“Carmellini.”
“Are you getting up?”
“For a while. Go back to sleep.”
Grafton checked on his houseguest, made sure he was in bed asleep, then descended the stairs, trying to avoid the creaky one.
He looked out every window, then opened the door to the porch and settled on the couch, pulling an afghan over him. Royston and Sonnenberg. That was one piece of the puzzle, certainly, but he still didn’t have enough.
It was maddening that Goncharov could not remember. Lord knows, Callie had tried. The silver lining in all this mess was that her command of Russian was increasing dramatically.
The admiral leaned back and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t get his mind off the problem. It was almost an hour before he drifted off.
There weren’t many people in the lobby of the Hilton at a quarter to four in the morning. The serious people were in bed — theirs or someone else’s — and the drunks were sleeping it off, trying to get sober for the big doings of the coming day. I was still togged out in my sports coat and tie and trousers, though the crease was starting to go in the trousers and the shoes desperately needed polishing.
I walked to the elevator, rode up to twelve. The master key still opened Dorsey’s door, so they didn’t change the code daily.
Once inside, with the door closed behind me, I stood looking over the scene of the action. The bed was a wreck. The bathroom was not too bad, but Isabel was going to think Dorsey had a male visitor during the night. Of course, Zooey didn’t care a whit what the maids thought. Probably never even gave it two seconds of thought.
The hotel provided a few sheets of embossed stationery for the guests who wanted to impress the folks at home. There were also a couple of envelopes. I helped myself to one.
Then I went through the sheets very carefully, looking for hair. Picked up a strand or two here and there… nothing out of the ordinary.
Dorsey had a brush in the bathroom. A few strands of hair were wedged between the bristles, and I carefully added them to the envelope. Got down on my hands and knees and examined the floor. Found a few more short strands for my collection.
I didn’t linger at my task. Having Dorsey march in just now would be a major embarassment… and probably get me arrested, unless I read this situation all wrong. At this stage of the game, I doubted that I would ever live to leave any jail cell the police put me in.
After a glance through the security peephole in the door, I was out of there.
Along the empty hallway without seeing anyone, then waited for the elevator. Rode it down, did the gut check as the door opened, saw the coast was clear, and marched across the lobby and out.
At least the rain had stopped.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I was waiting for Willie Varner to arrive at the van late Thursday morning when my cell phone rang. I checked the number before I answered. Uh-oh.
“Good morning, Dorsey.”
“Are you working?”
“Just getting off, actually.”
“I was wondering if we might have breakfast.”
“Sounds fine to me. Where and when?”
“My room at the Hilton, in about an hour.”
I hadn’t showered or shaved since the previous morning, and my clothes were beginning to smell, but I had to see her. “Okay. See you there.”
I flipped to the bugs in her room and listened. A steady buzz on both bugs, though stronger on one than the other. It sounded as if the maid was vacuuming.
More activity in Royston’s suite. People talking business and investments. The political situation in California in one of the adjoining suites. In the other they were worrying the bone: Was or wasn’t it Zooey? Would having her on the ticket help or hurt the president?
I flipped back to Royston’s suite in time to catch him on the telephone. “When will you arrive?” he asked. Then, “Are you staying with the first lady?” Some more grunts, then, after a long pause, “We could work up some spontaneous demonstrations if I could at least hint as to how it will go, have the signs and banners ready to unfurl. It would look terrific on television, get the ball rolling…
“I see,” he said after another long pause, then he hung up the telephone. Someone came in and said the maid wanted to clean the room.
I was examining the sad state of my shoes when Willie unlocked the side door and climbed into the van.
His very first words were, “You look like something the cat coughed up.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Don’t you get valet services out here?” He plopped into the other chair. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing much.”
“The cabbie had a radio talk show on. They said the president hasn’t announced his VP choice yet.”
“That’s about the size of it, I think.”
“Have you had any sleep?”
“I napped for an hour or two in this chair.”
“So are you going back to Jersey?”
“After a while. First I have a date.”
His head jerked up. “Dorsey?”
“Yeah.”
“In her room?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, why not? I could use some red-hot sex to get the juices flowin’, speed the healin’, but I guess listenin’ is the next best thing. ’Course, watchin’ would be better.”
“As your friend, I’m asking you not to listen.”
“Ask away. The answer is no. Just remember every moan and grunt and compliment on your equipment is being recorded for posterity. When the FBI catches up with you, this stuff is going to be played at the Hoover Building, before the grand jury, in court, maybe even on TV. I’ll bet I could even sell it to some of those talk show shock dudes. Maybe Jerry Springer — he’s kinky enough. Imus would like the political angle.”
“This is how you repay me for saving your miserable life?”
“Hey, man, sellin’ recordings of your sexual exploits sounds like a career to me. Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do to keep body and soul together. Next week nobody will give a shit about this political crap, but sex always sells. Gonna buy a Lincoln Town Car and move to the suburbs.”
Willie thought about that prospect for a moment, about the car and the lawn and the barking dogs next door, then shifted gears. “There’s two sisters livin’ in Andover who I might be able to hook you up with. They’re a pair of fine lusty ladies with big tits. These gals are sorta Hershey’s chocolate, but with you that’d probably be no nevermind. I’ve noticed that big tits seem to bring out your best performances. We get back and—”
I climbed from the van. When Willie the Wire got rolling, leaving was the only way to shut him up.
There was a copy store a block crosstown. I went in, waited for a moment until the clerk was available, and filled out a fax form. I handed her the document; she pushed buttons on the machine. The paper fed through the thing, and she handed it back.
“Have a nice day,” she said. Her tits were medium-sized.
“Yeah.”
Right beside the copy story was a drugstore. I bought toothpaste and a brush and put them in my pocket. Found the remnants of that chocolate chip cookie I stole the other day in that pocket. Had forgotten I had it. It was a mess now. I threw it in the trash on the way back to the hotel. Bought a cup of coffee off a bagel vendor and drank it, although it was acidic enough to take the enamel off my teeth.
In the hotel men’s room I answered nature’s call, brushed my teeth, and washed my face. Yes, I could smell myself. If Dorsey wanted me in this condition, she was really serious about marriage. Or randy as hell.
For some reason as I stared in the mirror at my unshaven mug, the image of the burning house in the forest near the Greenbrier River flashed through my mind. The feel of guns bucking in my hands, falling people, smiling killers, broken bodies… Would I see those images at odd moments all my life, or would they fade into static amid the zillions of electrical impulses that stored memories inside my brain?