I left Willie and Joe Billy to be audio voyeurs and got out on the sidewalk to walk and think about the problem.
I didn’t have enough cash left to pay for a suit, and my Zack Winston credit card was bogus. I had high hopes that I would eventually be able to convince the powers that be that I had been merely defending myself and others since that Tuesday at the Greenbrier River safe house, but I didn’t want to try to explain credit card fraud. Some people get downright pissy about money.
If I used my own personal credit card, would it light up alarms in Dell Royston’s universe?
Maybe I should go back to Jersey and get the damned suit. We couldn’t move the van without losing the parking place, and I didn’t want to waste cash on a taxi.
What the heck, I had plenty of time. I couldn’t go into those rooms until the people were out of them. The dinner hour would be the most likely time.
Over on the East Side on Lexington I found a large men’s shop that opened at ten. Looking in the window, I thought I saw some sports coats on manikins that might fit. The problem is my shoulders and arms, which are so big that an off-the-rack coat that I can get around my shoulders doesn’t hang right around my small waist.
I strolled along soaking in the sights, sounds, and smells of New York, had a bagel and cup of coffee at a small breakfast place, then wandered back up Lexington to arrive at the men’s shop a few minutes after ten.
The owner was a former prizefighter, I surmised. Scars on his eyebrows, one permanently mashed ear, and huge shoulders and arms.
“You have a pair of trousers and a sports coat that might fit me without alteration?”
“You some kind of athlete, ain’t you?”
“Rock climbing.”
“Yeah. I got the stuff to fit guys who work out, take care of theirselves. Lot of pro athletes come here for their duds. Not the high dollar guys, but the guys who watch their wallets.”
“That sticker in the window says you take credit cards.”
“MasterCard and Visa.”
He did have a sports coat that didn’t make me look like an ape, and the price was reasonable. I decided the risk of using my own credit card was small, so I surrendered my Visa card with TOMMY CARMELLINI embossed on the bottom. He ran it through the machine, I signed the invoice, and he bagged my purchases, which included a tapered shirt and subdued tie.
Walking crosstown, I called Sarah. “Where are you?”
“Eating breakfast,” she said.
I told her what I needed. “I don’t want the entire surveillance camera system to crash, just temporarily go on the fritz floor by floor as I move around. I’ll call you on your cell.”
“The motel doesn’t have a high-speed Internet connection. I dropped off the Net twice this morning and had to log back on and go back into the system. Takes about four minutes to get through.”
“I don’t have the money to pick up another night at the Hilton, Sarah, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I don’t have the bucks either. No, I was merely warning you that there may be problems.”
“Okay. Warning received.”
“You’re going into Dorsey’s room, aren’t you?”
“I haven’t decided,” I answered, a trifle evasively I suppose.
“You will. I know it.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I think you have a thing for her, that’s all. Very unprofessional, I must say.”
“Are you jealous?”
She made a noise and hung up.
I knew she wasn’t jealous — heck, I knew what she thought of me. Still, the fact that she guessed right on Dorsey bothered me a little. Maybe I was getting too predictable. If Sarah Houston could guess my next move, so could someone with lethal intentions. It was a thing to think on.
Joe Billy Dunn shook hands with me and Willie and left about two in the afternoon. Just when I needed someone that Dorsey didn’t recognize to act as a lookout, there he went.
After he closed the van door, Willie and I sat in the back of the thing — which was about the size of my closet at home — looking at each other. “Well, nothing ever goes perfectly,” the Wire remarked.
I was in no mood for philosophy. I grunted unpleasantly.
“How do you get yourself into these messes, anyway?” he asked.
“Do you want to go play pool or get a beer or something?” I said. “There’s nothing to do until I get ready to move the bugs.”
“You want me to go inside and act as lookout?”
“No. I want you to sit right here in the van and watch the floor surveillance camera on that monitor”—I pointed to the one mounted high in the corner—“and communicate with me on the cell phone. The cameras will still work even when Dorsey diddles with the computer downstairs.”
“I could do that, I reckon,” Willie Varner admitted as he picked at a scab on his arm. “I just don’t want to put myself in harm’s way. Can’t handle it, the shape I’m in. I’m already runnin’ on two gallons of other people’s blood. Been gettin’ these urges to read romance novels, drink white wine, and listen to white music — I figure the blood was from some white women. Republicans, probably. I’m all crippled up from that cuttin’, still wearin’ bandages, and here I am workin’ anyway. You know I oughta be on that Social Security disability, gettin’ a little check in the mail, takin’ life easy till I’m feelin’ myself again.”
“Take a hike, goddamn it.”
He went, leaving me in splendid solitude in the back of a stolen FBI van parked beside a fancy hotel in New York that I couldn’t afford to stay in. Ah, the glamour of the clandestine life. And to think I could be heisting jewels on the French Riveria!
I felt like a fool strolling in the side entrance of the hotel in my new duds. Dorsey O’Shea was in there somewhere, and I certainly didn’t want to run into her.
I had waited until six in the evening — the cocktail hour in civilized climes. Willie was out in the van; he’d come back an hour ago well hydrated with beer. He didn’t have a set of Hilton clothes, and he would have drawn security men like flies if he had walked in there in his jeans and ratty T-shirt. Not that I could have used him as a lookout even if he had the right clothes — Dorsey might recognize him. She might recognize me, too, but putting more people she knew in the building made no sense. Willie had the penthouse corridor surveillance camera on the monitor when I left the van.
The three penthouse suites where we had our bugs were empty just now; I had listened carefully before leaving the van and locking Willie in. Knowing Dorsey, she would be someplace swilling white wine with the beautiful people while nattering about outside artists and spiritual advisers.
I dialed Sarah on my cell phone. “I’m going up to the penthouse now.”
“Give me one minute, then call me back.”
I paused just inside the entrance and surveyed the lobby. The cocktail bar was in a slightly raised area on the right, and it was packed. Every seat was taken, and people were standing around and talking loudly. I didn’t see Dorsey. Nor did I see Dell Royston. I had certainly seen enough photos of him through the years to be able to recognize him in the flesh, I thought. For a brief second I wondered if the California car dealer and his AC/DC wife were in this crowd. Might be.
I glanced at my watch, then dialed Sarah again.
“Coast is clear,” she whispered conspiratorially.
“Terrific.”
I walked on through the lobby, past the desk to the elevators. The penthouse had its own elevator. A group was coming out. I held my breath, half expecting to find myself face-to-face with Dorsey, but my luck held. The person who did step out was Dell Royston, surrounded by four guys in expensive suits. They didn’t even glance at me.