Jimmy’s is focused. Frank’s is shapeless, directionless, and dangerous.
She gets through to his voicemail, but doesn’t leave a message.
Where did he say he was staying again? The Bromley? That’s a huge pile down on Seventh Avenue, midtown somewhere. She looks up the number.
He’s still registered at the hotel, but there’s no answer from his room.
When she gets off the phone, Ellen paces back and forth for a while, going from the window to the desk, then from the desk back to the window.
But enough.
She grabs her jacket and keys, and heads out. She flags down a cab on Columbus Avenue and within fifteen minutes is walking into the lobby of the Bromley Hotel. There is a large group of tourists, along with all of their luggage, gathered in front of a fountain in the center of it. Two of their party are at the desk engaged in some sort of negotiation, or argument even, with an attractive young receptionist in uniform. Standing behind the receptionist, also in uniform, is a slightly older guy, late thirties maybe, who seems to be observing the scene, but not participating. Ellen catches this guy’s eye and indicates to him that she wants to talk. He silently leaves his colleague and moves along the desk, past a fake marble pillar, to a quieter section at the end.
“Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to the Bromley. How may I help you today?”
“Hi, I need to speak to a guest. A Mr. Frank Bishop. I don’t know his room number.”
The receptionist smiles, does a few strokes on his keyboard, and then reaches for a phone.
Ellen knows there probably won’t be an answer, but she waits anyway.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid that Mr. Bish-”
“Yeah, I figured,” she says, interrupting him. She glances left and right, then leans in slightly. “You see, I, er… I think there might be a problem here.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Ellen lays it on fairly thick. She’s concerned about her ex-husband. Hasn’t been heard from in days. May have stopped taking his meds. The name Bishop has been hard to avoid recently, but she’s hoping, gambling on it, that the receptionist doesn’t make the connection.
He looks concerned, even slightly alarmed. He works his keyboard a little more, then makes another discreet call, turning away and speaking in a whisper. He looks back at Ellen. “Hhmm. Housekeeping hasn’t been into Mr. Bishop’s room since Friday.” He taps his fingers on the desk. “That’s not necessarily unusual, of course-”
“I know, but…” Before he starts talking about strict protocols and informing his superiors, Ellen decides to go for broke. She glances at his name tag. “Look, Luis, all I want to know is that poor Frank isn’t lying there in the bathtub with his wrists all slit open and blood everywhere, okay?”
Luis winces, and his eyes widen, but he’s still wavering.
Ellen shrugs. “How about this? I’ll give you fifty dollars. All you have to do is open the door and look in. I don’t even have to be there. I just want to know that he’s okay.”
Luis looks around. Then he looks back at Ellen and nods. Despite what she said about not having to be there, Ellen follows Luis, and he doesn’t seem to object. They take the elevator in silence. As they walk along the corridor to Frank’s room they pass an elderly Japanese couple.
At the door, which has a DO NOT DISTURB sign on it, Luis clears his throat. Then he raps on the door and says, “Management.” He does this twice more, and when there is no response he takes out a card key, and without looking back at Ellen or referring to her in any way he opens the door, steps in, and flicks on a light.
Ellen steps in behind him.
The room is a mess, but a weird mess. There are books and magazines strewn everywhere. The air is heavy, the bed is unmade, and there are some clothes lying around… but it’s mainly the books and magazines that catch the eye.
“Holy shit.”
Ellen looks up. Luis is staring at the wall-mounted plasma TV screen, which is blank but has a long crack, or gash, in it. On the floor in front of it, there is an empty vodka bottle, also cracked.
Suddenly remembering why he’s here, Luis rushes over to the bathroom, pushes the door open, and reaches for the light switch. Somehow, Ellen knows that Frank won’t be in there, and that the bathtub will be empty, so for the few seconds that she’s alone here in the main room, and not hearing any gasps of horror, she throws her eye over some of the book titles.
From what she can make out, they’re mostly what Frank said. Business books.
Money Down.
The Dominion of Debt.
Luis reappears. “Mr. Bishop isn’t here,” he says.
Ellen holds out her hand. There’s a fifty-dollar bill in it. “Thanks,” she says.
Luis swallows. “You know what?” He holds up his hands, palms outstretched. “I’m good.”
He looks pale, almost as if he has seen a bloody corpse in the bathtub.
“Take it, Luis.” She stuffs the bill into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’m relieved he’s not in there, believe me.”
Back outside, as Luis is closing the door, Ellen hears the ping of the elevator down the hallway and turns to look.
A moment later, Frank Bishop appears.
Shit.
He walks for a few yards in their direction before he focuses and sees Ellen.
“What the-”
“Hi, Frank.”
Luis seems horrified, but also conflicted. That TV is going to have to be accounted for.
Frank shakes his head. “Were you in my fucking room just now?”
“Sir,” Luis says firmly, “please stay calm. I can explain.”
Ellen holds up a hand. “I was worried about you, Frank. You weren’t answering my calls. You haven’t been-”
“What are you, my wife?”
She avoids looking at Luis and studies Frank instead. He’s wearing a suit, and a tie. He’s clean-shaven. Has she missed something?
“Look, Frank…” she begins, but then stops. She turns to Luis. “I think we’re okay here, Luis. You know? Thank you.”
Luis hesitates. Then he addresses Frank. “There is the question of the TV, sir. I’ll have to-”
“You have my credit card number, right? Buy a new TV with it. Knock yourself out.” He pauses. “Okay?”
Luis nods. “Very well, sir. Ma’am.”
He takes off down the corridor.
Frank closes his eyes for a moment. “Ellen,” he then says, almost a tremor in his voice, “you had no right to come snooping around here. If you want-”
“I wasn’t snooping. I told you. I was worried about you.”
“Worried about me? You don’t even know me.”
“I know you a bit. Enough to be concerned.”
“Well, don’t be.”
She nods back toward the room. “That’s quite a collection of material you have in there.”
“I told you.” He shrugs. “I’m an expert now.”
“No one’s an expert, Frank. Isn’t that part of the problem?”
“Maybe, but I’m not interested in the problem anymore. Just the solution.”
She looks at him. “And what’s that?”
He holds her gaze for a moment. “Ask my daughter.”
Ellen swallows and looks away. She wonders again about his suit, his tie, this clean-cut appearance. Maybe that’s how he usually looks. Or maybe he looks this way because he’s just come back from seeing his daughter’s body? And this intrusion, this presumption on her part, is the last thing he needs? Is that it?
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
She starts to walk away.
“Don’t worry about it, Ellen. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too.”