Arturo said, “I’ll go see are there any customers out front. See you later, Mr. Brine.”
“Thanks for everything, Arturo,” I told him, with just the proper distance between the rich North American and the poor Hispanic cabby.
“De nada,” he told me. “Adios, Dulce.”
“So long, Artie.”
Arturo left, and I heard the women in the outer office giggle again as I bent over the hotel map Dulce de Paula opened onto her desk. This was a very snazzy four-color map, the various floors projected at angles that made the whole thing simple. Everything was color-coded, with an index of the hotel’s features.
“We are here,” she said, and pointed first to the map, then to a second door on the left side of her office. “When you go out there, you’ll be in this hallway. You see?”
“Sure.”
“You go straight down here, and turn left, and that’s the elevator bank. You’re on the third floor, Room Three-twenty-three.”
“Okay.”
She handed me a folder. “Your key and the minibar key.”
Minibar key. Have there ever been more beautiful words in the English language? “Thank you,” I said, and took the folder.
“You’re already checked in as Keith Emory,” she assured me, “so you won’t have to go through any of the formalities.”
“That’s wonderful. I really appreciate this.”
She extended her hand. “Do enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Emory,” she said.
“I know I will,” I told her, and now I kissed her hand.
She liked that. “Oh, go on,” she said.
I had become her latest scamp.
32
The bathroom! Never mind the minibar, look at this bathroom! The lights, the plumbing, the gleaming tile! The mirrors! The thick towels! You could jump off the roof of this building, and if you landed on these towels you’d be safe.
The room itself was not very large, a typical Holiday Inn sort of room, which has become the hotel industry standard. The king-size bed was not too soft, not too firm, but just right. The television set got CNN, HBO, Showtime, and pay-per-view. The minibar had one of everything and two Bud Lights. Above it the snack bar contained, among its many familiar wonders, macadamia nuts.
The view out the window was of part of the golf course. Men in madras pants and women in madras skirts made their slow way past, giving obeisance to the little white ball.
I showered for a long long time. Then I lay on the bed and watched a Steve Martin movie on HBO. I laughed whether it was funny or not.
Safe. Safe at last. Manfredo and Luis and the other Luis with the bad arm and José and Pedro and poco Pedro with the machete can’t get me here; they can’t get across that river, not on those ferries. The insurance investigator and Rafael Rafez can snoop around all they want; they’ll never find Barry Lee alive and never find proof he isn’t dead.
If only Lola could be here with me. I tried to dream up some way to make it possible for her to fly down, check in as a single. We could pretend we didn’t know one another by day, sleep together by night.
And how long would it be before the insurance investigator arrived, sniffing around, checking out the guest list? There was no way, dammit, no way. Lola couldn’t use a false name because she’d have to show her passport. And I couldn’t dare get the terrific Señora de Paula to slip in a second person incognito because it would screw up the original story. So I just had to be patient.
When the phone rang in the room Wednesday afternoon, I assumed it was a wrong number. This was my third day here, and I’d been keeping strictly to myself, eating alone, swimming alone in the hotel pool, and (of course) sleeping alone.
But it wasn’t a wrong number, it was Señora de Paula, saying, “Mr. Emory, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” I said, amused at her using the cover name in a phone call. “I haven’t been this relaxed in years.”
“Away from the cares of Hollywood,” she suggested.
“Exactly,” I agreed. “When the phone rang just now, I hardly knew what that noise was.”
She laughed. “It is an invitation, actually. An old friend of my husband’s from his college days is in the country on business, and he’s coming to the hotel for dinner this evening. He says he has a very interesting story to tell about why he’s here, and I thought as a film producer you might find him intriguing.”
“Ah-hah,” I said.
“Would you like to join us? I don’t mean to intrude, if you’d prefer to—”
“No, no,” I said. “That sounds fine. Thank you for asking me.”
“I’ll keep your secret, of course,” she said. “You’ll be Mr. Keith Emory.”
“Thank you.” She enjoyed being a conspirator, Señora de Paula, I could see that. She was a bit of a scamp herself.
“It will just be the four of us,” she assured me. “In the dining room. At eight o’clock?”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
The insurance investigator.
Why hadn’t that occurred to me? An old friend is in the country on business for a reason that has an interesting story attached to it. Why had I assumed the old friend would be South American? Señora de Paula’s husband was a doctor; why wouldn’t he have had his schooling in the United States?
I was here now. There was no turning back. I’d timed my arrival in the dining room for three minutes after eight, to give the others time to get here and settle themselves, and the smoothly smiling hostess said, “Of course. This way,” when I said, “De Paula.” I followed her, and she said, “The others are here.”
“Good,” I said, and looked out past her at the large corner table where Señora de Paula sat facing me, smiling, in conversation with a large robust mustachioed man to her left — the doctor husband, of course, Fernando — and, to her right, a man I recognized immediately. The last time I’d seen him had been in sunlight, in the street in front of Mamá and Papá’s house in Sabanon, talking with Rafael Rafez.
He’ll have seen Barry Lee’s picture, won’t he? Candid photos taken over the years, on vacation and here and there. Maybe my driver’s license, from the wreck. I’m eight pounds lighter now, I have this thick mustache, I’m more tanned than ever before; will that be enough?
Well, sooner or later I would have had to test this theory anyway, that whoever I am now can look like Barry Lee without being Barry Lee, so here comes the experiment, ready or not. Smiling a greeting, happy to be here, I approached the table.
“And here he is,” said Señora de Paula, and the two men turned their faces my way.
“Don’t get up,” I said, as they both got up.
“Mr. Keith Emory,” Señora de Paula said, “please meet my husband, Fernando, and an old friend of his from Boston, Mr. Leon Kaplan.”
“How do you do.”
“How do you do.”
“How do you do.”
We all took our places, and a waiter appeared out of nowhere to help me slide my chair in. “A cocktail, sir?”
Absolutely. Leon Kaplan was looking at me quizzically, his sharp nose and sharp eyes all pointed at me. On the other hand, I’d better keep my wits about me, so I canceled my order for a vodka martini on the rocks with a twist just at the second I was about to voice it, and instead said, “Just a glass of white wine. That Kendall Jackson chardonnay, that’s nice.”
“Yes, sir.”
Off he went, expeditiously. It’s a different experience, when you’re in a restaurant, to eat at the boss’s table.
Leon Kaplan said, “Have we met, Mr. Emory?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m based in Santa Monica now, would it be from there?”