"Melvin Hinks.” Just like it says on the sandwich board out there in the hotel lobby, if you'd open your eyes, I almost added. But my drink had arrived and Casper was paying for it. Casper? Jeez, I thought. What in hell kind of a name was that? A man named after a cartoon ghost! I should have told them my real name was Sylvester, or Bugs.
"So,” the friendly ghost was saying, “this is all you do, Melvin? Just play in bars? You don't have—well—any sort of day job?"
I knew he had been about to say “real” job and had just caught himself in the nick of time.
"No, this is what I do."
"And you earn a living at it? How much do you make?"
It always irks me when someone throws that question at me. It happens all the time. As if musicians are public employees whose personal lives should be an open book. These same people would be indignant if I asked them how much they earned at their own rotten jobs. I'm sorry. I've never understood it.
Miss Smith came to my rescue.
"Cas! You can't ask him that. It's nobody's business except his own."
"His own and the tax man's.” Cas gave a wink. He wasn't at all embarrassed by her rebuke. I was beginning to see what sort of a man he was. A “shoot from the lip” kind of guy. In my line of work I run into jerks like him all the time. He added, “The reason I ask, Melvin, is because I might have a little side job for you. I need to know if you might be open to that."
"I'm always open to making a little extra cash.” This was true. I was secretly hoping, though, that his idea of a job wasn't having me play at some squalling brat's birthday party or, worse, some old fossil's retirement. Those gigs are always disasters. You get asked to play the most ridiculous numbers—"The Teddy Bear's Picnic,” for instance, or something that was a big hit during the First World War. And trust me, it always happens, someone who can't carry a tune with handles inevitably wants to sing and wants you to accompany him.
"How many more sets do you have?"
"One more. Then I'm through for the night."
"Great. Why don't you join us in our room afterwards, and we'll have a nightcap and a little powwow about it?” He was grinning like a politician. Or like your parents before they disappear.
* * * *
As I went through my last set, my gaze kept drifting back to their shadowy corner table. Judy Smith and Casper Jones. Why wasn't I suspicious of them from the first? The answer is, of course, that I was. But then I'm suspicious of everybody. Just ask my shrink.
For my last number of the evening I played my signature tune, “We'll Meet Again.” A hoary old number, I admit, but I like to watch people's faces when I jerk it into an R & B bridge halfway through. Then I packed up my electric piano and amplifier, rolled them out through the kitchen, and locked them away in a tiny storage room to which only I had the key. I know many musicians leave their instruments on stage during the off hours, but I've never been comfortable with that. There are a lot of dishonest people around.
Besides, I like having that little room all to myself. I am able to use it for lots of other things. Like certain products I obtain from a male nurse in Dr. Keene's office.
I locked the door, went back into the lounge, stopped at their table, and declared myself ready. They were the only customers left in the place. I could see Tobias, the bartender, and Joline, one of the waitresses, throwing me dirty looks. As if it were my fault how the patrons chose to behave.
But Casper the ghost and Miss Smith quickly finished their drinks, and soon we were out in the lobby waiting for the elevator.
* * * *
Some people, it seems to me, are natural-born slobs. There's no other way to describe them. That was my impression of Casper Jones and Judy Smith the moment I walked into their suite. Rumpled clothing tossed over chair backs, empty cans and bottles cluttering up the furniture, discarded fast food wrappers everywhere you looked. And yet to see this couple anywhere else you would peg them as the sort who would lop a dust bunny's ears off.
I shifted some magazines from the cushions of the couch and sat down. Without asking me what I liked to drink, the friendly ghost shoved a glass of gin at me. I hate gin. It reminds me of pine trees. And pine trees remind me of all the miserable Christmases I have had to endure.
"Here's the deal,” Casper said, settling down on the arm of Miss Smith's chair. She sat looking up at him as if she thought the sun beamed out of his ears (rearrange the letters any way you like). I've seen that look on a lot of women, some sort of charm certain men exert over them. When women look at me it's as if they're afraid I'm about to perform an obscene act. “But first, Melvin, let me ask you a question. You probably know a lot of the people who live in this hotel year round, don't you?"
"All of them, actually, to one extent or another. Of course, there are a few who don't drink, and so I don't see those ones in the lounge, but they all definitely know who I am. My picture is right there in the lobby,” I couldn't resist reminding them.
"On the marquee, yes. And a handsome guy you look too. How'd you manage that, Mel? Did you have somebody doctor the photograph?"
He hooted loudly, and Miss Smith laughed too. And I thought that if their own pictures were hanging in the lobby, I'd be drawing mustaches on them with black felt-tip marker. On the ghost's, a few warts and pimples too.
"So I assume you know,” the friendly ghost labored on, “a woman who lives here by the name of Mahler. Swiss, I think. Or German."
I nodded. “I know her, yes. A very reserved lady with a guttural accent."
"That's the one. How well do you know her? Well enough to get invited into her apartment, would you say?"
"I'm not so sure about that. She's a very private person."
In the back of my mind an alarm had beeped. Where was this going? It was clearly not a musical performance these two were expecting of me.
"But you know her well enough that you could invent some excuse to get inside her place if you wanted to?"
"An excuse? I can't imagine what that would be. I have no reason at all to enter her suite."
"Well, Mel old friend, I think we can give you a reason. If we provide the thinking, and you provide the charm, the operation can't go wrong."
Now the alarm was blaring like a trumpet. Operation? What the hell was he talking about? Some military assault with grenades exploding? Mrs. Mahler at the point of a bayonet? I took a more discerning look at my hosts. Maybe the two of them were escaped lunatics.
I studied him over my glass. “I'm afraid you lost me."
"All will be explained,” Casper said mysteriously. “But maybe, before we go any further, I should ask if you have any use for a hundred thousand dollars."
They were mad. Complete nutters. I could see I would have to watch what I said to them if I wanted to get out of their suite alive.
Play along, I thought. Then make a dash for the door.
"Anybody could use that amount of money."
"Most anybody. But especially you, Melvin. Especially you. It would mean, if you played your cards right, that you wouldn't have to push prescription drugs on the street to keep body and soul together."
Another shock.
"I don't know what you mean,” I said.
"Come on, Mel. We're all friends here. You're not going to deny you met a woman at the Common this morning and clouted her three hundred capsules of Lorazepam?” I did begin to deny it, but he held up his hand. “Because if you are, I'll ask you to take a closer look at Miss Smith here. You won't mind that. She's easy on the eyes, wouldn't you agree? I want you to imagine her wearing sunglasses and with a scarf tied around her head. This scarf."
He held up a woman's head scarf that was blue with a clashing yellow print.
I swallowed. I felt a little queasy. My eyes darted to Miss Smith's face, to the scarf, and back again. Yes. There was no doubt about it. She was the woman who had phoned me that morning, arranged to meet me in the park, and bought three bottles of floaters for sixty bucks a jar. And I had not re
cognized her until now.
I began feeling tiny tremors of uneasiness stirring in my gut.
"Look,” I said, “if you're trying to get me into some sort of trouble, I'll deny everything."
"You'll deny selling Miss Smith the pills?"
"I can't agree with something that didn't happen. It'll be your word against mine."
"Not quite."
Looking smug, he stood up, walked over to the minibar, and lifted a blue and white sports bag off the webbed luggage rack beside it. He reached into the bag, grinning like an alligator, and brought out a tiny digital camera. It was small enough to conceal easily, but I could see that it had a powerful zoom lens attached.
"Melvin,” the ghost said, “I have a confession to make. When you made that sale to Miss Smith, I wasn't far away. This camera recorded your every movement. It even managed to pick up your voice. I don't suppose I have to tell you what'll happen if we make a gift of this to the cops. And after they've had a good look at it, we could recommend that they take a peek inside that little storage closet you have downstairs. According to what we've learned about you, you'd be going down for the third time, my friend, and I don't know how long it would be before you were out of jail and plinking out tunes in a cozy bar again."
First the carrot, then the stick.
A cold chill gripped me. I sat there giving nothing away, I hoped, but a clammy feeling slowly seeped through my body. They had me. I was at their mercy. They had set their line for me, hooked me, reeled me in, and were about to cook me. A sudden anger swept the chill away. Here I had been posturing like a fool, and all the time they had been manipulating me like a marionette at the end of a string. I could have strangled the pair of them.
Plinking! He had actually said plinking!
All I was left with was the questionable satisfaction of telling Dr. Keene that my worst fears had been justified. People were out to get me! And they'd succeeded!
"Come over here and sit at the dinette suite, Melvin, and we'll give you a little rundown on what we have in mind."
* * * *
In the tiny ell of the galley kitchen, there was a corner chair from which there was no escape. That was of course where they seated me. I was feeling more and more like a fly in a web, my anxiety building by the minute. I could sense one of my panic attacks coming on. And why not? I was trapped both physically and figuratively. There was the alleged video and voice recording, and the implied threat of police involvement. And now this tiny kitchen with my two captors hemming me in. I wanted to throw over the table and make a dash for it but I knew I wouldn't make it to the door. Casper was one of those athletic brutes who could knock a man down with one punch.
It was all I could do to keep a hold on myself.
"Here's how it is,” the not-so-friendly-after-all ghost said to me. “Here's where we lay it all out. We're going to give you a few details of the operation, and after that you're going to make a decision. One hundred grand in your pocket—or the slam. You decide. I think I know which one I would choose.” He turned to Miss Smith. “Tell him, hon, about Mrs. Mahler. Give him all the gory details."
Miss Smith delicately cleared her throat.
"We learned something about her in Montreal, Melvin, a long way from here.” You see how condescending they were? As well as threatening, they had to be insulting. “We came to know a woman there—never mind how—who started us thinking about this. We were at an exhibition, admiring the paintings, when she said she had once worked for a wealthy couple who were great patrons of the arts. Especially the husband. He had acquired paintings of considerable value and didn't lock them away but hung them on his walls so that he could enjoy them. She meant, of course, Mr. Mahler. We asked her what paintings he owned in particular, but she didn't know. She said, ‘A picture's a picture.’ Can you believe it?"
The fact of the matter was, I could believe it. I've never understood why so many people coo and gurgle over smudges of paint. I've never seen a painting yet that looked more polished or lifelike than a magazine advertisement—and those are worth nothing; they get thrown in the trash every day. So what's the big deal? I know there are people who pay fortunes for paintings, but look, those people have got to be idiots. That's pretty obvious as far as I'm concerned.
"So we went looking for her old employer—Mrs. Mahler, that is—the old boy dropped dead some time ago—and were able to trace her to this hotel. What we've discovered, however, is that she's become something of a recluse. She doesn't respond to phone calls or knocks on her door. She won't talk to people in the hall. And so, Melvin, that's where you come in."
"Me?” I said miserably. “How?"
"Oh, don't be so mopey. Smile, for heaven's sake. You're going to do well out of this."
"What we want you to do,” the not-so-friendly ghost broke in, “is talk your way into the old doll's apartment. Once you're in, take a good look around, and come back with a full report on the paintings she has on her walls. You have to be able to describe them to us in detail. With the names of the artists, too, if you can manage that, although we know sometimes those are hard to read."
"But I can't get in there."
"Sure you can. She knows you."
"You said it yourself. She's a recluse. She won't let anybody get anywhere near her."
"Ah, but you have a secret weapon,” Miss Smith said.
"What secret weapon is that?"
"Your charm, Melvin. Your delightful charm."
I wasn't impressed by her flattery. “I don't think charm will be enough."
"Maybe not, Mel,” said Casper. “That occurred to us too. For that reason there's a second part to our plan. Another level.” I didn't like the sound of that. Not one bit. He seemed to be saying it was my plan too. When we were all arrested, which I feared was inevitable if I were forced to associate with mad people, I didn't want there to be the slightest suggestion that I'd conspired with these two lunatics. “Here's how we'll play it. We know Mrs. Mahler takes a cab to the museum every weekday afternoon. She has lunch in the restaurant on the mezzanine and browses through a program. She views the latest exhibits, returns to the mezzanine for a cup of tea and a Danish, then comes home. She's as regular as clockwork."
"So don't tell me,” I said. “Let me guess. After I've ‘charmed’ my way into her apartment and reported back to you on what she has, you're going to break into her suite while she's out, steal her best paintings, and be miles away before she's done with her Danish. Is that it?"
The not-so-friendly ghost and Miss Smith both smiled. They exchanged glances as if to share their amusement. The ghost shrugged. As it turned out I didn't read enough into that shrug. Miss Smith said:
"No, Melvin, that is not it. We wouldn't need you if that were the case. We could simply break in without help from you, and if there are valuable paintings, remove them ourselves. In fact, that would be our preferred plan. But we've learned from the chambermaid that Mrs. Mahler has installed at her own expense a very sophisticated and sensitive alarm system. We don't think we can defeat it."
"Well, what then?” I was growing irritated.
"We may also need the code to deactivate the alarm."
I stared at them, bug eyed. “And you expect me to get it?"
She smiled and nodded.
"But I've already told you there's no way she'll let me into the place!"
"We think there is,” Casper said. “It's quite simple. All you have to do is to become her hero."
"What?"
"You're going to save Mrs. Mahler from being mugged. The attempted mugging will take place as she is returning from the museum. It'll happen right outside her apartment. You'll be coming along the corridor just then; you'll rush to her defense and drive the mugger off."
The scenario was becoming more fantastic by the minute.
"What mugger?"
"Me."
"You?"
"Why not? You'll earn her undying gratitude. She'll invite you in. You'll watch to see where and how
she shuts off the alarm, and you'll show a tremendous interest in her paintings.” He winked. “Like any collector, she'll be tickled to show them off."
I forced a miserable smile. “Really. We're back to relying on my so-called charm, then. Suppose she simply thanks me, goes into her suite, and shuts the door. Have you thought of that?"
"Actually we have. We've allowed for it."
"I was afraid of that."
"We've decided you have to be injured in the mugging. It would be best if your face was streaming blood."
* * * *
I don't have to tell you how this news affected me. I have no stomach for blood. Especially my own. I was even more concerned when I considered the many ways they might go about making me bleed. A punch in the nose maybe? A split lip? A belt in the head with something hard and heavy?
That's when I gave in to my impulses and suddenly tried to clamber past Miss Smith. Casper jumped up, grabbed me roughly by the neck, slapped me, and hurled me back in my chair. I cringed away from him, expecting him to have a little practice at making me bleed right there and then.
"Melvin,” Miss Smith said, placing her hand on my arm, “relax. It will be stage blood, not your own."
So that was how I found myself lurking in the stairwell on Mrs. Mahler's floor the following day. What would happen, I wondered, if I rushed down the stairs at that moment, collected my equipment, shoved it into a cab, and sped away from this insane asylum? Well, for a start I would lose my job. On top of that I'd find myself explaining to the police just what that video of me was all about. As for the hundred grand, I scarcely considered that. I couldn't imagine any painting so valuable that it would provide me with such a commission, and if there really was a painting that valuable I doubted the ghost would actually share the take with me.
The carrot wasn't working. But the stick certainly was.
I looked at my watch. It was three forty-five. Any moment now the elevator doors would roll back and Mrs. Mahler would emerge and start for her door. Then what? I shuddered at the thought of Casper's plan degenerating into a Keystone Kops routine. The entire hotel erupting like a stirred-up ant's nest, hotel guests surging out of their rooms, police cars howling into the courtyard, and me, as usual, caught in the middle of things. The story of my life.
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