Chapter Four
"Are you sure this is the right place?" I asked the cabbie as I studied the scaffolding. "There must be another Chadwick Hotel somewhere. This is closed for remodeling."
"We're at the only one I've ever heard of, and I've been driving for eighteen years. But it makes no difference to me if you want me to cruise around for a while. East side, west side, anywhere you want to go. Suum cuique, as I always say."
"No, this must be it," I said without conviction. I paid him and carried my bag into the lobby, where it was cool and dim, if not elegant. The furniture was shabby and arranged rather oddly, the plastic plants coated with dust, the floor missing half its linoleum. Wondering what Ruby Bee and Estelle had made of it, I went to the reception counter and tapped a silver bell.
When nothing happened, I repeated the action several times, and then dropped my bag and sat down on the arm of a sofa to decide what to do next. I might have been mistaken about the hotel. There was no sense of occupancy, and certainly no hint of a national contest in progress. Outside, there was life, albeit screaming, snarling, honking, exploding life. Inside, there was something very wrong.
"I had to report your salary," said a male voice from the corridor beyond the desk. "I couldn't help it, Rick. Those fuckin' buzzards at the IRS will demand an audit this year, just like they did last year and the year before. So act like a good citizen and pay your income taxes like everybody else. Maybe you'll get a medal one of these days."
"Maybe I'll shove it up your ass," said a second voice.
"I'm an accountant, not a magician. I've got enough problems with the invoices and the cash flow and our arrangement with the union bosses. I don't need you whining at me. You got problems with me, you call Mr. Gabardi and tell him all about them."
A door slammed, ending what I could hear of the conversation. At least there were people within the hotel, which was marginally encouraging. If I sat long enough, perhaps I would get to see one of them, or even find out what the hell was going on with Ruby Bee.
The front door opened and an elderly man in a white jacket, a lime green shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and plaid pants entered the lobby. The top of his head was shiny and dotted with freckles, but there were tufts of white hair above his ears, and a few more shooting out of same. His skin was dark and deeply wrinkled, his nose reminiscent of a plum. He carried a small suitcase and a newspaper.
"How ya doing?" he said to me, then went to the desk, banged the bell, and shouted, "Rickie, my boy, show yourself! I am in need of a hot shower and a cold drink. Airplanes make me nervous in the stomach and sweaty in the palms, and now I want to relax." His accent was a mixture of Brooklynese and Italian, his attire strictly Floridian retiree. All he needed to complete the ensemble was a pair of golf shoes.
An exceedingly ashen young man came through a door behind the desk, doing his best to smile. Even from my perch across the lobby, I could see the tic at the corner of his mouth and the unnatural bulge of his eyes. "Why, Mr. Cambria, how nice to see you again. No one told me you-" He spotted me, and his attempted geniality dried up. "Who are you? Another coconut from Kansas?"
The man glanced back at me with an uneasy frown. "Rick, you're supposed to have this under control. Although Mr. Gabardi decided to have me stay here for the next few days, he still has faith that you know what you're doing."
The one addressed as Rick (and the one who'd been expressing his unhappiness about his taxes) took the other's arm and tried to urge him around the end of the counter. "Please, wait in my office while I deal with this. There's a bottle of very soothing scotch in the bottom right drawer of the desk. I will be honored if you will sample it, Mr. Cambria."
Cambria refused to be urged one inch. "I would rather go to my room and make a call. A long distance call."
"Of course you would." He opened a drawer and took out a key. "You must stay in the penthouse. I'll be up shortly to remove my things from your way, and I'll bring the scotch and some ice. I'm afraid we don't have maid service, but I myself will change the sheets and-"
"First, the call," the older man said as he took the key, winked at me, and went to the elevator. Rick hurried after him in time to push the button, then stepped back and maintained a pained smile until the doors slid open.
Once Cambria had been whisked upward, Rick returned to the desk and scratched his chin with a well-manicured fingertip while we assessed each other. I waited silently, and he finally sighed and said, "Are you like a judge for this screwy contest or something?"
"Something," I said, nodding.
"Is there anything I can do or say that will induce you to go away?"
"I don't think so."
He smoothed down his narrow mustache with yet another well-manicured fingertip, glanced over his shoulder at the closed door behind him, and shook his head. "This has been some coupla days. Only a week ago did anyone bother to inform me of this contest, and nobody seemed to remember that I am up to my ass in remodeling. When you're dealing with union guys, you can't tell them to take a short hike, unless you plan to make like a submarine in the bottom of the Hudson River. After last night, that has begun to appeal." He noted my wince. "You got something to do with this shooting thing, right? Are you the dame's lawyer?"
"Her daughter," I admitted. "I flew in about an hour ago, and I'd like very much to find someone who'll explain what's going on."
"So would I, but I got problems with the accountant and Mr. Cambria in the penthouse and I think I'd better make some calls myself. The pistol-packing maniac-pardon me, your mother-was in 217. The police sealed it off, so I moved that woman who was with her to 219. It's possible she is up there now, presuming she didn't get her hair caught in a ceiling fan and her head was jerked off." He twitched a third well-manicured fingertip in the direction of an elevator, gave me a smirky look, and disappeared through the door.
The elevator groaned and shuddered, but eventually I found myself walking down the corridor of the second floor. The carpet was worn and badly stained, the unappetizing beige paint curled off the walls, and the redolence was that of the restrooms in Grand Central Station-or any ol' bus station in this great land of ours.
Some of the doors had numbers; others did not. I had no difficulty locating 217, however. It was crisscrossed with yellow tape and seals, and an officious sign threatened would-be trespassers with everything short of capital punishment. A few inches above the sign was a splintery hole…Ruby Bee's signature, so to speak.
I tapped on 219. The door opened, and before I could speak, I was yanked inside. The door slammed so quickly my heels felt a breeze.
"Oh, thank gawd you made it," Estelle said, collapsing on me in a bony hug. "I am worried sick, and all I've been able to do all day is sit here in case Ruby Bee calls or Geri finds out what's happening or the police come back to drag me off in handcuffs or I just go plum out of my mind like ol' Particular Buchanon. Remember when he decided there were Nazis in his attic? I could hear his shotgun all the way out at my house."
I squirmed free, caught her shoulders, and pushed her down on the narrow twin bed. "Get a hold of yourself," I said as I looked around the room. It was adequate for the two narrow beds, dresser, and night table, as long as you didn't mind stepping over the furniture and suitcases every time you moved. The flowers on the wallpaper clearly were not perennials; their season had come and gone. The artistic spiderwebs dripping from the ceiling implied other life forms enjoyed more success, as did the tiny brown beads along the baseboard. All in all, it was your average New York hotel room.
"What're we gonna do?" Estelle demanded. "You don't aim to stand there gawking while your own flesh and blood's being gnawed by rats in some filthy jail, do you?"