Boldt

by Ted Lewis

  The waiter leans forward and picks up the glass and examines it every which way.

  “I’m sorry, Madame,” the waiter replies. “I can’t see anything in the glass.”

  “You can see those two white things floating about in there can’t you? And that other thing?”

  The waiter stares at the glass some more and creases up his brow even tighter until it dawns on him. “You mean the ice?”

  “Yes,” she says. “The ice. And the lemon. Did I ask for any of that crap?”

  “Well no, but—”

  “Then why give it to me?”

  “Well, because in most cases...”

  “I’m not most cases. Take it away and bring back a rum and Coke and nothing else, right?”

  “Madame,” the waiter says, and makes a big production out of turning on his heel.

  “Hey,” I say to the waiter.

  He turns back again.

  “Bring me a refill, will you? And don’t worry, it’s okay to put ice in mine.”

  The waiter picks up my glass without a word and goes off again. The girl leans back in her side of the booth and we both look at each other for the time it takes the waiter to bring back the drinks. He sets them down and is away before he can get caught up in any further controversy. Then the girl breaks the staring, reaches for her glass and takes a drink.

  “I guess that must be the first today,” I say to her.

  She puts her drink down. “You’re funny,” she says. “I’m surprised that your great sense of humor doesn’t compensate for your general repulsiveness when you’re trying to score.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “That I would,” she says taking another drink.

  “How come you don’t like ice in your drink?” I ask her.

  “Who says I don’t?”

  “Okay,” I tell her. “I get it.”

  “No, come on,” she says. “What makes you think I don’t like ice in my drink. Somebody tell you that?”

  “Oh, shit,” I say. “Oh, Jesus.”

  She leans back again and does some more staring at me.

  “I’ll tell you why I’m here,” she says.

  I look at her, inquiringly.

  “And the reason I’m going to tell you,” she says, “is because this is a laugh, it really is, it’ll kill you. Here I am sharing a booth with you, you being the kind of guy you are, and my guy, the guy who should be here with me, he doesn’t give a fuck about me and he never will. If I’m around that’s fine, and if I’m not around, that’s fine, too. I mean, he’s supposed to meet me here tonight, so he gets me to make all the arrangements, fix everything, and I come here from where I live and get here on time and get everything ready. When I’ve done that he calls, says maybe he won’t be here for a couple of days, not till the day after tomorrow, at least, but I’m to wait. That’s great isn’t it? But, of course, I’ll wait the way I always do, and guys like you will try and pick me up, the way they always do. And sometimes I let them, just to pass the time, and even if he knew, it wouldn’t worry him whatever I did with them. And that’s what I’m talking about, you understand. I mean, you and half the guys in this room would dearly love a piece of my ass, and he, when he gets here, I can guarantee, the first thing he’ll do is have a shower and then he’ll sleep and after he’s slept, he’ll have something to eat and after that, maybe, and only maybe, he’ll notice me for maybe five, ten minutes, and after that it’s like for him as though it’s never been, you know?”

  “But not for you?”

  “No,” she says. “Not for me.”

  I take a drink. “Well,” I tell her, “maybe you’ll not be interested in anymore Mr. Wonderfuls after this guy.”

  “There won’t be anymore guys,” she says. “Only people like you.”

  I let that one pass.

  “I take it he’s married,” I say to her.

  “What else?” she says.

  “What’s his story?”

  “I thought I was clear about him,” she answers. “He doesn’t care about me enough to have to invent any stories. And besides, he’s separated. His wife and kid live in this town and he’s due a week with the kid so he decided he’ll spend it here, would you believe?”

  “It’s a great little town,” I tell her. “All heart and folks are just folks.”

  “And so I get to spend the next five days in the company of his brat which will help things along fine.”

  “How old’s the kid?” I ask her. “About your age?”

  She sneers at me but the sneer doesn’t quite work because there are two small spots of red on either cheek.

  “I’m twenty-two,” she says.

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, fuck off,” she says. “Let’s have another drink.”

  The waiter who served us before is passing by, but he doesn’t want anymore of the same treatment so he avoids my eye. While I’m looking for another waiter, the girl says, “Oh, for Christ’s sake. I’m pissed off with this bar. There’s enough booze in my suite to float a convention. Let’s go drink up there.”

  I stop what I’m doing and turn and look at her. She sneers back at me and says, “What’s wrong, did I put you in shock?”

  I don’t reply.

  “Come on,” she says. “Christ, all you’ve been thinking the last ten minutes is what kind of percentage you’ve got.”

  “You think so?”

  She laughs. “Christ,” she says. “You’re really funny.”

  I glance at my watch hoping she won’t notice but she does.

  “What’s the matter. The old lady got the meatloaf ready?”

  I don’t answer.

  She gets up saying, “Don’t worry about it. It probably won’t take long.”

  Then she slides out of the booth and begins to walk toward the exit. I get up and follow her and our progress is followed by the eyes of all the guys in the house. She walks across the lobby toward the elevator and I follow after her in the slipstream of her perfume like somebody under hypnosis. She gets into the elevator and the operator presses the button. I follow after her and the operator says, “Plaza Suite, Miss?”

  The girl leans against the elevator wall, closes her eyes and nods and begins to sing to herself, a Dionne Warwick number.

  The operator turns to me, “Which floor, sir?”

  “Plaza Suite,” I tell him.

  The operator keeps his face carefully blank and that’s more effective than if he’d winked and given me the double O with his fingers. The elevator door slides shut and the ascent begins. For once it has no effect on my stomach which has been weightless and queasy since I left the booth.

  The elevator stops, the door slides open and the girl is still leaning against the wall humming her song.

  The operator and me look at each other without expression and then the girl finishes her song, opens her eyes and looks at the pair of us as if she’s never seen us before then detaches herself from the wall and floats out of the elevator. I follow behind her again and behind me there is a pause before the elevator door closes.

  The entrance to the Plaza Suite is directly opposite the elevator. The girl opens her purse, finds her key and inserts it in the lock. She flicks her wrist and the door swings open. She goes in and I follow her. My immediate thought is that the guy she’s been talking about is worth hanging around for. Apart from anything else he’s got to offer, he’s certainly got the bread to keep her in the manner to which she probably thinks she’s accustomed if he can afford to hire a layout like the one I’ve just walked into and not even be there himself to enjoy it. Everything’s the way you’d expect it to be in a layout that calls itself the Plaza Suite. It makes the rest of the hotel look like a flop house in comparison. The carpets are white and the pile comes up t
o my shoulder hostler. Most of the furniture is white, too, white leather, and the drapes must have cost as much as the carpet because they match exactly made of some shimmery, glowing material that I’ve never seen anywhere else before. In this first part of the suite, there is a sunken area in the middle of the room, sunk just deep enough to accommodate a built-in white leather divan that goes around all four sides of the sunken area except for two breaks where the steps go. In the center of this sunken area is a glass cube which passes for a table and on top of this is as big a selection of drinks as you’d find in any particularly well-stocked saloon. The neat thing about the glass cube is that set in the table top there is a rectangular compartment filled with ice and in this compartment there are two or three bottles of good-looking champagne. The girl walks down the steps and over to the glass table. She takes a bottle of champagne from the ice recess and I stand on the edge of the sunken area watching her as she turns two glasses right side up and then holds the bottle to her in an uncorking position, but before she goes to work on it she looks up at me.

  “Come on in,” she says. “The water’s fine.”

  “I haven’t brought my bathing trunks,” I say to her.

  “Then swim in the buff,” she says. “I always do.”

  She pops the cork and the white froth spurts out all over the carpet.

  “I’m old-fashioned,” I tell her. “I never swim in the buff unless I’ve been introduced.”

  “You’re old-fashioned, that’s for sure,” she says, pouring the champagne. “But my name’s Lesley, just for the record. What’s yours--- Friday?”

  “Depends on what day it is,” I tell her, as I go down the steps. She picks up the two glasses and offers one to me and we look at each other and then we drink, still looking at each other. I take my glass from my lips and it’s still three-quarters full but she doesn’t stop until her glass is empty, and then she fills it right up to the top again.

  “Would you say you were on or off duty?” she says, after she’s taken another drink.

  “Why does that matter?” I ask her.

  “You could be a vice cop.”

  “I could,” I agree. “But I’ll make a deal with you: if you start getting close to committing a criminal offense, I’ll tell you the way you can keep out of trouble.”

  “That’s great,” she says, “because, say for instance, if I was for hire, you could bust me for it, couldn’t you? If I was to go to work, you could take me downtown, right? You could be one of those guys who makes like a hustler and then snaps up and takes the poor stud downtown.”

  “I could be,” I tell her. “That could be my job, hanging around here all day, looking out for possible pros.”

  “That’s what I figured,” she says. “It’s obvious; they chose you for your good looks and incredible magnetic attraction.”

  “Right,” I tell her, and I begin to move in but she makes a neat turn away from me and walks up the steps on the other side of the sunken area over to the stereo unit that’s hiding behind a sliding inlaid door set in one of the walls. She presses the button and a Carpenters record drops onto the turntable.

  “Normally that would be your move,” she says. “But this is different, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so,” I say, and pour some more champagne into my glass. I’m swearing at myself for not being able to figure out whether this is a put-on or whether she’s going to come across, but it’s the kind of situation that the longer it goes on, the less able you are to make a decision to quit. It’s like losing at gambling or sweating it out in a parked car on your first date with a particular girl, not giving up after the twentieth refusal just in case you’re twenty-fifth time is lucky. And at the same time, it’s like one of those dreams where all the events lead up to something happening but the dreamer himself wakes up before the events draw to their expected conclusion.

  Now she moves across to the picture window that runs the entire length of one wall and she goes through the part that’s already been slid open out onto the broad patio that’s complete with a barbecue outfit and small pool and enough nicely arranged creeping plants to dress a Universal jungle movie. I climb the steps of the sunken area, cross the room and walk out onto the flagged patio. She is sitting on the retaining wall, her back to the darkening sky, the lights of the city winking below. It gives me the creeps to see her there, leaning back a little too far, but I know there’s no use in mentioning it; in fact, probably the only thing I’d achieve is that she’d lean back even farther and put an end to a beautiful friendship. So I walk over to the wall and sit on the edge, too, and look out over the city. I’m looking at it from exactly the opposite angle to the view I had of it in Draper’s office but that doesn’t make any difference; it still looks exactly the same.

  “So,” the girl says, “you’re a cop. Why are you a cop?”

  “I joined young,” I tell her.

  “You could have left young.”

  I shrug. “Not that it’s a particularly fascinating subject but in those days, I liked the work.”

  “And these days?”

  “These days I like only the fringe benefits.”

  “Those you can get,” she says, sliding off the wall and walking alongside it then stopping to turn and look out over the city.

  “You ever kill anybody?”

  “Not recently.”

  “How many? How many people you kill?”

  “Four.”

  “Why? They didn’t give you any choice? It was them or you? Or did you shoot them when they were running away, the way you read in the paper every day?”

  “Two of them were under ten and the other two were seventy-year-old cripples. Okay?”

  She smiles at the view then turns away and crosses the patio back into the suite. I shake my head because there’s nothing for me to do but go in after her and by the time I’ve done that, she’s back to work on the champagne. When she’s filled her glass, she walks up the steps and moves toward me and when she gets to me, she puts her arms around my neck, still holding her glass of champagne, and puts her face to mine and kisses me.

  When she’s done that, she pulls back slightly and looks at me, laughing.

  “Your face,” she says. “You should see it, you really should.”

  Then we kiss again and the champagne glass falls from her fingers hitting the carpet with a soft thud. This time the kiss lasts longer and one of her hands slides around onto my chest, moves down and unbuttons my jacket and slips inside. The next thing I know she’s jerked my gun from my holster. She pulls back and, holding it in both hands, points it straight at my chest. Then she looks into my eyes and smiles at me.

  “Okay, copper,” she says. “Come and get me.”

  I take a sip of my champagne then walk down the steps of the sunken area and wearily begin to sit on the leather divan but the sound of the hammer being pulled back makes me stop in mid-movement.

  “You’ve known me less than an hour,” she says. “How do you know what I may or may not do?”

  I straighten up again.

  “Okay,” I tell her, “you got a point. Now, what do I do? Reach, grab air, pull down some sky, however you care to phrase it?”

  “Just move into the bedroom.”

  “Okay,” I tell her, “I’ll move into the bedroom. Only, how about telling me where it is?”

  She indicates some double doors over on the far side of the room.

  “Is it okay for me to bring my drink along?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she replies. “And bring the bottle as well.”

  I pick the bottle out of the ice and with the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, I walk up the steps again and over to the double doors.

  “This is great,” she says, “I really like this game.”

  I reach the double doors and put the b
ottle down while I open them, wondering what the percentages are of taking a cocked revolver off a half-cocked girl. I decide that right now I don’t really want to put them to the test because, after all, the kid’s only fooling I tell myself. But even if she’s only fooling she just has to trip on the hem of her skirt or stumble against a low table and it’s Hello and Goodbye so I say to her, “The only thing is, like you say, you’re enjoying this game and it’d be a pity, don’t you think, if the game was over before it started? Like if that gun went off accidentally if you stumbled or something like that.” Her face loses its smile and a cold hard look snaps into place.

  “If this goes off, it won’t be an accident.”

  We look at each other for a moment or two and then her expression changes completely and she throws her head back and laughs. When she’s done that, she says, “How was I? Good?”

  “You were fair,” I tell her.

  “Would you say I was more Barbara Stanwyck or did I veer toward Joan Crawford?”

  I shake my head and go through the doors into the bedroom. Bedroom is a misnomer because although it has a bed in it, the room has just about everything else that the magazines consider necessary for gracious living, and it’s all the very best of everything in a setting that seems even bigger than the layout back beyond the double doors; in fact, the bed itself seems about as big as the entire layout of my own apartment.

  “Now,” I say to her, “if I keep moving in the direction I’m going, that means I’ll end up by the bed and I want to know does that mean the gun’s likely to go off if I do that?”

  “This is a game,” she says. “You only find out what happens when it happens. So keep moving.”

  So I keep moving until I get to the bed, and it’s one of those affairs that has all sorts of nice little labor-saving gadgets built into the head and spreading out on either side. One of the built-in pieces is in the form of a table so I put the champagne bottle down and turn around to face the girl. She’s still pointing the gun at me and very carefully holding the gun very steady. She slides onto the bed and gets herself into a kneeling position bolt upright, the gun still cocked and in her hands, her hands in her lap. The Carpenters tape stops for a moment while the stereo changes tracks and the bedroom is quiet and still, the loudest sounds those of the bubbles in my champagne glass as I raise it to my mouth.