Tony’s rommates stood in the hall watching as she kicked the bent-in aluminum pail set on small wooden rollers. They squeaked over the rough cement floor. Everything about the interior of the dungeon was ugly. The hall walls consisted of naked sheet rock spotted with graffitti in foreign languages, blotchy streaks of dirt, stains from spoiled food and wine, even heel stains resulting from kicks of anger and frustration. Margret turned back and gave Tony’s jeering roommates the finger. Then she pushed open the door of their room. The stench drove her back against the wall.
Never in all her twenty years as a chambermaid had she seen anything like it. Towels, spotted with vomit and excrement, the linen and blankets overflowing with it, and smelly crumpled drippings along the walls. Her stomach turned and she thought she, herself, would heave. When she looked back inside, she saw roaches crawling across the floor, feeding off the blotched linoleum.
She considered forgetting the whole thing. Then she thought about the money. She could do it quickly. She would do it quickly. Pushing the pail further inside, she hurried through the door and began to gather up the soiled towels, holding her breath and cursing as she worked.
“Son of a bitch,” Manny Goldberg said, pounding on the top of his steering wheel. “I gotta drive outta New York, fight the fucking traffic all the way, just to get to the front of this hotel and wait bumper to bumper to get in.” He rolled his window further down and stuck out his head. “Move your ass,” he screamed.
“Manny, for godsakes, calm down,” his wife said, poking him in the ribs for emphasis.
“For the prices they charge around here, the least they can do is give some service.”
“Which doesn’t mean you have to act like an idiot.” Flo turned the rear view mirror toward her face to check out her new permanent wave. The ride up had been hard on everything, her hair, her makeup and especially their tempers.
“Will you please leave that mirror alone? I’ve told you a million times not to twist it like that. Whenever I have to check out the rear, you have it so out of place I can’t see a damn thing behind me.”
“It’s your own fault. I’ve asked you a hundred times to put a vanity mirror behind the sun visor.”
“This is a car, dammit, not a ladies’ room.” He sat back and manipulated a thick Monte Cristo from his shirt pocket. Though not exactly a short man, he was a good twenty-five pounds overweight, far from the sex symbol he imagined himself to be. His cheeks were bloated and the sweat had already accumulated under his armpits and around the confines of his collar. He stuck the cigar lasciviously in his mouth, chomping off the end in the process. Flo turned away in revulsion.
They were not unlike many other couples who frequented the Catskills, each indulging in extramarital affairs and pretending the other didn’t know. He had married into her father’s garment business and, along with his brother-in-law, had eventually taken over. Now he was trying to explain to Flo that it might soon be all his.
“Why,” she asked,” “would Mike want to sell out his share, especially now when the business is doing so well?”
“I told you. He’s heavily in debt and he needs money fast. He’s desperate for someone to bail him out so, if in return for his stock I can get him the cash he needs by Tuesday morning. …”
He exhaled a mouthful of smoke in her direction. It amazed her to realize how much she had once been attracted to him. He was a raw animal in those days, an animal she could never get enough of. But lately, the base sensuality was beginning to border on brutality. Both in and out of bed, she found herself growing more and more afraid of him.
She sorely needed a respite from their day-to-day life together. Thank God for places like the Congress!
“I don’t understand,” Manny said, finally pulling up to the security booth, “why you shmucks can’t figure out another system. It’s like the Long Island Expressway here on a Friday afternoon.”
“I need your name, sir,” the guard said, impervious to the insult.
“Shit! No, I mean Goldberg. Like in Manny Goldberg.”
The guard checked his list. “Of course, Mr. Goldberg. We’ve been expecting you. Just follow those cars to your right.” He pointed as he spoke.
“You think this is my first time here? Save your breath for the suckers behind me.”
“Can’t you be a little more gracious?” Flo suggested. “The man’s only doing his job. Someday you might appreciate their security system.”
“The only thing I’ll appreciate now is a cool Tom Collins.”
“You’re not going straight to the bar, are you?”
“Look,” Manny said, pulling up to the front entrance, “this is a vacation, remember? We’re supposed to have a good time and right now, for me a good time means getting a drink.”
“The luggage’s in the trunk,” he said, handing the keys to the carhop. “I’ll be back before you get your room key.” He left her steaming and went on his way.
Flo slipped out of her seat carefully and pressed down the sides of her dress. Then she began to look over the young bellhops.
“Right this way, ma’am,” the kid with her luggage said. She followed him through the main entrance. Manny was already out of sight. “I’ll just leave your stuff here on the side until you get your room assignment. My name’s Jack and I’ll be here whenever you need me.”
That’s good to know, she thought. It may be sooner than he thinks. “Oh,” she said, spotting the hotel’s security chief near the reservations desk. “There’s Rafferty. Rafferty,” she shouted above the crowd, “It’s me, Flo Goldberg.”
Vince Rafferty excused himself and started across the lobby. The tall ex-New York City cop had recognized her immediately. He couldn’t help remembering the last time in the Robin’s Nest cottage three years ago.
“You’re my first Irishman,” she had told him. “And to think I thought the Irish only had freckles on their face.” She had done things to him he thought Jewish women never did and he’d looked forward to an encore the next time she came up, but that time she chose a Greek bartender instead. Well, maybe this year, he thought, though he had also heard last time around that she had taken a shine to Billy Marcus, the young bellhop from Penn State. He wondered. Was he getting too old?
“Hi, Flo,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Where’s your number one?”
“In the bar as usual, fortifying himself. Raff, I think I’m going to need your service.” She looked at him in such a way he wasn’t sure whether there was a double entendre in her choice of words or not.
“I brought a lot of jewelry up this time. We made a killing on the stock market.” Rafferty nodded, saddened that there was no entendre at all.
“You want a safe deposit box, then?”
“I think it’s a good idea, don’t you? I know you’ve never had trouble here with stealing, but I guess one can never be too careful.”
“And you probably brought up more than you can wear.”
“You’ve been around here too long. You’re beginning to sound more and more like my husband. Tell me,” her voice softened, “how’ve you been, really?”
“No complaints. Getting older day by day but so far no ladies have checked out on my account.” The buttons of his shirt strained as his shoulders stretched the garment. Flo let her eyes fall quickly, then slowly rise again.
“I’ll bet.”
“Why bet? Find out for yourself?”
“I just might do that. Take care of my valuables for me?”
“Anytime,” he said. “C’mon, I’ll get you on the express line.”
∗ ∗ ∗
“The first thing I’ve got to do once we get to the room is shower. I’m all icky from the trip. Look how my clothes are sticking to me.” Melinda practically stepped on the bellhop’s foot as she pulled the V-neck portion of her blouse further out and blew air down her cleavage. Grant lingered behind until they got to the elevator, at which point he caught up quickly and sulked in the far corner. He had his hand
s in his pockets and glared angrily at the floor. He knew exactly what the bellhop was thinking. From now on, whenever they’d walk through the lobby, there’d be looks and remarks and his mother would smile stupidly and wiggle her ass.
“Yeah, it’s a hot Fourth,” the bellhop said, as she rubbed against him not altogether ingenuously in the crowded elevator. Grant squeezed his fingers tight against his palms. The elevator ride was gratefully short and they followed the boy to their suite.
“Just put those suitcases on the rack, sweetie,” she told him, pointing toward the open double closet to her left. It was a gigantic walk-in model, almost as large as the bedrooms in some of the newer high-rise luxury apartments in Manhattan. The bellhop moved slowly, enjoying the way she moved around to open the drapes and inspect the furnishings in her room and Grant’s. Her tight red skirt clearly outlined the well-shaped behind and the way she wiggled it left little to the imagination. Nonchalantly, she unbuttoned a button on her blouse.
“Don’t you just feel like walking barefoot on these rugs?” she said as she shook off her heels. The thick brown nylon pile carpet would be good for more than wading in without shoes, it occurred to her. Her eyes moved critically over the large antique end tables and dressers covered with Carrara marble. Whoever had decorated the room had exquisite taste, she was glad to see. The powers that be at the Plaza and Waldorf could certainly learn something from the Congress.
She walked around to the queen-size bed, wondering if she could possibly get away with stealing the elegant comforter for her bedroom at home. Her hands rubbed sensually over the rich brass headboard. Without giving it a thought, and much to Grant’s embarrassment, she began to bounce up and down on the mattress, letting her skirt rise well above her knees. “Not like those roadside motel numbers,” she said, giving it the Melinda Kaplan seal of approval. “Not that I really know,” she giggled. She fluttered her eyes coyly at the bellhop who she knew was enjoying every minute.
Her jumping had caused another button to become undone on her purple shantung blouse. With her bra nearly exposed, she went for her purse. She hesitated a moment, catching her own image in the wide mirror above the small vanity table to her right. “God, I really do need a shower!”
“Here you go,” she said, holding two dollars out with her hand while the other brushed imaginary lint from his shoulder.
If only they were alone. “Thank you,” he said, pocketing the bills, at which point she turned, unbuttoned what was left of her blouse, and headed for the bathroom. Before she could close the door, he saw the remaining clothes peel off her body and drop to the floor. When he stepped out in the hall, he leaned against the corridor and prayed his hard-on would disappear as fast as it came. Room 1465. He made a mental note. He’d have to figure out a way to get back at some point when that gawky kid was out of the way.
Grant didn’t move from the couch the whole time she showered. He stared up at the pale white ceiling and tried to understand why it annoyed him so that she was so damned attractive. Sometimes he wished she’d cut her face with glass and get a terrible scar. Even his father admitted she was still beautiful. “One thing I’ve got to say for her, Grant, is that she keeps her figure 100 percent. She’s some piece of ass, your mother is.”
How he hated that expression and how many times he had heard it … especially from the fellows at school when they thought he couldn’t hear. “Boy, is Grant’s mother a piece of ass. What I wouldn’t do to get into that!” What was he supposed to do? Donate her to the charity auction they held every year? It was his mother they were talking about, for Christ’s sake, his mother. Didn’t anybody understand?
It never occurred to him he might be jealous.
“Are you still on that couch, Grant?” She stepped out of the bathroom, an oversized terry cloth towel wrapped around her body and a smaller one around her head.
“What else is there to do?”
“Oh, God, don’t start that the moment we arrive. Put on your bathing suit and go down to the pool. Maybe you’ll meet some kids your own age. There’s got to be lots of teenage girls up here this weekend.”
“I don’t feel like swimming.”
“Look Grant,” now she was getting serious, “all I’m asking you to do is to give it a chance. Get involved in something. You don’t have to fall in love with the place, but there has to be something, someone you’d like. And you’ll never find out if you just mope around the room.” Besides, she thought to herself, I’ll never have any privacy if you’re always hanging around.
He got up and walked to the window. They were very high up so the view was encompassing. He could see the main highways in the distance, heavy with traffic now. The cars moved like insects. He wished he had the power to step on them and squash them into the macadam. And the people walking around the grounds below, they looked more like mechanical wind-up robots than human beings to him.
As he stood gazing down, he was struck by the sheer immensity, of the place. To think that he, Grant Kaplan, would be able to do anything significant to damage it was ridiculous. He was outnumbered, outsized and outclassed. It depressed him to have his fantasy deflated.
Melinda was still chattering away, repeating her now too familiar speech about his not being a loner, mixing with others, developing relationships, etc. He imagined a small long-playing record in her head. She just pressed the button and on it went. She could do lots of other things at the same time because the record ran itself. He was sure, for instance, that even now while she was talking to him, her mind was on other things. He was afraid to think about what.
When he turned from the window, he looked into her bedroom where she was standing in front of a vanity mirror, clad only in the bikini panties she had newly purchased last week. They had a hole where the crotch would normally be. As she brushed out her hair, her firm breasts vibrated. He found it embarrassing to admit, but his mother’s body really appealed to him and he could understand why strangers enjoyed looking at her the way they did. As for her, in some strange, peculiar way, she enjoyed showing off to him too.
What if he had an erection, he thought, staring at her with fascination. No, that would be sick. After all, she was his …
Most of his friends got erections constantly, at least they said they did, but Grant had always had difficulty. He was as turned on, at least in his head, by pictures of foldouts from Playboy as they were and even one night at a dance he had gotten his hands on a girl’s tits but … nothing. Of course, Melinda never knew.
“All I can tell you,” (she started another record in her head), “is to be very careful when you’re with a girl up here. I trust you know enough not to get a girl pregnant.” Wonderful, he thought, just picturing himself going to the canteen and asking for a box of rubbers. Not that it would ever come to that, but …
“I don’t make mistakes with girls,” he said.
“Well, there’s always a first time and I’m just trying to give you some motherly advice.”
“Did you ever make a sexual mistake?” he asked, suddenly very curious.
“Grant, for God’s sake. That’s something I don’t plan to discuss with my fifteen-year-old son. Now, are you going downstairs and make some friends or not?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll wait and go down with you.”
That was obviously the last thing she wanted. “For God’s sake, you’re not a baby. Can’t you do anything on your own?” She gave up in frustration and slammed the bedroom door in his face.
four
“I’ll shoot over to the hospital now,” Sid said after they had left Jonathan’s office. The bellhop had taken Bruce’s bags and was waiting to show him to his room. “I’ve got to make rounds and then get back to my office. Why don’t you get started with what you have to do and I’ll check with you later in the afternoon.”
“Sounds good.” They started down the corridor as the bellhop led the way. “I’ve got to tell you I have the distinct impression the general manager is not exactly thr
illed to have me around.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. The toughness is just Jonathan’s manner. He doesn’t like having people he can’t control hanging around his turf. But he keeps his promises. If he says he’ll cooperate, he will.”
They stopped by the side door that led to the parking lot. “Good luck.” His cousin waved.
Bruce followed the bellhop to his room. When the door was opened, he hesitated. What a disappointment! Some free ride—it never occurred to him that a hotel of this size could have such tiny rooms. The bellhop seemed to sense his letdown because he dropped the suitcase as quickly as he could and turned to leave. Bruce put a dollar in his palm and contemplated the scene—an ordinary single bed with a thick plywood headboard, two rather worn dressers, one with deep scratches on the drawers, and a small closet to his right with only a few hangers in it. The rug was worn through to the seams and what once had probably been a bright yellow color had now faded into a piss lemon hue. The pale white cotton curtain on the small window on the fire escape looked so thin it was practically transparent.
He shook his head and walked into the bathroom, half expecting to find the trappings of a cheap motel—drinking glasses in cellophane paper and a ribbon of crepe with the hotel’s name draped tightly across the toilet seat.
There was no pretense … this was the cheapest room in the hotel, probably used for latecomers desperate to get anything they could, or guests the management wanted to make sure never came back. Thanks, Jonathan, he thought. I know you went out of your way to make me feel at home.
Without bothering to unpack, he quickly changed his shirt and got down to the business of tracking Tony Wong’s activities over the last few days.
Jonathan had given him a diagram of the hotel so he could get around without difficulty. The first man to see was that personnel director, Bob Halloran. He checked the map, noting where the man’s office was located in the basement, and took the elevator down. When the door opened, he stepped out into a relatively dark corridor. Dim bulbs spaced out along the way threw heavy shadows over the concrete floor and walls. Sounds from above traveled down through the pipes in a symphony of vibrations and knocks. A nasal hum emanated from the electric generators halfway down the corridor. At its end was the hotel laundry, where Bruce could hear the subdued voices of custodial personnel sorting linens and putting them in the huge washing and drying machines. The dampness made him shiver and reminded him of the pathology lab where he trained.
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