I didn’t say anything. In many ways Dick Fleming is not with it.
After dinner we walked back to the hotel in silence. There were three men and a woman loitering on the steps of the Hotel Harding. They gave us a cold and silent appraisal as we walked by. We halted a few doors down. When we glanced back, they were still staring at us.
‘You’re sure you want to go back in there?’ Dick asked nervously.
‘I’m sure,’ I said, which was a damned lie.
‘Good luck then.’ He kissed my cheek. ‘If you decide to run, then run. You don’t have to prove anything, to me or to yourself.’
He touched my arm, then turned and walked away, back towards Broadway, a cab, escape. It took a conscious effort to keep from running after him. But I returned to the entrance of the hotel and started up the steps.
‘What’s the matter, honey?’ the woman said in a whiskey rasp. ‘Y’strike out?’
I shrugged. ‘You lose one, you win one.’
They laughed, and suddenly they didn’t seem so sinister; the Harding was just another dirty hotel, and I would survive.
When I got off the elevator and waked down the corridor (which, in honor of the graffiti, I had nicknamed the Tunnel of Love), I saw the door of Room 703, which I had locked, was now wide open. I peeped cautiously around the jamb. A wizened harridan was making up my bed with sheets that looked like the shrouds of a poverty-stricken ghost.
She looked up as I came into the room.
‘Listen here, dearie,’ she whined. ‘I take care of this whole rotten place. Twelve floors, and I got no help. I ask for help, but that owner, he don’t give me no help. I gotta do everything around here, people screaming for this and that, new sheets, fresh towels, and the mess some of these animals make you wouldn’t believe-’
Her litany of woe went on and on as she spread the tissue-thin sheets, a threadbare cotton blanket, and hung two towels in the bathroom. They looked like used flour sacks.
Finally, just to stop that whiny voice, I gave her two dollars.
‘God bless, dearie,’ she said in a voice suddenly strong and vigorous. She folded the bills and stuffed them in her bra. ‘I’m Blanche. You need anything, you just ask for me. I’ll take nice care of you.’
She gave me a horrendous wink. Then she was gone. I closed and locked the door behind her. There was a chain on the doorjamb, but the slot in which it should have fitted was missing. There were four splintered holes showing where it had been. So I got the straight-back chair and jammed it under the knob.
• I struggled with the air-shaft window for almost five minutes and finally raised it a few inches. A cool breeze came in. A breeze redolent of ripe garbage and burning rubber — but cool.
I flopped down in the sprung armchair, kicked off the spike-heeled sandals, flexed my feet and surveyed my kingdom. I knew I should unpack, try to scrub the worst of the scum from the bathroom sink, spray against roaches, and generally try to settle in. But I was too weary to do anything but lean back and wonder just what the hell I thought I was doing.
I wondered myself to the edge of depression. It was too late to back out, too soon to quit. I got up again and uncapped the bottle of vodka Dick Fleming had bought me. Then I looked around. No glasses.
I took the chair from under the knob, unlocked and opened the door and stuck my head out. The hallway was empty. In stockinged feet I padded down the corridor to Room 705 and knocked on the door.
‘Who is it?’ A forceful voice, almost angry.
‘Your new neighbour,’ I said to the closed door, ‘Room 703.’
Sound of chain being slipped. Not one, but two locks opened. Then the door swung wide. He smiled at me.
‘Hel-lo!’ he said. ‘This is wild; I was just thinking of you.’
‘Listen,’ I told him, ‘I’d like a drink. I’ve got what goes in, but I don’t have a glass. I was hoping you might have an extra you can spare until tomorrow when I can buy my own.’
All this in my breathless floozy’s voice.
He stared at me, the smile still there.
‘I can’t find Blanche,’ I explained lamely.
‘Sure, sure,’ he said. ‘Your husband doesn’t want to go out?’
‘He’s not my husband.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Just a friend. And he’s not here. Have you got that glass?’
The tension went out of his stretched grin.
‘Then you took the place alone,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t understand. Sure, I’ve got a glass you can borrow. Come on in; I’ll wash it out for you.’
‘Oh, don’t bother,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I’ll rinse it.’
‘No bother,’ he said, the white teeth flashing again like a neon sign. ‘Come on in. Just take a minute.’
I entered hesitantly, leaving the door half-open behind me. If he noticed, he gave no sign. He went into the bathroom and in a few seconds I heard water running in the sink.
His room was larger than mine and looked more lived in. He had two armchairs, two pillows, two blankets, a small TV set and smaller radio. Best of all, he had a refrigerator: one of those waist-high jobs that holds a six-pack, a pint of milk, a deck of sliced salami.
He came out of the bathroom, polishing a glass with a towel that was, I noted enviously, larger and thicker than the ones Blanche had given me.
‘How about ice?’ he asked casually.
‘Oh, I couldn’t-’ I started.
‘I don’t even know your name,’ he said suddenly. ‘You know mine.’
He said this in an odd, challenging way, as if we were making a bet.
‘Beatrice Flanders,’ I told him. ‘Bea for short.’
‘But not for long, eh?’ I didn’t know what that meant, but it seemed to amuse him.
He went over to the refrigerator and busied himself prying the trays loose. I had a chance to inspect him.
It wasn’t accurate to call him handsome. There was an inhuman regularity in his features. Each side of his face was an exact mirror image of the other, a rare thing in human physiognomy. The result was cold perfection. Only that frequent smile gave warmth and humanity to what otherwise would have been a chilling and disturbing mask.
He moved well, lithely and with grace. I imagined his body would be dark, smooth, all long muscles covered with soft, almost hairless skin. All his actions — bending, turning, lifting — seemed fluid and effortless; his gestures were just as light and flowing.
His voice was musical, with a remarkable range. He knew how to use it for effect.
He wore his slacks and knitted sports shirt well; he had the kind of relaxed body that makes clothes look good. His hands and feet were surprisingly small for such a tall man,
tapered in a pleasing fashion; they completed him, as if he were enclosed in one artful, continuous line.
He emptied the ice cubes into a plastic bowl, then went into the bathroom to refill the trays.
‘Where you from, Bea?’ he called.
‘Here, there, everywhere,’ I said casually after he came back into the main room.
‘Yeah,’he said. ‘Me too.’
‘What kind of work do you do?’
‘This and that. Well, I’ve got the glass and the ice ready for you.’
He looked at me.
The ball was in my court.
‘Care for a drink?’ I asked. ‘I have vodka, scotch, brandy.’
‘Thought you’d never ask.’ He grinned. ‘What are you having?’
‘Vodka.’
‘That’ll do fine.’
‘I’ll bring it in here. Your place is more comfortable than mine.’
‘Sure,’ he said.
We drank the vodka on ice, with a splash of water. My first of the day. We sat sprawled in the armchairs. He had kicked off his loafers, and we wiggled our stockinged toes at each other.
‘Just arrived?’ he asked idly. ‘I mean in New York?’
‘A few days ago.’
‘Who’s the Tooth Fairy?’
‘Who?’
‘The guy I saw you with.’
I tried not to smile, but it was a descriptive name for Dick.
‘Friend of a friend. He helped me move in.’