Marty had never before thought of kids like that, or of the perfectly brushed, fur-bearing girls who went with them as human. They were out of the race, above it. They didn’t know the score — hell, they didn’t have to.
The big kid appeared in the doorway and looked mildly surprised to see Marty standing across the hall, listening. God, but he was big. He had taken off his tweed jacket and his plain white shirt looked ready to split apart if he took a deep breath. For a moment, out of long habit, Marty measured him, wondering how he would go in the ring. With the right handling, the right buildup, maybe. They needed heavyweights like crazy now. But he was crazy even to think about it. Why should a kid like that want to fight?
Marty said, “You got any Dixieland?”
The big kid looked down at Marty. He seemed to be seeing him for the first time and not liking what he saw. He said nothing, just firmly and quietly closed the door.
Marty discovered his jaw was hanging open. He shut it and went back inside and closed his own door behind him carefully, resisting an impulse to slam it. He felt as if someone had stuffed ice-cubes into his stomach. The fresh young punk! All Marty had wanted was someone to talk to. He wouldn’t have dreamed of speaking to the kid at all if there’d been anyone else around.
That was it, he thought furiously — that was the invisible barrier that couldn’t be crossed. They called it a free country, a democratic country — what a laugh! Money wouldn’t do it — they laughed at money because they had it, or their fathers had it, or their uncles, or somebody. They thought they owned the world when they didn’t even know what was happening in it or how real people felt.
For five lousy bucks, Marty thought, he’d have that kid worked over. The kid probably thought football was a rough game...
He stayed mad for almost an hour, keeping himself mad for something to do. But then it faded and the loneliness crept back in. Nine lousy days in this lousy hotel and no one to talk to, nothing to do. He had tried reading — but he had never been much good at reading anything but a comic book or a balance sheet. And who could read anyway, with the thought of Big Nick being after him always in back of his thoughts? He couldn’t concentrate, except on his own survival.
He looked at the phone, pushed over to the edge of the table to make room for his solitaire. He wished the damned thing would ring. He was used to lots of phones, all of them ringing, all of them bringing reports on provinces of the empire he had built up and run for so long. But if the phone rang now...
He got up and walked to the bathroom — fancy, black tile and mirror. Back through the bedroom — comfortable, discreet, polite, not even a pinup, just a lousy modern copy of a lousy modern painting with trees that looked like houses, and houses that looked like faces, and faces that looked like pinball machines. He’d have settled for a couple of cows and a Swiss chalet — anything, as long as it looked like what it was supposed to.
He went back to the living room, all pale green and grey. Why not a few splashes of the warm, bright colors his Mediterranean soul longed for? Probably the guy that decorated the joint considered bright colors vulgar. He’d like to get hold of the creep and turn him loose with some of the boys. They had special treatments for guys like that and why not? Weren’t the guys against nature?
His heart twisted violently as he saw a piece of white paper slid halfway under the door. For a moment, he stalked it warily, like a dog scenting out something he does not understand but knows instinctively is hostile. If Big Nick or his boys had run him to earth here... With a quick, darting, sidling gesture, he picked it up.
It was merely the room-service luncheon menu.
Marty scanned it, scowling, humiliated at having been afraid. Hors d’oeuvres variés, paté maison, petite marmite Henri Quatre, consommé double, vichysoisse, truite frais meunière, tête d’agneau vinaigrette... Why the hell hadn’t his parents been French?
And whatever he ordered would be some prettied-up, tasteless guck. He thought longingly, as he had thought thousands of times over the years, of the hot, strong, redolent dishes his mother had cooked in the old railroad flat in the tenement — the scalloppini, the risottos, the thick minestrones, the spaghetti. How he had put them away! He looked down at his lean belly, flat against the dark-brown waistband of his trousers. He had never had to worry about diet — but now he wasn’t hungry, and he wondered if only the food was at fault. His whole being craved alcohol — but how could he afford to drink under the circumstances?
He called room service and ordered a half-broiled chicken, in English, and coffee and ice cream. At least he knew what he’d be getting. But his appetite was causing him to envision baked lasagna and pasta fazoole.
He wondered why he let Big Nick coop him up here, like some sort of animal in a plush cage. All he had to do was take the elevator downstairs, get his briefcase out of the safe and walk through the revolving door and the world was his. He reminded himself to stop kidding. They might not know Marty’s dark, undistinguished, blue-chinned face in the hotel — but he wouldn’t go two blocks without being recognized. And then he wouldn’t merely be a voluntary prisoner in comfortable sanctuary — he’d be the proverbial hunted animal, with no chance of escape.
If he could only walk through that revolving door — but he couldn’t, not till Ryan had completed arrangements for his escape from the country.
The food came and the waiter was new to him. He watched the blond, nondescript little man in a white jacket as he served and cut the chicken — they did everything for you in a place like this — and set up a table. The waiter was nervous; he shook so he banged a plate on the table three times, putting it down. Marty’s heart took another twist and his fingers itched to grab the man by his jacket front and shove him against the wall and bat some sense out of him.
But then he noted the man’s nicotine-stained fingers and dull, bloodshot eyes. He said, “Rough one last night, fellow?”
The man blinked at him, shuffled apologetically and said, “A little, sir. I’m not supposed to be on today, but Fred took sick and they called me in.”
In his relief, Marty tipped him five bucks. A harmless, hungover rabbit of a guy. Yet Marty envied the jerk his hangover. At least he’d had to drink to get it. Since he wasn’t hungry, he forced himself to eat, chewing each mouthful carefully. When he was through, he put the plates back on the wagon himself and pushed the wagon out into the hall. The door across the way was open again, and strains of hot music still emanated from inside — this time it sounded like a Buck Clayton trumpet chorus to Marty’s seasoned ear. He heard a girl’s soft laughter followed by, “You know, Binny, you’re cute.” Then, maddeningly, he heard the unmistakable clink of ice against glass.
Binny! What a name for a guy, and a monster guy like his neighbor. The big, thick-headed punk! he thought in an excess of fury and envy. He stood there a moment, just hating, then went slowly back inside. His hands were shaking, just like that goop waiter’s. Marty thrust them in his pants pockets.
He turned on the television set they’d sent up the second day and tried to get the ball game. But the home team was out of town — how had he managed to forget that? — and all he could get were homemaking programs and old movies. He tried to lose himself in an ancient gangster picture, but its devices and dramatics were too unbelievable to hold his interest. He must have walked five miles of carpet before it began to get dark. I’m getting just like stir-crazy, he told himself.
He toyed with the idea of using the cover of darkness to go downstairs, get his dough and slip out through that damned revolving door. Once he was in the clear, he could drink like a lord. Not long ago, he’d have made the break — and he’d have gotten away with it too, but now it would be a lunatic move. He’d softened up — not much, just a little, like a great infielder just over the hill and half a step slow. But it was enough, too much. He’d been giving orders too long instead of executing them. Hell, he didn’t even have a gun with him.