“Ugh,” I said. “I hate coffee."
Good morning to you, too, Paul said. I hope I'm not being presumptuous, but I do have a client to start protecting this morning.
“Yeah, yeah. Some advance notice would have been helpful-you could have left a wake-up call at the front desk."
Sorry. I'll try to remember.
It didn't sound like he meant it.
“I'm not trying to be a hard-ass, Paul. I just don't like somebody else controlling my body while I'm not awake. First, you sneak off to buy a couple of suits, and now, you're waking up my body without me knowing it. I'd like you to ask first."
Oh, what a goose I've been. Paul sneered at me in the reflection from the toaster. He buttered a piece of slightly-blackened toast.
“Go ahead. Crack wise. All I know is if we don't start making some cash, this operation is going under. Then who'll be buttering your burnt toast?"
Paul had no rebuttal. He ate three slices, half a grapefruit and an apple before buttoning his shirt and putting on his new jacket and leaving for work. I walked over to Old Tom's for a plate of Brain steak and eggs and a Brain Bloody Mary to fortify myself for a day of intense research into the Larsen Murders.
I spent about ten minutes shuffling through some notes where I thought I remembered “Philadelphia” being mentioned. There were a billion avenues to explore: I could line up my Association organization chart again, and look for any Philly connections/birthplaces, and then check it against back notes. I could look for previous mentions of “Ray Loogan” or “Leah Farrell.” I could sort through a filing cabinet notes I'd previously considered “irrelevant,” hoping to glean a useable fact from the endless pages of black type. But to be honest, I found myself completely drained of ambition.
I was curious to see what was happening with Paul. It's odd-for the past eight months I wanted nothing more than to devote my waking hours to the Larsen murder investigation, to finally be done with it. The very moment it became a possibility, I found myself distracted by a meaningless babysitting case.
I walked down to the Brain Hotel lobby and stared up at the viewing screen. I was just in time to catch Paul walking into Susannah's hotel lobby. It was a weird effect-like one of those mirror image inside a mirror images.
Paul started toward the elevators, then noticed our client was sitting at the bar. He looked at our watch: 8:15. A bit early to be tossing them back. And especially dumb to be tossing them back out in the open.
“Hello, Ms. Winston,” Paul said, touching her shoulder. She flinched.
“Fuck!” She spun around. Her lipstick was smudged on a corner of her lower lip. There was also a small black pistol in her right hand.
This was another chance to see Paul operate like a pro. Without a word, he snatched the piece out of her grasp. I don't even think she knew what happened until she looked down at her hands. Paul took the seat next to her and slid the gun into his jacket pocket. “How's breakfast this morning?"
“Jesus… don't do that!"
“Do what? My job?"
“I was having breakfast."
“You could be dead right now."
“It's only scrambled eggs."
“Funny. Can we go somewhere private?"
“I'd like to finish my meal, if you don't mind."
“I'll have room service send it along. With a couple of extra Bloody Marys.” Paul put his hand on her back. “Come on. Let's go."
Amazingly, Susannah placed her fork on the plate full of eggs and stood up. Paul asked the bartender-"Satchmo,” he called him-to send food and a pitcher of Bloodies up to Ms. Winston's room. I realized what he was doing. If he was forced to lead this lady around on a leash, now was the time to take up the slack.
She pouted the entire way to her room.
Susannah and Paul reached her apartment. It was different than the one we'd all stood in yesterday. This was on a much higher floor, and was a fully-furnished apartment. Gard must have rented one of the basic, traveling executive rooms on the lower floors for the meeting in case I-or Paul, that is-turned out to be an unsavory character.
The apartment was different from anything I'd seen before. Down deep, it was a perfectly respectable, tasteful hotel suite. But it had been augmented in every imaginable way. For starters, clothes blanketed every available surface-skirts, frocks, blouses, stockings, even undergarments. The place was one big closet. The remaining spaces that weren't covered in expensive fabrics were occupied by a hospital library's worth of magazines-movie and celebrity type rags, as well as a bunch of paperback romances. One doorway was draped with a hanging bead door. There were two earth-green beanbags tucked away beneath the garments. I couldn't smell anything standing in the Brain Hotel lobby, but I'd bet the air was thick with stale incense.
Paul lit a cigarette for her. She scowled at him, then dipped her face toward the flame. Then she walked away and sunk herself into the hotel-supplied couch. I could tell it was the hotel's, because it was one solid color.
“Something wrong?” Paul asked.
She didn't say anything. They entered the living room. She closed the door behind him. “Go ahead. Make your speech."
“No speech. Just a few rules. For one, you tell me everything. Where you're going to be, how long you intend to be there."
“Even before I pee?"
“Even then."
“What if I can't predict how long it will take my urine to leave my body?
Paul ignored her. “Rule two. When I'm not with you, you stay inside this room."
“Or unless Richard takes me out to dinner."
“Obviously."
“Although,” Susannah continued, “I'm not sure what he could do to protect me. I mean, he's not you."
Paul ignored that, too. After a few moments of heavy silence, Susannah asked, “That it? Two eensy-weensy rules?"
“That's it."
“Okay. I have a few eensy-weensy rules of my own. Whenever we're out, I'm going to introduce you as my cousin. No one needs to know anything; no one is to infer anything. I have a reputation to protect in this town. Understood?"
“I'm a professional, Ms. Winston."
She ignored him. “Is-that-un-der-stood?"
“Yes, my massah."
“Repeat it."
“It-is-un-der-stood.” Paul stared off, out the window to the skyline. “You know, for a minute there last night, I thought we'd both get along."
Susannah looked at him coldly, then broke into a smile. “I like you Paul. However, image is very important."
“Oh. Am I the disreputable type?"
“That remains to be seen, young man.” There was a hint of a smile on her face.
“I seem to make you nervous, Mrs. Robinson."
“Nothing makes me nervous, silly boy."
There was an uncomfortable pause. Again, I couldn't read Paul's mind, but I was sure he was waiting for Susannah to take the lead. I know I would. Maybe he could get away with earning a paycheck by hanging out in an air-conditioned hotel room all day, eating room service meals and swapping cheap paperback novels back and forth. Then again, I'm sure Paul doubted it could be that easy.
“So,” said Susannah. “What should we do?"
“What do you normally do?"
“My every day routine you mean? Oh, nothing much. Eat breakfast, read the newspaper, shop, get high, polish my toenails and try to avoid death."
“Very funny."
“I'm sorry, Paul. I didn't plan any serious activities for us today."
“You don't have to entertain me."
“Still, I'm being a poor hostess."
My God, I thought. Was this an assignment, or a first date?
“Do you blow grass?” Susannah asked.
“Only when I'm cleaning my lawnmower."