Slow Burn

I never meant
to break his thumb. All I wanted was a ride in the elevator. The burnished
Brass doors were no more than ten feet away when I was gently nudged toward the
right.

"Pardon me
..." I began.

He was a big
beefy kid with a flattop, smelling of scented soap and Aramis. He kept pushing,
his blue blazer now locked on my elbow, his big chest bending my path steadily
toward the right, toward the stairs, away from the elevators.

I planted my
right foot and swung back, only to find myself nose to nose with another one.
African-American, this time; otherwise, same blazer, same size, same grimace.

"What's
the problem, fellas?"

"No problem,"
said Flattop. "You just come along with us."

I stood my
ground. "What for?" I said with a smile.

He reached out
and locked a big hand onto my upper arm, squeezing like a vise, sending a dull
ache all the way to my fingertips. His hard little eyes searched my face for
pain. "Listen, Mr. Private Dick . . ." he sneered. "You just
..."

I took a slide
step to the right, putting Flattop between me and his partner, jerked my arm
free, grabbed his thumb with one hand, his wrist with the other, and commenced
introductions. Something snapped like a Popsicle stick. His mouth formed a
silent circle. When I let go, he reeled backward, stumbling hard into his buddy
as he danced in circles, gasping for air and staring at his hand.

"Whoa,
whoa," his partner chanted.

"You want
some, too?"

He reached for
the inside pocket of his blazer. I froze. He flipped open a black leather case.
His picture over the name Lincoln Aimes.

"Hotel
security," he said quickly.

Flattop was
still turning in small circles, eyes screwed shut, cradling his damaged hand,
whistling "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" through his nose.

I shrugged.
"All you had to do was say so, fellas."

He rolled his
eyes in the direction of his partner. "Lance wanted to," he said with
a sigh. "You know, he—"

His explanation
was interrupted by a familiar voice rising from behind me.

"And What’s
this?"

Marty Conlan
had put in his twenty-five years with SPD and then gotten himself a steady job.
He'd been the security chief for The Olympic Star Hotel for the better part of
ten years now. Other than having an ass that was cinched up tighter than a
frog's, he wasn't a half-bad guy. "These belong to you, Marty?"

He ignored me,
glowering instead at the twirling Lance.

"Did he
attack you?"

I don't think
Lance heard the question. He was otherwise occupied, making noises like a
suckling pig and hopping about like a weevil.

Conlan turned
his attention to Lincoln Aimes. "Well? Did he?"

Aimes thought
it over. "Not exactly," he said. "Did you identify
yourselves?"

"Not
exactly," Aimes repeated. "I thought I told you two—"

This time,
Aimes interrupted. "Lance wanted to ..." he began.

Conlan waved
him off, checking the lobby, whispering now. 'Jesus Christ. Take him down to
the staff room. Call him a doctor. I'll be down as soon as I can."

We stood in
silence as the pair made their way around us, heading down the hall in the
opposite direction from which they'd been trying to move me. "All they had
to do was identify themselves," I said.

"Yeah,
Leo. I know. You're famous for being the kind of guy who comes along
quietly." He heaved a sigh. "Come on up to the office for a few
minutes, will ya? We need to talk."

I checked my
watch. Five minutes to ten. "I've got a meeting at ten."

"I
know," he said, turning away. "That's why we need to talk."

I followed him
up the carpeted stairs to the mezzanine and then around to the security office.
Security consisted of two rooms. The first was filled with a U-shaped bank of
TV monitors which nearly covered the room from floor to ceiling. Maybe a dozen
in all. The cameras covering the entrances were left on all the time. The
others, which monitored selective areas of the hotel, could be used on demand.

Another kid in
a blue blazer stared at the screens as we entered the room. He had a wide
mouth, large liquid eyes and absolutely no neck. His blue-and-red-striped tie
seemed to be pulled tight, just beneath his ears. He looked like Stimpy. He
started to open his mouth, but closed it with a click when he saw me.

Marty pallsed
to speak. "Call Frank Cooney," he said. 'Tell him we need him down
here for the week."

"Frank's
off this week, Mr. Conlan. He and the missus are gonna—"

Marty cut him
off. "Tell him it's an emergency." He threw me a glance. 'Tell him
Lance had an accident and is going to be laid up for a while." Stimpy
still hadn't moved. A mouth breather. I pictured him red with a blue nose and
inwardly smiled.

"Call
him," Conlan bellowed.

As the kid dove
for the phone, Conlan pushed his hands deep into his pockets and kicked open
the door at the back of the room. I followed him through, into his office.

Marty made his
way around to the back side of the polished oak table that served as his desk
and wearily plopped himself down into his black leather chair. "Have a
seat," he said.

I stood in the
center of the room and checked my watch. Two minutes to. "I have an
appointment upstairs," I said. "Room sixteen hundred." "If
you say so."

The smile
evaporated. "What is it with you, Leo? Always the hard guy. Always making
a pain in the ass of yourself."

"Color me
with a crabby crayon, Marty, but I don't like being strong-armed by amateurs.
You know what I mean? If s not good for my image. So either get to the point,
or I'll be on my way."

He quickly
stood and pointed a manicured finger at me.

"Listen,
Leo, I don't have to let you in here at all. You know that, don't you? This is
private property. I can have you removed."

"You'll
need a lot better help."

A film fell
over his eyes. "The corporation won't pay for it," he blurted.
"By the time I get 'em house-trained, they're outta here. The suits just
don't get it. You can make as much in a frigging Burger King as they pay these
kids. All they do is bust my ass about the high turnover."

I gestured at
the well-appointed office, with its plush carpet, gilded mirror, real wood panelling
and awesome collection of framed photographs and certificates.

"Beats the
hell out of a squad room," I offered.

"Some
days," he said. "Other days . . ."

I seemed to
have found a sore spot.

"They're
bouncers with Brylcreem," he lamented.

I was tempted
to point out that it was more likely mousse and that the Brylcreem reference
seriously dated him, but this didn't seem like the best time. I settled for:
"I guess that’s how come you're making the big bucks, Marty," an
utterance which earned me only a short porcine snort.

He rolled his
eyes toward the ceiling and pointed at the wall behind me. I knew what it was,
but I craned my neck anyway.

There, lovingly
framed and mounted on the wall, was the infamous UPI photograph of the ten
lousy seconds which, much to my chagrin, seemed destined to serve as my
solitary contribution to local popular culture. Marty was rolling.

"And here
I am, spilling my guts to the bozo whose actions constitute the single most
embarrassing moment in the history of this chain of forty-nine hotels. How's
that?" he demanded of the ceiling.

In the photo, I
stood, up to my knees, in the fountain at the hotel's main entrance, my hair
flopped down over my right eye and plastered to my head, my pants seriously
sagging. That was bad enough. It was, however, the two nearly naked hookers to
whom all eyes were inevitably drawn.

"They use
that frigging picture at training seminars. If s been in all the industry
journals. We're a laughingstock. You know that?"

I reckoned how
I might have heard such a rumor.

The irony was
that I hadn't even been in the hotel that evening. I'd been on my way to meet
Rebecca for a couple of quick drinks and an even quicker appearance at a
mayoral fund-raiser, when my progress across the driveway was blocked by a
white stretch limo which jerked to a halt inches in front of my toes. I heaved
a sigh and started the four-mile hike around the rear of the car.

At first I
thought somebody had popped a flashbulb inside the limo, as the interior was
suddenly^ filled with a bright blue-green light. The violent rocking of the car
and the four-part choral screaming suggested otherwise, however.