Flynn tiptoes deeper into the room until he finds a dry mound of earth to stand on. Then he just digs his hands into his pants pockets and smiles at Ferrie.
Ferrie has a cheap red plastic fishing tackle box open in his lap. It’s filled not with lures but with small hand tools, tweezers and small pliers and wire strippers. A half dozen other tools are scattered on the picnic table around the old radios. And, unbelievably, in the midst of a hundred years’ worth of dirt and soot, there’s a spray can of Lemon Pledge furniture polish and a thick chamois buffing cloth.
Flynn puts his hand to his forehead and says, “Ferr, if you love these units so much, why do you leave them down here in this rat hole?”
Ferrie stares at him for a few seconds and finally, in a whisper, says, “Usually no one but me comes down here.”
“Yeah, with good reason.”
“It’s not so bad when you get used to it. Pretty peaceful, really.”
“That’s the last word I’d go for. I hate it down here.”
“Rough on the suits?”
“We had a basement like this where I grew up. I was in it all the time. It took in water, just like this place. God, the smell down here …”
“Why’d you go in the basement if you hated it?” Ferrie asks.
Flynn ignores him. “I heard you wanted to see me. Good news or bad? I already talked to Hazel. I put out the fire—”
“Good news. Interesting news.”
“You got another lead for me? That liquor salesman was a dog, you know. I bought the geek a steak down at Winchester’s, he tells me over dessert he’s looking for cheap term but no one will write him ’cause this genetic heart thing—”
“Forget business, G.T. She’s in here. Tonight.”
“She?”
Ferrie gives up a self-satisfied nod.
“Who’s in here tonight?”
Ferrie closes his mouth, lets a smile cut larger across his face.
Flynn comes upright, furrows his brows, gives a “get out of here” mock-annoyed grin.
“Five minutes ago. Most was behind the bar. Woman comes in. Not a regular. Never seen her before. Very stylish. A presence. She orders a mescal. Bang. The voice. Most almost falls over. She gives him a look—don’t give me away, help me out here. He swears to me it’s her.”
Flynn’s heart speeds up. “Where is she?” he says.
Ferrie shrugs. “Took the drink and blended into the crowd. Most is already starting to doubt himself. You know how that happens. You’re sure of something and then five minutes later you’re not.”
“What direction did she go in?”
“She just went into the crowd. You don’t know what she looks like, do you? I’ve seen a photo, but the die-hards all say it’s a decoy—”
“Most give you a description?”
“I didn’t ask. It was the voice that killed him, you know?”
“I know.”
Flynn starts out of the chamber and up the stairs.
“What?” Ferrie yells after him. “You’re going to talk to every woman in here?”
7
The Volvo pulls up under the winged portico of the Baron Quinsigamond, and two carhops, a man and a woman, jump into action. They pull open doors, give a small bow with the head, and offer an arm to help Olga and Wallace extract themselves from the front seat.
Olga straightens the crocheted shawl around her shoulders and smiles up at the young Hispanic woman, presses a five into her hand, and takes from her the pink parking stub for validation. She walks around the front of the car and takes Wallace’s arm, brings her mouth to his ear, and says, “We’re going to break some records tonight. I can feel it.”
They enter the hotel lobby with the saunter of self-imposed nobility. The Baron is already a decade old, but has lost none of its impressiveness. It’s got that top-of-the-franchise feel to it. None of the old Mickey Mouse stuff that used to pass for traveler accommodations here in Quinsigamond. This place has the big open lobby with the hanging crystal chandelier, the rooftop revolving restaurant, the health club and pool. And most of all, the beautiful, crushed-velvet, mauve uniforms worn by the staff. Wallace thinks, You know you’re in a big-money place when the bellboy’s thighs whistle.
A tall, bony-faced woman in a black satin evening gown says, “Mr. and Mrs. Browning, we’ve been expecting you.”
She takes each of them by the hand, smiles down at them.
“Just like the president and secretary to be late,” Wallace says.
Olga does a practiced eye roll. “Don’t listen to him, Magda. Wallace likes to make an entrance.”
Magda gives a just-as-practiced laugh and says, “I think you’ll find everything you requested. I can tell you the ice sculpture is a big hit. Table One has been asking for you. Now, if you need anything at all, just ask for Aldo or myself.”
“I’m sure it’s all perfect,” Olga says.
“Did the drummer make it?” Wallace asks. “They said yesterday there could be a problem with the drummer.”
Magda puts a hand on his shoulder. “He’s been punctuating all of Mr. Dixon’s jokes.”
Wallace brings a hand up to his forehead like a migraine’s just exploded over the eyes. “Oh my God, honey, we’d better get in there. Dixon is trying to play emcee again.”
“Have a wonderful night,” Magda says, then lowers her voice. “You’re the odds-on favorite to bring home the gold.”
Olga takes Wallace’s arm and they walk through the lobby and veer left into the Duchess Ballroom. Hanging over the entryway is a crimson banner that reads:
Q.L.P.L. 19
And underneath, the explanation:
Quinsigamond Little People’s Lodge 19
Eighth Annual Dinner Dance
They stop in the entryway, directly underneath the banner, survey the room, and let the crowd observe their arrival.
“Oh, honey, Magda outdid herself this year,” Olga says softly.
“You pay for the best …” Wallace responds, and starts to wave at the crowd.
From the other side of the room, a voice yells, “Our fearless leader made it.”
Wallace cups his hands around his mouth and yells back, “No more of the punch for Dixon,” then gives a “yer out” sign with thumb and swinging arm. There’s some laughter and a rim-shot drumbeat. Assured of the room’s attention, Wallace takes Olga’s arm and they start to move through the crowd toward the head table, patting backs and grabbing extended hands along the way.
The room is a sight. All the chrome and gold plating has been polished immaculate. The bandstand is lit professionally with multicolored spots for the slow numbers. There’s an ice sculpture, a huge four-foot swan, neck turned as if in the midst of a vision. They’ve remembered the fresh-cut flowers, the hundreds of helium balloons, the crepe paper and streamers. There’s the train of gleaming aluminum Sterno carts for the endless buffet. And, thank God, Magda was able to rent enough of the special-order tables and chairs, custom-designed for formal dwarf functions.
Now Magda just has to pray that Wallace triumphs at the dance contest. She can only hope the band, the locally famous Les Roberts Quintet, will supply the tunes he likes, the ones that allow him to show his best moves. The odds are that Wallace and Olga will walk out with the night’s biggest trophy. They usually do. If not, she knows Olga already appreciates the extra effort. But Wallace is another story. Three and a half feet of tough customer.
She watches him as he moves toward the head table, an instinctive politician, a crowd handler, an image pro. His stature is inconsequential. He knows how to maneuver within the heart of the mob. He knows when to go with the joke and when to plunge into soulful earnestness. He knows when to smile, when to roll the eyes, when to grimace, and when to drop the salty tear to the cheekbone. And like all creatures who know how to use these tools to optimum advantage, Wallace is, at his core, a cold and ruthless device, a machine for goal attainment.