“What the fuck do you want?”
Many derogations, animadversions, and apologies later, she agreed to the elaborate plan he described.
He hung up and went to the window, which faced Park Avenue, and looked carefully up and down the wide boulevard in front of the hotel. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was being followed, but that was probably due to Garza’s making him paranoid. He’d given the taxi driver special directions to make sure no one was following, and he couldn’t imagine that anyone had. So why did he feel like an ant under a magnifying glass?
He called his Pelican case up from the Waldorf baggage storage room, where he had deposited it before going off to Hong Kong. After laying out his kit, he sorted through the disguises and settled for the Death of a Salesman role — a quietly desperate middle-class suburban persona — assembled it, then stepped into it. Examining himself in the floor-length mirror on the closet door, he found it most satisfactory.
He checked his watch. A little after four. Still wearing his disguise, he exited the Waldorf through the back door and made his way east down 51st Street, where he spied Orchid loitering outside the vest-pocket Greenacre Park, as per his instructions.
“Excuse me, miss?” he said, approaching her.
She turned on him and said, in a voice as cutting as dry ice, “Get lost. I’m waiting for someone.”
“Yes, but you see that’s just the point, I am lost…”
She practically spat at him. “Beat it. Now. Or I’ll kick you so hard in the balls I’ll sterilize your whole family.”
Gideon laughed, pleased at the effectiveness of his deception. “It’s me. Gideon. Nice disguise, eh?”
She gasped, leaned closer. “God, that’s worse than before.” She dropped her cigarette and angrily ground it into nothing on the sidewalk. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, calling me up like that after the way you acted.”
“I’m staying at the Waldorf,” he said, hooking her arm and hauling her along the street. “Listen.” He pressed a wad of money into her hand. “I want you to book a room at the Waldorf for Mr. and Mrs. Tell. Go to the room, get into bed, turn off the lights, but leave the door unlocked. I’ll join you in thirty minutes.”
“Listen, you—”
But he released her and peeled off down 51st Street, walked into the Metropolitan Hotel, changed out of his disguise in an upper hallway, exited, then reentered the Waldorf as Gideon Crew. He went to his previous room, changed back into his disguise, showed up at the front desk, introduced himself as a Mr. Tell meeting his wife, moved through the empty corridors to the room Orchid had booked, eased open the door, shut and locked it.
She sat up in bed, the sheet falling partway off her nude body. “I’m not going to take much more of your crap, I can tell you that.”
He sat on the bed, took her face in his hands. “I know I’ve been a jerk, but bear with me just a little longer. Tomorrow we’re going to dress up as Mr. and Mrs. Middle Class and try to enroll our brilliant son in Throckmorton Academy. I guarantee you, it’ll be fun. And there’s some good money in it for you.”
She stared at him. “I don’t like the way you’re treating me. And I’m sure this isn’t more Method acting — that’s bullshit. I want to know what’s really going on.”
“I know you do, but we’ve got to get some sleep now, because we’ve got a big day ahead of us.”
She looked at him askance. “Sleep?” She put her arms around him and drew him down on to the bed. “Get rid of that stupid face paint and I’ll show you what kind of ‘sleep’ we’re going to be getting.”
44
Nodding Crane sat in front of Saint Bartholomew’s Church, strumming his Beard Road-O-Phonic with the case open in front of him, collecting small change. It was nine o’clock in the morning and most of the sidewalk was full of bankers and brokers on their way to work, rushing past without a second glance.
I’m looking funny in my eyes
He plucked the strings, singing in a low, rough voice, a voice he had practiced from years of listening to Bukka White. He felt calm after his near panic earlier that morning, when Crew had almost slipped away from him. That was some trick with the rooms and the sudden appearance of the woman. He had almost been fooled. Almost. If it hadn’t been for Crew’s characteristic loping walk, he would have been fooled.
And I believe I’m fixing to die
Crew had gone off with her, and he had decided not to follow them, knowing that they would return. Nodding Crane had learned long ago that it was dangerous and often counterproductive to obsessively follow your prey. And unnecessary: everyone lived by patterns, by loops and returns; better to learn the patterns and anticipate the returns than follow every useless footstep. The time to follow was when the pattern broke and the prey set off on a new path.
I’m looking funny in my eyes
The suits hustled by, bent on money matters. He began to resent that nobody was dropping money in his guitar case — these masters of the universe were passing him by without even a glance. And then, out of the blue, someone dropped in a twenty.
And I believe I’m fixing to die
That was better. America. What a wonderful country. Too bad it was doomed to fail.
45
Gideon Crew stepped out of the car and looked up at the admissions building of Throckmorton Academy. It loomed before them, a nineteenth-century Romanesque Revival structure of gray granite, rising from perfectly tended shrubbery, flower beds, and clipped lawns. A brass plaque screwed into the wall told them the structure was known as the SWITHIN COTTAGE, following the WASPish self-deprecating habit of calling gigantic and expensive houses “cottages.” It fairly exuded money, privilege, and smug superiority.
“This is really stupid,” said Orchid, standing in the parking lot, tugging down the jacket of her tacky orange pantsuit. “I don’t get it. We look like idiots. They’re going to toss us out on our asses.”
“Perhaps,” said Gideon, clutching a thick folder of papers that had taken him hours of sustained and careful labor to prepare. He smoothed down his checked pants and jacket, adjusted his polyester tie, and headed toward the front door.
“I don’t know why you dressed us like this,” Orchid whispered furiously. “We don’t fit in at all here.”
He took her arm reassuringly. “Just follow my lead. All will become clear, I promise.”
They entered a well-appointed waiting room, and the receptionist looked at them. “May I help you?” The tone was studiously neutral.
“Hello,” said Gideon heartily, approaching and shaking her surprised hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Crew. We’re here to enroll our son Tyler in the school.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes.”
“With whom?”
Gideon liked that whom. Here was someone punctilious with her grammar. He shuffled through his papers. “Mr. Van Rensselaer.” It was one of those old New York names and he mispronounced it badly.
She rose and disappeared into an inner sanctum. A moment later she emerged again. “Mr. Van Rensselaer will see you now,” she said, emphasizing the correct pronunciation.
The admissions officer was exactly as Gideon had hoped: tall, relaxed, friendly, dressed understatedly. The slightly longish hair and modish glasses indicated a man who, if not exactly open-minded, thought of himself as tolerant and moderate.
Perfect.
Van Rensselaer greeted them warmly, his eyes betraying only momentary alarm as he professionally covered up his reaction to their dress and manner.