He said, “Thank you,” but the door was shut and the bus was already on its way.
A desk clerk slid Peter a key card and directed him to a bank of elevators. He walked past a continental breakfast buffet that looked pillaged. Someone had affixed a name tag to the self-serve waffle maker: Hello, My Name Is Out of Order. Glutenous Danishes sweated in individual cellophane pouches. Half a dozen peeled eggs stewed in a punch bowl filled with cloudy water.
His suitcase waited at the foot of the bed, like some obedient dog. Sleep seemed unearned, so Peter changed and headed to the gym. He churned a recumbent bicycle while a flat-screen television hung above his head like a guillotine’s blade. The cramped, antiseptic space reminded him of his condo’s promised gym. He was lucky they’d never built it. The last thing Peter needed was another excuse to stay inside. Five days a week he commuted from one parking garage to another. His life was hermetic, boxes inside boxes. Sometimes when he was on duty he would take catnaps in a windowless cube stuffed with boxes of supplies.
Going on the tour should have been exciting, yet so far he’d spent most of his time waiting, in hotel rooms and backstage. It wasn’t enough to go on an adventure — one needed to be adventurous. In his heart, Peter knew he was not adventurous.
He forced himself do biceps curls and seated rows, now that he was single. Prior to moving out, Lucy had joined a gym downtown — which had surprised him, because he thought that they weren’t the sort of people to join a gym. Lucy had been so proud of the hard-soled sneakers she wore to her spin class. Now she was taking her round ass to Albany. Not to mention her presence, the way she made the place smell. He had no interest in living alone. When he got back to his life, maybe he’d get a dog. At least with a dog, he’d be forced outside a few times each day. Plus, women trusted men with dogs — it was biological, if you could take care of a dog, they extrapolated, you could take care of a child; a cat proved nothing.
Peter stepped onto the treadmill. He wanted to get his head out of his head. The machine accelerated to a comfortable pace, but he didn’t want to be comfortable. He bumped up the belt’s speed. The sound of his pounding feet made him feel like he was being chased. Had he always been such a loud runner? Perhaps something was wrong with his running stride, something fundamental. Wouldn’t someone have said something, probably when he was a schoolkid? Boom. Boom. Boom. Another hotel guest came in and took her place on the farthest machine. She had to be seventy; she wore white linen pants. Peter mashed the Increase Speed button. What did it take to be a runner? A little athleticism helped, but discipline was the key. He’d run 10Ks. The hardest part of training for a marathon is telling everyone that you’re training for a marathon. That cracked him up. It was impossible to laugh and run at the same time. He focused on his breathing. He was getting after it.
Sweat quivered at the end of his nose before splashing onto the electronic display. Without stopping, he clung on to the polished grips and waited for the machine to read his pulse. The red flashing heart blipped and blipped. The machine didn’t want to give him a number; he had to will it to read his pulse. Then he saw it, 193. Holy shit, he thought. Holy shit, your heart’s going to explode. He slapped at the machine and the treadmill ground to a halt. The screen told him he’d run 0.89 miles.
Ms. Linen Pants kept on walking; in each hand she held a tiny yellow dumbbell no larger than a hot dog roll.
Peter picked up the spray bottle of disinfectant and a paper towel and wiped down the machine. He would run every day, he decided. Maybe more moderately. Or not. What had moderation ever done for him? He saw his flushed face reflected in the elevator doors. He’d name his dog Boomer or Whiskey.
BY THE TIME he reached his room he almost felt well. Almost, though he needed a shower, though he needed some sleep. And then the surprise of finding the TV on, making him, for a moment, question if he hadn’t, somehow, entered the wrong room. But, no, there was his suitcase. Perhaps some lonely chambermaid, in the middle of freshening his unused room, had been summonsed to some housekeeping emergency and forgot to turn off the tube.
The channel changed.
Peter edged farther into his room.
A pair of charcoal-colored cowboy boots perched on the under-window climate-control unit. He saw the satin-seamed tuxedo pants, the shapeless sweatshirt, then, beneath the battered brim of a cowboy hat, the singer’s unforgettable profile.
“You some sort of health nut?” Cross asked. His heels skated across the metal venting before dropping to the carpet.
“Did I leave my door open?”
Cross aimed the remote at the television and turned it off. “Get dressed. You and I have an appointment at this German place around the corner. I’m mostly vegetarian, but Tony granted me a special dispensation.”
Peter said he needed to shower first.
“You’re fine. I’m not taking you to a wine bar.”
Peter’s cell rang.
Cross said, “That might be Cyril.”
When Peter answered, the bodyguard said, “Is he with you?”
Peter looked at Cross, who nodded.
“He is.”
“You guys at the hospital?”
“Why would we be at the hospital?”
Cyril said, “Tell him either he comes clean or I’m on the next plane to Arizona.” The line went dead.
Cross didn’t look surprised when Peter relayed the message.
“Throw on some pants,” said Cross. “We can talk on the way.”
Opening the lid of his suitcase, Peter exposed Martin’s memorabilia, the albums, the 45, the cellophane pouch with the yellowing chapbook.
“I hadn’t pegged you for a fan.” Cross picked up the collection and carried the items back over to the window to take a closer look. He slid the records out of their sleeves, turning them to sight along their edges. “This is some rare vinyl.”
Correcting the singer’s assumption seemed counterproductive; instead, Peter handed Cross a permanent marker. And, while he pulled on a pair of pants and dress shirt, Cross signed Martin’s treasures, fanning them out on the dresser so the ink could dry.
On the 45, Cross wrote, “Fuck Marty Diamond.”
“Is that a lyric?”
“Ha. Marty’s a collector. He’s the reason I’m the only person to ever pay three million for a split ranch in Wisconsin.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because it was the house I grew up in,” said Cross, heading out into the hall.
Peter caught up with the singer by the elevator.
“Cyril can make all the threats he wants, he’s not going anywhere. His wife’s a Chinese girl from Queens who wants their four kids to go to a Waldorf school. You have any idea what those places charge these days?”
Peter shook his head.
The elevator delivered them to a white service tunnel beneath the hotel.
Cross’s boot heels sounded like hammer blows. “I avoid lobbies. There’s always some thirsty soul waiting to latch on to me.”
Peter recalled the photographer who’d ambushed him in Rochester; certainly that man had looked thirsty.
After hiking up a parking ramp, they emerged onto a shaded side street. The air smelled of baked goods and dry-cleaning chemicals.
None of the people they passed gave Cross a second glance. Peter suspected that the contrast in their manner of dress served to conceal the singer. Cross looked like he’d fished his clothes from a charity box, while in his button-down and khakis, Peter resembled a caseworker out with a client.
“Are you going to tell me why Cyril thought we might be at a hospital?”