“Will you get in the fucking shower?”
Jack stepped out of the bathroom, closed the door and waited. In a few moments he heard the shower go on. He pictured Franklin de Dios in there in his green drawers adjusting the faucets, not too hot, not too cold… Jesus, the guy accepting it, waiting to die.
The next ten seconds he spent at the dresser, opening the drawer, shoving the Beretta and the extra magazines under the guy’s shirts, then closing the drawer and walking off and then returning to the dresser-because it didn’t make sense to put the guy’s gun back, the guy was going to know he was here-and wasted another ten seconds thinking about it, Christ, hearing that shower going. He told himself, forget the fucking gun; started out again, stopped, dropped the key on the floor, and kicked it under the bed.
No more going into hotel rooms, never again.
“ALL I COULD THINK OF WAS, no more of this shit. I have to get out of here. I did look over the rail. You were still there.”
“Yeah, stuck with those guys. This creep asking me about Miami. Have I ever been to the Mutiny, Neon Leon’s? He wants to know what bars I go to, if I ever get over to Key Biscayne. Where’s Key Biscayne? I was in Miami once in my life, when I was eighteen.”
They were in Jack’s Scirocco parked at the foot of Toulouse, the river close by in the dark, beyond the cement dock and the silhouette of a dredge against the night sky.
“That was my last time. Ever,” Jack said. “I’m not even sure if I’ll ever stay at a hotel again.” He started the car. “We better go to your place.”
“No. It’s too depressing… It’s sort of a mess.”
“Tell me what the guy said, when he came back.”
“He didn’t say anything. So I assumed, well, at least you didn’t get caught. You were either gone by then or hiding under the bed or in the closet…”
“You didn’t see me leave?”
“How could I? They’re looking right at me.”
“The guy must’ve said something. The Indian. That’s what he is, a Miskito Indian.”
“He handed Bertie the letter and Bertie started yelling at him in Spanish, I guess for taking so long.”
“What letter?”
“From the President, Reagan. First he read it out loud and then I had to read it… I didn’t understand the last line. It was in Spanish.”
“Was the guy, when he came back, did he look wet?”
“Wet? Why would he be wet?”
“He didn’t say anything at all?”
“Nothing, not a word, he just stood there. Bertie yelled at him and then the other guy got into it.”
“Crispin?”
“Crispeen. Those little arrogant guys love to yell. I did look up at the top floor when they were yelling. I knew you were okay, but where were you? The colonel, he started touching me then, running his hand up my arm, telling me what a wonderful time we’re gonna have. Jack, I had to get out of there. I said, ‘I’m sorry, Bertie, but I can’t go out with you.’ He said, ‘But why?’ I said, ’Cause you’re too fucking short,’ and left.”
Turning out of the lot toward Canal Street Jack said, “Did the guy’s hair look wet?”
They had a drink at Mandina’s while he told her about the Indian, Franklin de Dios, coming into the room. Then he had to tell her about the colonel raising funds, that much. He’d tell her the rest in a quiet place. They left the car at Mandina’s and walked. She asked him where they were going; he said, wait.
When they came to Mullen & Sons Helene said, “Oh, no, uh-unh. I’m not going in there at night. Are you kidding?” She looked up at the gray turreted shape in the streetlight and said, “It used to be someone’s home, didn’t it?”
She stood in the lighted front hall, not moving, while Jack looked in the visitation rooms. He came back to her shaking his head, took her arm as they moved toward the stairway and she said it again, “Oh, no, uh-unh.”
“If I’m not here and there’s a body, Leo gets somebody in. You know what I’m talking about? He calls a security service and they send a guy over.”
“Jack, I don’t want to see a dead person.”
They were in the upstairs hall. “There aren’t any here. I’ll show you.” He reached into a doorway and turned on the light. “This’s the embalming room. If there was a body it’d be laying on that table.”
“Oh, my God,” Helene said. She didn’t move. “What’s that thing?”
“That’s the embalming machine.”
“Porti-Boy? Oh, my God… How does it work?”
“Come on.” He turned the light off and took her down the hall to his apartment.
“What’s this?”
“Where I’ve been living the past three years.”
“Gee, it’s nice, Jack. Who’s your decorator?”
He said, “Helene, I was in a bathroom with a guy that thought I was gonna kill him. Try to imagine something like that. He didn’t cry, he didn’t say please don’t… It was the same guy yesterday at the restaurant. You were there.”
“I must’ve left just before.”
“Well, it was the same guy. He’s standing there in the bathroom, he thinks I’m gonna shoot him, and he asks me if I want his shoes. Can you tell me what kind of a guy would say that?”
Helene didn’t answer. She watched him get a bottle of vodka from the refrigerator that stood in the barely furnished room; she sat with him in the old sofa that used to be downstairs and didn’t say anything, not a word, until he had told her everything that had happened from the trip to Carville on Sunday until this Tuesday evening at the St. Louis Hotel.
She said, “I think you’ve left out a few things.”
“I might’ve, I don’t know.”
Helene sat curled in the sofa, facing him. “You stayed at her house last night?”
“All three of us did.”
“Yeah…”
“I told you, the guy saw us in the restaurant and he knows where she lives. We thought he might come around.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No. Then I run into him again, tonight. He knows who I am. This’s the third or fourth time he’s seen me, we’re getting to know each other. But he didn’t tell the colonel or Crispin, Crispeen. He could’ve told them later, but-no, he catches me in the room? Shit, he’d have told them right away. But he didn’t… Why?”
“Where did you sleep?”
“What?”
“Last night, at her house. Where did you sleep?”
“In a bed, where do you think? That house, there nine, ten bedrooms upstairs.”
“Who with?”
“Roy and Cullen had a room and I had a room… What, you think I sneaked in her room during the night?”
“She could’ve come to yours.”
Jack took his time. “As a matter of fact, she did. She wanted to talk.”
“She get in bed with you?”
“She sat on the edge. You know, on the side.”
“Hey, Jack? Bullshit.”
“It isn’t like what you think. She’s a dedicated person.”
“You mean dedicated people don’t get it on?”
“I mean I really don’t know, since this’s my first experience with people who give a shit about anything outside of themselves.”
“She probably calls it going all the way.”
“Helene, she’s not like a nun that teaches third grade, she spent nine years taking care of lepers. Now she’s got a gun. I asked her if she’d be willing to use it. She said it isn’t something you plan. But if she’d had a gun when the colonel murdered the lepers there’s no doubt in her mind she would’ve tried to kill him. Even knowing his men would shoot her on the spot.”
“Maybe,” Helene said, “she wants to be a martyr. I mean a real one, go straight to heaven.”
“You think you’re kidding, she might go for that.”
“I wasn’t kidding.”
“But she isn’t a fanatic. She might sound a little strange sometimes, but she knows what’s going on, she’s very aware of things. She says you have to take sides, make a commitment, and then, I don’t know, whatever happens happens. Like the guy in the bathroom, the Indian. He’s on the other side. He’s willing to kill, but he’s also willing to die for whatever it is he believes in. He sees it coming and accepts it, Jesus, didn’t kick or scream or anything.”