Each time Carver came to the area, he marveled at the changes taking place. The crumbling Art Deco buildings were one by one being restored to their former ornate and stylish selves. Entire blocks of forlorn residential hotels that housed the poor and the desperate were becoming high-toned resorts. The poor were moving out. Money was moving in, and gaining momentum the way money did when it became concentrated.
The Hotel Miranda hadn’t yet succumbed to the process. It was a faded and mottled green stucco structure five stories high and topped with an ornate neon sign that probably hadn’t glowed since the forties. Its wooden window frames, once white and now a muddied cream color, were chipped and peeling. Wide glass double doors, webbed with finely turned wooden framework, formed the entrance. Above them a fan-shaped window bore the name of the hotel in fragmented gold letters. The doors had been painted recently, though not scraped or sanded, and the wood was in slightly better condition than the window frames. The oversized brass hardware was ornate and polished, even if irretrievably tarnished. Carver eased his shoulder into the flat brass push-plate and entered the lobby.
It was dim in the lobby and smelled musty, and the past was almost palpable. He was standing on a black-and-white tiled floor darkened by years and ground-out cigarette butts. Faded green carpet stretched in front of the scarred old registration desk, then up a wide flight of stairs. Beyond the desk were elevators with clocklike brass floor indicators above the doors, fancy arrows that rotated along Roman numerals. One of the elevators had an Out of Order sign taped to its door. It looked as if it had been there since 1967.
Two old women sat in oversized brown vinyl chairs and talked around a dusty artificial fern as if it were the ghost of a husband being snubbed. They glanced at Carver as he made his way to the desk, then resumed their conversation.
The desk clerk was a man of about sixty with a lean, lined face and thinning hair so black it had to be dyed. His unshaven left cheek was concave, as if all the molars on that side were missing. He had on a threadbare blue suit, white shirt, and red tie, a stab at respectability in a hopeless situation.
“Charles Post’s room number, please,” Carver said. The two old women looked over at him at the mention of Post’s name.
“We don’t give out our guests’ room numbers,” the clerk said with a whiff of morning gin. “I can give you Mr. Post’s extension and you can phone upstairs to him.”
Carver said that was good enough, and the clerk directed him to the house phones that squatted on a gray marble shelf, two yellowed plastic units without dials or punch pads.
Charlie Post answered on the second ring and didn’t even bother to ask why Carver wanted to talk to him. He seemed eager for company and invited him up to his fifth-floor room.
He was standing with the door open when Carver stepped off the elevator. Though he was at least in his midseventies, he was still a handsome man, with erect posture, broad shoulders, silver hair, and a waistline that had spread but was under control. He was wearing pleated brown pants, a blue-striped white shirt open at the collar, and a navy blue ascot.
“Charlie Post,” he said with a creased and handsome smile as Carver moved within handshaking range.
Carver introduced himself and shook Post’s cool, dry hand, wondering if after a certain age people stopped perspiring.
Post stepped back and waved an arm in a reserved yet gracious motion for Carver to enter. He didn’t smell of age, like a lot of old people; there was about him the scent of soap and shampoo. Not perfumed, though; some brand of masculine cologne Carver couldn’t place. Carver saw that Post’s thick gray hair was still damp in back from his morning bath or shower.
“I can offer you coffee,” he said in his firm, amiable voice.
The room was large, well worn but comfortable, with a double bed with a white spread, dark mahogany dresser and wardrobe, and the same green carpet that was in the lobby and hall. A window was open about six inches and white sheer curtains undulated softly in the slight breeze that pushed its way in. The room was clean and filled with the scent of fresh-perked coffee sitting on a hotplate on a small table near the bed. A clear glass cup of black coffee on a chipped saucer sat on a low table in front of a brown sofa with ball-and-claw legs.
Carver declined coffee, and Post waved him into a well-padded if threadbare wing chair, then sat down on the sofa. He looked smilingly and inquisitively at Carver, waiting for whatever it was Carver wanted to say. It occurred to Carver that anyone selling anything could have gained entrance as easily as he had, and he wondered how naive Post had become in his not-so-golden years.
He said, “I’m here to ask you about Maggie Rourke.”
Post’s smile faded and for an instant was replaced by an expression of hope. Carver recognized the look, the dreamer dreaming the dream. “Maggie, huh?” Post said. He seemed lost in memory for a few seconds. The sound of traffic down on Collins drifted into the room with the breeze. “That Maggie . . . You know where she is?”
“Don’t you?”
“No, she left my life the way she entered it-like a visiting angel.”
Surprised, Carver said, “That’s poetic.”
“Maggie’s the kind of woman that inspires poetry.”
Carver didn’t argue. “Your former wife May told me I might find you here,” he said, bending the truth a little.
Charlie Post sipped coffee, then placed the cup back in its saucer, clinking glass against china. His hand was trembling. “May inspires things other than poetry.” Carver wondered if the trembling hand was the result of his mentioning Maggie, or May. Or maybe it was simply due to advancing age. Seemingly in complete control of his emotions again, Post pretended to examine his fingernails, as if to demonstrate to himself and to Carver that his hand was now steady, and said, “May took everything I owned. My business, my home, my old life.”
“Was the divorce because of Maggie?”
“Oh, yes and no. May knew I was seeing someone else, even had us followed and obtained . . . er, indelicate photographs of us. But the truth was, Maggie wasn’t the first of my indiscretions, and May knew it. I won’t say May drove me to infidelity; it’s never that simple. I’m a man who should never have married. I love beautiful women the way I love beauty in nature and in the line of a fine ship. So I suppose it wasn’t entirely May’s fault. I’ve always liked the opposite sex, and they’ve always appreciated my appreciating them.”
“Was Maggie named as co-respondent in the divorce?”
“No. Maggie dropped out of sight the day after we were photographed in the stateroom of a yacht. She couldn’t stand what she knew was coming, the embarrassment and shame. I wasn’t about to give out her name, and May never learned it. Actually that worked in May’s favor, that I seemed not even to know the name of the woman in the photographs, like I was a real lowlife who went to bed with anyone on short notice. One-night-stand Charlie. That’s how she painted me, anyway. It tilted things even more in her direction in court. So Maggie had nothing to do with the actual divorce proceedings, but she would have if I’d fought May. I was glad when Maggie disappeared. I mean, the thought of those photographs being made public. I couldn’t have that, so I was hobbled in the divorce negotiations despite the slickest attorneys I could buy. May cleaned me out.”
“And you’ve never seen Maggie since?”
“Nope. We had an arrangement we both understood. I know she wasn’t heart-throbbing in love with me, but I thought eventually she might be. We talked about my leaving May, but I think Maggie figured that’s all it really was, just talk and wishful thinking. So she broke it off the quickest, cleanest way possible.” He smiled, his blue eyes clouding. “Still, I’d like to see her once more, tell her everything’s all right between us.”