Dett got to his feet, pulled the tightly fitted sheet off the mattress, then deposited it at the foot of the bed, along with the blanket and the pillowcases he had removed to construct his sleeping quarters. He plucked the quarter from the doorknob, returned the ashtray to the writing desk, and lit a cigarette. While it was burning, he emptied some more of the Four Roses into the sink.
After a shower and shave, Dett telephoned room service and ordered breakfast and a newspaper, specifying the local. While he waited, he dressed-another plain dark suit, another carefully knotted tie, this time a sober shade of blue.
Three eggs, yolks broken and fried over hard, four strips of bacon, a side of hash-brown potatoes, two glasses of orange juice, and a basket of biscuits took him more than an hour to consume.
Dett carried the breakfast tray outside his room and left it on the floor, next to his door. He went back inside and sat down to read the paper, turning first to the personals column-in case Whisper had a message for him.
A few minutes later, the door opened and a cocoa-colored young woman in a white maid’s smock walked in.
“Oh! I’m sorry, sir!” she said, her amber eyes alive with anxiety. “I saw the tray outside, and I figured you was out. I’ll come back later and-”
“That’s all right,” Dett said, sliding the derringer back into his pocket, shielded by the newspaper. “Might as well get it done now; I won’t be in your way.”
“Yes, sir,” the young woman said, pushing her service cart ahead of her. “If you want to… stay in late, any day, all you have to do is put the sign up, and I’ll know-”
“I’ll know better next time,” Dett said, mildly, lowering his newspaper. “Thank you.”
“Yes, sir,” the young woman said, still nervous over having blundered into the room without knocking. It was just the kind of mistake that Mister Carl would report to the manager, if the guest complained. At the Claremont, maids had been fired for less. She entered the bathroom, skillfully removed and replaced the three tumblers she found there, exchanged the roll of toilet paper for a new one, replaced the towels, added a fresh bar of soap. Even moving mechanically, she noted how clean and neat the guest had left everything.
“All right if I do the bed now, sir?” she asked, stepping back into the main room.
“Sure,” the guest replied. “And my name is Dett, Walker Dett.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, yes, Mr. Dett, sir.”
The young woman’s large amber eyes met the guest’s pale-gray ones. She felt her face flush.
“And your name is?” the guest asked.
“Rosa Mae, sir.”
“Rosa Mae…?”
“Rosa Mae Barlow, sir.”
“Thank you, Miss Barlow.”
“You welcome, sir,” the woman said, not sure of anything except that the man was making her… well, not nervous, but…
The maid bustled about the room, a model of efficiency. “I come back and do the vacuuming later, sir,” she said. “It’s a big old noisy thing, and you-”
“I’d appreciate that, Miss Barlow,” the man said. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll remember about the sign, all right?”
“Yes, sir. Anything you say all right with me, sir. Thank you.”
1959 September 30 Wednesday 09:51
Dett waited several minutes after the maid left his room, standing with his ear to the door. Satisfied, he quickly stepped outside and hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign over the doorknob. He locked the door behind him, kicked his wedge under it, and then closed the window curtains completely.
Taking a small key from his pocket, Dett unlocked his attaché case, removed some papers, pens, and a road map, then lifted the false bottom to reveal a pair of.45-caliber automatics, bedded in foam rubber. He carried the pistols over to the easy chair, turned on the floor lamp, and worked the slide on the first one. He looked down the barrel, using his thumbnail to reflect light. He unwrapped a soda straw and used it to blow out the barrel, then repeated the process with the other pistol.
Dett opened four small unmarked boxes, each containing thirty-six cartridges. He upended the boxes and examined each cartridge with great care, inspecting the primer, checking the fit between the casings and the slugs. Some were hardballs, others had been converted to dum-dums with a carefully carved “x” on each lead tip.
Dett dry-fired each weapon before he filled a magazine with seven cartridges and inserted it into the tape-wrapped butt of one of the pistols. He racked the slide, then ejected the magazine and replaced the chambered round. He did the same with the other pistol, flicking the custom-made extended safety off and on with his thumb.
From the larger suitcase, Dett removed an over-and-under 12-gauge shotgun. The stock had been replaced with a pistol grip, the barrels sawed off so deeply that the red tips of the double-0 buck shells were visible.
One of the pistols went into a shoulder holster, rigged to carry butt-down. The other went into the inside pocket of a long black overcoat. The coat looked like wool, but it was made of a lightweight synthetic fiber, with a network of leather loops sewn under the lining, accessed by long vertical slits. The shotgun slid perfectly into its custom-tailored pocket.
Dett filled the left outside pocket of the overcoat with six magazines for the.45s, and the right-hand pocket with shotgun shells. He knew from both practice and experience that he could walk around for hours in the heavily loaded coat without revealing a hint of its contents.
After carefully arranging the coat over a wooden hanger in the closet, Dett took off the shoulder rig and removed the pistol. Then he relocked the attaché case and returned to the easy chair. He turned off the floor lamp, poured some more of the Four Roses into a fresh tumbler, and let the drink sit there as he smoked a cigarette through.
When he was finished, he emptied the bourbon into the toilet, tossed in his cigarette, flushed, and returned to the easy chair.
After a few minutes, he reached for the telephone.
1959 September 30 Wednesday 11:22
“So he a big spender, what’s that to me?” the cocoa-colored young woman in the maid’s uniform said to Rufus. “He may put some money in your hand, but he ain’t leaving no dollars on his pillow for Rosa Mae Barlow, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t some of those traveling men leave you something, when they check out?” Rufus asked.
“I heard of that,” the young woman said. “But I haven’t seen it for myself. Everybody in this place got a hustle going except the maids. People work in the kitchen, you know they take home plenty of extras. A man with your job, he got lots of ways to make money. Guest wants some liquor, wants a woman, wants… anything, you always got your hand out. Mister Carl, too. When they have those big card games up in one of the suites, you know he’s got to be getting something for himself.”
“I heard the girls who clean up after those games, they get thrown some.”
“Some what?” the young woman said, tartly. “I got to work that shift, once. All night long, picking up after all those men. You know what I got thrown? A few pats on my behind, that’s what. One of the men, he said it brought him luck, do that. Didn’t bring me no luck, I tell you that.”
“It will, honeygirl. Swear to heaven. A woman put together like you, got to bring you luck, someday.”
“You got me mixed up with those whores you bring up to the rooms, Rufus,” she said, pridefully. “All I ever got out of looking the way I do is some fancy man with a ten-dollar conk and a flash suit and a big car he ain’t paid for telling me what a ‘star’ I could be. Man I’m looking for, he’s not going to want me for that kind of thing. That’s why I go to church.”
“Little girl, listen to someone who’s telling you the truth. I don’t care if he’s a saint or a sinner, if he’s a man, he’s gonna want what you got, because, Lord knows, you got all of it.”