by Chris Belden
As he rested his head back on the edge of the tub, Shriver replayed the scene from the saloon in his mind. He heard the real Shriver’s derisive laugh. Could Simone fall for such an arrogant person? Delta didn’t think she would succumb to another writer, but she was clearly vulnerable, and there was that poet last year . . .
Soft sunlight filtered through the gauzy window curtain. Shriver gazed up to see a poster tacked onto the ceiling: a field of tall grass, a forest in the distance, all beneath a blue sky dotted with cottony clouds. Near the bottom of this picture, obscured by the tall grass, he saw a dark smudge. He squinted. Was that an animal lurking in the grass? A panther? Shriver sat up, sending a small wave of foamy water over the lip of the tub, and stared. The bucolic scene was now somehow menacing. His heart beat rapidly in his ears.
“Here’s a towel,” Edsel Nixon said from the other side of the partially open door. A hand appeared, setting a fluffy, powder-blue towel on the edge of the sink.
Shriver continued to gape at the picture.
“Where’d you get this poster on the ceiling, Mr. Nixon?”
“Oh, that,” came Edsel’s calm voice from the hallway. “That was here when I moved in. I’ve been meaning to take it down, but for some reason I never have.”
Shriver blinked and the black creature seemed to disappear. He lay back and shut his eyes. Just a few more minutes, he thought. Then I’ll dry off, get dressed, retrieve my things, and fly home. Never mind Simone. She would never understand his predicament. Hell, I don’t even understand, he thought.
He heard the melodious ring of a doorbell, followed by a familiar rumbling voice coming from the front room.
“Where is he?” T. Wätzczesnam asked.
Shriver froze and held his breath.
“I haven’t seen him,” Nixon said, sounding stricken.
“They told me at the hotel that he left with you.” T. sounded steamed.
Shriver watched a drop of water form on the tip of the spigot, plumping itself until too heavy to hang on anymore. It fell in slow motion onto a bubble-free patch of water. Plop.
“What was that?” the cowboy asked, his voice growing louder as he entered the hallway. “He’s here, isn’t he?”
“Professor,” Edsel pleaded.
Shriver inhaled and immersed himself beneath the thick bubbles. From above he could make out a few watery syllables but no words.
This is quite pleasant, he thought. Enveloped in warm water, his senses dulled, he wished he could stay here forever. He recalled a program about a shipwreck he’d seen on public television. Apparently, there is a reflex among drowning mammals that slows the heart rate and shifts blood flow so that the brain receives more oxygen than normal. Amazing how the body reacts to trauma, he’d thought at the time. Even now he was sure he could feel the blood coursing to his brain.
Then he felt a hand grab him by the hair and tug him to the surface.
“Shriver!”
Shriver coughed and heaved and wiped the bubbles from his eyes. T. knelt by the tub, his weathered face just inches away.
“What’re you gonna do about this imposter?” the cowboy asked, each syllable arriving with a sour whiff of whiskey.
Shriver could not speak. He was still sucking oxygen into his deprived lungs.
“Do you know that charlatan stayed at your sweetheart’s house last night?”
“He did?” Shriver croaked. “I knew it!”
“I thought that would arouse your interest.”
“You don’t think—” Was that why the real Shriver had laughed like that back at the saloon?
“Anything is possible,” T. said. “I hate to tell you this—I know how sweet you are on our Professor Cleverly—but last year she did succumb to the charms of an admittedly charismatic but decidedly second-rate poet.”
“I know all about that, T.”
“You know about the poet?”
“I know about the poet. And the first husband.”
The cowboy sat on the clothes and envelope atop the commode. “That woman broke my heart, Shriver.”
“Your heart? You mean—?”
“I know, I know. ‘It is thought a disgrace to love unrequited,’ Shriver. ‘But the great will see that true love cannot be unrequited.’ ”
“So when you said she was not on the market—?”
“Wishful thinking on my part, old boy.”
“I’m sorry, T.”
“Not a problem, Shriver. Your feelings for my dear Simone are entirely understandable. Later on we can shoot at each other with pistols. At the moment, my concern is purely literary. We have an imposter in our midst, and we must stop him!”
“But, T.,” Shriver said, “he’s not an imposter.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m the imposter.”
T. did a double take. “Explain yourself, sir.”
“I didn’t write Goat Time.”
“Of course you did.”
“That other Shriver wrote it.”
T. turned to Edsel. “What on earth is he talking about, Nixon?”
The graduate student shrugged.
“I got the invitation by mistake,” Shriver explained. “And for some idiotic reason, I decided to come anyway. I don’t know why. Maybe I was lonely. Maybe I was looking for something meaningful.”
T. stared at him for a moment, not blinking his bloodshot eyes. Then his face cracked open into a grin and he laughed.
“Oh, this is rich!”
Shriver laughed with him. It felt so good to tell the truth. “Crazy, isn’t it?”
T. bent over and convulsed, tears forming in his eyes. “You are one clever son of a bitch.”
“Not really,” Shriver said. “Just stupid.”
“You know, when I heard about that charlatan this morning, I was ready to believe him for two reasons. One, I could see how my dear Simone was growing fond of you, and I was jealous, I admit it.”
“Wait,” Shriver said. “Simone was growing fond of me?”
“But the other reason,” T. barreled on, “was your blasted modesty. I’ve never in all my years met a writer—a real, bona fide writer—who didn’t think his shit smelled like eau de cologne. But you, Shriver, a giant among us, you skulk around like some insecure graduate school poet just dreading the moment when someone’s going to tell you to put away your quill and take up haberdashery. I can’t believe you’ve always been like this. What the hell happened to you?”
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
T. sighed and stood up from his perch. “You didn’t come here because you’re lonely, Shriver. You came here because, goddamn it, you’re a writer.”
“But, T.—”
“Don’t ‘but’ me, sir. You’re the real deal, Shriver. I feel it in these tired old bones. Now, get your ass outta that tub and go reclaim your good name.”
Chapter Fifteen
Seated in Edsel Nixon’s shuddering jeep, stopped at an insufferably long-lasting red light, Shriver swatted at the mosquitoes that swarmed around his head. The graduate student shifted into neutral and revved the engine, as if the noise might keep the insects at bay.
Professor Wätzczesnam had left before Shriver got dressed, swearing he’d track down “that goddamn imposter” while Shriver returned to the hotel for his story and some clean clothes.
“You have a reading to give today, Shriver,” T. had said. “You don’t want to stink up the joint with those rank rags.”
“But what about the real Shriver?” Shriver asked him.
“You mean the fake Shriver? Don’t worry—we’ll take care of him.”
Then he was gone.
The intersection formed a gray X in the middle of an oppressively flat stretch of prairie. A mile south, the town water tower and clumps of various campus buildings nestled beneath a blanket of rich blue sky.
As they sat there the shrill buzz of mosquitoes intensified and Shriver swatted helplessly at them until he realized too late that it was
not the sound of insects at all: a motorcycle was fast approaching the jeep from behind. Shriver tensed. As the motorcycle pulled up alongside, he ducked, waiting for something—a bullet?—but the driver just waved, then tore ahead through the red light.
“That guy has the right idea,” Edsel said. He shifted into drive and peeled out.
Shriver could hardly breathe. He felt like he’d lost what little control he’d ever had of his destiny and was now being jostled and pulled around like a character in a novel. He appreciated that Edsel Nixon and Professor Wätzczesnam believed in him and wanted to help him, but he really needed to get out of this place.
“Mr. Nixon,” he said, “this is what’s going to happen. We’re going to the hotel, where I’ll gather my things, and then you’ll drive me straight to the airport.”
“But the imposter—”
“Never mind him.”
“But Professor Wätzczesnam said—” The poor boy looked crushed. “What about your good name?”
“That’s just it, Edsel. My name is no good. It’s certainly not worth getting killed for.”
“Killed, sir?”
“Look what happened to Ms. Smithee! I’m done here. I want to go home.”
A moment later, a disappointed Edsel Nixon turned into the hotel parking lot. “I’ll drop you off,” he said, “so you can run inside without getting bitten too badly.”
“You are a gentleman, Mr. Nixon.”
The jeep screeched to a halt at the front door, but Shriver stayed put.
“Mr. Shriver?” Edsel said.
At the far end of the parking lot sat the black motorcycle.
“Sir?” Edsel said.
“Do me a favor, Mr. Nixon.”
“Of course.”
“If something happens to me . . .” He turned to his handler, who watched him with curious, concerned eyes. “Please tell Professor Cleverly that . . .”
“Tell her what, sir?”
“Tell her I said thank you.”
Shriver leaped out and ran to the entrance. The lobby was deserted but for the telltale beehive behind the counter. But as he made his way to the desk he noticed Jack Blunt just inside the saloon entrance. The reporter, facing the other way and speaking with someone, had not seen him, and Shriver wanted to keep it that way.
He quietly asked Sue St. Marie if the afternoon maid had arrived.
“I think so,” she replied. “She should be up on the third floor somewhere right now. You can go try to find her if you want.”
“Thank you.”
As he turned to go, the receptionist said, “Oh—some gentlemen have been looking for you, Mr. Shriver.”
He glanced toward the saloon, where Blunt remained with his back turned. “Can you do me a favor, Sue St. Marie?”
She grinned and pointed at her name tag: CHARLEVOIX.
“I’m so sorry,” Shriver said. “I can’t keep you two straight.”
“No problem, Mr. Shriver. What can I do for you?”
“Those gentlemen in the saloon? Don’t tell them I’m here.”
With that he ran around the corner and jammed a finger at the elevator button. The door did not open. The light showed the car stopped at the third floor. From behind him Shriver could hear Blunt talking to someone in the lobby. Nearby was a door marked STAIRS. He pushed through and ran up to the third floor.
The maid’s cart sat parked in the hallway, loaded down with cleaning equipment and supplies, but none of the room doors were open. She had either stepped away or was in any of twenty rooms on the floor.
He put an ear to the door nearest the maid’s cart. Nothing. He went to the next door. No sound. From inside the next room he thought he heard the rustling of sheets. He knocked gently at the door. The rustling continued. He knocked again, this time a little louder. The rustling stopped. He heard a man’s voice. He was about to step away when the door cracked open, revealing a sliver of Basil Rather in a royal blue silk robe. He held the door so that Shriver could see only one of his eyes.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our own Victor Lustig, come to sell us the Eiffel Tower.”
“Victor who?”
“What is it you want?” Rather asked.
“I’m looking for the maid.”
“Can’t help you there, old boy.”
“I’ve locked myself out, you see, and she’s the only one with a master key.”
Rather gazed down his long, straight nose and said, “What would you like me to do about it?”
The playwright peered back into the room for a moment, opening the door an inch or so more, so that Shriver saw the flash of a pale green maid’s outfit.
“Is that the maid in there?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“Who’s that in the room with you?”
“Who?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“Please, Shriver. I’m very busy.”
He made to shut the door but Shriver inserted his foot in the doorway.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Rather asked.
“I know the maid is in there!”
Shriver forced the door open and pushed inside. Near the window, in a pale green maid’s costume, barefoot and holding a feather duster, stood Ms. Brazir. A large rubber phallus poked from the front of the skirt, like the head of a snake from under a rug.
“Oh,” Shriver said.
“Are you happy now?” Basil Rather asked.
“I thought you were the maid,” Shriver explained.
The three of them stood there for an awkward moment until Rather cleared his throat and held the door open for Shriver’s exit.
“Sorry,” Shriver said.
The playwright sniffed contemptuously and slammed the door behind him.
There was still no sign of the real maid. Afraid to barge into any more rooms—Lord only knew what he might encounter!—Shriver waited in the hallway for an interminable amount of time, then took the stairway down to the second floor, but the maid was not there either. He was afraid to go back to the lobby for fear of running into Jack Blunt—or the motorcycle man in black—but there was no choice. He had to find that maid. Just as he reached the stairway door, the elevator arrived. From inside came girls’ voices. Before Shriver could disappear into the stairwell, several cheerleaders, still in their uniforms, their hair slick with sweat, burst into the hall like freed ponies.
“We won the semifinals!” the brunette squealed.
“That’s wonderful,” Shriver said.
She paused, letting the other girls continue down the hall. “Feeling better?” she asked. “That was a nasty spill you took on that ladder.”
“Well, I can breathe.”
“That’s half the battle, isn’t it?”
“I must keep that in mind,” Shriver said.
The girl skipped down the hall.
“Congratulations,” Shriver called out to her. “On the semifinals.”
“Thanks. But we still have to win the finals.”
A door swung open and the girls disappeared into their room.
Shriver took the stairs to the first floor. At the bottom, he cracked the door open. No one at the elevator. He stepped out and poked his head around the corner. No sign of Blunt or the agent in the lobby. He took a breath and walked quickly over to the desk.
“Those gentlemen keep asking for you!” Charlevoix practically shouted.
“Shhh!”
“They’re in the saloon,” she stage-whispered.
“I can’t find the maid,” he told her.
“She’s not on the third floor?”
“Her cart is, but there’s no sign of her.”
“Maybe she took a break.”
“Where does she take her break?”
The desk clerk leaned forward and said, “Why are we whispering?”
“Is there a room where the maids go?”
“There’s a locker room.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s fo
r employees only.”
“Never mind,” he said, and scooted around the corner to the elevators. Maybe the maid had returned to the third floor. He pressed the button. Just before the elevator door opened, Edsel Nixon appeared from around the corner. Shriver waved him forward, but Nixon looked back over his shoulder, toward the lobby, as if someone was speaking to him. It sounded like Blunt.
“Have you seen our infamous so-called Mr. Shriver?” came the reporter’s voice.
Shriver waved frantically, pleading with the graduate student to reply in the negative.
“Uh, I’m looking for him also,” Edsel told Blunt.
Shriver blew him a kiss and then stepped into the elevator just before the doors rolled shut.
As the elevator ascended, Shriver leaned against the wall, his heart thumping in his ears. If he ever got out of this, he would never leave his apartment again.
The door opened at the third floor. The maid’s cart was now gone. Shriver jumped back on the elevator and went down to the second floor. Rounding the corner, he saw the man in black sitting on the floor, waiting, just outside room nineteen. Shriver stopped and turned back, but not before the man saw him. Shriver ran into the stairwell and back up to the third floor. From the landing he watched as the man tore down the stairs to the first floor.
After a moment, Shriver returned to the second floor. He opened the door just as the elevator whirred into motion. Someone was coming. He backed into the stairwell again and waited.
“It’s room nineteen,” he heard Jack Blunt say as he exited the elevator. Shriver peeked through the door to see another man accompany Blunt around the corner, followed by Detective Krampus. What was going on? Why was Krampus here? Had he come to arrest him?
A moment later Shriver heard a knock from down the hall, followed by Krampus calling out, “Open up, Mr. Shriver!”
“Doesn’t seem to be anyone there,” someone said in a deep voice.
“He’s in there,” Blunt said. “I can hear the son of a bitch breathing.”
“Mr. Shriver, I really must speak with you,” Krampus shouted.