The phone rang as I was coming down the stairs. I picked up on the second ring to find Dietz on the line.
“Kink in the works. I just got a call from Nick. He’s on his way down from San Francisco.”
“What’s going on?”
“He says he’s taking time off work, but that’s as much as I know. He called from the road and said he’d explain the rest when he gets here.”
“Well, that’s worrisome.”
“Remains to be seen. He sounded fine.”
“What time’s he getting in?”
“Depends on where he was when he called. The city’s a six-hour drive, so I’m guessing ten at the earliest.”
“If you want to take a rain check on dinner, it’s fine with me.”
“Let’s don’t do that. Nick’s a big boy. If he gets in while I’m out, he can pick up a key and make himself at home. I’ll leave word for him at the desk.”
“Here’s another plan. Why don’t I come over to the hotel and we can order room service? That way if he gets in, you’ll be on the premises.”
“Not a bad idea, but it’s up to you.”
“We can go out another night.”
“You sure you don’t mind?”
“Not a bit,” I said.
“Great. I’ll see you shortly.”
I hung up, found my jacket, and shrugged myself into it. I grabbed my shoulder bag and fished out my car keys, realizing as I stepped out the door how dark and chilly it was. A trip to his hotel was a bad idea. I was tired and I really didn’t feel like driving across town. I stopped in my tracks, wondering how tacky it would be if I called and begged off. I’d spent much of the day with him and I’d have been happy with a stretch of time on my own. I stood there, wishing I hadn’t piped up. Me and my big mouth. I should have done us both a favor and let him off the hook. Now, since I was already in motion, it felt easier to proceed to my car. I unlocked the Mustang and slid under the wheel. I sat for another brief interlude, conflicted and out of sorts. Finally, I turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb. I’d have one glass of wine and a quick bite to eat and then I’d come home. Nick was probably more in need of his father’s attention than I was at this point.
• • •
When Dietz answered the door he was in a fresh pair of jeans and a collared shirt, over which he’d pulled a black cashmere sweater. His hair was still damp from the shower and I could smell soap and aftershave. He helped me out of my jacket and tossed it over the arm of a chair. He’d ordered a bottle of Champagne that was nestled in a silver ice bucket frosty with condensation. He picked up the bottle, put a cloth over the top, and worked the cork out with his thumbs. He held up a Champagne flute, his way of asking if he could pour me a glass.
“By all means.”
The room was larger than my apartment, no big surprise. My studio is small, which is why it suits me so well. Here the king-size bed seemed to dominate the room with its puffy white duvet like a heavy layer of snow. The bedframe was topped with an ornate wrought-iron crown. The walls were a buttery yellow, the Oriental rug awash in muted colors, mild green dominating. There was a corner fireplace with a real wood fire, throwing out a warmth I couldn’t quite feel from where I stood. The furniture looked antique, which may or may not have been the case.
Dietz handed me my Champagne flute and I took a sip, experiencing the surprise on my tongue. If I drink Champagne at all, it’s the cheap stuff, which is closer to a freshly poured glass of tonic water with harsh undertones. This was delicate, like a mouth full of sunshine and butterflies. I watched him pour a glass for himself.
“Have a seat,” he said.
I settled on a leather-upholstered easy chair with a matching ottoman, one of two set at angles on either side of the snapping fire. The bed was stacked three deep with pillows, each covered in a faded chintz and trimmed with a thick fringe. Dietz had money. I had no idea how he’d come by it. To hear him tell it, his family was a shiftless lot of gypsies and vagabonds. His father worked the oil fields when jobs were available and otherwise spent his life crisscrossing the country in a series of dilapidated station wagons and vans. His mother rode shotgun, her bare feet propped on the dashboard while she drank beer and tossed empty cans out the window. Dietz and his grandmother occupied the backseat, playing cards or reading road maps and picking out towns with weird names. They made a point of traveling south for the winter, usually to Florida, but any place warm would do. If they couldn’t afford a motel, they slept in the car. If money was really in short supply, they’d cruise country roads and raid kitchen gardens for something to eat. He was largely homeschooled and he had little in the way of formal education. I suspected his job history was checkered, yet he seemed at home in this opulent hotel room, which felt alien to me.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Getting there.”
“We should probably take a look at the menu. Room service is slow at this hour, so the sooner we order, the better off we’ll be.”
He handed me a menu while he sat down in the other leather chair with a menu of his own.
The bifold was oversize, printed on heavy card stock. I ran an eye down both pages, which were writ in an elegant hand as though a scribe had just left the premises. Shrimp cocktail was $14. Asparagus soup, $10. All of the entrees were $35 or more. Personally, I’d have preferred a peanut butter and pickle sandwich; seventy-five cents max. “A bit pricey, isn’t it?”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s my treat. If you’re feeling cheap, have a sandwich.”
“Who said anything about cheap? The cheeseburger’s twenty-one dollars! Two dollars more if you add bacon or avocado.”
“Relax. The burgers are prime sirloin ground to order. The patties are hand-formed and cooked any way you like.”
I held up my Champagne glass. “I think I’ll make do with this and fix my own supper when I get home.”
“Don’t be silly. If you don’t eat, you’ll get too snockered to drive.”
“I can’t stay that long anyway. It would have been smarter to postpone. I’m tired.”
“No, no. It was a great idea. Nick won’t roll in for another couple of hours.”
“What’s he going to think if he gets here and I’m in your room?”
Dietz studied me quizzically. “Are you concerned about that?”
“I should have stayed at home. At least I could’ve put on my comfies and read a good mystery.”
“You can do that here. I have two Robert Parker paperbacks in my suitcase,” he said. “Is there something else going on? I’m not reading your mood.”
“I don’t have moods.”
“What is it then?”
I was tempted to tell him about Dace and the money he’d left me, but I was still trying to come to terms with it myself. I wasn’t sure why I couldn’t just make my peace with my newfound riches and rejoice. “How did you get so comfortable with money? You seem at home in a place like this while I’m out of my element.”
“I like what money buys. Space, mobility, leisure, freedom from anxiety.”
“I’ve got all those things.”
“No, you don’t. You live like a monk.”
“Don’t change the subject. Where’d your money come from? I thought your father was a roustabout. Isn’t that what you said? The way you talk about your youth, I assumed you were poor.”
“We were dirt poor for years. As it turned out—and I wasn’t aware of this at the time—my dad trained with a man named Myron Kinley. He’s the guy who developed techniques for fighting oil-well fires. It was dangerous work and very lucrative, of course. My dad loved high stakes. At some point, I guess my mother put her foot down. The job was way too risky, so eventually he got out. Meantime, he’d saved up a big chunk of change that was literally burning a hole in his pocket. When we moved from Oklahoma to Texas, he met a guy who fancied himself quite the entrepreneur. This fellow had come up with a scheme to buy oil and gas leases with an eye to flipping them, but he was short on capital. He and my dad each put up a couple of thousand bucks and started picking up expired leases. They’d pay pennies on the dollar, then turn around and resell them to oil companies that actually had the capacity to drill.”