Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 06 (8 page)

The squirrel, having chanced into a scattering of cracker crumbs, failed to acknowledge the missile as it sailed over him and landed in a mass of poison ivy.

Marvel continued to hike along the rocky road, determined to have a fine time and not to think about what his mama would do when he got home. He still couldn’t believe that Dwayne and Terence had fingered him for the holdup at the liquor store—and that not one of the lily-white, myopic librarians could back up his story. All he’d gotten in return for three hours of reading up on dead presidents was a warrant for his arrest—and a sudden desire to visit Monticello. Maybe Tommy Jefferson might have some suggestions suggestions how to go about keeping his life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.

“Could we get back to the story?” I said, amazed that I could speak so clearly through clenched teeth. “What happened last night?”

Ruby Bee lay on the bed, fanning herself with a church bulletin from her handbag. I almost felt sorry for her. Her dress was stained and wrinkled, and her hose looked as though she’d staggered through brambles. Her face was pale, her hair chaotic, her eyes pink and vague. “It was terrible, just terrible,” she said wearily. “The only thing that might help is a cold can of soda from that machine by the elevator.”

Estelle sat down on the edge of the bed and patted Ruby Bee’s arm. “Arly’s on her way lickety-split to fetch you one. You just lie still and rest. Nobody’s gonna pester you to talk when anyone with an ounce of decency can see you’re smack out of spit.”

As I said, almost sorry for her. I grabbed some change from the dresser and marched down the hall to buy the damn soda. Okay, so she was entitled to play the martyr, but so was I and nobody appreciated it. The airline ticket had cost me all of my savings and most of next month’s salary—if I got it. I’d stuffed clothes in a carryon and driven like a charioteer to the airport to catch a plane with ten seconds to spare. I’d endured a cramped commuter flight, only to race to the opposite end of the terminal to catch a larger plane and be smothered for nearly three hours by Toledo Ted. I was in the middle of the one place I didn’t want to be, and there was no way to ignore its omnipresence outside the hotel.

I jammed coins into the slot, pushed a button, and bent down to get the damn can out of the tray. No damn can rolled into reach. I banged the plastic facade, which in no way resembled my exhusband’s face. “You sorry son of a bitch,” I growled, pulling back my foot to kick it like it’d never been kicked before.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said a morose voice from behind me.

I looked over my shoulder at the man in the doorway. Despite his shabby bathrobe and bare, hairy ankles above slippers, he was intriguing enough to stop me from breaking a toe or two. The bathrobe hung oddly, and after a moment, I realized it was draped over a sling supporting his arm.

“Are you Durmond Pilverman? ” I asked.

He nodded, smiling just a bit. “I’m sorry to say I am. Were I an employee of this hotel, I would take it upon myself to kick that machine for you. However, I am merely a guest, and all I can do is suggest you try the machine in the lounge below. The light was flashing, which may indicate it works.” He sighed. “But very little works in this city.”

“I’m Arly Hanks, daughter of your … assailant,” I murmured, confused by his gallant little speech, and less than pleased to be caught in the act of attacking a mindless machine. I was even less pleased that I was doing so in a grimy outfit that had looked much better seven hours and two thousand miles ago. “I’m … uh, glad you’re okay, Mr. Pilverman. I still have no idea what’s going on, but it’s encouraging to know Ruby Bee didn’t …”

“Please, call me Durmond. A silly name, I know, but my mother had a brother with such a name who was killed in a car wreck, and she was a very determined woman. I should have half her determination.”

I liked his chuckle, his quirky smile, his eyes that were as placid as pond water. Hell, I even liked his hairy ankles. “I guess I’ll go down to the lobby and try the machine,” I said. “Can I bring you one?”

“If you were to do that, I might spend the time searching for a functional ice machine. When you returned, I might invite you in for a drink and offer some enlightenment as to what took place last night.”

“I might accept,” I said, reminding myself he was my mother’s victim, not a potential date.

The machine in the lobby functioned nicely. Cradling four cold cans in my arm, I returned to the second floor and went down the corridor to 219. As I lifted my hand to knock, I heard Ruby Bee say, “I’m not altogether certain, but there’s something downright fishy about him.” She lowered her voice to a level inaudible to eavesdroppers and continued.

Estelle gasped. “Are you saying he’s a—”

The final word was drowned out by a sudden spurt of hammering from the floor above me. At least I hoped it was hammering, since it very well could have been a local version of Particular Buchanon engaged in a bit of de-Nazification. I waited for a moment, but the racket did not abate and I was beginning to imagine what it might feel like if the ceiling crashed down on my head.

I knocked on the door and yelled, “It’s me!”

The door opened. A hand plucked one of the soda cans from my arm. The door closed and the lock clicked sternly.

“You’re goddamn welcome!” I went back to Durmond’s room and knocked once again. My reception was a good deal more cordial in 202, I must say. Durmond thanked me gravely, gestured to glasses, an ice bucket, and a bottle of bourbon on the desk, and shortly thereafter we were knee-to-knee on the twin beds.

“Would you please tell me what’s going on?” I said, trying not to stare at the visible sliver of the sling, nor to be overly aware of his knee brushing against mine. As distasteful as it was to admit, Estelle had been right about Durmond Pilverman, although I’d read bedtime stories to Raz’s pedigreed sow before I ever told her as much. “Ruby Bee’s back, but she has yet to find a moment to tell me why she shot you.”

“She didn’t shoot me. She did fire a shot through the door, but I doubt the police will do anything about that.”

“Who shot you—and why were you in Ruby Bee’s … room?” I couldn’t quite bring myself to mention the most interesting element of the story.

He studied me as he took a drink. “After dinner last night, I took a stroll around the block. When I returned, the elevator balked and I decided to use the stairs. It was a poor decision, I fear. It was very dark, and a punk was lurking in the stairwell. He requested my wallet, I declined, and he reiterated his request while waving a gun at me. I stupidly tried to knock it out of his hand, and it discharged, striking me in the upper arm and causing me to lose my balance and fall backward. At that point I lost consciousness. That’s all I remember of the incident.”

“You were mugged in the stairwell?”

“That’s an accurate synopsis,” he said gloomily. “There’s no security in the hotel, and the mugger must have slipped in while our manager was away from the desk. I should have known better than to attempt to disarm the punk.”

“But that doesn’t explain why you were”—I struggled not to allow anything to creep into my voice—“found in Ruby Bee’s bed without any clothes.”

“No, it doesn’t, but for that I have no explanation. I cannot imagine why the mugger wasted the time required to drag me in there, disrobe me, and then drop his weapon on the floor before fleeing. Miss Gebhearn, who was kind enough to escort me back here from the hospital, related what Ruby Bee told the police. It seems she’d just come into the room and switched on the light when she saw me. Before she could stop gasping, footsteps thundered down the hall and fists pounded on the door. Without thinking, she picked up the weapon off the floor, and as much to her surprise as that of the officers in the hall, it went off.”

“It went off,” I echoed numbly.

“It was unintentional, I’m sure, and the officers finally came to accept her version earlier this afternoon, after I’d told them my story concerning the mugger. They traced the weapon to a pawnshop in Harlem. There was no way she could have obtained the weapon, should she have desired to do so, and it was of very poor quality.” He shook his head, as if depressed at the idea of being shot by a cheap gun. “Plastic, and with a loose trigger. What used to be called a Saturday Night Special, when in vogue. Now the children prefer more sophisticated weapons.”

“Do the police have any theories how you ended up in Ruby Bee’s room? Did you get a good enough look at this mugger to assist the police artist? Did you go through the mug shots? Were there any witnesses in the lobby when he ran out the door?”

“You sound like a cop.”

“Probably because I am a cop.”

“Are you now?” He held out his hand, and for a fleeting second of insanity, I thought he wanted to hold mine. I then realized he was offering to make me another drink, and I awkwardly gave him my glass. “That’s very interesting,” he murmured as he went to the desk. “Very, very interesting.”

I wished I could see his face, but I couldn’t. Not any more than I could interpret his tone of voice or stop myself from admiring the broadness of his shoulders. His hair brushed the back of his neck like dark, downy feathers.

I’d suspected as much, but now it was a certainty: Manhattan was too damn dangerous for the likes of me.

There was a gentle tap on the door. “Durmond?” called a woman’s voice. “Are you awake?”

He handed me the drink, then opened the door. “Come in and join us, Geri. There’s someone you might like to meet.” He took her hand to usher her in, closed the door, and beamed at me as if I were a student who’d produced a clever answer. “This is Arly Hanks, Ruby Bee’s daughter.”

Geri wrinkled her nose at him. “Kyle’s with me.”

“Oops,” Durmond said as he reopened the door. “Sorry about that, Kyle. Come have a drink with us.”

The straggler came into the room and introductions were made. Both seemed uninterested, despite my self-perceived role as assailant’s daughter.

“I’m so glad that you were able to come on such short notice,” Geri said with a perfunctory smile, then opened her briefcase, took out some papers, and handed them to Durmond. “These are copies of the medical forms and insurance paperwork from the hospital. The Krazy KoKo-Nut Company will absorb all the cost, naturally. I cannot believe they’re forcing us to use a hotel with absolutely no security. This is Manhattan, not some idyllic little suburb.” She glared at her companion. “I assume you spoke to your father about all this?” Estelle’s description of Kyle’s ferrety face was accurate. He wasn’t sending adoring looks at Geri, however, and he sounded miffed as he said, “I tried to call my father to tell him about the incident last night, but he wasn’t in his room. I left a message with the desk. This hotel isn’t my idea, either. It’s a directive from Interspace Investments.”

“This is not the time for excuses. Poor Durmond was shot and then subjected to … further indignities. If you cannot arrange for proper security, I’ll do it myself!”

Kyle flushed. “Do you want me to rent a uniform and go stand by the door?”

“At least you’d be doing something useful, for a change.” Geri sat down on the edge of the bed and began to sort through papers in her briefcase.

Durmond and I watched all this in silence. We even exchanged significant looks, although I had no idea what they signified. Kyle clearly had several retorts in mind, but after a moment of twitching his lips mutely, he leaned against the door and folded his arms.

“So the contest will continue?” I asked Geri.

“Yes. It’s totally absurd, but the show will go on. My secretary”--she glanced at Kyle—“managed to touch base with my boss. He was displeased to hear what happened, but he was quite firm about our continuing here in the Bates Hotel.”

Durmond put his hand on my shoulder, which sent off all kinds of adolescent fireworks—invisible, I hoped. “You’ll need to find a room for Arly. I’m sure she’s thrilled at the opportunity to watch the Krazy KoKo-Nut cookoff in all its flaky splendor.”

“Flaky is right,” Geri said grimly. She slammed closed the briefcase and consulted her watch. “I’ll go downstairs in a minute and speak to Rick. I’m quite sure Krazy KoKo-Nut will be delighted to provide the salary for a temporary doorman, should Rick resist, as well as a room for you, Arly. And please forgive me—I’m not at all like this usually. But less than a week ago the account was literally thrown onto my desk, and then I was assigned to work with someone who has no experience in promo, and my boss is being as beastly as Scotty Johanson, and Mother’s livid because I—” She broke off as tears began to wobble down her cheeks. Seconds later, she was sobbing and the rest of us were patting her on the back and murmuring inanities. Even the broody Buddha relented and sat beside her, cradling her hand and sounding quite as ineffectual as Durmond and I.

It fit perfectly into the lunatic scenario. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Mrs. Jim Bob, Brother Verber, and Mr. and Mrs. Kevin Buchanon marched into the room and announced they were planning a ménage ŕ quatre in the next room. Oh, to be in lazy, hazy Maggody, where nothing ever happened.

Brother Verber stumbled along the side of the road, singing “Onward, Christian Soldiers” as best he could, considering he couldn’t rightly recall the words. He couldn’t rightly recall why he was doing it, for that matter, but he was having a splendid time, The night was balmy, the stars glittery, the world bathed in a most lovely glow of goodwill to all men.

And to all women, he corrected himself with a hiccup. Goodwill to all women, including Sister Barbara Ann Buchanon Buchanon Buchanon, or something like that. Why, if she should pop out from behind a tree, he’d just throw his arms around her and tell her what a perfect saint she was, from her halo straight down to her trim ankles.

He lurched to a stop at the edge of the highway. After several minutes of making real sure there was no car or truck bearing down, he started across the road, then paused on the yellow stripe to think whereall he was going.

It came to him like a bolt of lightning from the Almighty Hisself. There was no doubtin’ this kind of divine inspiration. No doubtin’ and no disobeyin’. The Almighty thought he should go right over to Sister Barbara’s house and tell her what a saint she was and beg her to join him on her knees in a prayer of thanksgiving for the miracle of creation.