Hotel Angeline

by Kathleen Alcalá

  Freedom.

  The door slammed behind her and she stopped for a moment to lean against the alley wall, her hands on her knees, to catch her breath. She could hardly breathe. Habib nudged her.

  “I know. I know. Just give me a second, would you?”

  She took one big gulp of air, blew it out, and then said, “OK. Ready.”

  But how was she going to get back to the Angeline? She was miles away in Pioneer Square, and the Angeline was up on Capitol Hill. Habib was making little noises and then he lifted off of her shoulder and flew away.

  “You go home,” she called after him. “I owe you big-time.”

  She ran down the alley, past a junkie nodding off in a back doorway, and past a couple of homeless people sleeping on top of cardboard boxes covered with black garbage bags. The world was a harsh place. She stopped, dug into her pocket, and came up with a dollar bill. Then, she ran back to set it down in front of the sleeping homeless people, placing a beer bottle on top so that it wouldn’t fly away. It wasn’t much, she knew. But she couldn’t just pass a homeless person without doing something.

  She’d reached the street, and it was empty. All the shops were closed, and the street was lit by only one dim streetlamp. She looked around. A coffee shop, the mission, the place where the bookstore used to be. The rug shop, the bread shop. And outside the bread shop, a pedicab. Just sitting there. She looked left and then right and then left again. No one. She thought for a moment. It would be very bad karma to steal somebody’s pedicab, but really what choice did she have in the matter? She’d bring it back as soon as possible, she really would, and she’d leave some money tucked in an envelope and taped to the bike when she returned it.

  She hopped aboard and began to pedal. It had been years since she was on a bike, but this was easy—really a glorified tricycle. Piece of cake. She cruised along in the middle of the street in the darkness. There was the Hammering Man at the art museum, still hammering away, with no one watching. And then she reached Pike and looked left at the Pike Place Market, where she had spent so many Saturdays, buying cherry candies and comic books and drinking coffee inside the Athenian restaurant. She hung a right and headed straight, past the Paramount Theatre and the convention center, where there seemed to be some sort of costume event going on. Adults in silly-looking superhero costumes were wandering the sidewalk. Comic-Con? She had no idea and she didn’t have time to find out. Outside of Gameworks, several packs of kids stood smoking and laughing and punching at one another. A few couples were making out in the doorway while others pretended not to notice. She rode on. Up the hill. Past the taverns and the shops and the coffee bars. Past the old REI, where there was now a huge bookstore, and then a left and one more block and finally . . . home.

  She didn’t realize how fast she’d been pedaling until she stopped, but now she felt her heart beating crazily. And her throat—it had dried out so that she found herself coughing and choking on the night air. She got off the pedicab and walked it around to the back of the hotel, where she could stash it in the darkness of the alley. Then she came around to the front of the house and stared up at it. So much trouble for one little piece of real estate. It almost didn’t seem worth it. And to think that maybe her mother had been planning to sell it all along. No, that was crazy talk. Why had Kenneth told her that anyway? She couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it. Her mother would never sell the Angeline, not if her life depended on it. The Angeline was her mother’s life, and now it was Alexis’s life. It didn’t matter what that stupid Kenneth said or what anybody thought or what anybody did. The Angeline was hers now, and she would make the decisions about it. She would save the hotel. And if she wasn’t saving it for her mother, or for LJ, like she thought she’d been doing before, well, then, she’d save it for herself, and for the others who still lived there and who called it home. Life is for the living, she said to herself. And I’m staying here.

  She walked up the steps to the front door and opened it. The smell of the place—so familiar in its damp coolness—brought a smile to her face. It was all going to be worth it in the end, no matter how hard it was to do the right thing.

  “Hello?” she said softly.

  She didn’t want to wake anyone, but the residents of the building kept all kinds of crazy hours. Someone might be up.

  “That you, Alexis?”

  It was Mr. Kenji, sitting on the sofa and drinking tea, the violin by his side. Alexis realized that she had never heard another word from Mia on the subject of the concert. So Linda had been right—Mia was all talk. Well, Alexis would find another way.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” she said. “Hi, Mr. Kenji. Are you having a nice evening?”

  “Oh, fine, fine. And you, my dear?”

  “Well,” she said, “I’ve had better, but at least I’m home now.”

  “That’s right, little girl. You’re home. Now, come sit on down and have some tea. You look like you could use a drink.”

  Alexis sat down on the sofa while Mr. Kenji poured some tea into a tiny cup for her. He added a teaspoonful of sugar and a touch of milk.

  “It’s not the Japanese way,” he said. “But I kinda thought you’d like it better with a little cream and sugar.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Now, you just sit back and tell Mr. Kenji what’s going on. You look like you’ve been to hell and back. No offense or anything.”

  “No offense taken.”

  Alexis thought for a moment. She wanted more than anything to share her life story with someone, and Mr. Kenji seemed like he’d be the right person. But she stopped herself. It wasn’t fair to include anyone else. Besides, if she told him the truth about her mother, he would be like all the rest and want to call the authorities, and the next thing you know she’d be in a foster home, miserable and alone. She might not even be in Seattle anymore, and she certainly wouldn’t be able to see Ursula and Roberta and the rest. And she would never, ever let that happen.

  “What’s goin’ on down here?” a voice said. “Somebody having a tea party and didn’t invite old Ursula?”

  “Sit on down,” Mr. Kenji said as the older woman came into the room. “Take a load off that foot of yours.”

  Ursula sat down across from the two of them and Mr. Kenji poured her tea.

  “’Fore I forget,” she said as she sipped the tea. Then Ursula fell silent.

  “Yes?” Alexis said.

  “Hmm?”

  “You just said, ‘Before I forget . . .’”

  “Forget what?”

  “I don’t know. You were the one not forgetting it.”

  “Hmm. Well, can’t remember now. Tell me if you think of it.”

  “Sure thing, Ursula,” Alexis said. Who was going to take care of these people if not her? Who would have the patience to listen to Ursula’s crazy pirate stories or to watch while Mr. Kenji pruned his little trees, and who would watch Roberta’s python for her when she went to the grocery store?

  “I remembered,” Ursula said.

  “What?” Alexis said.

  “I remembered the thing I forgot.”

  “Great. What? What is it?”

  “Phone message.”

  “Phone message?”

  “For you. Some guy named . . . Clover? Clever? Cleon?”

  “Clovis?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Clovis called?”

  “Yes, yes he did. Clovis. He called.”

  “What did he say?”

  “No need to shout, young lady. I kin hear ya just fine.”

  Alexis sighed.

  “He said, hmm. Something about things not being right.”

  “What do you mean, things not being right?”

  “That’s what he said. Things don’t seem right, something about your mom and certificates and then he said something about the authorities.”

  “What authorities?”

  “Well, how should I know? I was simply taking the message. I’m no snoop, you know, like so
me people.” She looked meaningfully at Mr. Kenji.

  “Now, Ursula,” Mr. Kenji said. “For someone who can’t remember a thing, you sure have a long memory for the one time in my entire life that I read someone else’s postcard.”

  “Didn’t like it.”

  “I apologized.”

  “Don’t matter.”

  “I apologize again.”

  “Stop!” Alexis yelled. “God, you two! Ursula! Focus! What did he say about the authorities?”

  “I told you not to yell.”

  “Clovis,” Alexis said quietly.

  “He said . . . let me see, how did he put it? He said, ‘Tell that girl that something’s fishy in Denmark and I’m calling the authorities.’”

  “So he called them. Already. He called the authorities.”

  “I don’t know how many more times you want me to tell you.”

  “That’s fine. That’s good. I got it. Clovis called the authorities . . . shit . . . excuse my French.” Alexis stood.

  “Aren’t you going to finish your tea?” Mr. Kenji said.

  “Thank you, but no thank you,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. Good night.”

  “Good night, dear,” Mr. Kenji said.

  “Good riddance,” Ursula said. “I mean, good night, dear.”

  Alexis took the stairs very slowly. She had used up all of her energy getting home, thinking she’d be safe, but now everything was ruined. The authorities. They’d probably be there in the morning, if not in the next five minutes. First there were the cops asking about LJ. Then there was her uncle, wanting to buy the hotel, or the other way around. Then, there was Kenneth. And now Clovis. Could anything else go wrong?

  She didn’t let herself think about it, for surely the moment she did, something else would go wrong.

  She stood at the top of the stairs and rested a moment, one hand on the banister. There was nothing left to do. She didn’t know what she’d been thinking. There was no saving everything now. It was over. It was good and over and she’d lost and now she may as well just go to bed and wait for the men in blue to come and take her away. For good.

  She wished Linda would show up and crawl into bed with her and hold her all night long. There was no one to do that. She’d have to go to sleep by herself. Sleep and dream and in the morning it would all be over.

  She walked past her own bedroom and headed for LJ’s. She didn’t really know why. Maybe because she was pretty sure she would never get a chance to be in his room again. She opened his door and stepped in. The sound of a crow’s caw hit her ears.

  “Habib!” she said. “Came in through the window, did you? Hey, boy. You’re a good boy. A good, good boy.”

  The crow sat on her shoulder and nuzzled at her cheek, and the feel of the sweet creature brought tears to her eyes again. Habib had lost his owner. Alexis had lost her mother. They were both of them orphans. A pair of orphans with no one to talk to.

  “You wanna lie down with me, boy?” she said.

  She plunked herself down on LJ’s bed, the muscles in her body suddenly giving way. It felt as though she’d never be able to stand again, even if she wanted to. Habib hopped around the bed a bit and then settled himself down next to her. She set a hand on his warm body.

  “This is it, boy,” she said. “Our last night in this place. Thanks for being here with me. And thanks for saving me earlier tonight.”

  Habib poked at her shoulder with his beak and Alexis patted his head.

  “OK, good night then,” she said.

  She shut her eyes and thought of her mother, and a scene came back to her. A time when she was a little girl, sick in bed, coughing and unable to sleep. And in the middle of the night, her mother must have come and swept her up and carried her to her own bed, because that was where she awoke in the morning, in the arms of her mother, Edith’s soft breath against the nape of her neck. Safe and sound.

  She imagined that her mother was holding her now, and with that image in her mind she let sleep overtake her, the darkness wrapping her in its spell and dreams of crows and coffins spinning around her tired brain.

  CHAPTER 24

  ERIK LARSON

  THE DAY BROKE COLD AND wet, with a light drizzle, a typical bullshit fall day in Seattle. Dark. Probably the same latitude as Svalbard, for all she knew. Everywhere else in the world at that hour there was light, or so Alexis imagined. One thing was certain. Someday, somehow, she’d find a place with sun and a beach.

  It didn’t help that she’d spent a restless night. Crows. Coffins. LJ’s body arched against the tangerine blast. She needed a walk. She eased down the stairs and put on a sweater she found in the parlor—she didn’t know whose. Possibly Roberta’s, possibly Ursula’s. Roberta’s, she decided. It had just the faintest scent of dead mouse, Pluto’s favorite meal.

  Otto, God bless him, was asleep by the front door, back in uniform. Somewhere he’d found a pistol—old, boxy—which he cradled in his lap. She lifted it gently. The police would surely be back, and the last thing she needed now was to have Otto get hurt, too. She hid the gun under the radiator, then slipped outside.

  She walked. Large droplets of accumulated drizzle slipped from the giant red cedar at the corner and fell with a startling pop. She lengthened her stride and raised her face to the cold. So, OK, that was one thing about Seattle she liked—the tingly Christmassy feel.

  The coffee shop at the corner was just opening. She knew the owner—Mr. Mack—and knew that if she walked in now he’d offer her a coffee on the house, just for the company. She considered it, but kept walking, watching the walk below and pretending not to see Mr. Mack’s beckoning wave.

  She walked miles, it seemed. A slash of light across the eastern horizon suggested the day might not be so bleak after all. But then the smoldering remnants of a homeless person’s trash-can fire brought back to her the scent of burned wood and incinerated perfume.

  She stopped, turned, and headed back toward home. There was nothing for her here—not anymore. LJ was dead. Her father was dead, killed in some crazy spasm of revolutionary zeal. She didn’t even know his name. And her mother lay on a gurney in a crematorium on San Piedro Island. What Alexis needed now was for the crows to come back and just take her the hell away.

  As she neared the Angeline, she stopped. A car was parked in the red zone out front. Plain. A Ford. At first she thought it might be an unmarked police car, but she knew enough to look for the telltale antennae and the usual giveaway—the plain hubcaps that the cheapskate cops always selected. But this car didn’t fit the pattern. And yet it was too boring to be anyone’s personal car. Which meant it had to be a rental. A rental at nine a.m. in front of the Hotel Angeline.

  She walked slowly. The front door flew open and a tall, slender man stumbled down the front walk, followed by Otto, waving his pistol. Leave it to him to know to look under the damn radiator.

  The tall man turned and laughed. “Jesus Christ, old man, what in the hell—that’s a Walther, correct?”

  Otto stopped short. “How would you know?”

  The man shrugged. “One of those little things you pick up along the way. Nice weapon. Clean slide, medium pull. And it looks like you take good care of it.”

  Otto let the pistol drop to his side. “OK,” he said.

  “OK.”

  “OK. You can come inside.”

  The tall man walked up the steps and held out his hand. Otto shook it. Both men went inside. The door closed behind them.

  It was a small moment, but oddly powerful. Her eyes filled. Somehow it seemed to encapsulate all that had occurred. She was alone, outside the Hotel Angeline. It reminded her of the moment when she first closed the lid of the basement coffin, with her mother inside.

  The front door opened. Otto stepped out and waved to Alexis.

  She stopped and shook her head. Otto waved again, angrily. She pulled her sweater close and walked to the entrance.

  The tall man came outside and down the stairs. He smiled. Lots o
f teeth, but a nice smile. Sandy hair. Age hard to determine, but maybe in his forties. Possibly even fifties, but very fit. Brown eyes. He held out a hand. “You must be Alexis,” he said.

  No. I’m the fucking man in the moon, she wanted to scream. I’m the man in the moon, for all anyone cares.

  She nodded but did not take his hand. She took a closer look. He had a certain style, unusual in men that age. All the guys at the Angeline wore Costco jeans with the flabby butts and old, worn oxford shirts. This guy wore jeans with just the right wash, and a trim-looking shirt, untucked, and meant to be untucked. His jacket looked to be a mix of linen and silk. What most drew her attention were his shoes. Unless she was mistaken, these were Prada. She knew the look from the secondhand place, Take Two, on Fifteenth where she always shopped. Only these were cobalt blue. Alligator, or something like it. Was everyone in the world rich except her? Uncle Burr and his fucking steaks, and Linda’s dad? And now this guy with the smile.

  “Otto was just telling me about our mutual friend,” he said.

  She didn’t understand at first.

  The man smiled again. Not such a nice smile this time. Speculative, as if gauging how she would respond. “I think you knew him as LJ. I knew him as Lynn. Lucky Lynn—that’s how everyone knew him.”

  “He’s not our ‘mutual friend,’” she said.

  “All right, then, your friend, my—interest?”

  “You are a cop.” She stepped away.

  “Look, let’s start over. Let me say first that I’m sorry for your loss. But can I also say that LJ was not exactly a harmless guy. You know that, don’t you?”

  She glared, then turned and began to walk.

  “I knew Dr. Ramos as well.”

  The name meant nothing to her.

  “Dr. Ricardo S. Ramos. Good-looking guy. Funny. Passionate. I wrote about him once a long time ago. And Mr. Lynn Johnson Robinson. The Seattle Seven was quite a big deal not so long ago. If not for that Patty Hearst thing, the Sea-Seven, as we knew them, would have been right up there with the Snick.”

  “Snick?”

  “S-N-C-C—Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee.”