‘Hey, that’s a nice district, Shaker Heights.’
‘I guess, if you like boredom and trees. Personally I hate being bored and who needs frigging trees?’
John raised his eyebrows and thought: Who needs frigging trees? That’s classy. Not the usual caliber of guest he would have expected to take to the Griffin House Hotel.
He adjusted his seat belt around his belly. It was way past two thirty and he still hadn’t had lunch yet. He had been planning to go to Quizno’s on Euclid Avenue when he had dropped this fare off, to pick up a bourbon grille steak sub. He could almost taste it now: prime rib, mozzarella, Cheddar, mushrooms, sauté onions, all covered with grille steak sauce and served up on rosemary Parmesan bread. His mouth watered so much that he had to swallow.
‘Staying here long?’ he asked, in a quacky, saliva-filled voice.
‘Not if I can help it. I’m only going to my grandma’s funeral.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. My condolences.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t need condoling. I never liked her and neither would you, if you’d ever known her. What a witch. She had a face like somebody looking at themselves in the back of a spoon.’
The traffic began to inch forward. The woman said, ‘At last. Thank you, Lord Jesus.’
As they neared the Griffin House Hotel, John could see three black-and-white police cars lined up outside, their lights flashing, and two uniformed officers directing the traffic. The hotel itself was an imposing brown-brick building with Gothic windows and elaborate spires and a gray slate roof. It was surrounded by tall ivy-wrapped oaks, their leaves already turned rusty and yellow. A crowd of people were milling around the wide stone porch — police officers and TV cameramen and hotel staff, as well as rubbernecking bystanders.
‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves a little excitement,’ said John. He signaled to turn into the curving driveway in front of the hotel and a police officer flagged him down and made a winding gesture for him to lower his window.
‘Just dropping off a hotel guest, officer. What’s all the flap-doodle for?’
‘Nothing serious, sir. If you want to pull over to the left side there.’
John parked his yellow Crown Victoria close to the left-hand verge, and heaved himself out of the driver’s seat. He opened the door for his passenger to step out, and this time he made a point of looking at her shoes. They were purple suede, the same color as her dress, with gold studs all around them, and very high heels. Her dress was so short that he couldn’t help noticing that she was wearing purple nylon panties, too. He gallantly turned his head away and looked up at the sky.
It seemed as if all of the hotel’s front-of-house staff were busy talking to the police, so John popped the taxicab’s trunk and lifted out the woman’s pigskin suitcase. It wasn’t Louis Vuitton, but it wasn’t cheap. She may have started life in Brunswick (or ‘Brunstucky’ as some disparaging Clevelanders called it, an elision of ‘Brunswick’ and ‘Kentucky’) but she appeared to have money — either made it or married it.
For the first time she took off her sunglasses and she was unexpectedly pretty, even if she did have the slightly battered look of a woman who has struggled to make her way in life and had her fair share of fights. She had bright blonde hair, expensively cut in a feathery bell-shape, wide-apart eyes and a short straight nose, and lips that looked as if they were just about to pout. She had a faint scar on the left side of her chin, as if somebody had punched her, a long time ago, somebody wearing a signet ring.
As John began to walk across the driveway, carrying the woman’s case, a skinny young black bellhop in a green uniform came loping up to them. ‘It’s OK, junior,’ John told him. ‘I got it.’
‘Please, sir, let me help you,’ the bellhop begged him, trying to take hold of the handle.
John yanked the case away from him. ‘Oho, so that’s your game! You’re trying to stiff me out of my tip, is that it?’
‘Of course not, sir. It’s my job.’
‘I know, junior. I know it’s your job. But exactly what part of “I got it” do you find so incomprehensible?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘That’s OK, junior. You’re excused.’
John carried the suitcase into the reception area, changing hands every three or four steps because the goddamned thing was so heavy. How come women who wore practically nothing always had suitcases that weighed so much? He followed the woman up to the front desk and pinged the bell for her, because there was nobody there.
‘Pretty plushy joint, on the whole,’ he said, looking around. The reception area had high vaulted ceilings with decorative plasterwork, thick red floral-patterned carpeting, and leather wing chairs gathered around a crackling log fire. On the wall above the fireplace hung a large oil portrait of a severe-looking man in a formal black suit with black silk facings. His face was so pallid that it was almost white, and his eyes were as dead as stones. The only touches of color were his hair, which was gingery-red, and the ring on his right hand, which had a dark red stone set in it.
Close to this portrait hung another smaller portrait, in an oval frame, of a pretty young woman with wild blonde curls. She had her head tilted to one side, as if she were flirting with the artist who was painting her picture.
John pinged the bell again and this time a receptionist came in from the porch, where she had been talking to a police officer.
‘So sorry to have kept you waiting, sir. Are you checking in today?’
‘Not me — her,’ said John, jerking his thumb toward the woman.
‘Ms Rhodajane Berry,’ said the woman, resting one elbow on the marble-topped counter. ‘I booked a queen-sized room for tonight and tomorrow night.’
‘Hey,’ John put in, ‘you’re not related to that Halle Berry, are you, by any chance?’
The woman turned and stared at him. ‘Do I look like I’m related to Halle Berry? I mean, I’m not being racist here.’
‘Well, you never can tell. It’s a funny thing, genetics. And Halle Berry, she’s from Cleveland, too, did you know that?’
Rhodajane Berry was still filling in her name and address and credit card details when a bulky man in a flappy gray suit came puffing and panting into the reception area. He was just about the same height as John, about five feet eight, and he probably weighed about the same, too, somewhere in excess of three hundred pounds. He was purple faced, with protuberant blue eyes, and a small curved nose that looked as if it had been stuck on as an afterthought. His eyebrows seemed to be raised in permanent surprise, like two arched-up caterpillars.
He was sporting a wide silk necktie with scarlet and yellow diagonal stripes, and his shirt must have been at least a twenty-two-inch collar, but it still curled upward because it was too tight around his neck.
‘Pardon me, people,’ he asked, in a hoarse, strangulated voice. ‘Did you talk to any of my officers yet?’ He reached into his pocket and tugged out a notebook, licking his thumb and turning over the pages. ‘What room are you in?’
‘I’m not in any room,’ said John. ‘I’m a cabbie and this lady is my fare.’
The detective peered at Rhodajane Berry with his pencil raised in his hand as if he half recognized her. ‘OK… what cab company?’
‘Alphabet Cabs. My vehicle’s parked right outside. You can call them and check if you want to. You want their number? John Dauphin’s the name. John Benjamin Franklin Dauphin. The third. From Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Still trying to get back there, one way or the other.’
The detective gave a quick shake of his jowls to indicate that it wouldn’t be necessary to check John’s credentials. But then he turned to Rhodajane Berry and said, ‘How about you, ma’am, what room will you be staying in?’