He opened his camera case, got the Colt automatic but didn’t stick it in his pants till he was out of the car. Nice evening. Morning now. Should he lock the doors? No-what if he had to leave in a hurry? Should he have the motor running then? No-what if somebody stole the car while he was in there? There was a lot to think about in a deal like this; you didn’t just walk in and shoot somebody. He smoothed down his suede jacket over his gun and approached the hotel. The bar looked busy. He entered the lobby. Nobody around. And you couldn’t see into the bar from here, there was a partition.
Up to this point he believed he was going to knock on the cop’s door, say “Bellboy,” if he had to and stick the .38 in the cop’s face when he opened the door. Not foolproof at all. What was he delivering, flowers? A message that could be stuck under the door?
But wait just a minute here-looking around the empty lobby, looking at the desk and the room mailboxes behind it, nobody anywhere around. There you go. Teddy got a key to 310 and headed for the stairs.
A light, over the parking lot across the street, showed the window, the wall where the dresser stood; it revealed the foot of the bed, the spread hanging off, and reached almost to the door. In the silence she kissed his chest, came to his beard and whispered, “Where’s your mouth? There it is, right… there.” Whispering, “I love your mouth. I can kiss your mouth, Vincent, and know it’s you.” Whispering, “You lied to me, Vincent, but it’s all right. I still love your mouth.”
“When did I lie to you?”
“You don’t have a violent nature. You have a nice one. But that’s all I know about you.”
“I’m rich. You know that much.”
“That’s right, I forgot.”
“I’m conservative.”
“I might’ve been wrong.” She said, “I won’t ask if you’re married.”
“Okay.”
“Are you married?”
“I was… My wife died.”
She said, “Oh,” and was silent.
He told her he was here now, right here, nowhere else. Touching her, aware of an intense feeling of tenderness, he believed he was falling in love-not unlike the way he had fallen in love with Ginny, the nurse who removed his catheter. He told Linda he had never made love to a piano player before.
She said, good, and moved her hand over his shoulder, his chest, fingers moving lightly over his ribs, feeling each one, down to his hip, feeling him, finding out things about him, touching smooth scar tissue. Whispering, “I could play you, Vincent. Very slow… funky… bluesy. Stretch the note till you think it’s going to break… Stretch it some more.” Whispering, as her hand moved to his groin, “Ah, there it is, my instrument.”
“Play it,” Vincent said, “you’ll get a standing ovation.”
“What would you like to hear?”
He didn’t answer. She seemed to feel his body tense slightly and raised her head. His finger, one finger, came to her mouth and touched it. They moved apart. She watched him roll to his stomach and reach over the side of the bed to the floor. His hand came up holding a gun, then went down and came up again, his white jockey briefs hanging from the barrel.
Teddy’s hand came away from the door to 310. He’d turned the knob both ways as quietly as he could, checking; it was locked. As he got the key out of his jacket he realized it was going to take two hands: insert the key with one, turn the knob with the other. Shit-he had to stick his gun in his belt. He looked down the length of the hall toward the stairs, a long haul if you had to get there in a hurry. Then the other way, about thirty feet to the dead end of the hall and the EXIT sign lit up over the door to the back stairs.
He wished he knew which way to turn the key. He wished he knew if there was a second lock inside, a deadbolt, the kind you set at night. Would a cop use it? He didn’t even know if the cop had a gun or not.
The palms of his hands were moist. Well sure. He’d knock on a door and say he was with International Surveys and his palms would be like this. It was part of it, always a little scary.
Teddy slipped the key into the lock, turned it easily with just a tiny click of a sound. He put his other hand on the knob. Okay, he’d open the door just barely, pull his Colt, bang in there… In this moment, right in front of him, so close, he heard the deadbolt released and felt the knob turn in his hand-turned by somebody right there on the other side of the door-Christ, and felt goosebumps as he jumped back, brought up the Colt with his arm extended straight out…
The way Linda saw it, from the offside of the bed, where Vincent had motioned her to get over there and get down:
She saw him in his undershorts with the gun held close to his shoulder, jockeys snug and compact against dark skin, a white band below his hips, sexy, really nice buns. It amazed her to think that, the way her heart was beating. He stood against the wall next to the door, reached over to slip the deadbolt, took the knob in his hand to yank the door open… God, and the sound was deafening, the gunshots, three in quick succession and the sound of glass breaking as the window shattered. There was an aftersound in the silence, a ringing in her ears, and she was aware of running steps in the hall and a door banging. Vincent moved into the doorway, careful rather than hesitant, the way he looked out. She heard his steps then, lighter, barefoot. By the time Linda got to the doorway and took a look, Vincent was at the end of the hall. He pushed open the EXIT door very carefully, paused to listen a moment and was gone. She looked down the hall in the other direction. It was quiet. Not a sound, not a single door opened.
Linda came back in the room, put on her coat and hugged it to her, shivering, telling herself there was nothing to be afraid of. But it was so quiet now. She stood close to the broken window to look down at the street, the light reflecting on wet pavement.
A car door slammed shut. An engine came to life, its revs increasing to a high whine, a sound of panic, and now a light-colored two-door appeared out of the dark end of the street, lights off, and shot past the hotel toward Pacific Avenue. She saw Vincent now, Vincent without a doubt: a figure in the street light in white skivvies, holding something in his hand, extending his arm… Then lowered it as the sound of the car faded. He walked toward the hotel. A much darker figure appeared, a man who had come out of the hotel. The man stood waiting, watched Vincent approach and spoke to him as he walked past. Vincent, coming toward the entrance now, looked back to say something, then was out of view.
Linda got back in bed, pulled the covers up against the chill in the room and watched the crack of light along the edge of the partly open door. She tried to guess what he would do. Phone someone, the police. Get dressed. Pack his bag…
He came in and got in bed with her making sounds to let her know he was cold, shivering, making his teeth chatter, overdoing it. She pressed her body against his, a leg between his legs and moved her hand over him. He was cold, his nipple hard, but he felt good. She knew his body in one night, the familiar parts. She wanted to ask him questions. She heard his voice low, close to her:
“A drunk comes out of the hotel, he sees this guy in his underwear with a gun. What does he say?”
She said, “Wait, let me think.” But she couldn’t wait and she couldn’t think. She said, “Quit trying to be cool. Who was it? Did you see him?”