‘Mall of America,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘You too?’
I shrugged and jerked a thumb in Prim’s direction, as if in explanation. I chose the Elmore Leonard, plus a Sheila O’Flanagan, a Jasper Fforde, and a signed hardback of the most recent Skinner book, and handed Jeff a credit card. ‘Whatever she wants, put it on that too; might as well get used to it.’
As we stood there waiting for Prim to make her selection, I scratched my head. ‘It’s funny, you know. Although I never thought of Minneapolis as a cradle of the arts, I did once run across an actor from here, a guy maybe in the same age ballpark as you.’
‘Can you remember his name?’
‘Yeah, it was Walls, like the ice cream; Paul Patrick Walls.’
‘I don’t think I’m familiar with him,’ said the shopkeeper.
‘That wasn’t his real name, though,’ I added, as casually as I could. ‘It began with Walls, or Wall, but it was longer.’
Jeff’s eyes widened in recognition. ‘Of course! Paul Wallinger, Martha’s son.’
‘You know him? Hell, there’s a coincidence.’
‘Oh, I don’t know him, but Martha’s a customer of ours. She comes in every so often. She bought a book once and mentioned that her son Paul had been in the television adaptation.’
I chuckled. ‘Hey, fancy that. Maybe I should look her up when I’m in town. She does live in Minneapolis, yes?’
‘Yes indeed. She used to live in St Paul, but she moved across the Mississippi after her husband died. I might even have an address for her. If you hold on I’ll check my mailing list.’
I held on, Jeff checked, and came back a couple of minutes later, with an address, written on the back of one of his business cards. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Pleased to have been of help.’ I took it from him and slipped it into my wallet, behind my photographic driving licence, just as Prim rejoined us, carrying a Caroline Graham, a Pauline McLynn and a medieval mystery by Michael Jecks. I paid for our picks, signed his visitor’s book, and we went back to the limo.
It only took us another ten minutes to reach the Merchant’s Hotel; as soon as Charles drew up at the entrance the bellboys were all over us like a rash. Our luggage was commandeered, even the bag with our books in it, and we were ushered into Reception, where the bad news broke.
‘Mr and Mrs Blackstone,’ the checkin manager gushed, ‘how great that you’re joining us. If you’ll just sign here and let me have a print of your credit card, we’ll show you to your room.’
The singular hit me at once. ‘Room? My secretary asked for two rooms; I was standing beside her when she made the booking, so I’m in no doubt about that.’
The gush dried up, to be replaced by consternation. ‘But …’ I could see him decide that some blame-shifting was in order. He disappeared into a room behind the desk, and shortly after we could hear raised voices. When he reappeared he was slightly flushed.
‘I have to offer our sincerest apologies,’ he said. ‘There seems to have been a misunderstanding by our booking clerk. She thought that your assistant asked for a premium room with two double beds, and that’s what we’ve allocated. I am terribly sorry, but we don’t have another room available.’
‘We better find another hotel, in that case: we’re travelling together, but we’re divorced.’
The manager winced. ‘Mr Blackstone, we would be happy to relocate you ourselves, but there’s a major event at our convention centre this week. I happen to know that all the quality hotels are full. We could maybe find you a room somewhere, but I doubt if you’d like it.’
I looked at Prim; she looked at me. ‘I’m knackered,’ she said. I had to admit to myself that I felt much the same.
‘Please be assured,’ the manager murmured, clearly trying to be as helpful as he could, ‘of our absolute discretion.’
I sighed. ‘Okay, we’ll take it, but please be assured of my total vengeance if word of this leaks out anywhere.’ He smiled with obvious relief and showed us to our room himself, even refusing a tip.
The superior room was actually a kind of open-plan suite, with a partitioned dressing room, and a sitting area boasting among other things a narrow couch on which a person smaller than I am might sleep quite comfortably. When I pointed at it, Prim pointed at the two double beds, and said that she would take the one nearer the bathroom.
‘Will I have them fix a screen?’ I asked.
‘It’s all right,’ she replied. ‘I’ve seen you sleep before. It’s not very exciting.’
‘I didn’t bring any pyjamas with me.’
‘It’s still not very exciting.’ She pointed at the enormous plasma TV screen mounted on the wall of the sitting area. ‘Why don’t you see if that works, while I take a shower?’ She sniffed at her right armpit in a pure Prim way, then pulled the face that had always made me chuckle. ‘God, yes!’ she exclaimed.
In a supple movement, she slipped the baggy T-shirt in which she had travelled over her head, smiling at my reaction. ‘Think of me as a fellow actor you’re rooming with on location,’ she suggested.
‘I don’t room with fellow actors.’
‘Then think of me as a brother Boy Scout.’
‘Difficult,’ I murmured.
She frowned. ‘In that case, think back to when we were in LA, just before I went off with Nicky. I didn’t get you too excited then, even if we did go through the motions a few times.’
I had to admit that she was right: back then we were still playing the parts of husband and wife, but with no sign of enthusiasm. I recalled the last time we’d had sex, three, no, nearer four years earlier. I’d been thinking of Susie all the way through; I didn’t want to guess who she’d been thinking of.
‘Ah, go on, then; I’ll sort us out something to eat. How about a room-service steak?’
‘Can we go out somewhere? Nothing dressy-up fancy, though, just somewhere we can see what this city’s like.’
‘Okay, I’ll ask Reception what they recommend. You go and make yourself less smelly.’
When I called down, our new friend at Reception told me that all we had to do was walk across Sixth Street to a bar diner called Gluek’s. The place was a hundred years old, he said, although it had been restored after a fire fifteen years earlier. When I said that sounded fine, he undertook to book us a table.
I was honking too, so while Prim sorted out what to wear to a Minneapolis diner, I grabbed a towelling dressing-gown from the wardrobe and had a quick shower myself. Twenty minutes later we were ready to go, looking like a couple of cowboys in blue jeans.
Gluek’s turned out to be the sort of American bar I really love. The place wasn’t full, so the reservation had been unnecessary, but it was lively and there was a jazz band playing on a stage at the far end of the long room, close enough to our booth for us to appreciate it and far enough away for us to be able to hear each other. The draught beer selection was amazing, and the menu was solid, inviting down-home stuff. We learned that old man Gluek had been a Bavarian brewer who came to the Midwest a hundred and fifty years ago and set up in business there. They still make his original Pilsner, so we started with a couple of tall glasses of the stuff, ice-cold. I hadn’t realised I was thirsty until then.
I wasn’t worried about Prim’s drinking any more. She’d sworn off the hard stuff, and I was used to seeing her with a beer in her hand, so it didn’t bother me.
The way I deal with jet-lag is by pretending that it doesn’t exist. My watch said nine twenty and so I tried to force my body to agree with it, by ordering Reuben Balls … no, I don’t know who Reuben is. . as a starter, followed by Minnesota walleye pike, oven-broiled with white wine butter and almonds and served with French fries and a selection of steamed vegetables. Prim, being smaller, decided to be more conservative. She started with Syd’s Artichoke Dip, followed by a Silver Ranch Bison Burger, with Provolone cheese, marinated mushrooms and buffalo sauce.