by Sue Grafton
“Desert Castle. How may I direct your call?”
“Could you ring Laura Hudson’s room? She’s in 1236,” I said.
Laura’s line was busy. I kept waiting for the operator to cut back in, but she had apparently quit her job and gone to work for someone in another state. I depressed the plunger and started over, using my last precious quarter to try the hotel again.
“Desert Castle. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi, I’m trying to reach Laura Hudson in 1236, but her line is busy. Can you tell me if Ray Rawson is still registered there?”
“Just a moment, please.” She clicked out. Dead silence. She clicked back in. “Yes, ma’am. Would you like me to ring his room?”
“Yes, but if he doesn’t answer, would you come back on the line for me?”
“Certainly.”
The number rang in Ray’s room fifteen times, before she cut back in. “Mr. Rawson doesn’t answer. Would you care to leave a message?”
“Is there any way to page him instead?”
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. Was there anything else I could help you with?”
“I don’t think so. Oh yes, wait a minute. Could you connect me with the manager?”
She’d hung up before I’d even finished the sentence.
By now, I had so much adrenaline pumping through me, I could hardly breathe. Gilbert Hays was standing at the Avis counter, filling out the paperwork. He seemed to be consulting one of those multicolored one-sheet maps of the vicinity, the desk clerk leaning over helpfully, pointing out his route. I took the escalator to the street.
Outside, lights had come on, only partially dispelling the gloom of the pickup area. A limousine pulled to the curb in front of me, the uniformed white driver coming around to the door on the passenger side to assist a silver-haired couple as they emerged. The woman wore the fur of some beast I’d never seen. She looked around uneasily, as though she were accustomed to warding off insults. The driver removed their luggage from the trunk. I searched the area, looking for airport police. Light and shadow played across the concrete in patterns as repetitious as a stencil. A wind tunnel had been created by the building’s construction, and a diesel-scented gale blew through, generated by the constant rush of passing traffic. I didn’t see any of the vans from the hotel. I didn’t see a cab stand or any passing taxis. Gilbert had probably already been given the keys to his rental car. He’d be coming out the door behind me, searching out the waiting area for the shuttle that would take him to the slot where his vehicle was waiting. Or perhaps, far worse, the rental car had been left in the parking garage just across the way, in which case he only had to cross the street.
My gaze settled on the limousine. The driver had received his tip, touched his cap, closed the limo door on the rear passenger side. He circled the back end of the vehicle, heading for the driver’s side, where he opened the door and slid behind the wheel. I began to rap frantically on the front passenger side window. The glass was tinted so darkly, I couldn’t see in at all. The window was lowered with a whir. The driver looked across at me, his expression neutral. He was in his thirties, with a round face, sparsely growing red hair, combed straight back from the crown. Along the edges of his ears, I could see where his hat had rested.
I leaned in slightly, handing him my wallet, with my California driver’s license and my private investigator’s license showing. I said, “Please listen very carefully. I need help. I’m a private investigator from Santa Teresa, California. Somewhere behind me, there’s a guy with a gun who’s here in Dallas to kill a couple of friends of mine. I need to get to the Desert Castle. Do you know where that is?”
He took my wallet gingerly, like a cat who deigns to accept a treat from an unfamiliar hand. “I know the Desert Castle.” He looked at the picture on my driver’s license. I could see him take in the information on my private investigator’s license. He began to leaf through some of my other identification cards. He handed my wallet back and then simply sat and stared at me. He popped the lock up and then reached for the keys in the ignition.
I opened the passenger door and got in.
The limo pulled away from the curb as silently as a train easing out of a station. The seats were gray leather and the dashboard was a burled walnut so shiny it looked like plastic. Just at my left knee was the handset for the car phone. “Mind if I use that to call the cops?” I asked.
“Be my guest.”
I dialed 911 and explained the situation to the emergency dispatcher, who asked for my approximate location and said she’d have a county sheriff’s deputy meet us at the Desert Castle. I tried the hotel again, but I couldn’t get the operator to pick up at all.
We circled the airport and headed off toward open country. It was fully dark by now. The land seemed vast and flat. The headlights illuminated long stretches of green with an occasional monolithic office building jutting up on the horizon. Lighted billboards appeared like a series of flash-cards. Where we crested a rise, I could see the sweep of intersecting highways defined by the lights from fast-moving traffic. Anxiety buzzed and sizzled in my gut like defective neon, outlining vital organs.
“What’s your name?” I asked. If I didn’t talk, I’d go mad.
“Nathaniel.”
“How’d you get into this?”
“It’s just a way to pick up money until I finish my novel.” His tone was glum.
I said, “Ah.”
“I used to live in Southern California. I was hoping to get a screenplay launched, so I moved out to Hollywood and worked for this actress who played the zany sister-in-law on a sitcom about a waitress with five adorable kids. Show only lasted couple seasons, but she was raking it in. I think most of the money went up her nose, to tell you the truth. I drove her to the studio and back every day and washed her car and things like that. Anyway, she told me if I came up with an idea for a film, she’d have me pitch it to her agent and maybe she could help me break in. So I get this idea about this wacko mother-daughter relationship where the girl dies of cancer. I tell her about it and she says she’ll see what she can do. Next thing I know, I go to a movie theater on Westwood Boulevard and see this movie about some girl dies of cancer. Can you believe that? What’s her name, Shirley MacLaine, and that other one, Debra Winger. There it was. I should have had it registered with the guild, only nobody mentioned that. Thanks a lot, gang.”
I looked over at him. “You came up with the story line for Terms of Endearment?”
“Not the story line per se, but the basic concept. My chick didn’t get married and have all them kids. You want my opinion, that was over the top.”
“Wasn’t Terms of Endearment a Larry McMurtry book?”
He shook his head, sighing. “My point exactly. Where do you think he got it?”
“What about the astronaut? The Jack Nicholson part?”
“I didn’t fool with that and personally, I didn’t think it worked all that well. Later I found out this actress had the same agent used to be partners with Shirley MacLaine’s agent way back when. That’s the way Hollywood works. Real incestuous. The whole deal kind of soured me, to tell you the truth. I never saw a dime, and when I asked her about it, she gives me this look like she doesn’t even know what I’m talking about. I kicked the shit out of her town car and set fire to the thing.”
“Really.”
He slid a look in my direction. “You probably have a lot of interesting experiences in your line of work.”
“I don’t. It’s mostly paperwork.”
“Same here. People think I must know all these rock stars. Closest I ever came was once I drove Sonny Bono to his hotel. Privacy window was rolled up the whole time, which kind of pissed me off. Like I’m going to call the National Enquirer if he sticks his hand up some chick’s skirt.”
I torqued around in my seat. The privacy window was rolled down and I peered the length of the limousine’s interior through the darkly tinted rear window. There was a moving stream of cars behind us,
all barreling down the highway at breakneck speeds. We turned off the main highway into the commercial/industrial park. In the distance, I saw the Desert Castle appear, red neon glowing hotly against the night sky. I watched while the red drained out of the letters and filled up again. The ratio of the lighted rooms to dark created an irregular checkerboard effect, with the proliferation of black squares suggesting fifteen percent occupancy. Only a smattering of cars now followed in our wake. As this was Sunday evening, it was hard to believe that any were heading for the offices across the way. We passed the miniature oasis with its phony stone tower, the structure probably only slightly taller than I. Nathaniel swung the limo into the circular hotel entrance-way, pulling to a smooth stop beneath the portico.
I felt anxiety stir, wondering if he expected payment for his services. “I don’t have enough to tip you. I’m really sorry about that.”
“That’s cool.” He handed me his business card. “You have any ideas for a female-type Sam Spade film, we could maybe collaborate. Chicks kickin’ shit and stuff like that.”
“I’ll give it some thought. I really appreciate your help.”
I got out and closed the door behind me, aware that the limo was already pulling away. There was no sign of the sheriff’s deputy, but Dallas County is a big place, and it hadn’t been that long since I’d called. I moved toward the revolving doors, half trotting in my haste. The lobby was crowded with the departing track team, kids in shorts, jeans, and matching satin jackets with their school mascot stitched across the back. All of them wore running shoes that made their feet look enormous and reduced their preadolescent legs to sticks. Gym bags and oversize canvas duffels had been lined up in random clusters while the kids themselves milled around, engaged in various forms of horseplay. Some of the girls sat on the floor, using the baggage for backrests. One kid had had his T-shirt peeled off against his will, and he was in the process of wrestling with two teammates to get it back. The laughter had a nervous edge to it. Really, the boys reminded me of puppies playing tug-of-war with an old sock. The supervising adults seemed to take all this energy for granted, probably hoping the kids would be exhausted by the time they got on the bus.
I moved past them to the elevators and pushed the “up” button. The elevator doors down the line opened and I got on, glancing back across the lobby to see if there was any sign of Gilbert. A silver Trailways bus was just pulling up in front, motor growling while the door opened with the sound of flatulence. I pushed twelve and the elevator doors slid shut.
Once on Laura’s floor, I trotted down the hall and knocked on 1236. I was murmuring to myself, snapping my fingers rapidly. Come on, come on, come on.
Laura answered the door, slightly taken aback when she saw me. “What are you doing here? I thought you left.”
“Where’s Ray? I gotta talk to him.”
“He’s asleep. He’s right here. What’s wrong?”
“I saw Gilbert at the airport. He’s on his way over with a gun. Get Ray, grab your things, and let’s get out of here.”
“Oh no.” She seemed to pale at the news, one hand going to her mouth.
“What’s going on?” Ray said from behind her. He was already on his feet, tucking his shirt in as he approached. I moved into the room and Laura closed the door behind me. She leaned against the wall, her eyes momentarily closing in dread. I slid the security chain across the track.
I said, “Go.”
The word seemed to get her mobilized. Laura moved toward the closet, hauling out her raincoat and the duffel.
“What’s happening?” Ray said, looking from one of us to the other.
“She saw Gilbert. He’s got a gun and he’s on his way. You should have called instead of coming all the way back,” she said reprovingly. She unzipped the duffel and began to sweep cosmetics off the counter into the bag.
“I did call. The line was busy.”
“I was talking to room service. We had to eat,” she said.
“Ladies, would you quit bickering and let’s move!”
“I am!” She began to snatch up her nightie, slippers, dirty underwear. She’d laid her denim dress across the back of the chair, and she grabbed that, holding it against her chest so she could fold it in thirds and then in half again. Ray took it, rolled it in a ball, and jammed it in the duffel, which he zipped shut.
I saw his two suitcases stacked up to the left of the door. I grabbed the smaller one and watched while he picked up the other. “Take what’s essential and dump the rest,” I said. “You have a car?”
“Out in the lot.”
“Will Gilbert try the elevator or the stairs?”
“Who knows?”
I said, “Look. I think you two should go the back way. Gilbert’s bound to waste time knocking on the door up here. He may try Ray’s room, too, if it occurs to him you’re here. Give me the car keys and tell me where you’re parked.”
“What are we supposed to do in the meantime?” Laura asked.
“Wait for me out by that fake stone tower by the drive. I’ll get the car and swing around to pick you up. He doesn’t know me, so if we pass in the hall, he won’t think anything of it.”
Ray gave me a hasty description of the car and its approximate location. The plastic tag on the key listed the license plate number, so I was reasonably certain I could find it without trouble. I handed Ray the bag while Laura did a quick survey, making sure she hadn’t left anything critical. I took the chain off the hook and peered into the corridor both ways, motioning to the two of them. Ray and Laura took a right, heading for the fire stairs at the end of the hall.
I moved to the left toward the elevators.
The elevator felt like it was descending at half speed. I watched the lighted floor numbers move from right to left, counting backward in slow motion. When the elevator reached the lobby, there was the customary ping and then the doors slid open. Gilbert was standing two feet away, waiting to get on. For a moment, our eyes locked and held. His were bottomless dark holes. I let my gaze drift away casually as I passed, moving off to the right as if on ordinary hotel business. Behind me, the doors slid shut. I checked the lobby for some sign of the county sheriff’s deputy. No sign of law enforcement. I picked up my pace, glancing back automatically at the floor indicator lights. The elevator should have been going up. Instead, the light remained frozen where it was. I heard a ping and the elevator doors slid open. Gilbert emerged. He stood on the wide expanse of carpeting just outside the elevators, staring in my direction. Crooks and cops often function with a heightened sense of awareness, a clarity of perception born of adrenaline. Their work, and just as often their lives, depend on acumen. Gilbert was apparently a person who registered reality with uncanny accuracy. Something in his expression told me he remembered my face from our one brief encounter at the Santa Teresa airport. How he put me together with Laura Huckaby, I’ll never know. The moment was electric, recognition arcing between us like a lightning bolt.
I kept my pace at “normal” as I turned the corner. I passed the entrance to the coffee shop and turned right again into a short corridor with three doors leading off it: one blank, one marked Authorized Personnel Only, one marked Maintenance. The minute I was out of Gilbert’s visual range, I broke into a run, my shoulder bag thumping against my hip. I slammed through the unmarked door and found myself in a barren back hallway I hadn’t seen before. The concrete floor and bare concrete walls curved around to the left. The walls extended upward into the fading light until the upper reaches disappeared into darkness. There was no ceiling in view, but a series of thick ropes and chains hung motionless among the shadows. I passed empty racks of serving trays, wooden pallets packed with glassware, stacks of linen tablecloths, carts filled with plates in assorted sizes. Bank after bank of stacked chairs lined the walls, narrowing the passage in places.
My footsteps chunked softly, the sound blunted by the rubber tread on my Reeboks. I had to guess that this was a service corridor, bordering a banquet room, a c
ircle within a circle with access to freight elevators and the kitchens one floor down. A short flight of stairs led upward. I grabbed the handrail and pulled myself along, skipping steps as I ran. The shoulder bag made me feel like I was dragging an anchor, but I couldn’t part with it. At the top, the corridor continued. Here, stacked against the walls, were various seasonal decorations: Christmas angels, artificial spruce trees, two enormous interlocking comedy/tragedy masks, gilded wooden putti and cupids, enormous Valentine hearts pierced with golden arrows. A grove of silk ficus suggested a small interior forest bereft of birds and other wildlife.
Behind me, I heard a door hinge squeak. I picked up my pace, following the deserted corridor. A metal ladder that looked like an interior fire escape scaled its way up the wall on my left. I let my eye take the journey first, uncertain what was up there. I glanced back, dimly aware that someone was coming along the corridor behind me. I grabbed the first rung and headed up, Reeboks tinking as I climbed. I paused at the top, which was some twenty feet up. A steel catwalk stretched out along the wall ahead of me. I was close enough to the ceiling to reach up and touch it. The catwalk itself was less than three feet wide. Below me, through the yawning shadows, the floor looked like a flat still river of concrete. The only thing that kept me from falling was a chain rail supported by metal uprights. As usual, when confronted with heights, my greatest fear was the irresistible urge to fling myself off.
I slowed to a creeping pace, hugging the wall. I didn’t dare go any faster for fear the catwalk itself would be loosened from the wall-mounted brackets that secured it. I didn’t think I could be seen, cloaked as I was by the darkness up here, but the corridor itself functioned like an echo chamber announcing my presence. Somewhere behind me, I heard hard heels on concrete, a running step that slowed suddenly to a stealthier pace. I sank to my hands and knees and crawled forward with care, the metal surface beneath me buckling and trembling. I had to hump my shoulder bag in front of me as I progressed. I was trying not to call attention to myself, but the rickety catwalk rattled and danced beneath my weight.