Part 25 (1/2)

”What can we do for you?”

”Gee,” I said. ”The sign says a.s.sistant manager.”

”A harmless euphemism,” he said. He had receding hair and a neat mustache and good color. I noticed that his hands were manicured and his fingernails were buffed. ”Euphemism?” I said. ”What kind of security person says euphemism?”

”I was a cop in this city for twenty-two years, sailor. You want to try me out.”

I shook my head. ”Not me,” I said, ”I need to find out about this lady here.”

I showed him Patty Giacomin's picture.

”In what context?” the a.s.sistant manager said.

Trying to explain what I was doing was too complicated. ”She's missing,” I said. ”Husband's worried. Asked me to come down and look.

”She stayed here overnight about once every month,” I said. ”Last time was about three weeks ago.”

”She's not here now?”

”No.” I said, ”I already checked.”

He looked at me for a moment. His shaving lotion was strong and expensive. ”You got somebody to vouch for you?” he said. ”I don't like talking hotel business with every jerk that comes in here and waves a license at me.”

”I liked you better when you were saying things like euphemism,” I said.

”I don't care what you like. You got somebody to vouch for you?”

”How about Nicky Hilton?”

He almost smiled. ”Best you can do?”

”Look at me in profile,” I said. ”Could I be anything but trustworthy?”

He heaved a sigh. ”Come on,” he said. He came out from behind the desk and we walked down the lobby to a c.o.c.ktail lounge. It was almost empty at three in the afternoon. The bartender was a tall trim black man with a tight Afro and big handlebar mustache. The a.s.sistant manager gestured him down the bar with his head.

”What'll it be, Mr. Ritchie,” the bartender said.

a.s.sistant Manager Ritchie said, ”Jerry, you know this babe?” I held up the picture of Patty Giacomin. Jerry looked at it carefully, his hazel eyes expressionless. He looked at Ritchie.

Ritchie said, ”Tell him, Jerry. He's okay.”

”Sure,” Jerry said, ”I know her. She comes in here about once a month, gets fried on Chablis, picks up a guy, and goes out with him. To her room, I a.s.sume.”

Ritchie nodded. ”Yeah, to her room. Next day she checks out, pays her bill, and we don't see her for a month.”

”Different guy each time?” I said.

”Yeah. I guess so,” Jerry said. ”Couldn't swear there was never somebody twice, but if it was, it was an accident. She was in here to get laid. She didn't care who.”

”Know any of the guys?” I said.

Jerry looked at Ritchie. Ritchie said, ”No.”

”And if you did?” I said.

”I wouldn't tell you,” Ritchie said.

”Unless I come back with somebody from your old outfit,” I said.

”Come back with a New York cop on a missing person's investigation, we'll spill our guts. Otherwise, you have found out all you're going to.”

”Maybe enough,” I said.

CHAPTER 30.

We had dinner at the Four Seasons, in the pool room, under the high ceiling near a window on the Fifty-third Street side. Paul had pheasant, among other things, and paid very close attention to everything Susan and I did. We had some wine, and the bill came to $182.37. I have bought cars for less. The next day we went to the Metropolitan Museum in the afternoon and in the evening we took Paul up to Riverside Church to see Alvin Ailey and his group dance.

In the cab going back downtown Paul said, ”That's not exactly ballet, is it?”

”Program says contemporary dance,” I said.

”I like that too.”

”There are surely lots of variations,” Susan said, ”Tap dance too.”

Paul nodded. He stared out the cab window as we went down the West Side Highway and off at Fifty-seventh Street. We were alone, the three of us, going up in the hotel elevator and Paul said, ”I want to learn. I'm going to learn how to do that. If I have to go away to school or whatever. I'm going to do that.”

Sunday we slept late and in the early afternoon went up to Asia House and looked at nineteenth-century photographs of China. The faces looking back at us from 130 years were as remote and unknowable as patterns on another planet, and yet there they were; human and real, maybe feeling at the moment the shutter clicked a rolling of the stomach, a stirring of the loins.

We took a late-afternoon shuttle back to Boston and drove Susan out to her house. It was after six when we got there. I pulled the Bronco in next to my MG and parked and ran the back window down with the lever on the dash. Susan and Paul got out on their side, I got out on mine. As we walked back to get the luggage, I heard a car engine kick in. I looked up and a 1968 Buick was rolling down the street toward us. The barrel of a long gun appeared in the window. I jumped at Paul and Susan, got my arms around both of them, and took them to the ground with me on top, scrambling to get us all behind the car. The long gun made the urgent bubbling sound an automatic weapon makes and slugs ripped into the sheet metal of the Bronco and then pa.s.sed and the Buick was around the corner and gone before I could even get my gun out.

”Lay still,” I said. ”They could make a U-turn.” I had the gun out now and crouched behind the engine block. The car didn't come back and the street was quiet again. The neighbors didn't even open a door. Probably didn't know what they'd heard. Automatic fire doesn't sound like a gunshot.

”Okay,” I said. ”Let's unpack.”

Susan said, ”Jesus Christ,” as she got up. The front of her dress was littered with gra.s.s blades and small leaves. Paul didn't say anything, but he stayed close to me as we carried the bags into the house.

”What was that about?” Susan said in her kitchen.

”I annoyed a guy,” I said. ”Probably Harry Cotton, Paul.”

Paul nodded.

”Who's Harry Cotton?” Susan said. She was making coffee.

”Guy that Mel Giacomin did business with.”