Draper can have my badge any day he wants and he knows it. He knows I don't give a shit and that's what sticks in his throat: there's nothing bad enough he can do to me; he knows I'd stuff my badge right down as far as his shoes.”

“I know,” Murdock says. “That's one area where I envy you like where I have to work my time because of my situation, you've got nothing anchoring you; where I sway with the breeze, you, you could blow your nose on Draper's tie and enjoy the memory of it.”

“Hey, bartender,” I call, “two more, will you. Yeah, you're damned right; I'm in a good position. I don't have to take any crap from Draper. That's why I don't give a fuck about seeing Pete Foley or running Styles out of town or—”

“Or finding who's out to get your brother,” Murdock says.

“George,” I say to him, “I know I got a couple of drinks inside me, but I still get the general aim of remarks like that one, you understand?”

“Okay,” Murdock says. “I didn't mean anything. It just seems even though you...”

“You know nothing about it, George, and you never will. I'm the only guy who's an expert on that subject, okay?”

The bartender brings two more drinks and we sit there in silence for a while. Eventually George says, “Where's Pete most likely to be tonight?”

I shrug.

“That bastard could be anywhere. What we could do is go to a few places and ask around if he isn't there. What do you say to that, George? How does that plan grab you?”

“That's fine with me,” Murdock says, draining his glass. “Why don't we do that?”

I smile to myself and reach for my glass and that is how we spend the rest of the night, going around places, looking for Pete Foley. But on this particular night, it transpires that Pete is nowhere to be found, and it takes about a dozen places and four or five hours and various drinks to come to that conclusion. And by that time, I also conclude by default that it's time for me to go home. On the way back, it comes over the car radio that a couple of kids have tried holding up a liquor store and got away with around four hundred dollars, having shot and killed the owner's wife in the process, but we keep on heading for my apartment because that little event is no concern to Murdock and me.

At least, that's where I thought we were heading, back to my apartment. But when I open my eyes to the morning light, I find I'm staring at a different ceiling from the one in my own place, a ceiling all bright and fresh painted. As my eyes are taking in this surprising aspect, I become aware that the sounds of the morning are wrong, too; they're different from the ones I usually take for granted. I jerk myself upright and look around at my surroundings and I'm in a very nice, very spacious, very sunny double bedroom and the first thing I realize is that the paintwork is the same color as the paintwork in the Plaza Suite.

I look across at the other bed and it's been slept in. While I'm taking that in, the headache that's been waiting in the wings of my temples swoops into the center of my forehead and rocks me back, so I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand up, working on the assumption that if I move about I might shake the headache back where it came from. This, of course, is sheer optimism on my part because the headache hammers away even harder while I'm standing by the bed. I move away from the side of the bed and as I do that I notice my suit and shirt, neatly laid out on the back of a chair over by the window. So I go over to the chair and pick up my pants and put them on and go over to the bedroom door and open it and I'm presented with the sight of a spacious reception room. In the center of this, George Murdock is sitting on a divan in front of him a low table, and on the table is a breakfast tray with eggs, bacon, toast, coffee, everything, and George is totally absorbed in working his way through what's on the tray, a napkin tucked neatly in his collar.

I stand in the doorway for a moment or two and if Murdock knows I'm there he doesn't make any sign; he just carries on with his work, so eventually I say to him, “Nice looking breakfast, George. At least, from what you have on your chin, it looks nice.”

Murdock doesn't look up as he fills his mouth with some more eggs and bacon.

“Right,” he says. “You'd also have liked the room service that brought it if you'd been awake.”

“What makes you think I'm awake?” I ask him.

“By the way,” Murdock says, “I meant to tell you the booze is over there.”

“You could have let me find it myself,” I tell him. “You could have left me that.”

Murdock grins and I go over to where the drinks are and pour some vodka into a glass; then I go over to the table where Murdock's eating, pick up a jug of fresh orange juice and fill up my glass. Murdock goes to work on his toast and I go over to the window and look out on the shining morn, thinking of the night before, the way I can't get the images of the girl Lesley out of my mind's eye, the memory of the defeat from my thoughts, and, most of all, how I'd like to go right on back up there and set the record straight. While I'm thinking that, Murdock pours himself some coffee then sits back and wipes his mouth with his napkin.

“Well,” he says, “like they always say, start the day right and it stays right.”

“Yeah,” I agree, and take another drink of my vodka.

“We going in to see Draper?” Murdock asks.

“Why should we?” I tell him. “When we've got something to tell him, we'll go in and see him.”

“So what then?”

“Like yesterday, we carry on sniffing the way Draper wants us to do. What else can we do?”

“We can't do anything else.”

“Right,” I tell him. “But first, I'm going to take advantage of this set-up I kindly dropped you into. Where's the bathroom?”

“Right ahead of you.”

“You got a clean shirt I could have, George?”

“In the closet in the bedroom.”

“Fine.”

In the bathroom I fill the tub and get in and I can't get out of my head the picture of the empty sunken bath up in Lesley's suite, the green water undulating very slightly, waiting. And then my exit and the words she spoke before I left.

After I'm dry and half-dressed, I go back into the room where Murdock is, and he's standing by the door wearing his hat and coat.

“I'm going to get a paper and a pack of cigarettes. I'll wait in the lobby.”

I nod and Murdock goes out. I carry on back toward the bathroom and as I cross the carpet there's another small table on which there's a telephone. I stop and pick up the receiver and wait until I get the switchboard and then I ask to be put through to the Plaza Suite. When the receiver at the other end is lifted, I hear her voice before she puts her mouth close to the phone and she's talking in a happy fashion to somebody who's in the room with her. The way she's talking it can only be the guy she's been telling me about so when she finally says “Hello” I put the receiver down. I carry on back to the bedroom and find Murdock's shirt and his electric shaver and when I'm shaved and fully dressed, I phone room service and order some scrambled eggs and fresh coffee. While I'm waiting for that to arrive, I pour another drink and try not to think of the evening before.

When I've had breakfast, I go downstairs and find Murdock in the lobby sitting on one of the divans smoking, his unopened newspaper beside him, and when I get out of the elevator, he watches me walk all the way over to where he's sitting. When I get there I don't bother to sit down.

“Okay?” I say to him.

“You better sit down,” he tells me.

“Why?”

“Sit down and I'll tell you.”

I sit down.

“Styles is here,” Murdock says.

I look at him.

“In this hotel,” Murdock says. “He checked in ten minutes ago. A whole flock of suitcases.”

I light a cigarette and when I've done that I say to Murdock, “You sure about this?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. But if you don't think I'm sure—”

“Okay, you're sure.”

Neither of us says anything for a minute or two.

“So,” I say eventually, “Styles is here, in this hotel, but why should we care about that? We knew he was coming to town and he had to stay somewhere so he stays here. He's not exactly coming in by the back door, is he? What did he register under?”

“His own name.”

“So he can't be here on business, can he? Styles is protected, sure, but even he doesn't advertise any more than he has to.”

Murdock doesn't answer.

“Well, come on George, what do you think?”

“I don't know what I think,” Murdock says. “All I think is Styles being in town, it stinks. He doesn't come to a town like this to see the sights.”

I'm just about to remind him that, in any case, it doesn't matter a fuck to us because all we have to do is pass it on when Murdock raises his hand slightly and says, “The hit man cometh.”

I hear the elevator doors open but I don't turn my head. Murdock shakes another cigarette from his pack and I wait for Styles to pass by, aware of his approach, but crazily this is not uppermost in my mind. My senses are being disturbed by a different presence that makes itself felt in concert with Style's passing, and that presence is cloaked in the perfume I've been trying to forget ever since I woke up. As Styles goes past us I look up, and holding on to his arm is Lesley, pressing as close to him as she can and still keep on walking. I watch them all the way over to the glass doors. The guy in the livery steps forward and opens a door for them but only Styles is going out because the two of them stop and Lesley kisses Styles on the cheek, squeezing the arm she's hanging on to as though there's never going to be a next time. And while that's happening, I notice that Styles, with his free hand, is carrying a bunch of gaily wrapped parcels all strung together. Then Lesley finally lets go of the arm and Styles goes through the door saying something to the liveried guy that makes the liveried guy stick his arm up for a cab. Lesley turns away and begins to walk back toward the elevator which means passing me again. This time I'm on my feet but as she approaches me, she looks into my face as if she's never seen me before, a frightening blankness in her eyes. She can either stop or go around me and as she starts to go around me, I say to her, “So that's Mr. Wonderful.”

She stops and looks at me.

“That's right,” she says. “Now you can see why there's no comparison.”

Then she carries on toward the elevator. Murdock stands up. “What the hell is going on?”

I don't answer him. I just watch the elevator doors close on Lesley.

“What are you trying to do?” Murdock asks.

“Nothing,” I tell him. “Come on, let's go and tell Draper that Styles is here then for Christ's sake maybe we won't have to think about the fuck anymore, okay?”

Murdock just looks at me and says nothing. I turn away and walk over to the glass doors, Murdock following and the guy in the livery does his work.

On the way over to the building Murdock and me don't say anything; in fact, the only words we say before we see Draper is when we're in the elevator when I ask Murdock to give me a cigarette.

Draper, as usual, appears as though he's just about to host a T.V. show; his shirt looks like it's just been broken out of its cellophane, his suit like he just had it sent over from the tailor's. He's sitting behind the clear expanse of his desk as if the neatness of the desk top and the elegance of his pose are sufficient to justify his existence.

“Well now,” he says when the two of us go through the door, “could this mean good news or could it mean bad?”

“Depends on your point of view,” I tell him.

“And what's your point of view?” Draper says.

“I haven't got one. The information we have's got nothing to do with our detail.”

“Well?”

“I don't know whether or not you already know, but Albert Styles is paying a visit to our fair city.”

Draper stares at me, his face expressionless. He doesn't speak for a while and then he says, “When did you find out?”

“A half hour ago, maybe.”

Draper leans back in his seat.

“And this has got nothing to do with your investigation?” he queries.

“Oh, sure,” I tell him. “He sends us a note and then he books a suite in the second biggest hotel in the city.”

Draper gets up out of his seat, comes around to my side of the desk and stands a foot or so in front of me.

“Jesus Christ,” he says. “I thought you were supposed to be a cop.”

I let that one pass.

“I suppose it occurred to you that maybe the note has got nothing to do with Styles, that maybe he could be contracted to some group that wants your brother out of politics for good, that the fucking note is from a different source, and that Styles isn't lying low because he doesn't have to, not until after the hit. Christ, nobody's got anything on Styles, and he's the kind of guy that likes rubbing noses in that fact. And he's such a pro that it gives him a great deal of pleasure to walk in and out of a place without anything sticking to him.”

“Yeah, and his specialty is whacking politicians,” I drawl.

“Listen,” Draper says. “You got to take this seriously. If Styles is here we've got to look after him. Christ, if he's here to make a hit and it's your fuck of a brother, then it'd be really great for all of us, wouldn't it?”

“He's here to see his wife and kid, that's why he's here.”

I feel Murdock take an interest in what I've just said and Draper says, “What are you talking about?”

“Styles has a wife and kid. Or as least had a wife. He's separated. She lives in this city. Even hit men get married and get separated, love their kids. It's his time to see his kid. That's why he's here.”