I waited for Harry to leave. At his table some kids came, some went, but he and his large buddy, the only two seeming adults, showed little inclination to budge. By midnight there were too few people to shield me. I was about to pay the bill and leave when his whole table arose and moved toward the exit. I ordered a fresh drink and said I was going to the “little girl’s room.” I followed Harry and company at a safe distance. The young adults had even younger friends whom they met up with, and the entire party crowded into an elevator and disappeared.
I’d been tipping the bartender well all evening and now, with business winding down, it was time for a girl-to-girl talk. “Excuse me, but do you know who the blond-headed chap is who was sitting over there at the large table? I thought he looked a bit like Nick Nolte, the movie star.”
“He ain’t no movie star, I don’t think, but I hear he’s been hired by Disney to make TV spots. Kids are all hanging around him, trying out for parts, I guess. We’ve had to be real careful with the IDs. What, you like him?”
“No, just curious. I thought, you know, he might be someone famous.”
“I tell you, we don’t get famous people here. If they come, they stay in the Disney World Hotel. Last year some Arab came and leased a whole floor for a week. Brought his wives and kids for a holiday. Each wife had her own suite, so they said. They said the tab was half a million.”
“Wow, really! So you never see anyone famous? I thought that was part of the fun of tending bar.”
“Aw, once in a while I see someone I recognize from the soaps, but never no one real famous.”
I got up to leave. “Enjoyed the evening. See you again.”
“I’m not sure what you enjoyed. You didn’t talk to anyone.”
“I like watching people. I know I’m a little shy, but I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
“His name his Harry. Hari-kari, no, just kidding. It’s Harry Beck. Just in case you want to know.” She gave me a girl-to-girl all-knowing wink.
CHAPTER 13
The next morning I checked out of the Sans Souci and into the Raphael. The same bellhop who saw me in the elevator the day before helped me with my suitcase, now well stuffed with all the clothes I’d bought. He bowed me into the elevator. When I reached toward the panel of buttons, he murmured, “Permit me, madam,” and promptly pressed six.
Opposite the elevator on the sixth floor was room 600. It had double doors and a brass plate that read Executive Suite. The old bellhop had me exit before him, perhaps concerned that I’d ride up and down a few times before getting off. My room, number 606, was down the hall a short bit on the opposite side. He let me in and showed me how to lock the door, unlock the minibar, adjust the A/C and turn the TV set on and off. He apologized that there was no turndown service and prepared to leave. I had nothing smaller than a ten and I didn’t want to stiff him.
He took the bill without looking at it and with great sincerity said, “Thank you madam. And if madam will permit, regarding yesterday’s encounter—I am from Italy, and there are no Italian painters named Alcazar.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” I assured him, endeavoring to be equally sincere.
I unpacked and surveyed my new digs. It was not a room with a view, unless you like parking lots. However, I was far more interested in the vista as seen through my door’s peephole. The Executive Suite was just out of range to the left; time for some reengineering. The peephole was held in place by four tiny screws that yielded easily to my Swiss Army Knife. I removed the entire unit and shook the lens free. I shimmed the right side of the lens encasement with some bits of cardboard. I reinserted the lens, which now was biased to look left. I reinstalled the whole unit. Harry’s residence, or so I hoped it was, was now in sight.
A wearisome vigil ensued. “Keeping one’s eye to the peephole” replaced “putting one’s nose to the grindstone” as a metaphor for tedium. The traffic to and from the Executive Suite included Harry, his wide-bodied friend, and an assortment of the young pretties that hung out with them. A woman I hadn’t seen enter emerged carrying a sleeping girl of around nine or ten clad in skimpy pajamas. There were gaps in my surveillance for meals from room service and bathroom breaks. I napped in the late afternoon and early evening when I figured activity would be least.
By the next morning I knew who had come and who had gone. When the room cleaners began their rounds just after midday, I was certain that the suite was empty. I showered, shaved my legs, put on a very short skirt, heels, and a midriff-exposing, dove-gray halter-top. I made up my face to look young and cheap and eschewed the wig for my own short, blonde hair. The cleaners soon got to the suite, and as was their habit, they used their cart to prop open the door while they were cleaning inside.
When they had been in the suite for about five minutes, I slipped out of my room and walked boldly in. “Oh hi, I’m looking for Harry. He said to meet him here at two. Oh, wow! What a cool place!”
It was indeed a deluxe suite. I found myself in a spacious room with plush furniture, an executive desk of polished cherry wood, and a long table that had been moved aside for meetings. Atop the table and around the room was video equipment of all kinds: cameras, lights, screens, microphones, and a bevy of electronic gear whose functions were unknown to me. The wall art was typical of upscale hotel suites: high quality prints of landscapes, bowls of fruit, and Roman urns, all in ornate frames. At the end of the room was a balcony with French doors; it overlooked the pool area.
“Uh, ma’am, you shouldn’t be in here,” said one of the cleaning crew.
“Oh, it’s okay. Mr. Beck and I are old friends. Oh, what a cool view.” While the cleaners were trying to figure out what to do with the floozy blonde that was upsetting their routine, I plunged across the room to admire the scenery, and furtively unlocked the French doors.
“Please, ma’am,” she pleaded, “we could get into trouble.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, I’ll wait for Harry outside.” I backed away from the balcony, still looking around. “Say, are those bedrooms in there?” Neither woman answered, but a male voice did.
“Why so interested in bedrooms?” asked Harry Angelica, alias Harry Beck.
That was the second time his voice had startled me, and this time I had to keep my cool. Escape would not be quite as easy as bolting away into the dark.
“Oh, Mr. Beck, you said, I mean someone said, that you might have a part for me in one of your films.”
“Do I know you? You look vaguely familiar,” he said, as he looked me up and down.
“Yes, I mean no. One of the girls in the bar said you might need someone to help out.”
“Who was that?”
“I didn’t get her name, actually. It’s one of the barkeeps—you know, the one with the white waiter’s shirt and a black bow tie.”
“Really, so what’s your name anyway?” he asked, more kindly.
“Susan. Susan Radford.” I gave my head a little toss. My knees had stabilized.
“Well, Susan Radford, we don’t shoot on weekends. Why don’t you meet my friends and I in the Bellini bar tonight? We’ll talk it over.”
“Okay, I’ll be there,” I said eagerly. I brushed past him to leave and nearly ran into his size EEE shadow, a cretinous, thick-jawed man with yellowed teeth and mismatched ears.
“This is Ernest. He’ll be there tonight, eh, Ernie?”
“Sure, boss.”
As I edged past and walked away, I overheard him say, “Where’d the bird come from? Nice stuff.”
I took the stairs at the end of the hall down six flights to a fire exit at the rear of the building, which I propped ajar. I circled around to the front where, partially concealed by a potted cypress tree, I could observe the balconies on the sixth floor. Harry’s was easy to spot because it was twice as large as the others, and abutted its neighbors on both sides.
I returned to the back door and climbed to the sixth floor. The hallway was empty and Harry’s door was closed. I crept unseen into m
y room. I donned my dumpy brunette costume once again and returned to the lobby to speak with the desk clerk.
“I’m in 606 but do you think it might be possible for me to have a room with a view of something other than the parking lot? The rooms across the hall look out onto the pools. I wouldn’t mind paying the difference.”
Luck was with me. Because the hotel had had complaints about noise in the Executive Suite, they had left the rooms on either side to be the last filled. After warning me, they let me move to room 601 next door. This meant I didn’t need to clamber across other people’s balconies to get to Harry’s. It was all a matter of timing now.
That evening I was me except for the cheap makeup job, and sat on the same barstool that bewigged, piggy me had sat on two nights earlier. I’d dressed in a sharp silk blouse of nearly translucent material and tight lime-green flat-front pants. I wore platform shoes to exaggerate my movie-starlet worthiness by making me seem taller and thinner. The bartender with whom I’d had the girl-to-girl bonding showed no signs of recognition.
Harry’s tables were vacant but had “reserved” signs on them. I ordered a drink. A few quick sips helped settle my nerves and calm the fidgetiness that made me want to pace. I concentrated on observing the people trickling in, attempting through powers of observation to deduce facts about them. One of them was the square-jawed man with a crew cut that I’d seen when I checked in. If he recognized me from the lobby, he didn’t let on. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he pretended to be looking for someone that he didn’t find and left.
After a while Harry, Ernest and a small band of youths arrived, shoved the tables together, and took their places. I hid behind my compact and made final adjustments to my face. They didn’t notice me. When they were settled in, or as close to it as they would get, for there were constant arrivals and departures, I paid my tab and sauntered over.
Harry looked glad to see me. Ernest, apelike, just looked. Harry stood up and presented me to all as “Susan, who might be helping out with a shoot.” The pretty couple I’d encountered earlier had twin names, Jamie and Jamie; they might almost have been twins, too.
Most of the talk was about moviemaking, movie stars, and movie careers. Susan’s persona had dropped out of college to try to break into Hollywood. She’d been unsuccessful there and so had come to Wilmington, North Carolina, where more and more studios were setting up shop. She hoped to get something in television. As for Orlando, she was taking a short vacation, but she was always open to opportunity.
Because I’d lived in southern California for some years when I attended UCLA, I knew enough about Hollywood to make Susan’s tale plausible. The youngsters immediately accepted her as one of the crowd. Ernest seemed capable only of staring lasciviously, a glassy-eyed, angry ape. Harry’s face was friendly, but inscrutable. By listening carefully, I figured out that only Harry and Ernest actually lived in the suite, though evidently others crashed there from time to time. They shot footage in the suite but I couldn’t gather exactly of what. When I thought that Harry was fully engaged with his guests, I excused myself to go to the powder room.
I hurried to room 600 and knocked loudly and waited. No one responded. In my own room, I stepped out of the platforms, stripped and put on the wig, the dumpy clothes and black tennies. I turned out all the lights and went out on my balcony, closing the door behind me. I listened for sounds coming from the suite. There were none. I climbed up on my balcony wall, maintaining a low crouch for balance. There was a two-foot gap between our balconies, the effect of which was magnified by the 70-foot drop to the ground below. I vaulted across, landing lightly on my feet. I peered through the French doors. The room was empty. With a “c’mon baby,” I tried the handle I’d unlocked earlier. It turned. The door yielded to a push and I was inside, amid the mélange of moviemaking apparatus. I left the door open for a quick getaway in case someone came through the front.
The apartment had four bedrooms, but only two appeared to be occupied, presumably by Harry and Ernest. Determining which was which was easy. Harry was a sharp dresser and a glance into the respective closets was a giveaway. I also saw luggage in the one room with the initials H.A.—Harry Angelica—to remove all doubt.
My plan was to steal Harry’s toothbrush. Cells from inside his mouth would cling to it and that was enough for a DNA analysis. As a backup, I intended to steal some dirty laundry, perhaps a shirt with hair on it. But I found something far better in the bathroom: Harry’s electric razor, which he had obligingly failed to clean since his last shave. I slipped it and his toothbrush into the pockets of my baggy jeans.
Never satisfied, always curious, I continued to look around the bedroom. There was a small desk in one corner and on it was a laptop computer. I unlatched the screen and turned it on. While it was booting up, I checked out the drawers of the bureau and the closet. Nothing there for me, but the computer screen was a different story. It contained a “Palm Desktop” icon. I double-clicked on it and up came Harry’s address book. This was too valuable to leave behind, though I was already gone too long, even for a floozy in a powder room. There were several diskettes on the desk. I chose one without a label and inserted it into the A-drive. I “exported” the contents of the address book to the diskette, which I pocketed. I shut down the computer, and just as it made its final ta-da sound I heard the key in the slot of the front door.
I rushed out of the bedroom and in my haste turned the wrong way. I spun around just as a meaty hand grabbed my hair. The wig came off, and in his surprise Ernest lost his balance. He tumbled forward, towards the balcony, and I reversed direction again and leapt to the front door. I pulled it open and dashed into the enveloping arms of Harry.
I spun quickly round and launched an elbow to his solar plexus. He went “whoof” and loosened his grip as he folded forward. I got him with my other elbow on the side of his neck and had broken loose, but before I could get out the door a Mack truck with license plate E-R-N-E-S-T hit me. Ernest had proved somewhat more agile than I’d have predicted, and before I could make good my escape he piled into me. I was stunned into a moment’s unconsciousness, and when I recovered, I found myself under the one-eyed gaze of a .45 caliber semiautomatic.
“Well, well, Susan. I had a feeling there was more to you than met the eye,” said Harry. “Do tell me what you’re up to, or should I have Ernie here toss you over the side? It happens when you’ve had too much to drink and lose your balance, you know.”
Knowing what Harry had done to Ashley, I didn’t think scruples would stand in the way. The truth, of course, was out of the question. His crime against Ashley was capital in North Carolina.
“Okay, you’re on to me. I confess. I’m a thief, and you’ve got some mighty valuable shit.” I swept my hand around the room. “One of those cameras to the pawnshop. It’s a week’s pay. Just let me go. I’ll be out of your hair in a sec. You’ll never see me again.”
“No can do, boss,” said Ernest. “We don’t know what she’s been into.”
“I ain’t been into anything, I swear. I didn’t even have time to grab a camera before ape man here tried to pull my hair out.”
“Fuck, she’s a sassy cunt. Let me teach her somethin’, boss.
“Not here. You got to get rid of her. We can’t take any chances. You know what to do, just like…you know.”
“Aw, boss. Lemme poke her before I do it.”
“Listen, get her out of here. I’d throw her over the fucking rail myself but I don’t want the goddamn cops all over the place. I don’t care what you do to her, but in the end she has a very…nasty…fatal…accident. And for Chrissake, don’t botch it.”
“Hey, I ain’t never botched no job yet. We’ll just take her along for a little ride.”
“Not we. You. I can’t leave here. I’ve got an all-night shoot at the farm.”
“Jesus, boss, I can’t drive and watch her both.”
“Make her drive your car. If she won’t, shoot her with this.” Harry bra
ndished another handgun, fitted sharply with a silencer. “Start with a foot. She’ll cooperate. Here, get cozy.”
He withdrew a pair of handcuffs from a drawer and cuffed me to Ernest, right hand to left. He dropped the key into Ernest’s jacket pocket and handed him the silenced pistol. “Now go,” he commanded. “Use the back stairs.”
Ernest jerked my handcuffed arm, leaving a deep scrape on my wrist. Pain shot through my shoulder. He grasped my hand in his, as if we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and half dragged me to the back stairs.
In the stairwell he held the gun under my nose and said, “You heard Mr. Beck. We’re taking a ride and you’re the driver. You be good, I’ll make it quick. You don’t, you’ll still be alive when I got one bullet left.”
On the way to the car Ernest stuck the gun in his coat and replaced it with a half-pint bottle of Old Grand-Dad, which he withdrew from an inside pocket. He unscrewed the cap and took a healthy pull. When we reached his car, he had us get in the passenger side and then pushed me across into the driver’s seat. He removed his half of the handcuffs and attached it to the steering wheel. He put the key in the ignition and started the engine.
“Drive, birdie!” he said. “I’ll direct you.”
We exited the parking area onto International Crescent, leaving the hotels behind. After a few turns he put us on an entrance ramp of the westbound I-4 and said, “Step on it.”
Ernest was getting drunk, swigging bourbon every few minutes. His looks in my direction became increasingly lewd as the alcohol went to his brain. His judgment lapsed to the point where he offered me the bottle.
“I don’t drink and drive,” I said. “Somebody might get hurt.” He found this hilarious and guffawed, showing dingy teeth, until it was time for his next swallow.
The length of the drive permitted me to calm myself by repeating the mantra of my namesake: “I am, therefore I think.” I was going to become “am not” if I couldn’t think my way out of this. There had to be a way to capitalize on his drunken state. If I hadn’t had one arm cuffed to the steering wheel, I might have jammed on the brakes, fishtailed, and leaped out of the car. By the time he’d gotten the gun out of his jacket pocket I’d have been out of range, and if not, I doubt he could have shot straight. But this was an idle thought. Such an option, cuffed as I was, was not open to me.
Where Evil Lurks Page 10