She seemed satisfied nothing was going to swoop in and grab her, so she closed the Mercedes door and walked in the front door of the hotel. I counted thirty Mississippis after the doors closed behind her before heading for them myself. My thinking was she was probably already down the mouse maze hallways of the hotel to a room or she was at the front desk checking in. If at the desk, I’d walk with feigned purpose past her, try to pick up a little conversation or just see what I could learn.
I strutted in and heard my Doc Marten heels click off the tiles of the hotel foyer then quiet down as I hit the carpet of the lobby. The desk clerk didn’t look up. Mrs. Weston was nowhere in sight. I made for the rooms, but when I got there the halls split off into three wings. I looked down each. Except for a five-foot tall Mexican lady bumping her five-foot tall cleaning cart into the wall, I didn’t see anyone. I gave thought to excavating my high school Spanish and trying it out on the maid to get some intel, but saw nothing but all kinds of bad in digging up that.
I heard a chorus of obnoxious laughs come from the bar. Thinking there was a chance Mrs. Weston had ducked in there, I turned on my heels and headed for the noise. The laughter came from a chorus of five early to middle, middle-aged dudes. Either some kind of salesmen or lawyers on their third round of a cheap draft tanking themselves up after a hard day of working under fluorescent lights before they headed home. Surrounding them were duets and solos at tables and the bar. The hotel had the place too dark, but I made it to the end stool and signaled the bartender.
I glanced around the room. About half the tables were full. Not bad for a hotel at seven fifteen in the p.m. on a weeknight.
The bartender came up.
“Margarita?” he asked. “It’s our Margarita fiesta tonight.”
“Margarita fiesta? Is that your line?”
“No. Corporate makes me say it.”
“What do you put in a Margarita that’s being fiesta’d.”
He stumbled then stammered. “Ahh, some tequila, this triple sec and some of their mix.”
I wasn’t sure if I should worry more that he pronounced it triple sex or the use of sour mix.
“Mix?”
“Yeah,” he held up a bottle of some neon colored slosh.
“Could you make me one with a lime instead of the sour mix?”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
I rolled my eyes.
“They just showed me how to make this. It all comes down from corporate.”
“You got a lime back there?”
He nodded.
“Bring it here,” I said. “And the tequila and the triple sec.” I landed hard on that last ‘c’ hoping he’d hear it.
He did.
“I have a hard time remembering recipes,” he said.
“Then you’re in the wrong business, my friend. But here’s how you remember how to make a Margarita. A real Margarita.”
“It was named for a dancer called Marjorie who liked to drink but could only stomach tequila. Bourbon, rye, gin all made her sick. Something about the agave made the tequila A-Okay in her tummy. She’d picked up the habit in Tijuana, but back then in NYC no one knew what to do with the stuff.
One day her lover, a bartender at the club she was working at, saw her on the stage dancing and she looked parched. Her beauty and thirst inspired him. He poured a jigger of her favorite Tequila in a shaker. He loved the green puebla dress she was wearing so he added green to the shaker by squeezing in half a lime. He thought of her sweet kisses and poured in a pony of almost as sweet triple sec. He then shook the concoction like she was shaking her body on the stage.”
I popped the top on the Boston shaker and gave the concoction a good turn.
“Finally,” I said. “Since she was his angel, he rimmed a glass with a halo of salt.”
The hotel bartender did the final bit for me and I poured the mixture into the glass
“Go ahead and taste it,” I said.
He did. “Good,” he said with a smile.
“Now start making those.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Corporate would have my head. I think they own part of the sour mix company.”
“Is that the way you want to live.”
“I’m just here to pay the bills.”
“Aren’t we all.”
“Mix me a gin and tonic, then. You can handle that, right? It’s gin followed by tonic.”
This time his eyes rolled at me.
I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Weston floating into the bar. I followed her in the bar’s mirror as she made herself over to the far corner. She sat down with a guy I hadn’t noticed before. He was about my age. There was a reason I hadn’t noticed him. He was a bit of a frump. A jock chops twelve dollar haircut and wrinkled dockers with a golf shirt with a corporate logo over the left breast. His gut wasn’t as big as her husband’s, but showed more in the off-the-rack clothes. I guess, depending on your standards, he’d be called good looking.
The talk in the bar kept me from hearing, but within a few minutes her hand was on his. She leaned in to laugh at something funny he said, the way women lean in to laugh at something funny men say when it’s not as funny as the men think, but the women want to make the man feel good.
Looks like Mr. Weston wasn’t being paranoid, I thought. Bing, bing, bing. Odds are now at one-hundred percent.
They talked for about an hour while I nursed my G&T that was too much T for the amount of G poured. The ratio probably came down from corporate. I was waiting for the vow breaker to move the show upstairs so I could head home. This guy didn’t look like much, but if he got an older, monied, married woman into a hotel bar, he should have the skills to get her into a hotel room.
They finally got up and I saw Mrs. Weston lay down a twenty on the table. I saw them clear the bar door, but instead of heading up to the rooms they headed toward the lobby. I laid down a tenner and followed them out. I put on a bit of a slouch as if my liver was processing three G&Ts and not half of the watered down one I’d sipped at.
As I looked out of the corner of my eyes I saw them kiss lightly on the lips, he palmed her ass softly as they made it through the double doors, then they each went separate ways in the parking lot. I stood at the big window in the lobby and saw her climb into her Mercedes and drive away. I saw him do the same a few minutes later. He was driving a mid-sized Chevy.
What had I really seen? Not much. An affair? Maybe. If a married woman giving a fella a kiss and playing a bit of grab ass was an affair, then I’d played the third part in plenty of affairs. It gave married chicks an innocent thrill that wasn’t actionable in divorce court.
Home I went.
Kendra had only taken up residence for a couple of months but my place already felt empty without her in it. I tossed off my clothes, draping my suit across the bedroom chair and clicked on my TV then I flipped it off. I didn’t feel like going out. I didn’t feel like mixing a drink. I didn’t feel like watching TV. My brain decided for me. I slept.
I woke at eight in the a.m. and sometime during the night Mr. Weston had texted me his missus’ schedule. She said she was doing lunch at the country club today then running errands and heading to a new exhibit opening at a hole-in-the-wall gallery in their neighborhood. Such is the life of a Mariemont matron. I figured she wasn’t tom-catting around her home base, so I claimed my night for myself and planned on heading back out to stalk her on the way to lunch at her club.
I called the office and told Mrs. Johnson I wouldn’t be in. ‘Client service,’ I said and she understood. I pocketed a hunk of Silverglades brie and stopped by Shadeau for a fresh loaf. That’d be my lunch in case I got stuck somewhere. I parked outside the Weston manse again and followed her Mercedes again and we headed right back to the city. No country clubs today. She parked in the lot under Fountain Square and I did the same, keeping my distance. I thought I was doing okay at playing detective.
I saw her slip into a sports bar and I did
my thirty Mississippi count and followed her in. I spotted her against the far corner and took a seat at the bar. TVs were blaring everywhere. Every possible sport was flickering off the fifty vodka bottles behind the bar. I’m not a religious man, but I do hold one article of faith: Vodka is swill. It’s good as a cleaner—to get sticky labels off of things, for example, but as a beverage it’s the worst spirit possible. A good vodka has no color, no taste and no flavor. It’s an inert chemical compound. A few ounces of plain C2H6O. It doesn’t make a drink taste better, smell nicer or look prettier. It only offers the buzz, the drunk. It’s the preferred spirit of twinkie twentysomething girls and men who turned the odometer to twenty-one in the early 1990s when the vodka distillers were really pouring on the advertising budgets. After that marketing splurge wore off, the makers had to flavor the stuff with everything from kiwi to bubblegum to keep people interested. The only acceptable infused vodka flavor is juniper and that’s called gin.
I ordered a beer. Nothing fancy. One of the St. Louis national, mega-brand, sex-in-a-canoe American standbys that’s at every football game. I don’t drink beer usually, but I don’t trust bars with that many vodkas. It shows a dimwittedness.
They were an odd pair reflected back at me in the bar mirror again. Mrs. Weston’s scarf cost more than everything her paramour was wearing. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman, but she could do better than this chump. I nursed my beer and watch the Reds rally against the Cards and caught glances backward through the looking glass. After an inning, they’d moved closer together. I watched his head lift up then pause, he scanned the bar then gave her left breast a squeeze. She slapped his hand away but giggled and leaned the breast in closer to him.
Maybe he was more charming than he appeared, I thought.
They chatted and flirted and he didn’t get much grabbier than that. They were definitely into each other. By the seventh inning stretch, he had three empties lined up and was working on his fourth. She was still nursing the original highball that she’d ordered. I’d matched him beer for beer, so headed to the bathroom before the Reds came up to bat.
When I got back they were gone. His four beers still stood where he left them and the ice had long ago melted in her glass. I saw cash laid on the table. I threw down my own twenty on the bar and stepped outside, but they were nowhere to be seen. I did a walk around the block and came up with nothing. I headed back to my car and glanced over to where her’s was at. It was gone. With him? I had no idea.
I didn’t hear from Mr. Weston for two days then on Friday morning he texted: ‘She said she’s going to a museum reception downtown tonight. I’m out of town on business. Any news yet?’
I texted back: ‘I told you to give me a week.’
He texted back: ‘K.’
I didn’t feel like sitting in a car in front of her house again to see where she might go. She’d lied the prior two times, but I googled around and did find a reception on Friday at the Contemporary Arts Center. A bit more googling and I came across her name as a Silver Sponsor. I bet she’d be there. I bought myself a fifty dollar ticket to the soiree then closed the browser and spotted a shortcut on my desktop to a woman’s shoe store. Kendra had been using my computer.
I hadn’t heard from Kendra in Boston. It wasn’t said, but something told me to give her her space. Or was it the other way around? Was I to show how nuts I was without her? Was I supposed to text twenty messages a day and call to whisper goodnight. I followed her lead and maintained radio silence.
Friday evening came and I did Beau Brummell proud in my best black suit, gold cuff links and a silk tie in a half Windsor knot. I shod myself in high shine wingtips.
I gave thought to a cab, but it was a nice night and the museum is only twelve blocks away. I hit the sidewalk and realized it was one of those warm summer nights where the whole city becomes a neighborhood block party. Whites and blacks meet each others eyes and maybe even say hello. Everyone laughs a little louder and judges a little less. Parents let their kids run around being silly and the hipsters and childless middle-aged people don’t mind as much. As the night goes on women’s skirts get shorter and men’s stares get longer. Long time couples out for the night with other long time couples switch dance partners and let their hands roam wider than before. Singles stay out later than usual and imbibe more than normal and those that didn’t pair off all crash together into a late night eatery. Either the Pepper Pod in Newport, or Shanghai Mama’s on Sixth, or Lucy Blues on Walnut, or the Camp Washington chili parlor.
I loved these nights.
I rounded onto Sixth and spied the front door of the museum. Mrs. Weston was leaving. She had purpose in her walk with her purse slung across her shoulder. I pocketed my fifty dollar ticket I’d just pulled out and shadowed her. She only went a block over and a block down. A doorman at the Netherland Hotel pulled open a large, gold door and she walked through without so much as a look at him. I paused, counted my Mississippis and entered behind her compensating the door man with a smile and thanks.
At the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the lobby, I looked and saw Mrs. Weston’s mature yet alluring caboose hook a right into Orchids, the hotel’s bar. I took my time on the steps. I looked over at the front desk and her beau looked to be next in line checking in. I walked into Orchid’s and climbed up on a stool. Their oval shaped bar sat in the middle of the room. My stool was opposite where Mrs. Weston took her seat at a small banquette. I could see her through bottles and upside down hanging glassware. The boyfriend entered and stood at the table next to her. He shook the little, plastic key card at her as if to say ‘I got it.’ She smiled at him with what I took to be condescension and gestured for him to sit. He obeyed.
I hadn’t been in this bar in a long time. It’s like most downtown hotel bars. It’s full of out-of-towners. On weekdays, it’s businessman numbing the pain of a lost deal or celebrating the day’s sale. On weekends, it’s full of wedding parties or anniversary parties or high school reunions. Not my kind of place.
The barman came over to me and I asked for a Manhattan. Up. He smiled and asked what kind of bourbon I preferred.
“I don’t. Rye. Bulleit if you got it.”
He smiled a knowing smile and I could have kissed him when I saw him pull the vermouth out of the cooler. Unchilled vermouth is musky vermouth—at least after a few days. It never makes a good Manhattan. He mixed with care and I sipped with appreciation and noted to myself to tip big.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. It was Mr. Carmichael.
“Mr. Carmichael.”
“Hello Mr. Gibb, I’ll still be gone next week.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks for taking care of Mrs. Swanson. That issue with Mr. Weston and his wife? That’s not our kind of work.”
“I’ve been working it.”
“Good instinct for client service, but I’m not comfortable with it.”
“I’m working it now. It’s kinda all wrapped up. If I don’t tell him what I know, how will that look?”
“Ah.”
“What should I do?”
“Exercise your best judgment. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
As I hung up, I thought I caught Mrs. Weston looking me dead in the eye. I didn’t think much of it. Maybe she just liked my look. Her beau stood and held his hand out. She took it and used it to bring herself out from behind the table. She arranged a blue silk scarf around her shoulders and picked up her bag.
She whispered something to him, he smiled and they kissed. I glimpsed her tongue quickly dart into his mouth then withdraw. He smiled more. She patted him on the shoulder and he left. She turned and laid down some cash on the table then began to follow him
I kept my gaze forward not wanting to make eye contact again. I was counting my Mississippis before I turned to confirm they were heading upstairs.
Then I felt someone too close.
“You’ve been drinking alone in three bars this week,” Mrs. Weston said. �
��Maybe you should give your liver a break.”
I turned. Up close she was radiant. Quite beautiful actually. Maybe the radiance was love, I thought. Maybe it was the drinks. Or maybe she was just horny. There was no escaping that she knew I was following her. I’m a bad gumshoe.
I motioned for her to take the seat next to mine. She did.
“My husband put you up to it.”
I nodded.
“A private detective?”
“An investment advisor. Jake Gibb. I work for Prescott Carmichael.”
“I didn’t know Mr. Carmichael worked sleazy like this.”
“He doesn’t. He was out of town. It was my call. He just phoned me calling it off.”
“So when are you going to report back to my husband. I’d like to know what time my marriage is going to end.”
“I’ve not thought that through. Mr. Carmichael doesn’t like this business. I should just phone your husband and tell him that. If Mr. Carmichael phoned after that night you were supposed to be in a pottery class, I’d be fine, but now I know you are stepping out.”
“You think you know that.”
“You are.”
She smiled at me. It was a smile of wisdom.
“You married?”
I shook my head no and took a sip of my Manhattan.
“Thirty-five?”
“Thirty-six.”
She smiled again.
“Mr. Gibb, I was born a romantic forced to live a pragmatic life.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“No. Very few of us are true romantics. Maybe more of us were at one time, but half a million years of evolution made most of us pragmatists. We’re all about food and sex. Utility and survival. Of ourselves and our species. Romantic cavemen never got the cavegirl because they couldn’t feed or protect her as well as the pragmatic cavemen. My husband is very pragmatic. Pragmatism can be a very sexy thing. It makes a man a good provider and a protector. That he-man stuff can be pretty sexy to a girl of twenty-two. But after thirty years of grunts and knuckle dragging, it gets to be a bore, Mr. Gibb.”
“Your boy upstairs a romantic?”
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