by Niall Howell
The Bellingham—a towering pale fortress with its name announced in the kind of white, glowing letters you see introducing a fairy tale—is my shot in the dark. It’s not entirely necessary for me to be staying at the same hotel as them, but it will make keeping track of Andrew a hell of a lot easier on me. When the Bellingham’s glass doors were first opened for me last night, a walk through the lobby to the desk confirmed what its exterior teased: pure swank. Yes, if Genevieve and her soon-to-be late lover are to rest their heads anywhere in this city, I thought as I signed a fake name and took my room key from the clerk, it will be here, at the Bellingham.
Of course, the ideal venue for the deed itself is the race track, Laurel Park. If Andrew shows and conditions are just right, I’ll wait until he needs to slip away to the men’s room and I’ll take care of him right then and there. The track is my safest bet because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that whenever he goes to the track, he goes there alone. If he pulls any weird shit—if he throws a bunch of money down and splits without watching a race, as he’s got a tendency to do—I’ll have to improvise.
Shops will be opening in a few hours. First thing I’ll do after I get myself breakfast is go get a new suit and hat—maybe in beige or a patterned green…something he won’t recognize me in. Then I’ll go and get a pair of glasses, the blackest, thickest frames they’ve got. Andrew, he won’t know me from Adam, not even if I walk up and boot him right in his ass.
There’s a chill in the air, and as the sun’s bleed spreads across the water and moves up my body and onto my face, I feel the softest touch of warmth, telling me to get up, to get moving. Telling me to begin my day.
I walk back through Druid Hill Park the same way I came in. I return nods and hellos when I have to. I drag my feet a little whenever I walk through a patch of fallen leaves because I like the sound it makes.
There’s a diner a few blocks from the park. Its OPEN sign has a nervous tic. I push through the door and my presence is announced by the jangle of a bell. The twisty-haired brunette waitress leaning against the counter closes her newspaper, straightens up, and smooths the front of her robin’s-egg blue uniform with a quick brush of her hands. “Good morning,” she says, and as she does, a cook who’s definitely the kind of guy you want to keep out of sight when your business hinges on appetites pokes his head out from the kitchen and shoots me a look. She waves her hand at the roomful of empty tables. “Take your pick. You’re our first of the day.”
I take a seat at the counter and order scrambled eggs on toast with a side of bacon.
I’m not very hungry—haven’t been for a couple days now—but I force myself to eat every bite. Hungry or not, you should never work on an empty stomach.
“You know of a decent place that sells men’s clothing?” I ask as the waitress as she places my tented cheque and a couple peppermints in front of me.
She scrunches her face and looks up to the ceiling as if there’s a directory pasted on it.
“Men’s clothes?” a gruff voice that I can only assume belongs to the man who made my meal booms from the kitchen.
I cup a hand around my mouth. “Yeah!”
“Go to Hutzler’s!” the cook shouts. “Corner of Howard and Clay Street!”
“That where you shop, pal?”
“Surrre, buster! I’m a real suit and tie man! I just crack eggs in a diner because it’s my passion!”
“Well, they’re lucky to have you here,” I say, putting my money on the counter. I take a peppermint and crunch down hard. “Aren’t you?” I say to the waitress.
“Aw, sure,” she says. “We really won the lottery with Steve there.”
The trolley gets me to Howard and Clay in just under half an hour. Hutzler’s is a behemoth of a building, the kind of place that ought to have someone put a map in your hands the moment you come through the doors. I manage to find the men’s department without needing to stop at base camp, and by the time I’ve taken my first step into the suit area, this dainty bald man in a sharp checkered number is on me with his measuring tape.
“My good man, my good man,” he says, stretching the tape from one of my arms to the other and then wrapping it around my chest. “Just as I suspected: a thirty-eight regular.” He folds the tape in half and drapes it over his shoulders like it’s a fancy mink. “I always make a point to grab a man’s size right away.”
“I’ll bet.”
He almost snickers. “Now, shopping for any particular occasion, or is—”
“No occasion. I just need a new suit.”
“Of course, of course. This is certainly the right spot for you.”
I brush past him and walk down the aisle, looking left, looking right, running my fingers over textures. He follows so close you’d think he was my conscience.
“You picked a good day for a new suit, sir. Many of these jackets just arrived yesterday evening. I put them out myself before I left for the day. What do you think of this one?” He whips a jacket off the rack, removes the hanger and pushes in front of me, the jacket wide open and ready to be filled.
“I’ve already got a navy blue suit. I’m looking for something different.”
“Ah,” he says, and zips further ahead. “I have just the thing.” He returns with a light brown jacket. I wave it off.
“Got a brown one, too. I said need something different, pal.”
“Well, sir, you’ll have to be patient, as I don’t know what you have or haven’t got in your closet.”
“What about beige?” I ask. “I’ve never owned a beige suit. Always wanted one, though.”
“Of course!” he beams, as if he were just about to suggest it himself. He walks over a couple aisles and comes back a moment later with a dark beige suit.
I grin. He grins, too.
“Which way are hats?”
BALDY RINGS ME THROUGH AND SENDS ME PACKING WITH my new suit, a matching hat, and a pair of brown shoes. The shoes are a ten, a full size bigger than I normally wear, which ought to steer anyone looking for footprints in the right kind of wrong direction.
Hutzler’s sells glasses on the third floor. I find what I’m looking for right away. Rims so dark and thick they could be marketed as a domino mask. When I scope my reflection in the mirror, I think of Gloria’s story about meeting Clayton Whatshisface, the Lone Ranger. The salesman directs me to the other end of the floor where they take care of the lenses, and I head in that direction. Once I’ve gone about halfway, I turn to check he’s not watching me, then I head for the escalator.
THERE'S A FAMILY OF SIX APPROACHING THE FRONT DOORS of the Bellingham at the same time as me. I slow down so that they enter ahead of me, then catch up and walk with them toward the elevator. The father tells the elevator boy they’re on the seventh floor. I’m on the sixth, but when the father says seventh, I nod at the button-pusher like that’s where I’m heading too. I get off with the family, and once they’re out of sight, I take the stairs down to my floor. The last thing I need is someone noticing that I came back to the hotel and left shortly after looking like a different person. Well, maybe it’s not the absolute last thing I need, but it’s one of them.
I change into my new clothes. I do a few laps of the room to get used to walking in shoes that are too big. Once I add the final touch—the glasses—I stand in front of the mirror and stare at myself. Sure, I can spot me, but that’s only because I’m looking for me. And even though I’m looking, it still takes me a few seconds before I see that the man staring back at me is the same man who’s stared back at me every time I’ve looked at a reflective surface in my whole life. This disguise, I decide, is damn fine.
I take the stairs down to the lobby and walk out the front door, head down, a few steps behind a group of businessmen. There are two more items I need before I take a cab out to Laurel Park.
It’s warmer than it was when I was sitting in Druid Hill earlier, but there’s still a faint chill in the air, which I’m glad for, since it means it won’t look fishy if
I’m wearing a pair of light gloves. The ones I buy are probably the cheapest in the store, but that’s fine. They only need to last me one day.
At the hardware store, I buy a flick knife, some screws, and a bottle of glue.
When I’m about a block away, I tuck the flick knife into my breast pocket and chuck the bag in a trash can, with the glue and screws still in it. I wander down West Chase. It’s a busy street, so I figure a cab will be by any minute. I check over my shoulder every few seconds and manage to get the attention of a Yellow Cab just as I’m rounding the corner to Maryland Avenue. The driver’s got a gold badge that says Safe Driver pinned to his shirt. “Where ya off to, Mac?”
“Laurel Park.”
“Laurel Park? You know there’s a shuttle goes out there? Save yourself a few bucks, why don’t ya?”
“Christ, is your wallet too crowded or something? Take me to Laurel Park. If I want life advice, I’ll see a damn shrink.”
The driver hunches over the steering wheel and pulls away from the curb. “Miserable son of a bitch,” he mumbles.
I tap my chest a couple times in the same spot Buddy’s badge is on his shirt. “Don’t forget to drive safe, pal,” I say.
THE STAKEOUT HAS BECOME ROUTINE TO ME. I BUY A newspaper, find myself a spot inside the entrance, and wait.
An hour rolls by with no sign of Andrew. I notice the pimply kid tearing tickets shoot me a look a couple times, so I decide to move a little farther down the hall.
A second hour passes. I buy a cup of coffee and bring it back to my post. My legs and my lower back are starting to tire. I lean on the wall to take the pressure off, but I can only do that for so long before my upper back gets sore. The waiting game has become one big fucking juggling act.
Three hours. From what I hear, a horse named Whaler just earned his jockey a ten-thousand-dollar jackpot. Some people scream with joy, others bawl. There’s a blister growing on my ankle. Fucking shoes.
I need to piss.
Across the way from me, a father tells his kid to stay put. The kid takes a comic book out of his back pocket and parks his ass on the hard ground. The father and the distillery-scented cloud accompanying him walk past me. He approaches a woman in a blonde wig, palms her something, and the two of them head off together, hand in hand.
Four hours has me feeling like I’m about to start sweating piss. I hobble across to the kid, who’s read his comic book cover to cover five times now. I pull a dollar out of my pocket. “Hey, kid. You want to make an easy buck?”
The kid looks at me like…well, like I just asked him if he wanted to make an easy buck. “I don’t mean anything weird,” I quickly assure him. “I just need help with something. I’m waiting for a friend, see, and I really need to use the men’s room. If I gave you a buck, would you watch for this friend of mine and let me know if he comes by or not? I’ll only be a minute.”
The kid looks up at me. One of his eyes is squinting like Popeye, but I don’t know why because I’m blocking the light for him. “What’s he look like?” He grabs the dollar from me and I describe Andrew to him. He nods. “Sure, mister. And if this fella comes by, you want me to stop him and let him know you’ll be back in a minute?”
“No. Absolutely not, you just let me know if he comes by. If I miss him here, he’ll head to our other meeting spot and I’ll catch up with him there. Got it?”
“Whatever you say,” the kid shrugs.
I run to the men’s room and take a piss so big you’d think I was Whaler the horse. I leave without washing my hands and I’m still doing my zipper up when I walk out the door. The kid waves at me when he spots me. I rush to meet him. “Anything?” I ask.
He crosses his arms, tilts his head back. I know what’s coming. “You got another buck?” Brat probably learned it from his loser father. I peel another bill off my roll and slap it into his hand.
“Out with it, you little fucker!” I don’t even mean to call him that, but that’s what comes out. The kid actually flinches when I say it.
“He—he didn’t come by. I didn’t see him. I’m sorry, mister!”
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” I tell him, then turn and walk to a spot closer to the entrance.
I decide to call it a day around five o’ clock. Any of the times I’ve seen him at the track, he always leaves by five, so I figure there’s not much of a chance he’ll show at all today.
The cabbie that takes me back to the Bellingham really wants to talk about communists. I play along for a minute or two—“Aw yeah, pal, they’re a sneaky bunch, those reds. They could be anyone, anywhere”—but then politely ask him to can it. I need to think.
Why didn’t Andrew show? Was it because he isn’t in Baltimore at all? Maybe he’s in town, but he’s off somewhere with Genevieve. Maybe he was in town, but instead of going to the track, buying a ticket and leaving, he’s cutting the middleman and going straight from his hotel to wherever it is he sneaks off to.
The possibilities make my head hurt. They make me want to call the whole thing off. He’d made such a habit of showing at the track every other time—where the hell was he today? Was he onto me? Nah. How could he have known? Gloria? No. No chance. She wouldn’t have ratted. What good would that have done her?
I think of my money and reach into my pocket to make sure that the key to my trailer is there, which I know it is, I just need to feel it. It’s there, all right. I pull it out and look at it. It’s grimier than the spare I gave Gloria. I keep it clenched in my fist for the rest of the cab ride.
“Here’s good,” I say to the driver.
“Huh? I thought I was takin’ you to the Bellingham? It’s another few blocks still.”
“Yeah, and I’m telling you here is fine.”
He pulls over. I pay my fare and slide out. I need fresh air. Since there’s none of that available, city air will have to do. Anything to get out of that smelly cab. Christ, how long are their shifts, anyway?
It dawns on me that I’ve hardly eaten all day. Right as that occurs to me, my body gets hip to it, too, and my hands start to shake a little. I find a drugstore and order a ham sandwich and a glass of milk. I take a seat at the counter, which faces the window looking out to the street. I watch people walk by as I wolf my food down in record time. Once I’m done, I get up and order a slice of blueberry pie (“Yes, I’ll take an extra scoop of ice cream, thank you”) and a cup of coffee.
The pie is delicious. I take my time with it. What the hell is my rush, anyway? I don’t suppose I’ve got anywhere to be now.
When I’m done my coffee, I order myself another cup. Outside, the theatre crowds are coming and the dinner crowds are going. Lots of people are carrying shopping bags. Fallen leaves are being ushered down the street by a light breeze. It’s beginning to get dark. I can see my reflection in the window now; these glasses, this stupid suit—Christ, what a ridiculous getup! There’s a crosswalk across the street from the drugstore and the people waiting for the light to give them the go-ahead are far enough away that they look like they’re standing inside of my transparent head.
I wonder how Gloria’s doing back at the circus. If she was following the plan—and I have no reason to believe she was doing anything but—she’d be bringing meals to my trailer throughout the day today and tomorrow, spreading word that I had a nasty flu and I needed to be left alone. We both agreed that she should spend a good twenty minutes in the trailer each time in order to keep up appearances.
I wonder what she gets up to in those twenty minutes.
I wonder if she’s snooped around at all, if she’s noticed that my suitcase isn’t there.
It’s not that I don’t want to trust her. It’s just that I can’t afford to trust her. At least not fully, not as much as I trust myself. But if she does go looking for the suitcase and she sees it’s not there…oh, boy. You can bet she’ll have a thing or two to say about that. And I’ll have a thing or two to say back.
You don’t trust me enough to leave the suitcase he
re?!
Well, what the hell are you doing wanting to root through the suitcase while I’m not there?!
One accusation will follow another, and the next thing you know…
I just really hope she doesn’t go looking for the damn suitcase.
It’s a funny thing, trust. What a situation like this does to it. You can have two people, with each one pretty much trusting the other with his or her life in almost any scenario, but then you introduce a little bit of money and a couple of secrets, and the next thing you know, those same two people are looking at each other all shifty-eyed, second-guessing each other and thinking toxic thoughts.
Ah, I’ve got to cut it out. Gloria’s fine. She’s level. What the hell am I doing thinking any different? It’s this situation, that’s all. My suspicion is a symptom of this situation just as much as a plugged nose is a symptom of a cold.
I take a couple big sips of my coffee. I need this. Not just the food, but the caffeine. The sweet black elixir of life. It clears my head. Helps me focus. Standing around at the track all day—Christ, what a thing to do to yourself! Staking a place like for that long, it takes a lot out of a guy. By the time I reach the bottom of my second cup, I’ve flushed the grogginess out of my system. I feel good. I can think clearly.
Andrew.
What to do about Andrew?
Why hadn’t he shown today? Had I somehow missed him? I don’t see how I could have, but I suppose it’s possible. Or maybe he’s not in the city at all. Though, I can’t see that being the case. The guy comes to the city—any city—every chance he gets. Maybe Genevieve didn’t like him sneaking off and she finally said something to him. That could be it. I know better than anyone that when Genevieve tells you it’s time to stop doing something, you flat-out stop doing it right the hell away if you know what’s good for you. Maybe that’s it. I’m not sure, but maybe. The more I think about the whole thing, the less I want to find a way to go through with it. Sure, I think Andrew deserves a nice, long dirt nap more than anyone else I’ve ever come across, but the way things have gone today...so much planning for nothing, so many unknown variables—so many pesky little what ifs—orbiting me. It’s just about enough to turn a guy right off.