Part 18 (2/2)
If I could have it all back the way it was before this insanity started, here's what would happen: I'd sit Walter down over a hamburger and a beer and tell him it wasn't going to work out for us, the best thing he could do for himself was find himself another woman. And as for Henry, our affair would begin at a smoky club somewhere. I'd go out with him for a while, sleep with him, travel with him, live with him, love him with my life.
But that was all make believe. The reality was that Walter was dead. The reality was that Henry had tricked me, used me, wrecked my life-s.h.i.+t, I was ready to blow a hole in his neck because of all those things, wasn't I? And yet the reality was that I still loved him, and maybe I wanted to blow the hole in him because of that too.
My history with Walter, my pa.s.sion for Henry, my guilt and rage-all of it jumbled and boiled and bubbled over there in the back seat of that taxi.
I stood on the curb outside the hotel until I could pull myself together, then I went in.
The sleepy, balding man behind the desk rubbed at his eyes as he watched me approach, as if he thought this lady in black with all the yellow flowers might be part of his dream.
”Mr. Dameron ordered flowers?” he asked after I'd stated my business.
The concierge looked a little confused and I didn't blame him. It was only a quarter to seven in the morning.
”No,” I said with a Mona Lisa twist of the mouth. ”They're from me.”
He regarded me for a moment and then, finally getting it, tentatively returned the smile.
”I'll just call up.” He reached for the phone at the edge of the counter.
”No, don't,” I said softly, placing my hand over his. ”It's a surprise.”
Concern clouded his face for an instant. And I took the opportunity presented by that second's worth of hesitation to place a folded twenty in front of him.
”It's 810, right?”
”Yes ma'am. 810.”
I took the elevator up.
The Inn was still sleeping. I could almost hear the collective toss and turn of every sleeper behind every closed door, breathing gagged and heavy, dreams troubled, saturated with last night's mistakes.
I leaned on the bell of 810 and kept up the pressure until I heard shuffling from within.
”Yes? Who's there?” he called, sounding crazy in that roused from sleep way.
I mumbled an utterly incomprehensible response that ended with ”the front desk.”
He repeated, ”Who's there?”
And I repeated the same nonsense syllables, but much louder this time, and with an edge of high handed impatience.
He bought it. There was the sound of the safety chain sliding away from its cradle, and then the click of the dead bolt.
The door swung open a second later. And before he could speak again, I thrust the flowers into his arms.
He was wearing dopey patterned flannel pajamas, looking for all the world like a kid who'd misplaced his teddy bear.
”Very hot look, Henry,” I said, stepping into the room and slamming the door closed with my foot.
”Oh. It is you, Nanette. How beautiful you are.”
I swung the palm of my hand, which by now held the gun, against the side of his face. It connected just right.
Henry reeled backwards and staggered until his legs gave way beneath him and he was sitting on the factory outlet carpet. The long stemmed yellow beauties were still in his arms. He had not raised a hand against me nor tried to fend off the blow.
I pointed the gun at his stomach. He blinked once, then looked away.
I waited. And waited.
”Nothing to say, Henry?” I spoke at last.
”Yes, my love. I do have something.”
”Good. What is it?”
”I would like to have a cigarette.”
”Oh sure, baby. Sure. Here, let me light it for you.”
I walked over and kicked him in the groin.
The roses went flying. He lay flat on his back, gasping for air, beginning to cry.
”Uh uh, Henry. None of that. Sit up straight like a good boy.”
”Why have you come here, Nanette? Surely there is nothing you could want from me now.”
”It's story time, Henry. I want a story from you. Tell me about Rhode Island Red.”
”It will not help you to know. It will only-”
”Henry, do you believe that I'm prepared to pull the trigger on this f.u.c.king thing and walk out of here without a backward glance?”
”I do not know.”
In answer, I pushed the safety catch to the off position.
”What about now?” I asked, holding the weapon straight out in front of me.
He sighed. ”All right. But I truly do wish to have a cigarette. May I?” He nodded toward the coffee table where the packet of Dunhills lay.
”Go ahead.”
After he'd taken his first draw, he raised one hand gingerly to the wet slash at his temple. The blood pulsing out of it was like a miniature stream carrying debris.
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