by Jeff Soloway
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
I reached toward her face. Her eyes widened as she watched my hands, but she didn’t flinch. I took off her glasses with two hands, folded them, and placed them on the night table.
“Can you see?” I asked.
“When you’re this close I can. Do you want me to start?”
“Stand up.” I thought she’d like it if I had a plan.
She stood instantly. So did I.
“Is this an inspection? Am I satisfactory?”
So much for the allure of mystery. “You’re beautiful. I just want to kiss the back of your neck. Turn around.”
She turned around. Her smooth dark hair was so fine I felt I could breathe in its fibers.
I put my hands on her hips. I could feel her body swell and subside with her breaths. The smell of her morning’s shampoo mingled faintly with that of her trail sweat. I assumed I smelled worse, but perhaps our odors canceled each other out. I stroked her sides up to her rib cage and down again to her hips. My fingers slid easily over the synthetic hiking fabric, and I could feel the texture of the skin underneath. She didn’t turn, didn’t lift her hands, didn’t aid or inhibit me. She did slow her breathing. I hoped she was enjoying the game. I nosed under the curtain of her hair and kissed the side of her neck, then just under her ear. I let the full length of my legs and hips just barely meet with her body.
I turned her around slowly, to give her time to tell me, if she wanted, that she couldn’t after all go through with it. But when her face—looking naked without the glasses—finally came into view, she was smiling vaguely, dazed with pleasure. We kissed so long that I had to pull back to breathe.
“Listen, bud.” The dazed look was gone. “It’s time for you to take something off.”
She yanked off my shirt, the collar catching for an instant under my chin. I was careful not to grunt. I pulled hers off, trying for equal urgency but a little more attention to detail. I held her chin with one hand and kissed her again on the mouth—another act of misdirection. I was exploring her back with the other hand. I found the strap of a standard bra, not a sports bra. I stepped back.
“Voilà.” I had her bra in my right hand. It was a little more wiry than I expected, and her breasts larger. The nipples were almost the same color as her skin.
“Nice trick,” she said. “Grant’s never done that.”
“Grant who?”
“Sorry. That’s the last time I’ll say his name.”
“My spouse has never done that is not a phrase we mind hearing.”
“We?”
“We adventuring lovers. You’re one of us now.”
“I don’t want to adventure. I want to stay here forever.”
Could we? I pushed that question, and all others, out of my mind. Everything ends eventually; the best we can hope for is not to believe in the ending.
—
When we were done, I lay back and stared up at the plaster of her room’s ceiling. She had her head on my chest. I wished the light switches were closer. I wanted to eliminate all sensations but the feel of her skin on my body and the sound of her breaths. But I couldn’t reach the lights. If only the rest of the world would disappear on its own—then my contentment would be complete. For now it was close enough.
“I’m not always so…restless,” I said. I had thought she might appreciate variety in position. I had to abandon a few positions unusually quickly because of muscle soreness.
“I loved it. It was like a tasting menu.”
“That explains why you bit me.”
“Don’t be a whiner.”
“Let’s order room service.” Nobody ever comps room service, but my credit card had proved its mettle at the gift shop earlier. We deserved a celebration. Besides, this wasn’t a reckless expenditure but a clever excuse to keep her with me for a while longer. Maybe a good while longer if the Grand Chalet’s demoralized staff took its time delivering the food. Maybe I could stay all night.
“I’m supposed to be at the karaoke bar at nine.” She pulled herself from my skin and started fetching her clothing. Her body was fuller, sexier than I had imagined. You never know what you’re going to get when you undress someone you’ve seen only in cool-weather months. She bent to kiss my knee in passing. My big gnarled-oak paperweight of a knee.
“Don’t go yet,” I said.
“I have to. I’ve got a job. They’re paying me. Well, they’re paying Grant, but I promised to help.”
“The hotel is finished. You and Grant should quit, like the Greenbaums did.”
“I never quit on a job. I don’t even call in sick. It’s the teacher in me. Hey. Are you falling asleep?”
“At least come back after karaoke?”
“Of course I’ll come back! This is my room.” She laughed, seized my face with both hands, kissed me again.
Chapter 24
I returned to my room to shower. My muscles had loosened up and were now full of that comfortable soreness that gym instructors promise. My mind replayed recent glories. There’s no contentment like the unity of emotional and physical satisfaction. But I had one more task ahead of me. Less pleasant, but bearable now.
Down in the lobby, Claudia saw me and caught my eye. Grant was nearby, leaning unsteadily over the front desk, like a drunk using the bar for balance.
“Take him back to his room,” Claudia said, and turned away, her braid flicking contemptuously behind her.
“Don’t worry, Claud,” Grant called. “The assistant GM’s got it under control.”
Claudia bent to a computer far down the long desk. She was probably using it to surf job ads. At least the high season was about to start.
“Who’s the assistant GM?” I asked.
“How should I know?” Grant’s body swayed back and forth gently but unrhythmically against the desk, as if he couldn’t quite find the beat to music only he could hear. “Hey, glad you made it, buddy! Peter gave me the lowdown. Think of the story you can write up now. Just don’t forget who hooked you up. Said the fisher to the fish!”
“I won’t, Grant.”
“That’s me, fisher of men. But who’s the fisher of women? Huh?”
Did he know or was he just guessing? He was the only person in the world with whom I’d rather not discuss Victoria.
“Good news, Grant,” I said. “You’re not a suspect anymore. I just wanted to let you know.”
“Always knew I wasn’t a killer.”
“How does it feel?”
“Like unemployment.” He anchored one hand more firmly to the desk and with the other gestured grandly to the lobby. “They’re gone. Who’s gonna pay the PR guy? But yeah, thanks, you’re the man. What do I owe you for the service? Give you anything you want—but just to borrow, not to keep. How about my seat in business class? You’ll love it. It’s next to my wife.”
I had done my duty. “Have you seen Magda? I want to tell her what happened.”
“She’s at the bar. They’re all at the bar. Why aren’t we? I’ll buy you a drink. I mean, get you a drink. Got a few questions for you.”
“Maybe after I talk to Magda.”
“I paid your way. You owe me a report.” His tone was more pleading than threatening.
I owed him nothing, but I felt some pity for him. Were I in his position, pity from my usurper would have been unendurable. But he wasn’t the kind to disdain pity; he preferred to pocket it and try to trade it in later for something more useful.
“A quick one,” I said.
We took the elevator down. As we passed the swinging wooden doors of the Tune Saloon, I slowed to listen to the simplified music and off-key singing within, hoping to identify Victoria’s voice. But it was some other woman caterwauling “I Will Survive”—at least, I hoped it was.
Buffalo Bill’s Last Shot was another Old West pastiche. Saddles and bridles and other bits of horse tack hung from the ceiling, like bras in a frat-boy bar
. Off to the side was a room marked LI’L RUSTLERS, a holding zone for children. It was lined on three sides with a single low shelf full of milk-white bottles. I watched a boy grab a bottle by the neck, lift it high, and slam it over a little girl’s scalp. The bottle broke like an empty eggshell. The girl shrieked and grabbed a bottle of her own.
The bar area was, unsurprisingly, full of writers. Jeannette was perched on a stool at the bar, pretending to listen as Brian explained tequila. A chorus line of fancy shot glasses was set before them; Brian’s presentation obviously required real-time tasting. Magda hovered behind and between them, the sharp point of their isosceles triangle.
“I’ll organize the booze,” Grant said.
I sat in a high-backed cozy. Grant’s booze-procuring technique consisted of waving to the bartender, leaning far over the bar, crooking his arm under it to grab pint glasses, and drawing two beers backward from the tap. The bartender just shook his head and turned to input someone else’s purchases on his touch-screen cash register. He would do his job but not police his stock.
It’s the same when any government falls: Social order doesn’t collapse immediately but flakes off in pieces.
Grant dropped the violently foaming beers on the tabletop. He slid his phone and cigarettes onto the table too, perilously close to an expanding puddle of beer drippings. I moved them slightly aside; he didn’t seem to notice.
“Fucking Brian,” he said. “He’s gonna try something on Jeannette. Not on my watch! I’ve got a big brother thing for my writers.”
I watched Jeannette and Magda clink shot glasses with Brian. Afterward Magda fished something out of her glass with her little finger.
“Magda’s watching out for her,” I said.
“Magda’s not big enough. Ever seen Brian drunk? He gets kinda like you at the Herald Square event.” He bent down to slurp at the top of his foam. “So Doby’s done with me?”
“That’s what she said.”
“She ever hear from those Asians? The ones who called her?”
“She showed them some photos. They didn’t recognize anybody but Jewel.”
“My photo too? Whoa. Thank God the truth came out. Just too bad about Freddie Bridgewater. Guess he pulled a Hitler.”
“What does that mean?”
“He thwacked himself to avoid facing justice. Do you blame him? He knew what was coming. There’s no mercy in Arizona. I would have fast-forwarded the scene too.”
“He didn’t kill himself. I think Gus Greenbaum had him killed.”
“No shit. Either way, no justice for Jewel. Maybe that’s okay. Cop justice was her least favorite kind. We both know that.”
Grant’s phone buzzed. He glanced down, a bit confused; located it; quickly swiped away a text. He looked up and grinned. He wanted me to ask who it was from.
“Why don’t you think Gus killed Jewel?” I asked instead. “He could’ve sent Grayson or Miguel, same as he did for Freddie Bridgewater. And me.”
“ ’Cause Freddie was the last guy to see her alive. You don’t buy it? Why not, you liked him that much? I admit he had pizzazz. He knew how to push that outsider underdog crap that always sells….1980 US hockey team. Rocky. Donald Trump. Problem is, you’re only a real American hero if you win or get rich or at least get on TV. Billy the Kid, MLK, they got shot down, but they were already legends. Not Freddie. All he did was lose. Then he died.”
“How do you know Freddie was the last person to see Jewel?”
His eyes slid down off my face, off my chest, across the table, and into his drink. He picked up his glass and took a clumsy pull. Two tusks of beer dribble formed at the corners of his mouth. “Delish,” he said.
“Did Victoria tell you?” I had shown the email to no one but Victoria. I’d mentioned it to Meat, but he would hardly have stopped at the Grand Chalet to chat with Grant. No one else had known.
“Tell me what?”
“That Freddie met Jewel the morning she died.”
“No. Maybe it was Peter? I forget. You know me, I keep my ear to the grapevine.”
Why wouldn’t he admit it? What else had Victoria told him? And just fifteen minutes ago, I was sure I’d never again be jealous.
Grant lifted his glass. Both eyes peered over the rim, watching for further turbulence. “I could use a smoke.”
“Don’t lie to me, Grant,” I said. “I’m your brother.”
He slammed the glass to the table. “Tell me something, brother. Were you tempted to make shit up? You were sneaking around my room. Were you looking for some bloody knife? You could’ve picked one up in the buffet, stuck it under my suitcase. Told Doby I stabbed her before I shoved her off the cliff. You’re a writer; you know how to lie. You could have won everything. And you know what I mean.”
“Maybe I’ll win anyway.”
“She’ll be back in my room tonight. Guaranteed. Look, we’re brothers. We should respect each other. Both of us picked one woman, the same woman, out of three billion in the world. What are the odds? Three billion squared. What do you love best about her? Maybe it’s the same as me.”
“I don’t want to talk about Victoria.”
“Then let’s drink to Jewel.” He clinked my unmoving glass.
His phone hummed again. He snatched it up with both hands.
“Who’s that from?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you,” he said, “if you tell me where you’ve been all evening.” He held the phone under the table so that I couldn’t see its face. The beer puddle had by now surrounded the American Spirits box. Soon they’d be ruined.
At that moment, a memory surfaced within me—a surge of surprise, a rush of cold air, Grant stepping through a doorway with that same pack of cigarettes in his hand. He had gone out the fire door to smoke them. The day Jewel died, he could have left the hotel the same way. Avoided the lobby and the security cameras. Maybe he had always known where she was going that morning.
“I’ll get you another drink,” I said.
“Brother!” He looked down again at his phone.
I came up on Magda from behind. She was no longer pretending to listen to Brian.
“Everyone’s talking about you,” she whispered. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you,” I said, “but first I need a favor.”
“Get Grant to do your favor. You two look like best friends.”
“You’re my best friend. I think we were right all along about him. I need your help to find the proof.”
“What can I do?”
I glanced back at Grant. He was still hunched over his phone. “I want you to act like him.”
—
When I got back with the beers, Grant placed his phone back on the table. “Now,” he said. “Let’s have some truth.”
Back at the bar, somebody screamed.
Grant turned; I stood. Brian’s eyes were shut, his face red and dripping. Nearby boozers grabbed their glasses and backed away from impending violence. The bartender cut off a pour half-finished.
“She threw a drink at me!” Brian furiously wiped at his eyelids with his hands.
“Who?” I could hear Magda’s small voice only because everyone else was silent.
“You!”
Jeannette was bubbling with silent laughter on her barstool.
“Fuck you!” Brian screamed.
“Fuck me,” Grant muttered beside me.
“Is this when he loses his mind?” I asked him. “You better go rescue her.”
The bartender was glaring across the bar at us. These were Grant’s guests.
“Grant’s Rule: Last adult standing cleans up.” Grant stood up, took a few steps, bumped into a barstool, maintained his balance but not the stool’s, and managed to set a reasonably straight course to Brian. In passing, he managed to pluck a few napkins from a table dispenser.
I sat behind the table, facing the bar, and palmed Grant’s phone. Since he’d just been using it, it hadn’t reverted to the lock screen. I held it under the table.<
br />
Maybe Victoria had told him about Jewel’s meeting at the trailhead that morning. She might have done it last night, or this morning, before everything changed. I could understand that.
But maybe Grant knew for another reason. Maybe that morning Grant had been there himself.
Grant’s phone was the same as Victoria’s, same as mine, same as most of my friends’. I knew its features well—particularly the Location Services feature, as I had told Victoria at our first meeting in Barnes & Noble. An old girlfriend had once used it on me, to check my fidelity. That time, I had passed.
I clicked on Settings, then Privacy, then Location Services, then Frequent Locations. Back at B&N, Grant had been using Victoria’s phone to track her; now I would use his phone to track him. I looked up at the bar. Grant was trying to swab Brian’s forehead with a napkin. Brian, slit-eyed like a beaten boxer, was ducking and weaving his head to avoid him, and at the same time waving his finger at Magda. I couldn’t tell if he was threatening to sue or demanding a replacement drink.
The default mode of the phone is to list the user’s most frequently visited places, as identified by its internal GPS. Few people are aware of this default; even fewer know how to change it; still fewer of those bother to do so. Grant wasn’t one of the extremely select.
He had three listed frequent locations: New York City was first, followed by Tusayan, and then Phoenix. You can swipe on a city location to drill down to more specific location information, including the dates and even the exact time the location was visited. A swipe on Grant’s New York City location revealed a dozen more specific locations that he had visited in the last month—they appeared to include his home, his office, the Hotel Herald Square, and several more. I tapped back to the three cities and explored further. Phoenix had just one visited location within it, probably the airport. Tusayan had two. I swiped on Tusayan. A map came up with two blue circles on it, one at the Grand Chalet and one at the Best Western down the road.
Why those two places? I had wanted to find locations by the Grand Canyon itself—by Hermits Rest in particular—but Location Services only works where there’s cell service or Wi-Fi. Everywhere in New York has cell service or Wi-Fi. I had hoped to see at least Grand Canyon Village listed among the visited locations—but it wasn’t. Why the Best Western? Was Grant having yet another affair there?