Rhodajane looked at him and gave him a very slight shake of her head. ‘Do you know something, Mr Dauphin? Half the time I don’t understand a word you’re saying. But I like you. I really dooski. I give you permission to have a dream about me tonight if you want to.’
‘Well, I’d be careful about saying that if I were you, ma’am. Some dreams are good, but other dreams are not so good. And some dreams you can never really wake up from, even if you want to. Some dreams stay with you for the rest of your life, and you wish you’d never had them.’
Rhodajane looked at him narrowly. ‘What are you, some kind of dream expert?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes, I guess you could say that I am.’
They were both silent. It was only for two or three seconds, but in those two or three seconds something passed between them, one of those indefinable feelings that they were more than just cab driver and fare, more than just passing acquaintances who would never see each other again, except by coincidence. Ostensibly they had nothing at all in common, but John pointed at Rhodajane with a pistol-like gesture as if to say ‘see you later, OK?’ and Rhodajane closed her eyes as if to acknowledge that he would.
John turned and waddled off toward the elevators and Rhodajane stood in the doorway of her hotel room watching him go. Behind her, Tyra was talking to a twenty-two-year-old woman who wanted to auction her virginity on the Internet.
The woman was saying, ‘I always dreamed of having a lover… but somehow it never happened. Every man I ever met turned out to be a nightmare.’
THREE
Room 104
Lincoln was sitting alone in a corner booth of the Boa Vinda Restaurant, wishing that he hadn’t ordered such a messy dish as caldeirada, when his cellphone played Tracks Of My Tears. He shook open his white linen napkin and hastily started to wipe the thick tomato-and-saffron sauce from his fingers.
‘Lincoln?’ said a woman’s voice, very small and far away.
‘Grace?’ he laughed. ‘Wait up a second, honey, I’m in kind of a pickle here.’
He put down his cell and finished wiping his hands and his mouth. Then he picked it up again and said, ‘Sorry. The waiter recommended this Portuguese fish stew and it’s absolutely outstanding but you pretty much have to take a bath in it to eat it.’
‘Lincoln?’ the woman’s voice repeated, as if she hadn’t heard him.
‘Grace? Are you still there? You’re very faint.’
‘Lincoln?’
‘Listen, honey,’ he said, ‘why don’t I call you back? I’m sitting in the hotel restaurant here and maybe the signal’s too weak.’
‘Lincoln?’
‘Hang up, and I’ll call you right back, OK?’
He listened for a few seconds more, in case Grace answered him, but as he took his cell away from his ear, he heard a man say, ‘Lincoln?’
Lincoln frowned and lifted up the cell again. ‘Hallo? Hallo? Who is this?’
The man sounded hoarse, like a heavy smoker. ‘No need for you to know that, Lincoln.’
‘What do you mean, “no need for me to know that”? Who the hell is this?’
‘You know what they say, Lincoln. Curiosity killed the cat.’
‘I’m trying to get through to my wife here, so if you don’t mind—’
‘You need to listen to me, Lincoln. I’m your friend.’
‘What friend?’
‘A concerned friend. A very concerned friend. So long as you do what I tell you, that is.’
Lincoln suddenly slapped the table. ‘Bennie? Is this you, man? Quit horsing around, OK? I’m trying to finish my goddamned dinner here.’
‘Eat your goddamned dinner then, Lincoln. Enjoy it. But do not return to your room.’
‘If this is your idea of a joke, man—’
‘No joke, Lincoln. Do not return to your room. Not if you know what’s good for you.’
‘That’s enough, Bennie. It’s been a long day, OK? I have two more meetings in the morning and then I’ll get back to you. It looks like we can get top billing for Millie D and maybe second spot for The Jive Machine.’
‘You need to listen to me, Lincoln. You’ll regret it if you don’t. Tonight, I need my privacy, you got that? I don’t want any witnesses. Not you, not anybody.’
Lincoln took a deep breath, and held it for a moment. Then he said, ‘If this is you, Bennie, this isn’t funny any more. If this isn’t Bennie, then all I can say is go screw yourself.’
There was a sudden blurt of white noise, and then a thick, persistent crackle, but that was all. Lincoln tried to see who had called him, but the only number that showed up was his own home number, in Ann Arbor. He tried calling Grace again, but he couldn’t get a ring tone. He edged his way out of the booth, stood up and started to walk toward the restaurant door.
One of the waiters intercepted him. ‘Sir? You finish up already, sir? The caldeirada — it was not to your like?’
‘The caldeirada’s terrific. I have to make a phone call, that’s all.’
‘You don’t go back to your room?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, “Do you want me to keep it warm?”’
Lincoln stared at him. The waiter looked back at him, unblinking. Lincoln was sure that he had said, “You don’t go back to your room?” but maybe he had genuinely misheard him. The restaurant was noisy, after all, with talking and laughter and clattering cutlery and piped salsa music in the background.
‘No… you’re OK,’ he said slowly, and walked toward the restaurant entrance. The maître d’ was standing behind his lectern by the doorway, with polished black hair and a little black moustache and a maroon tuxedo. As Lincoln approached he bowed his head and said, ‘Good evening, sir. I hope you enjoyed your meal.’
‘I’m only stepping out to use my cell. I’m coming back in a minute.’
‘You are not returning to your room?’
‘Why? What’s it to you?’
‘Excuse me, sir, I don’t follow you.’
‘Why should you care whether I’m returning to my room or not?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I still don’t understand.’ The maître d’ looked totally baffled. ‘I made no mention of your room.’
Lincoln opened his mouth. He was about to tell the maître d’ that he was either a deuce hole or an idiot, but he decided that it was pointless. Instead he gave him a dismissive flap of his hand and walked off.
He was still unable to get a cellphone signal out in the hotel lobby, so he went outside and stood on the front steps of the hotel. A strong gusty wind was blowing from the north-west, off the lake, and dead leaves were skipping across the hotel driveway with a clatter like dancing skeletons. He tried calling Grace again, but all he could hear was the same thick crackling that he had heard before. Maybe his phone was on the fritz. The best thing he could do was go back to his room and call her from there.
No joke, Lincoln. Do not return to your room. Not if you know what’s good for you.
He went back into the hotel lobby and took a left at the reception desk. There was a gilt-framed mirror at the end of the corridor and he could see himself walking toward it — a tall, lithe African-American in a black suit and a black silk shirt. His head was shaved which emphasized the Nubian looks that he had inherited from his mother — a thin face with high cheekbones and a straight narrow nose. In fact his features were so sharp that his friends at school had nicknamed him Icepick.