by Carolyn Nash
“I know,” I said. The fear that I’d managed to rein in threatened to bolt at the thought of Beer Belly coming back, but I refused to let it run. “At least I’ve accomplished one thing. You said ‘we’ instead of ‘you.’”
Andrew rolled his eyes. “At this point I’d be terrified to cross you in perfect health, and now in my weakened condition…” He tried to cough dramatically, but it turned into a real cough that bent him double.
I held him by the shoulders until the fit had passed but it left him gasping for air. I took a washcloth and gently wiped the sweat from his forehead and face. “That’ll teach you to try to be a comedian,” I whispered.
He nodded as he moved against me and rested his head on my shoulder.
I held him, stroking his hair, trying not to think, trying not to feel. It was a long minute before I could trust myself to speak. “Enough of this lolly-gagging around, now.” I helped him ease back against the wall. “We’ve got to think of a way out of here.”
He smiled. “Well, actually,” he said. “Seeing as you’ve turned out to be such a fine actress, I think I have an idea.”
We were ready when the knock came on the door. A tall, burly bellman stood on the other side. If I were casting a boxing movie, he would have been perfect in the role of one of the over-the-hill, probably-took-one-too-many-punches fighters hanging around the gym. A scar cut through his left eyebrow and continued onto the bridge of his nose. Black eyes peered at me from beneath a prominent brow. He even had the requisite at least once-broken nose.
Andrew’s voice came from the chair behind me, weak and somewhat slurred. “Who is it?” He was slumped down in a chair, my oversize dark-blue, crew neck sweater hiding the bandages and blood stains. He was wearing his sunglasses and I’d used some water to slick his hair down in an attempt to disguise him at least a bit. The wine from my dinner was sprinkled liberally over him, and the empty glass hung from his hand.
“Help,” I said over my shoulder to Andrew. I turned back to the bellman. “What’s your name, please?”
“Harry,” he said placidly.
“Harry, I’m Melanie. Do you think you could help me get my colleague out of here and into a taxi?”
The bellman’s eyes shifted from me to Andrew. “What’s the matter?”
“He drank too much and fell on the edge of the table and I think broke some ribs. Anyway, if you could just help me get him out a back elevator, down to the garage and get us a taxi I would really appreciate it.”
He shook his head slowly. “Guests aren’t supposed to use the freight elevator.”
I grimaced and shrugged. “I can’t take him down through the lobby.”
Harry shifted his gaze from me to Andrew and back again and his eyes narrowed. “Why not? Why don’t you just call an ambulance?”
I sighed and looked back toward Andrew. “Because, he’s running… I mean, because it would not be a good thing if this got in the papers.” I shouted the last line across the room and Andrew groaned and stirred.
“Running?”
“Yes, sorry, well, he’s running for office. City council.”
Harry craned to try and see Andrew’s face.
“I don’t think you’d recognize him, but I’d still rather not take the chance. Can you help?”
He looked from me, to Andrew and back again. “Guests aren’t supposed to use the freight elevator.”
I reached in my purse. “I know. You said that.” Please, I thought. Please. I looked up at him, trying to keep my face calm even though beneath that thin veneer that whimpering little girl was back and about to fall down on her knees to plead, beg, promise, pray. I held the last of my cash out to him. “How about seventy-five dollars?”
Harry didn’t even look at the bills. He was staring blankly at my face. He finally nodded. “Fine,” he said.
“All right, then. Let’s...” He stepped into the room and I had to fall back a pace to keep him from running into me. “...get on with it,” I finished weakly. I followed him across the room. We stopped on either side of Andrew’s chair.
“Which side?” Harry asked.
“His left.”
Harry squatted down on the right, hooked his large arm through Andrew’s, and brought it up under Andrew’s elbow and forearm. His meaty fingers completely encircled Andrew’s wrist. He looked over at me. “Like this. Won’t hurt him s’bad we hold him by the arms. You hold his arm up, it’s gonna pull on those ribs and hurt like hell.”
I carefully copied his hold as Andrew looked from me to Harry and back again. He looked a question at me but all I could do was shrug and shake my head.
On the count of three, we eased Andrew up out of the chair. He complained pathetically. “What are you doing? Where are we going?”
“Oh, hush up,” I said. “Stop whining.”
“I’m not whining,” Andrew whined.
When we stood him on his feet, I saw the pain flicker in his face and he leaned heavily on me. He blinked a few times, shook his head and groaned theatrically. “My side hurts. Get me a doctor.”
“What do you think we’re doing?”
We started toward the door, but had not even made it halfway across the room before Andrew’s knees gave out on him and he sagged toward me. I shifted my grip and he recovered, but I could see the effort it took. “See?” he said panting, “I’m nots soo drunk.”
I looked over at the bellman, but he was staring at the door, his rugged, fight-scarred face expressionless. The sweat rolled down from Andrew’s hairline and the panting had developed a catch to it. He jerked his head slightly and raised an eyebrow at Harry. I don’t know, I mouthed.
At the door I steadied Andrew against Harry, grabbed my purse and coat, dropped the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, then quickly eased under Andrew’s arm, and took his weight across my shoulders.
I looked over at Harry. “Ready,” I said.
Harry didn’t respond. He was looking at Andrew’s arm pulled across my shoulders. “Must not be his ribs,” he said.
I winced. I’d forgotten. I looked back to Harry, but his face had the same, unreadable expression. “Guess not,” I said. Just get us out of here. That’s all. Just get us out of the hotel before those men come back.
In the room, with the door closed, with the rest of the world shut out, Andrew’s idea had seemed logical and workable. Maybe even a little bit fun. After all, it was just a bit of playacting: him a candidate, me maybe a “friend” who was starting to get irritated by the whole problem. But, as we stepped out into the hall, I felt we were stepping through the curtains midway in what was supposed to have been a carefully staged play, and instead had become the production of a lunatic. Number one problem was that the play had been so badly miscast as to be laughable. Why in heaven’s name would someone like Andrew Richards hook up with someone like me?
Point two: If the handsome hero does get in trouble, he should be shot with a gun loaded with blanks so that in act two, he can leap upon his silver steed, ready to do battle once again. But blanks had been substituted with real bullets and it was real blood seeping through the torn towels tied around Andrew’s middle, not red dye mixed with liquid starch.
And now, on the hotel hall set, every spotlight had been flipped on, so that a hot, intense light came from every direction, illuminating our every move. The volume controls had been cranked to maximum so that the sounds of our passage were amplified until the walls vibrated.
And I knew, next would come the climactic Act II scene: every door to every room up and down the hall would fling open in unison, crash back against the wall and old women, young men, children, mothers with babes in arms, would rush out, pointing their fingers, screaming for the police and in that blinding light there would be nowhere to hide.
On cue a distinguished looking middle-aged man stepped out of a door three doors down. He turned, whistling quietly and stopped dead to stare at the unlikely procession of a tall, pale, sweating man hanging between a burly bellman and a
long-haired, terrified woman.
As we came abreast of him I rolled my eyes and jerked my head at Andrew. “Drunk,” I said.
“Oh,” he whispered, and his face cleared as he shook his head in sympathy. He watched us pass then he moved the other way toward the elevator.
The bell rang and he stepped back to let two women step off the car. The women turned toward us and stopped. I heard the man whisper, “Drunk,” and nod up the hall at us.
I sighed and turned forward again. Act II had been put off, at least for a while. I started to smile at Andrew. Almost there, I wanted to say with that smile, and he would nod and smile in return. But he didn’t. The drunken act had stopped. His sunglasses were sliding down his nose and I could see that his eyes were nearly closed. He couldn’t do any more than meet my gaze for a brief instant. Each step, the mere act of remaining upright seemed to be taking every bit of his concentration.
I swallowed, trying to remove the constriction in my throat. “Good Lord!” I said. “He looks like he’s going to pass out. How much farther is that elevator?”
“Around the corner,” Harry said. He didn’t even look at me.
I shifted under Andrew’s weight. A pain was shooting up my back as the muscles cramped under the unaccustomed load. I was sweating under that pink sweater; the angora was no longer pretty and soft, but scratchy and irritating.
A few feet further and we were off the carpet of the main hall onto the linoleum of the service corridor. At the end of the corridor, set in the left wall I could just see the elevator doors. The three of us stumbled toward them, even Harry losing his balance as Andrew’s legs became weaker and his knees buckled. The three of us tacked down the slippery linoleum like a rudderless sailboat in a shifting wind. Twenty feet, ten, five. It was when I was in arm’s reach of the door, stretching out to push the button that Andrew’s legs gave out completely.
“Melanie!” he gasped. He struggled, I tried desperately to support him, but his strength was gone and he was too much for me. He fell against me, slamming me against the wall. His sunglasses fell off and clattered to the floor. I clung to him with one arm, scrabbling desperately with the other to find something to grab, to brace against, but my own knees gave way and my ankles twisted as my pink pumps skidded out from under. I started to go down when suddenly Andrew’s weight was lifted off me. Harry had grabbed hold of Andrew’s right arm, pulled it around his neck and, seizing Andrew’s belt, had hoisted him upright. He looked over at me. “You all right lady?”
“Yes, yes.” I pushed off the wall. “Andrew?” I grabbed his hand and shook it. “Andrew!”
“Okay,” he gasped. “Okay.” His breath came in tearing little gasps.
I could feel Harry’s cool, assessing stare, but I wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Jerk just about passed out,” I said.
Harry hoisted Andrew again and held him with one arm as he searched for something in his pocket. “Why don’t you give it up?” he grunted. He leaned back against the wall, pulled a key out and used it to unlock the elevator button.
Andrew’s exhausted eyes met mine. No, I mouthed. Please. Hold on.
He shook his head once slowly in resignation, his eyes closed and his head dropped against Harry’s shoulder.
I looked up at Harry, desperately trying to maintain the charade. “What do you mean? Give what up?” I asked, but try as I might, I couldn’t keep the damn quavering out of my voice.
Harry looked at me for a long moment, that same irritatingly placid look on his face. He lifted the hand with which he had grabbed Andrew’s belt. Bright red blood coated the palm and fingers.
I sank back against the wall. “Oh, my god,” I whispered.
“Lady? It’s all right lady. I’ll get you out of here.”
I started fumbling in my purse, trying to find more cash to offer him, but all I had was the balance of my prize money, all in traveler’s checks. It took a second for his words to sink in. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
The elevator doors slid open and Harry hoisted Andrew through into the small car with no more effort than if Andrew’s six-foot, two-inch frame were that of a ten-year-old child. I followed them in and stood next to Andrew, gripping his arm and looking up at Harry. Andrew appeared to have truly passed out, and Harry’s massive arm was around him, completely supporting his weight.
Harry’s eyes met mine and he half-smiled, then seemed to be embarrassed that he was making such a flagrant emotional display. “Don’t worry.”
“Please.” I tried to go on, plead with him not to call the police, make him understand that I was only trying to help Andrew, but my throat closed, and all I could do was look up at him as the tears started once again.
That finally cracked that placid composure of his. “Hey, now. Don’t do that. I ain’t gonna call the cops.”
I sniffed and wiped at my face. My hand stopped on my cheek and I looked up at him. “You won’t?” I whispered.
“Nah.” He paused as the elevator reached bottom and the doors opened. He stared out across the garage for a second. “Listen, Lady. Anybody looks at a guy the way you look at this guy, well, I sure as hell don’t think you’re gonna hurt him, that’s all.”
The tears started rolling again.
“Ah, now Lady. I told you. You gotta stop that.”
I started to laugh, but the tears wouldn’t stop. “I’m not crying. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Forget it.” He eased Andrew out of the elevator and carried him, his feet dragging across the oily concrete, to a pillar back in the shadows. With surprising gentleness he maneuvered Andrew around and eased him down against the concrete post. I knelt down, drew my coat around Andrew’s shoulders before taking him in my arms and cradling him against me. His head rested in the hollow of my throat; I could feel his warm breath against my skin and the fact that it continued steadily pulsing there helped ease the panic.
Harry wiped the blood from his hand with a large blue and white handkerchief.
“What happened?”
I looked up at him. “Somebody, well, shot him.”
“You sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”
I shook my head. “We can’t… they have to report gunshot wounds.”
He looked at me, considering something. “I might know someone who could help, but it’s gonna cost you.”
“I’ve got travelers checks,” I said.
“People still use those?”
“My bank sells them… it’s a long story.”
“Well. I’ll make a call.”
I smiled and tried not to start crying again. “Thank you, Harry.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged and walked back toward the elevator.
“You know where you’re going yet?”
“No. Please just keep driving,” I said.
The cab driver shrugged and looked back at the road. “It’s your money.” He blew air through his nose loudly, sniffed, snorted again then pulled a handkerchief out and swabbed at his face.
I closed my eyes and shuddered. Since we’d left the hotel I’d lost all sense of direction. The cab driver turned at random going up and down endless hills, spectacular views of the city and the dark bay visible at one moment, nothing but large, dark warehouses the next. And everything he said, each move he made had to be punctuated with a snort, a sniff, and a blow.
He turned to look at me again. We passed beneath a streetlight and the light flashed across his sharp chin and narrow lips but left the upper half of his face in darkness. “You want me to head for the park or something?” he asked.
“Anywhere, I don’t care.”
He lifted an elbow up on the back of the seat. We were heading down the side of a steep hill toward a red stoplight at the bottom but he seemed not to be the least interested. “Hey, you sure you got the bucks for this?”
I pulled a sheaf of travelers checks from my purse and fanned them at him. “Will this do?”
Even in the dim light in the cab I could see th
e sparkle in his narrow eyes. “Yeah, I think that’ll about do it.” He turned forward again, glanced at the streetlight, snorted, snorted again, sniffed, pulled the handkerchief out and mopped his nose, and when we were within seconds of running the light, and my arms were locked around Andrew and my lips were parted to shout a warning, he put the brakes on. The cab came to a stop across the crosswalk with the front end about four feet into the intersection. The handkerchief had never left his nose, but as the cab rocked to a stop, he pulled it away, inspected it carefully, then shoved it down in his pocket. “Yep. That’ll just about do ‘er.”
I began to breathe again and looked down at Andrew. He lay on his good side on the cracked vinyl seat, his legs drawn up, his head resting on my lap. My coat lay over him, but it was too short to cover him completely and he had begun to shiver. At my request, the driver had cranked up the heater, and while completely efficient at blowing the odor of mildew and wet, stale cigarettes around, it was doing nothing to drive back the chill of the autumn night.
The light changed and the driver tromped down on the accelerator. The taxi lurched forward through the intersection and bumped up onto the steep hill on the other side. The car bounced and squealed on its ancient springs and though I tried to hold him, I could see a wince of pain cross Andrew’s face.
I bent over him and my hair fell forward and brushed across his cheek. “It’ll be all right,” I whispered. He nodded slightly against my thigh, but his eyes remained tightly shut.
I bit my lip and stared at the passing buildings as I tried again to think of somewhere to go. No hotels. Always in the movies you avoided hotels, and since I had no idea what was true and what wasn’t, I was going on popular myth. I wanted desperately to take Andrew to a hospital, but that was out, too. Back in the garage…
…sitting on the cold, oil-stained concrete, holding Andrew against me while I was waiting for Harry to return, Andrew stirred and groaned.
“Andrew? Are you there?”
He nodded against my throat.
“Andrew, please. Please let me take you to a doctor. There must be somewhere...”